Connections (2 page)

Men who didn’t know her liked to tell Louise Sidway, in a suggestive tone, that she looked like she’d been around. “Around, over, under, and through but never Sidway,” she’d answer. The fact was that she had been, and she wore her experience like a battle scar…a permit to be hostile. When she walked, her slightly hunched shoulders squared off her five-foot-eight frame, dragging her heavy hips and thighs down to a squat shape. Her lower jaw was perpetually thrust out in a defiant scowl. The makeup she wore to soften her harsh features only accentuated the geometric shape of her face. Her brick-red hair, bluntly cut to cover her ears, was like a copper helmet.

She couldn’t help her masculine appearance, but most of her militant personality was part of an act. At thirty-one, she had given up ever finding anyone for whom she would stop playing the role. Her overbearing nature was a turn-off. Which suited her fine because then she didn’t have to put up with any sexy talk, social pressure, or insensitive lovemaking. It suited her fine—
most of the time
. She had no family, few friends, and scarce pleasures. Louise Sidway felt it was all the city’s fault and dreamed of the day when she could afford to go back to Maryland…and buy a small farm.

Until then, the only real joy she had was from Honda. As she turned the corner of 88
^th
Street, she started to walk faster. She checked her watch, knowing that even if she hadn’t been right on time, he’d be at the window, looking for her. She waved to him as she approached the staircase to the entrance. She saw him crane his neck to make sure it was really her. As she got closer to the building and farther from his peripheral view, he turned away excitedly to go to the front door. When she unlocked the inside door downstairs, she called up, “Hey, you big lug, I’m coming. Mommy’s coming home.” Waiting for her was unbearable, so she talked to him all the way up the three double-flights.

Eileen Hargan neatly entered the amount of the dividend in her little ledger book, squeezing two zeroes in the cents column. More quarterly stock checks would probably be coming in this week, but she didn’t want to leave this one lying around to be misplaced or lost or stolen. Not that she had ever misplaced or lost anything in her life. She made out a deposit slip and then put it on the small shelf in the hallway, on top of the envelope for Con Edison. She sat down at the mahogany secretary she loved because of all its little drawers, slots, and cubicles, took a lined pad, and meticulously planned her itinerary.

First, Chase, so she wouldn’t have to carry the check around, and then over to the customer service center to pay the gas bill. She wasn’t cheap, but why give the post office an extra forty-nine cents when her feet were quite capable of bringing her and her payment to their office? Besides, she liked to watch them type her account number into the computer and in a second read everything about her history with them for the past fifty years. The clerks were usually patient when they answered her questions about how the machine worked, probably as glad to break up their boredom with conversation as she was when she started it.

When she’d gone back to visit the school where she had taught for forty-three years and seen that they had all their records on computer, she regretted not being able to start all over again. She shook her head in disbelief to discover eleven- and twelve-year-olds were required to learn about chips and bytes and disks and programming. And that they
understood
and spoke this new language of computer science, which was so foreign to her. It was a completely different world out there, and she wished she could come back in about a hundred years just to see what was going on. Even for one hour.

The radio had predicted a beautiful day, so she’d take Fibber McGee with her. He slowed her down to a stroll, giving her an excuse to stop and nod at doormen and workmen in the neighborhood. Afterward, she’d bring him home, have lunch, and go to Associated for skim milk. Well, excuse me, Morton Williams. Why they would change the supermarket name to such a stupid one, she didn’t know, and she’d always call it Associated. In her flowery scrawl, she added “Call Dr. Pomalee” to the end of the list. Now that it was almost spring, she wanted to be sure Mr. McGee got started on the heartworm pills early, just to be sure. Maybe they could give her an appointment for this week.

She printed “Things to Do Today” on the first line, bent the bottom half of the page up, rubbed the crease, and neatly tore it off. She pulled the list from the clear plastic binding, put the empty scrap of paper under the last sheet, and then placed the pad and pen in their proper niches. She hung her list on the refrigerator door with a scrambled-egg magnet and went to get her Boston Terrier’s leash.

Rosa hooked the leash handle over the mini-picket fence imprisoning a puny tree. “Now, just sit there like a good girl,” she said needlessly. She picked up the broom she’d left leaning against the stairs and started to sweep the sidewalk. If she waited for that Wally Schilder to do it, the dirt would get washed away by the snow, and this was only April. There used to be a time people took pride in their houses, even if they didn’t own them. When Marliese Vilmer was the landlord, everything was kept ship-shape. Rosa missed her so much. Just when she had been improving, just when there was a big breakthrough in her therapy and it looked like she’d actually speak again, she’d had another stroke.

The brownstones Marliese had owned were sold to some real estate company. They hired a superintendent who lived in an apartment across the street from Rosa and who was supposed to service their buildings on 82
^nd
and 83
^rd
Streets. He had it too easy. Taking care of all the small apartments on the block wasn’t really a full-time job. Daily, Wally Schilder picked up the garbage, made sure the boilers (which were held together with Scotch tape) gave heat and hot water, and then disappeared for the rest of the day. In an emergency, if you were lucky, Mrs. Schilder came to the door, said her husband was out, and then slammed it in your face. For this, the Schilders got free rent, free gas and electric, free telephone service (although they never answered their phone), and free cable. It infuriated Rosa. She watched Wally some mornings, going out with a toolbox. She long suspected he picked up extra money on another block, doing odd jobs for other landlords. Ones that owned one or two row houses and didn’t have the money—or, more important, the space—for a live-in super. Some day, when she was more ambitious, she would follow him and see what he was up to. She was grateful for Hector, the full-time super of the high-rise on the corner. He was always willing to help her when he had time. Change the light bulb in the ceiling, unclog the kitchen sink drain. Put in a new fuse.

In the meantime, she had to look at this view from her window. If she wanted it clean, she’d have to do it herself. “You resting, little girl?” Rosa asked as she swept the dirt toward the curb. Yes, this was a different world. A different Princess. Thank God for her.

She always vowed she’d only do the three squares right in front. But as she saw Mr. Browning come out a few doors away, she inched up to the next building. Rosa enjoyed being out there, talking to all the neighbors, having everyone call to her. Not that she needed an excuse, but sweeping was a good one for socializing.

Lenny wanted to walk away. Or run. Pretend he wasn’t married to Jessica, wasn’t the father of a son like Clifford. If only he had enough nerve to just pack his bag. They’d find him, of course. Make him come back. Money was one thing. Maybe if he agreed to pay not only child support but alimony, whatever, maybe then they’d let him off the hook. He could write a check once a month or once a week. Cut the ties. The responsibility. If only he could do that. But they’d keep pulling him back, tugging at him, pointing their accusing fingers at him. The only way to do it was to go far away, change his name, his identity, start all over again, where they
couldn’t
find him. Give up his business, his relatives, old friends. Stay out of touch; pretend to be dead. Some men could do it—
did
do it—but Lenny Marcus knew he wasn’t one of them.

He closed the
Post
, picked up his iPad, and opened the app for the
New York Times
. He glanced at the woman he had married fifteen years ago. He tried to remember how he used to feel. He still loved her. But she looked at least ten years older than thirty-eight, especially her eyes, where tiny lines drew a fan at their edges. She was still beautiful, he supposed, but she just looked so tired to him. Or maybe he was tired of looking at her. He wondered if she ever dreamed about escaping too. If life was such that nobody would think her terrible or a bad mother, he wondered if she would do it.

With a twinge of guilt, he knew he added to her burden. Because she was no longer able to share it with him—her efforts, her hopes, her devotion. And that must make it all the harder for her to bear, doing it alone. The few times she had started to complain or just to talk about Clifford in the past three, maybe four years, he had cut her off with a reminder that he felt the best place for Clifford was a special home or boarding school. So they didn’t discuss it anymore, because neither of them would give in, and Jessica sensed that any comment about her frustration or the futility would open up the subject again.

“Haven’t you got enough work to do around here, taking care of him?” He thumbed the Menu button to get out of the
Times
and pointed his iPad in Clifford’s direction before snapping the cover closed and putting it on the table.

“It won’t be that much work. Especially if we get an older one who’s housebroken.”

“Who’s going to walk it three or four times a day? You? You’re going to get all dressed in the wintertime and go out in the cold with a dog? Before you fix breakfast?”

“If I don’t mind, why should you? I’m not asking you to help or take it out.”

“But it’s still a big imposition. Having another helpless thing around…Oh, God, Jessica, I’m sorry.” Lenny put his head in his hands and rubbed his forehead, as if the rubbing would erase the hurt, calling their child a thing.

“Listen, it’s okay.” Jessica came over and sat next to her husband, pulling his hands away from his face. “Even with old people it seems to work. There was something on TV last week. About bringing puppies and kittens into a nursing home once a week. The people looked forward to it. People who hadn’t spoken to anyone or participated in anything for years. The pictures were so touching—elderly women holding out their arms for them. Their faces just lit up as they held them in their laps or stroked them.”

“It’s different, Jess. They’re old, not sick. Not mentally incapable.”

“Some of them are. Some of them are senile. Or have Alzheimer’s. They find the patients feel more comfortable, more open and communicative. And they’re doing some wonderful experiments with autistic children.” Jessica spoke faster in her enthusiasm to convince him. “And what Clifford has is a lot like autism. There were a few cases that when they got a dog in the house, for the first time the child actually
responded
. Reacted to another living thing. Even Dr. Kravitz said it’s worth—”

“Jessica”—Lenny took his hand from her lap and touched her soft blonde curls—“enough. You’re the one who’s doing everything. If you want to try it, well, okay. I suppose I could even take the late shift for walking.”

“Oh, Len.” She threw her arms around him. Just as her weight sagged against his chest, a frightened wail from Clifford’s room made her jump up and go to her son.

Jason clicked the shutter of his mental camera to save the scene of the sanitation truck pulling alongside one of its pails, with a bag lady bent deep into it. A burly garbage man grabbed the metal rim in his gloved hands and, for a minute, Jason thought the woman was going to jump inside for a ride to the jaws at the back of the truck.

He turned onto Columbus Avenue, consciously inhaling the scent of spring, along with the aroma of toasting rolls and perking coffee. He stopped in a hamburger place for breakfast, skimming the
News
as he sipped his coffee. The clatter of the thick cups and plates behind the counter, the sizzle of bacon on the grill, the squeal of brakes outside, the rumble of cars dipping into the huge pothole on the corner—all soothed Jason’s nerves. He loved the West Side and was sorry he hadn’t moved here years ago instead of only last summer.

Back in the 30s, it was
the
place to live in Manhattan, even though the Depression had changed it all. Most of the comfortable middle class had moved out of the area or jumped out of its windows, but he remembered hearing stories about his family’s seven-room apartment overlooking the Hudson. By the time they moved to Long Island “to give the children a better place to grow up,” changes had already taken place. Then they had grass and trees and beaches and parks, and his three older sisters considered the suburbs their realm. In the Jewish American Ruderman castle, there were only princesses. But Jason had felt deprived, because he longed for the noise, the traffic, the broken sidewalks, the blinking traffic lights, the commotion of the city.

When he was old enough, the great thrill on a Saturday night, while his sisters were dancing at a country club or a party, was to go downtown. To watch the couples strolling on Broadway, all dressed up, on their way to a theater or restaurant. To join them, pretending he was going somewhere too. When it got late, he’d go into one of the arcades or suck the foam off a beer at the all-night Grant’s on 42
^nd
Street, electrified with excitement. Or take the subway down to the Village, pocket his tie, open his collar, and mingle with the Bohemians—later, the hippies—terrified someone would recognize him and tell his father. It was different then, a time when it was safe to walk the streets and ride the trains.

When his sisters married and moved to better suburbs, his parents bought a small place in Florida, a novel thing to do at the time. It was only natural for him to move to the city where his roots were planted when he got out of college. In those days, the
only
place to live was the East Side. The glorious old buildings on the West Side were falling apart, bulging with the poor, the rent-controlled, and the Puerto Ricans swarming into New York. The plaster fell, the gilt trim peeled, the walls cracked, the bathtubs still stood on clawed feet, sometimes in the kitchen, and upper-middle-class people didn’t want to live with the cockroaches—or with the Spanish.

So like everyone else, Jason looked for an apartment in the other direction. Although he was lucky to find something in a pre-war on 52
^nd
Street off Second Avenue, in all the years he would end up living there, he never really thought of it as home. Turtle Bay was only a geographic area to him, never a neighborhood. Surrounded by commercial buildings and people who came there at nine to go to a job and left at five, he considered them all transients. Then he moved north to the 80s, which felt more like a community.

Jason had managed a photo shop on 39
^th
Street for eighteen years. When the lease was up for renewal and the rent practically tripled, the owner decided to pack it in and retire, leaving Jason in a panic. It was Chris who convinced him to use his savings to open his own place. It was Chris who decided that Columbus or Broadway would be perfect and went with him to check out locations. And actually found an old camera store for sale. It was Chris who figured out that he’d have enough money to carry the store for seven months without taking in a cent.

Of course, it helped to know that if worse came to worst, Chris could at least pay the rent. Just in case the business didn’t work. But it did work, had been working, for two and a half years. He would never get rich, but the store was certainly providing enough of an income for him to be comfortable. And even he realized that no matter how much money he would ever have, he’d never be secure. That was Jason Ruderman’s nature.

Chris was an editor but also did a lot of writing at home. After he moved in, they were cramped, with his desk set up in the corner area of the living room, where the clacking of the keyboard interfered with the television sound, and the television sound interfered with the clacking. When they decided to get a bigger place—after all, it seemed like they were going to stay together—Jason thought he’d just look on the West Side. So during the post-lunch lulls in the store, he walked up and down the side streets, talking to people and doormen to learn what was available. Chris didn’t care one way or the other because of his job’s flexible hours and said it was more important for Jason to live and work on the same side of town when he had to worry about staying open late and working on Saturdays.

Jason knew he was going to live there as soon as the super unlocked the door. The ceilings were almost twelve feet high, some had beams. Intricate moldings on the walls; long, unnecessary hallways; thick doors with transoms; a square eat-in kitchen (a true luxury in Manhattan); an almost six-foot-long, high-rimmed tub—it all sent shivers of elation through him. It was only a one-bedroom, but as he quickly redecorated the rooms while the super tapped his foot, he knew it wouldn’t matter. It was twice the size of the apartment they were in now, and the dining alcove between the kitchen and living room, well-defined by beams, could be closed off to make a study for Chris.

The building was not just a reminder of an elegant past but had adapted nicely to current housing needs and the requirements of the new middle class. The block itself was being transformed as little by little, the old multiple-dwelling brownstones were bought by individuals and renovated to their former grandeur as one-family houses. The larger buildings were being spruced up, their lobbies refurbished, doormen reinstated. There were scaffolds all over, promising pointing of bricks, new windows.

Chris had also fallen in love with it on sight, so they wasted no time bribing the agent with three thousand dollars, the super with one thousand, and signing a two-year lease. Jason was buoyed by his flair for decorating and by Chris’s admiration of his creativity.

Even Sabrina had adjusted well to the move. He thought that at seven, she would be nervous and jumpy in new surroundings, especially since everybody kept insisting that Yorkies were high-strung. But she must have felt their pleasure, their comfort in being there, because she immediately seemed at peace and at home. After sniffing along all the baseboards and woodwork like a vacuum, she found a place behind the French doors in the living room where the sun spotlighted a patch of the hardwood floor for most of the morning. She claimed it as hers, so Chris put her pillow there. They were both sure that’s where she stayed all the time they were out. While they were home, she followed either one or the other around, always staying a little closer to Jason. Nothing made her happier than when they were home together, sitting on the couch or lying in bed, where she could snuggle between them.

When Jason only worked on the West Side and left at the end of the day, he felt like a stranger, a visitor. But now, he belonged. In fact, everything seemed to be perfect for Jason Ruderman—his business, his home, his dog. Except for one thing. From the minute they moved in, his relationship with Chris started to fall apart.