North River

by Pete Hamill

  And so they did. Certain shelves were emptied, others remained full, and a dozen boxes were taped and marked and sealed. He locked the door behind him. On Monday, Monique was bringing someone to carry the packed cartons to the shelves in the basement, far from the heat or the hazards of weather. As they went downstairs, the boy carried The Wonderful Wizard of Oz and Delaney clutched the Matisse book. Thinking: Maybe I can start painting again, with my left hand. When he was sixteen he lasted three months at the Art Students League, where the drawing instructor first showed him Gray’s Anatomy, that fat masterpiece of bones and muscles and the hidden terrain of the body. Later the teacher told him sadly that he didn’t really have what it took for art. But -Gray’s Anatomy led him to the alternative dream of becoming a surgeon. He no longer had what it took for that, he thought, but maybe he could make paintings now that didn’t have to be art. That were just color and form and filled with emotion. Like a spring day. And Carlito could do the same. Up there in the room they were reclaiming from ghosts.

  Delaney and the boy heated up the minestrone that Rose had left in the refrigerator for their lunch, and ate it with bread and a saucer of olive oil. The boy squinted at Delaney.

  “Gran’pa? Why you have white hair?”

  “Well, it’s not completely white, is it?” Delaney said, brushing a hand through his hair. “I mean, there’s brown hair there too.”

  “Yes, but Rosa has no white hair.”

  “She’s young, big fella. I’m old.”

  He gazed at Delaney. “What is old?”

  “It’s when . . .” He hesitated. What the hell was it? “It’s when you have a lot of birthdays and you live a long time.”

  The boy tried to understand but gave it up and turned his attention to the stuffed bear. Delaney thought: You’ll know soon enough.

  Later they went upstairs and stretched out on the boy’s bed, and Delaney read to him the beginning of the tale of Dorothy and her magic slippers, and after a while both were asleep.

  In the evening, when the rain had eased, they went to Angela’s. Rose was not home yet, and Delaney wished that she was with them. Angela gave them a table for two along the wall. One large table was presided over by Harry Flanagan, the Tammany guy. He waved hello and Delaney waved back. The others at the table turned their heads and nodded too.

  They were almost finished with dinner when Billy McNiff stepped in the door. He went directly to Delaney.

  “Hey, Doc? I just passed your house. There’s two cop cars there, and an ambulance just pulled up.”

  Delaney stood up and waved at Angela, who sensed an emergency and told him: “Go, go.”

  He lifted the boy and hurried out, and as he turned into Horatio Street he saw the two squad cars with red dome lights turning. An ambulance was backed up to the curb, its back doors open. Don’t let it be Rose. A small crowd was forming, with excited kids running around, and women with folded arms, and many men. When he reached the house, Danny Shapiro was outside, his badge pinned to his zipper jacket, smoking a cigarette and talking to a uniformed cop. He stepped on the butt when he saw Delaney.

  “What’s up?” Delaney said.

  “Come on in,” Shapiro said. “See for y’self.”

  Delaney put Carlito down and said: “Wait here, Carlito.”

  “I want Rosa,” the boy said. He looked about to break into tears.

  The uniformed cop said: “I’ll take care of him. Don’t worry, Doc.”

  The cop lifted the boy and started talking to him in a low voice, but the boy’s anxiety did not go away. Delaney stepped into the vestibule. A man was stretched out on the floor of the waiting area, while two ambulance medics worked on him, wiping blood off his face. One medic was thin, the other beefy. Both said hello to Delaney. He recognized them from St. Vincent’s.

  “You know this guy?” Shapiro said.

  “Yeah,” Delaney said. “His name is Callahan. He’s an FBI man.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Shapiro said. “Then the ID is real. I figured he’s some gonif with a phony ID.”

  “Where’s Rose?”

  “In your office,” Shapiro said. “She says she heard a noise and tiptoed down the stairs and sees this guy picking the lock on your office.”

  “And then?”

  “She hits him with a fuckin’ baseball bat.”

  Delaney’s eyes widened. “Is he alive?”

  “Barely.” He looked down at the stricken man. “Take a look, Doctor.”

  Delaney squatted beside the medics, found a pulse, then pictured Rose with her Louisville Slugger parked each night beside her bed. The man’s eyes were still closed.

  “There’s a seven-inch gash in his head, which is why there’s so much blood,” the thin medic said. “It looks to be just a scalp wound, but inside, who knows?”

  “An inch lower, she hits the temple? He’s a corpse,” the beefy medic said.

  “You need to get him X-rayed,” Delaney said. “See if his skull is broken.”

  “Yeah,” the thin medic said. “There’s a concussion for sure.”

  “What are you waiting for? Shouldn’t he be —”

  “His boss is on the way, from the FBI. We were told, do nothing.”

  Delaney stood up and said to Shapiro, “Where’s the weapon?”

  “Over there,” Shapiro said.

  The bat was leaning in a corner against the wall.

  “When you searched this guy,” Delaney said, “was he carrying a search warrant?”

  “Not unless it’s in his shoe,” Shapiro said. “He was packing a thirty-eight.”

  Delaney pushed into his office, without touching the door handle. Rose was in his chair, her elbows on his desk, her hands cradling her head. Her face was flushed, her eyes glittery.

  “I’m sorry to cause all this trouble,” she said softly.

  “You didn’t cause it. The guy on the floor out there — he caused it. He broke into our house. You defended yourself and the house.”

  “Who is he?”

  “His name’s Callahan. He’s an FBI man, trying to track down my daughter, Grace.”

  Rose groaned. “Ah, hell. I’m doomed. I gotta get out of here. If I killed a G-man, then —”

  “Calm down. He’s alive. And he might be in more trouble than you. It looks like he has no warrant. That’s a piece of paper from a judge allowing him to go into someone’s house.”

  “But I broke his head. Just like my goddam husband.”

  She stood up, anxiously balling and relaxing her fingers, her words speeding now. “No matter what. They’re sure to investigate me. And I’m a — I don’t have papers.” She inhaled deeply, then exhaled almost desperately. “They could throw me outta the country! Away from Carlito! Away from you.”

  Rose turned her back to him and choked off a sob. Delaney went to her and hugged her.

  “Never,” he said. “Never.”

  When Delaney stepped back into the waiting area, Callahan was sitting up, with his back to the wall. His eyes were open, but he was still somewhere else, like a fighter who’d been knocked out. A rough bandage was wrapped around his head to stop the bleeding from the scalp. Another casualty. And he suspected that Callahan’s pain was compounded by humiliation. The man did not look at him. Delaney could not repress a sense of pity.

  “Where’d the medics go?” Delaney said.

  “They got another run,” Shapiro said. “The Feds are coming themselves to pick this guy up.”

  “What? This dope has to go to a hospital now!”

  “Yeah, but the G-men say they’ll handle it.”

  “Fuck the G-men.” He went back into his office and picked up the telephone. Shapiro grabbed his wrist.

  “Leave it alone, Jim.”

  Delaney sighed and placed the receiver back on the hook. In a corner, Rose was staring at him. He went to her and squeezed her hand in a gentle way. Then he went back to the hall, Shapiro behind him.

  “Will they charge Rose with anything?” Delaney said.r />
  “They might, but I doubt it, if they don’t have a warrant. I mean, the newspapers would kill them. No warrant and it’s breakin’ and entering.” He sighed. “But who knows, with these fucking amateurs. Some people actually think those G-men movies are true. Cops and newspapermen know they are bullshit. So do ninety-two percent of the people who lived through Prohibition.”

  Delaney said: “I’ll be right back.”

  He stepped outside, and Carlito was sobbing in the arms of the big cop and reaching with his left hand for Delaney. The crowd was larger in the street.

  “I’ll take him off your hands, officer. ”

  “Sure thing,” the cop said, passing the boy to Delaney. Carlito kept whispering granpagranpagranpa and holding him with both hands around the neck. Delaney carried him back inside, talking quietly to the boy. He eased past Shapiro and another cop and the stricken Callahan into his office. Rose came to them with tears in her eyes. The boy spoke her name and reached for her, and she took him in her arms and murmured softly in English and Sicilian, making a sound that was more music than language. Then Delaney heard the gate open and slam, followed by the slamming of the vestibule door.

  “Stay here,” he said, and went out to the waiting area.

  A short barrel-chested man in a gray fedora and an open overcoat was standing with fists on his hips. Delaney thought: Another movie version of J. Edgar Hoover. Another bullshit tough guy. Two more men in fedoras and open overcoats stood behind him, dressed like Callahan. One of them was holding a furled upright stretcher.

  “Who’s in charge here?” the short guy said.

  “I am,” said Shapiro, flashing his detective’s badge. “Danny Shapiro, New York Police Department. Who are you?”

  “Tillman,” the short guy said in an annoyed voice. “FBI.”

  “I showed you my tin,” Shapiro said. “Where’s yours?”

  Tillman said, “Christ,” reached inside his coat, and removed a wallet displaying a card with his face on it.

  “Welcome to Horatio Street,” Shapiro said.

  “All right,” Tillman said. “What happened here?”

  “Simple,” Shapiro said, glancing at Delaney. “This guy on the floor broke in here — you can see the open window on the second floor. He’s an FBI agent, but it looks like he’s got no warrant. And he starts picking the lock to Dr. Delaney’s office.”

  “That you?”

  “That’s me,” Delaney said.

  “Where were you?”

  “Having dinner with my grandson at Angela’s restaurant. Right around the corner.”

  “And then?” Tillman said.

  Shapiro continued: “The woman who takes care of the boy, Rose Verga, was upstairs in her room — she’s off Sundays. She’s taking a nap. Then she hears something. She picks up a baseball bat and comes down the stairs. Very quiet. She sees this guy, he turns, like he’s reaching for a rod in his belt, and she hits him in the head. That’s all.”

  Tillman shook his head, his eyes moving from Shapiro to Callahan to Delaney and back to Shapiro.

  “All right,” Tillman said, indicating Callahan. “The special ambulance is outside, it’ll take this guy away.” He nodded at the two men, and they unfurled the stretcher and went to Callahan. Then he said to Shapiro: “Where’s the woman?”

  Delaney showed him into the office. Rose looked oddly defiant now, holding the boy close to her. He identified himself and asked her name. She told him.

  “All right, Miss Verga, here’s what I want you to do,” Tillman said. “I want you to stay right here tonight, in this house. I could put you in a cell tonight, but that wouldn’t help anything. I want you down at federal court tomorrow morning, got that? You know where it is?”

  “I do,” Delaney said.

  “Don’t try to run away,” Tillman said to Rose. “You’ll be in big trouble.”

  “Okay,” Rose said. Carlito was squirming.

  “At federal court, you go to room 110. I’ll be there. We’ll take a statement. You can have a lawyer with you if you think that’s necessary. Depending on what happens, you might face criminal charges. You understand me?”

  “You mean if something bad happens to Callahan?” Delaney said.

  “Something bad already did,” Tillman said.

  He stepped into the hall. Callahan and the stretcher bearers were out of the house. “Good night, gentlemen,” Tillman said. And he was gone.

  Delaney faced Shapiro. “New York one,” Shapiro said, “Feds nothing.”

  Then he was gone too. Delaney locked the door behind him.

  At the sound of the gate slamming, the office door opened and Carlito ran out, with Rose behind him. Rose still seemed alarmed, as if prepared for sudden flight.

  “That’s it?” she said.

  “Until tomorrow morning at the courthouse,” Delaney said. He noticed that her face had hardened and her eyes were full of fright. “I’ll go with you.”

  She came to him, and he put his arms around her. If fear had an odor, it was rising from her. She felt smaller and oddly younger.

  “Don’t cry, Rosa,” the boy said.

  For the first time in years, Delaney wanted to dance.

  “Now . . . ,” Rose said.

  “Now everybody needs a good night’s sleep.”

  Rose and the boy started up the stairs. Delaney went first to his office, looking for a business card.

  The vast sea was empty and scarlet. The immense wave rose and rose and rose, carrying Delaney with its surging power, and then crested, held, seemed frozen, and then fell, dropping straight down into a darker crimson trough, and the trough was not empty. Tinpot helmets bobbed everywhere, going under then rising, faces contorted under the helmets, all mouths open, dozens of them, hundreds, drowning in the blood-red tide. He could see Eddie Corso without a helmet, his eyes glittery with fear, close enough to see and hear but too far to reach. There were dozens of soldiers whose faces he knew, but the only name he could remember was Eddie Corso’s. He began to see others: Knocko and Zimmerman and Mr. Lanzano. Packy Hanratty. Angela. All wearing helmets. All except Eddie and the boy. He was in the crimson water too, his eyes wide, full of terror, and Delaney tried to swim to him, calling Carlito! Carlito! Carlito! Delaney’s legs seemed to weigh three hundred pounds, and his right arm was useless, and he could not reach the boy. Carlito! Carlito! Carlito!

  And then he was awake, and Rose was sitting beside him on the bed, caressing his sweaty face. Rose. This time not an illusion, not a scribble of dream or desire. Real. With her odor of flowers. In a bathrobe in the dark.

  “You okay?” she whispered hoarsely.

  “Yes,” he said, feeling a tremble in his voice. “Yes. Sure. Just a bad dream.”

  “You were calling the boy.”

  “Did I wake you up?”

  “No, I wasn’t asleep.”

  “I’m okay,” Delaney said.

  “No, you’re not.”

  She stretched out on top of the covers and pulled him close, her right arm across his chest. He could hear her breathing, cool and steady. A vague aroma of basil was now mixed with the smell of flowers.

  “It wasn’t just Carlito,” she said. “I know. I couldn’t sleep with worrying. About going away. About living somewhere without the boy.” A beat; then, in a reluctant voice: “Without you.”

  “Don’t go away,” he said.

  He wanted to hold her face, to kiss her cheeks and brow and lips and neck. But he was afraid. If I cross this street, he thought, if I open this door, where will it lead? Will I ruin something? Everything? Will I force her to choose flight?

  Thinking: Don’t play with her.

  Thinking: Don’t take advantage of her goodness, her sense of unworthiness, her confusion.

  Thinking: She came to me. Full of her own needs. Perhaps even acting out a farewell.

  “It’s cold here tonight,” she said, and lifted her arm from his chest, and touched his face, and sat up.

  Thinking: Don’t
go. Please don’t go.

  She folded back the blanket and sheet on her side of the bed and slipped in beside him. She bent her leg and slid it over his thigh, infusing him with warmth, while her hands moved to his face and neck. Her breathing was thicker. He realized in the dark that her bathrobe was open, and he could feel her breasts, pliant and full, and her hard nipples. And then it was hair and flesh and tongue, then it was sounds without words, then it was belly and bottom, and hands moving, and legs, and softness and hardness, and muscles taut, then it was wetness and then entry into deep endless warmth.

  “Dottore,” she whispered.

  “Rosa.”

  THIRTEEN

  JUST BEFORE EIGHT-THIRTY IN THE MORNING, THEY BOARDED THE local train going downtown to Chambers Street. Rose was dressed in the same black clothes and stretched boots she wore to St. Patrick’s, but her face was bare of powder. She was hatless, her hair held tight with oyster-colored clasps. Walking beside her to the station, Delaney absorbed her tense silence. Monique had arrived early, after Delaney’s call. The patients would have to wait. But the tension was surely not about the boy. It was about everything else.

  On the crowded train, the knuckles of her hand were white as she gripped the long bar above the packed seats. Delaney saw a film of sweat on her upper lip. She nodded when he said, “Just two stops and we’re there.” He stared at the reflection of her distracted face in the window glass as they moved through the black tunnel. She was looking at nothing. Or at things stirring vividly within her head. The blood seeping from Callahan’s scalp. Tillman’s badge. And perhaps most important: the visit later to Delaney’s bed. Delaney himself was still full of what had happened between them in the dark. They had crossed a line together. In the morning, everything had been the same, and utterly changed.

  He glanced at the reflections in the windows: shopgirls anxious to be on time, Wall Street clerks in linty double-breasted suits, a uniformed cop with a drained face, heading to Brooklyn. Many read newspapers. All seemed gripped by the seediness of the Depression. None could have imagined what was filling Rose’s mind, or Delaney’s.