by Pete Hamill
“The woman who came to help you with him?” she said. “In one of your letters, you mentioned —”
“Rose,” he said. “Her name is Rose Verga.” She said nothing, taking this in. “She’s Sicilian. In her thirties. Speaks very good English.” He paused. “When she and Carlos arrived, I was numb. I’m not numb anymore.”
She took his good arm above the elbow and leaned into him.
“Oh, Daddy, I’m so happy for you,” she said in a croaking voice, and Delaney thought: Save me please, O Lord, from the banality of the young.
They walked faster and his mind became a jumble. What if Rose goes? She can’t go. But what if she does? I’ll look for her and bring her back. But where will I look? No. She can’t go. She can’t. But if she goes, what then happens to Grace and Carlito? What happens to them if Rose stays? She can’t go. But what if she does?
So much else remained unsaid. He wanted to talk to Grace. She had uttered only a few sentences about Molly and not a word about Rafael Santos. Was he staying in Spain with his Bulgarian woman? Would he come to New York too? Would he choose his wife and child instead of his new woman? And then where would they go? To utopia? Where exactly was that glorious place?
They turned into Horatio Street, and he could see Grace looking at all the familiar places. The tenements on the corner. The house of the Cottrells and the boarded-up facade of the ghost house. This was the fragment of the world that she knew better than any other. She stared at the stoop of 95 Horatio.
“The last time I was here,” she said in a drained voice, “it was covered with snow, and so was I.”
He said nothing. The Packard was parked in front, the windows open, cigarette smoke oozing from the interior. He walked over and leaned in.
“Okay, boys,” Delaney said, “I’ll go up and open the doors at the top of the stoop. Just leave the bags in the hall.” He had his keys out. “Is this stuff heavy?”
“Not bad, Doc,” the bulkiest man said, climbing out of the car and going to the trunk. “No problem.”
Delaney went to the stoop.
“Wait here,” he said to Grace. She had put the beret back on her head and was standing in the areaway, her back to the fence. She was gazing at the irises, planted by Rose. Her face was slack and tired and uncertain.
Delaney hurried up the stoop and opened both sets of doors and waved to the men. There was nobody in the hall of the parlor floor. Was Rose already gone? The men came up the steps, the bulky man lugging the large suitcase, the other man the two smaller bags, the driver holding the wrapped paintings. They placed them on the parquet floors of the hall. This time Delaney insisted that they take a tip, and sent his best wishes and thanks to Mr. Carmody. Then they went back down the stoop. Delaney waited, listening, heard nothing. No voices. No music. Maybe she’s gone.
He locked the doors behind, and paused on the stoop. Grace seemed ready, as if she had sealed away the spoiled little girl that still lived within. Now she had to deal with Carlito and the mysterious woman named Rose. And they would have to deal with her. Delaney longed for the consolation of numbness. And he went down the steps.
Monique came to the door as they walked in under the stoop.
“Well, look at you, girl,” she said, and hugged Grace, then stepped back and looked again. “Prettier than ever.”
“Hello, Monique. You look exactly the same.”
“And you, girl, you’re a grown woman. I’ll be damned.”
Delaney was behind Grace, and they all stood for an awkward moment.
“Where is he?” Grace said softly.
“In the yard,” Monique said. Adding a deadpan message to Delaney: “With Rose.”
She was here. For now. She had not fled. Delaney led Grace through the new door to the kitchen. She waited at the window, peering into the bright green blur of garden. For a moment, Delaney thought Grace would turn and run. She didn’t. They went into the shed and eased past the bicycle. Grace took a breath, then gently pushed open the screen door and stepped into the garden. Delaney stood behind her.
In the far corner, they could see the boy’s back and Rose to his side. They were planting watermelon seeds. Rose looked up, and Delaney saw uncertainty in her eyes.
“Carlito?” Grace said.
The boy stood up, his skin coppery from the sun. There was no expression on his face.
“It’s me, chico,” Grace said. “Su mamá.”
He suddenly looked frightened, staring at this strange woman. He slipped behind Rose and held on to her hip. Delaney thought: I’ve seen this look before, but not on the boy. Grace took another tentative step. Delaney did not move. The boy peered around the fleshy shield of Rose’s hip. Then he eased away from her. He was squinting. Rose took his hand.
“Come on, boy,” Rose said. “It’s your mama.”
She led him forward, but the boy held back stubbornly and seemed to get smaller. Rose smiled widely at Grace, and Delaney thought: Goddamn, she is tough.
“He’s a little shy sometimes,” Rose said. “Come on, boy, give your mama a big kiss.”
Grace stepped closer, as if restrained by caution.
“Ven, m’hijo,” she said. “Come.”
The boy pulled away from Rose and ran to the farthest corner of the garden. Tears were flowing from his eyes. He squatted in fear.
“No,” he said. “No no no NO.”
Rose looked from the boy to Grace, whose face was forlorn. Delaney did not move.
“Take off the hat,” Rose said. “Maybe he —”
Grace whipped off the beret and dropped it on the grass. She walked cautiously to the boy, but he was bunched up like a puppy expecting to be punished. Delaney hurried past her and lifted the boy and held him tight.
“It’s okay, boy. Don’t worry, boy. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t worry —”
“I want Rosa,” the boy said, in a croaking voice. He curled his fingers in her direction. He was sniffling and turning his head away from the stranger. “I don’t want to go. I want Rosa, Gran’pa.”
“I got an idea,” Rose said. “Let’s eat.”
In the kitchen, the boy sat next to Delaney. Rose smiled and said to Grace: “Welcome home.”
“Thank you, Rose,” she said. “Let me help.”
“No, you sit down, Grace. It’s already done, I just have to heat up some stuff.” Then to the boy: “Show your mama your fire engine, boy.”
He sneaked a look at this woman he didn’t quite know, and went off slowly for the fire engine. Delaney tried to read the look on Rose’s face. Determined? Tough? Or was she producing a special version of a last supper? The boy came back, pumping the fire engine, but there was no energy in the effort. He wasn’t playing. He was performing.
“Your old room is all set,” Rose said over her shoulder. “It’s a new bed too. And Carlos is in the room where you used to paint. Dr. Delaney told me all about that.”
Delaney wondered where Rose’s own things were. Her clothes, her new boots, her dictionary and notebook full of English words. Then she called to Carlito.
“Okay, boy, time to eat. You know what!”
“Braciole,” he said, and for the first time since Delaney had arrived with his mother, the boy smiled.
“He loves this stuff,” Rose said to Grace. And Grace smiled in a tentative way and looked down at the food.
Grace insisted on washing the dishes and the pots and Delaney dried them with a dish towel. Grace thanked Rose for a delicious meal, and Rose shrugged in a polite way. The boy glanced at his mother, listened to her voice. Delaney thought: It’s only six months, but it could have been six years.
“He usually takes a nap around now,” Rose said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”
She led the way up the stairs, the boy directly behind her, followed by Grace and then Delaney. Grace ran fingers over the banister, and touched the familiar walls, and squinted at some dark paintings. When she put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he pulled away. Then they were on the top fl
oor. The door to Molly’s old room was wide open.
“Here’s your old room, Grace,” Rose said. “The mattress is new and pretty good. Plenty of room for your stuff.” Then she stepped next door. “Here is Carlito’s headquarter. He loves those Babar books and that one about the Wizard of Oz.”
“That used to be mine,” Grace said. “I loved that book.”
“Him too,” Rose said. “It must be in the blood.”
Delaney held back as she showed Grace the bathroom and the yellow cheese box. But it was clear that this had become Rose’s house too. She was showing it off. Then they stepped through the open door of Molly’s room, and now Carlito was hanging back. Rough paintings by Delaney and the boy were leaning against the half-empty bookcases.
“These two guys come here and paint,” Rose explained, and added in a dry voice, “The boy is better than the dottore.”
Grace hugged the boy. “These are great, Carlito. Just terrific!” And turned to her father. “And Dad? I thought you’d never pick up another brush.”
“An objective person would say it was a terrible mistake, Grace.”
Grace looked around for a silent moment, then said: “My mother used to play her music here.”
“Him too,” Rose said, nodding to the boy. “Carlito, play something for your mama.”
“No,” he said. “I don’t want to play the piano.”
Rose raised her brows and said nothing. Grace looked wounded. She turned to Delaney.
“Where are Momma’s books? And her pictures? And the music scores?”
The question was like an accusation. “Boxed up,” Delaney said. “Safe and dry and sealed, down in the basement.”
“So she’s gone from this house,” Grace said. Rose backed away, squatting to whisper to Carlito. Delaney could hear the word “mama.”
“Yes, Grace,” Delaney said. “She’s gone.”
A muscle quivered in her face. She said, almost to herself, “God, there’s no end to the sadness.”
It was time for a nap. Rose put the boy to bed and was showing Grace the closets when Delaney went downstairs and into his bedroom. There in a corner was Rose’s cheap suitcase, with the black dress laid across the top on a hanger and her hat on top of the dress. She had not gone yet, but she was ready. He closed the door and removed his shoes, with every part of his body demanding sleep. But he was afraid to sleep. Afraid Rose would go. He removed his shirt, still damp from the river morning and the long walk. She can’t go. He removed his trousers too, and his socks, and put on a robe. This is her house too. He drew the curtains and stretched out on the bed and fought off sleep. He could hear the murmuring voices of Grace and Rose on the landing outside the bedroom door. Almost surely removing clothes from Grace’s suitcase. Both women returning upstairs on stockinged feet. He heard the sounds of traffic. And kids laughing. He did not hear Carlito’s voice. He, at least, must have fallen into numbed sleep.
Delaney was dozing when the door clicked open. He could smell Rose before he saw her outline in the muted light. She sat beside him on the bed, and he spoke before she did.
“You’d better hang up your clothes,” he said. “Before they get wrinkled.”
“I don’t think so,” she whispered.
“There’s plenty of room,” he said.
“Not enough for me and Grace.”
The bed sagged slightly as she got up, and then he heard her undressing. He thought: I’ve never seen her naked in the light. I know every inch of her body, but have never seen it all. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Water ran. The toilet flushed. Then she was slipping beneath the covers beside him. He inhaled her fragrance of sweat and oil and roses. She touched him.
The next morning was glorious with sun. All of Delaney’s rage had been purged. He felt oddly empty and hoped that in his anger he had put no permanent marks on Grace. Casey the undertaker sent a car for Delaney and Grace. Rose stayed behind, watching with the boy from the areaway as they eased into the car. Three kids walked by, eating ice-cream cones. Both Delaney and Grace waved good-bye, and the car followed the hearse to the Brooklyn Bridge.
“Do you think he’ll ever remember me?” Grace said, her tone lighter.
“Of course. Little by little, and then pow! He’ll remember. It could be tonight. It could be tomorrow. But he’ll remember.”
“I wish I could believe you.”
“Grace? It happened once to you.”
They were quiet as the two cars entered thickening traffic on the great bridge over the East River. The sun had risen, as always, in Brooklyn, and when Delaney looked behind him, the towers of lower Manhattan were gilded by its rays. Grace followed his look and turned to see.
“You know, when I was away, I saw this view in my head all the time,” she said. “You brought me here when I was about ten. Remember? We took the subway to the Brooklyn side and then walked back. Then you took me to Chinatown.”
“I remember,” he said.
“It was like a gift,” she said. “I want to give the same gift to Carlito.”
“There’s plenty of time.”
“I hope,” she said.
Traffic clogged again as they came down off the bridge into Brooklyn. The driver knew the way, of course. When Delaney visited the graves of his parents, he was almost always alone, and took the BMT to Twenty-fifth Street and walked to the cemetery. Molly would never come with him. At least once, in the days of money, he hired a taxi and had it wait. Now Grace peered out the windows as if visiting a foreign country.
“Do you dream about Momma?” she whispered.
“Sometimes,” he said. “Do you?”
“Almost never.”
She didn’t elaborate.
“I want to remember her happy,” she said. “Lost in music. Playing away in that room. Filling the house with chords and melody.”
“I want to remember her that way too.”
“Then she’ll live, right? She’ll live on.”
“For a few people, yes. Not for Carlito. Not for Rose. They never knew her. But yes, for us.”
She went silent again.
“Is it over with Santos?” he said. “In your letter —”
“Yes. For me. It’s over. I was such a goddamned fool.” She smiled in a bitter way. “I thought he might die as a heroic revolutionary martyr. You know, for the cause. But to give me up, and his son, too, for some . . . some woman.” She laughed. “Jesus. What a friggin’ cliché. What a bad movie.” She slammed the leather car seat with the flat of her hand. “Karl Marx — played by Harpo Marx! Jesus!”
Delaney laughed too. Ahead of them now, the hearse was aimed at the stone gates of the cemetery. Father and daughter were quiet as the ridges of tombstones came into view. As always, the terrain reminded him of the Argonne.
“I like Rose, Daddy,” Grace suddenly whispered. “I like her very much. I want you to know that.”
Rose. Oh, Rose. The hearse went on ahead of them into the great necropolis, but a guard stopped their car just beyond the gate. He leaned in and told the driver to pull into the parking lot on the right.
“Yiz’ll have to walk,” the guard said. “But it’s not far.”
Delaney knew why the cemetery insisted on this routine: they needed time to place the coffin in its rectangle of earth. He and Grace stepped out of the car. A breeze combed the tall oaks and sycamores. Birds were winging. Everything was green except the stone path and the tombstones. Away off they could see the glassy shimmer of a pond. There were no other living people anywhere in sight. He imagined the scene when Frankie Botts was laid to rest. The vows of vengeance. The performed grief. He imagined Eddie Corso strolling alone in a graveyard in France.
“It’s very beautiful,” Grace said.
“It is,” Delaney said.
The path began to rise, and he could see the undertaker and the gravediggers lounging a dozen feet above him. They knew their melancholy trade, all right, and timing was part of it. He took Grace’s hand and they
approached the grave with its surrounding berm of fresh black earth. Big Jim’s grave was to the left, his wife Bridget’s to the right, with the fresh grave right beside hers. Delaney knew there was room in the plot for at least two more coffins, one of which would be his. The undertaker, Casey, came over, looking solemn.
“We’ll leave you alone for a while,” he said. “If you care to say anything. Take as long as you want.”
“Thanks, Mr. Casey.”
He walked off. Delaney leaned over and took a handful of earth and dropped it on the coffin. Grace did the same. The earth made a lumpy sound against the plain pine top. Then they stepped back.
“Good-bye, Molly,” Delaney said.
“Good-bye, Momma,” Grace said. “Rest in peace.”
Neither said another word. Then Delaney brushed the remaining dirt off his hands and took Grace’s hand, and they walked between the graves of strangers to the peak of the hill. Grace gasped. The entire harbor was spread out in the distance, with the sun bouncing off its glassy surface, One freighter moved slowly north, a tug alongside. The Statue of Liberty seemed tiny, the skyscrapers like toys from Billy McNiff’s window. New Jersey and Staten Island were distant smears.
“It’s very beautiful,” she said.
“Over there to the left,” Delaney said, pointing. “That’s the Narrows. That’s where they found her.”
She said nothing, perhaps thinking that she had passed her mother’s bones on the way to Spain. Or perhaps just struck by the beauty. Delaney took her hand again.
“Let’s go home, daughter.”
The car turned into Horatio Street and stopped at 95. As they got out, Delaney noticed Mr. Cottrell sitting on his own stoop, his feet in the areaway. He was wearing a straw boater, a long-sleeved blue shirt, and dark slacks. His face glistened with oil. He was sitting on a green cushion. In all the years on Horatio Street, Delaney had never seen the man sit on the stoop. Cottrell gave him a stiff little wave.
“How are you feeling, Mr. Cottrell?”
“Better.” He paused. “I’m alive.”
“Just take it easy.”
Then Cottrell cleared his throat. “If you’re looking for the woman and the boy, they’re not home.” He paused. “They went out a couple hours ago.”
