City of Hope (26 page)

Katherine had been writing every fortnight, keeping me updated on the businesses back home. Her letters were so reliable in both their frequency and content that I had taken to merely skimming through them, while reaching for the envelope in which I would send her enclosed check to the bank.

On three occasions now she had enclosed short, warm letters from Maidy. Despite her sharp intelligence, Maidy was not a greatly literate person; her husband, Paud, had done all of the reading, and most of the writing, during their sixty years of marriage. That she had put pen to paper herself in her shaky, spidery hand and not merely dictated something, as an appendage to Katherine's missive, was the greatest indication to me that all had been forgiven.

I miss John every day since, but he is in heaven now alongside Paud, God rest them both, and I have comfort in that I will meet them there when my time is come. I miss you as well, but I was as glad as any woman could be to get your last letter and news of how you are helping the poor of America. You were surely the kindest of girls and for all your beauty and good humor I know that was why in his heart John loved you as he did.

I could not read Maidy's letters without the jagged pain of tears welling up in me, so I made sure that I did so when I had no time to indulge in emotions: a few snatched moments before we all sat down to dinner, or just after my morning coffee when I was due in the shop. I had taken the check out already, put the rest of the letter in my apron pocket to read another time, and gone straight to the bureau in the dining room. I heard the front door open again and presumed the postman must have come back. Although it was unusual for him to let himself in, I assumed he was just leaving some overlooked post in the hall and didn't want to trouble me by knocking again. In any case I wanted to catch him, so that he might deliver the check to the bank for me and save me the journey.

“Pat,” I said, running out into the hall, stuffing the check into the envelope.

But it wasn't Pat.

I recognized the man instantly; his thin, angular face and malevolent features were seared into my brain. The mobster was there, in my hall, in my home, his presence as intrusive and unwanted as that of a common rat, except that I understood—with a rising sense of fear—that he could not be simply chased back out the door with a kitchen broom.

“What do you want?” I said. “How dare you walk into my house without knocking—get out at once.”

My voice was shaking, and so were my legs, although I could only hope that he sensed neither. His eyes were wide and staring, with the pupils dilated, and his tongue was protruding, moistening his thin, dry lips. He was probably high, and looked more like a dog than a rat. I must not let him smell my fear. I knew what he wanted—the worst thing: worse than robbery or murder. In instinctively knowing his intentions, I already felt dirty and afraid and, worst of all, somehow complicit.

“Did you not hear me?” I said. “Get out of my house.”

He took a step closer to me.

“Hey, pretty lady, what's the big fuss?”

His arms were hanging nonchalantly by his sides, his hands flicking out at the wrists as he spoke, his palms curling and uncurling themselves into loose fists—soft fists, not fighter's ones. He wouldn't need much of a fist to overpower a woman. He was simply releasing tension from the fingers. His nails were dirty and unnaturally long.

I had nothing to hand. No knife, no walking stick, not even an umbrella. In a hallway—why were there no umbrellas in the hallway! Why did I never lock the front door? Leaving it on the latch, so that anyone might walk in and out! What kind of a fool lives like that in a big city?

I took a step back. One step. I did not want him to see that I was afraid, and I could not turn my back on him.

“Take one step closer and I shall call out. There are people upstairs . . .”

He widened his eyes and raised his brows quizzically—was he having second thoughts? He was clearly a little crazy, so his face was hard to read. I began to convince myself.

“. . . and I don't want any fuss, or to have to call the cops, so if you would just kindly leave now, we'll say no more about it.”

“Ooooh,” he said, half turning toward the door—then, just as quickly, he spun on his heel and jerked his whole body toward me, flashed his palms quickly in my face and shouted, “POW!”

I jumped a full foot in the air and called out with shock.

He threw his head back, laughing.

“You shoulda seen your face, lady! Oh, man!” He was weeping with hilarity. I thought of making a run for the kitchen and a knife, while he was distracted, when he suddenly stepped forward and said, “There ain't nobody in this house, pretty lady, 'cept you and me. I watched them go: one, two, three, four, five . . .” He scattered the last number into stardust with his fidgety fingers and whispered almost silently, pushing his mouth into an extended pout: “Po-owww . . .”

I took a step back, but my foot hit the wall next to the dining-room door. There was nobody there. He had been watching the house. He had thought this through. His face turned nasty and he spat in my face as he spoke.

“You owe me an apology, lady. How d'you expect you gonna pay me back, huh? I got some ideas about that. I got some real good ideas.”

Oh God, this was it. If I fought, he'd kill me. Maybe he'd kill me anyway. This was worse, smelling his acrid breath, feeling the filthy warmth of it so close to my skin, his hand reaching out to touch my breast. I closed my eyes in horror, and as I raised my hand to try and push him away or plead with him, I realized that it was still holding the fountain pen with which I was going to address the envelope to the bank. Grabbing at idiotic ideas to try and stay calm, I thought:
The pen is mightier than the sword.

In an act of pure instinct, I pulled my hand up and plunged the sharp end of the pen as hard as I could into the side of his neck.

He staggered backward and fell down onto his knees, cursing and swearing. I stood for a split second, wondering how badly he was hurt, but then he looked up at me, his face contorted into a furious grin, and although his hand was pressing against his bloody neck, the pen had fallen to the floor and I could see he wasn't badly hurt. He seemed mad with a mixture of lust and rage; his blood was up, and I had certainly made things worse. As he started to stand up, I stepped to one side, hoping to negotiate a route past him, when the front door was flung open and three men—Matt, Mario and Charles—came crashing into the hall, shouting. My would-be assailant fell immediately to his knees again and covered his head with his arms, saying, “Don't shoot! Don't shoot me! I ain't armed!”

The three men stood around this pitiful figure, and for a moment I felt like laughing at the ludicrousness of the situation. Could this quivering wreck really have put the fear of God into me, just seconds before?

“She stabbed me! The bitch stabbed my neck!”

Matt, the biggest and most physically threatening of the three men, grabbed the mobster by the collar, hauled him to his feet and gave him a backhanded slap across the jaw, which cracked so loudly it made me jump.

“Wash your mouth, scum!”

“Matt!” I shouted.

“Please, please, don't hurt me,” he sniveled, splashing blood onto the floor with each word. Then he addressed Charles: “Mr. Irvington, tell him to let go. Tell him I'm harmless, I didn't mean no harm.”

Charles waved at Matt. The big man hesitated, uncertain that he wanted to take instructions from Charles, then violently shook the man free from his grip, throwing him back down onto his knees. There was blood pouring from his nose, which was possibly broken, and on the side of his neck where I had stabbed him. He made such a pitiful sight that I almost felt sorry for him.

“What are you doing here, Dingus?”

“I was just talking to the lady. Me and the Irish lady was just talking about . . . I didn't know she was a friend of yours, Mr. Irvington. I never knew, I swear . . .”

I was surprised to hear him use Charles's name, but then no man could be involved in the mob and not know who was running the unions—the ones within and outside their control. Charles knew everyone; he had to. Life in the Bronx during the Depression was, I had discovered, all about survival, and if you wanted to survive you had to negotiate. We women made our money go further by bartering, swapping our eggs and cakes and skills with various suppliers—charming landlords and fellow tradesmen with flirtations and good home cooking. Aside from cash, the men too had their own brand of currency: the threat of physical violence and humiliation. Charles did not have a gun (to the best of my knowledge, in any case), but he could throw a punch and he could lead men. He knew everyone and he commanded respect.

I could see from Dingus' face that he understood Charles could crush him there and then like a flea.

“You go back to Frank Delaney and you tell him this lady is running a charitable organization, that she is under my protection and he's not to trouble her again.”

Dingus got to his feet and started toward the door.

“And, Dingus?”

“Yes, Mr. Irvington.”

“If I ever see you again, not just in this house, but in this neighborhood—and I mean just
see
you—across the street, travelling on a passing streetcar—I will come after you with six men like Matt here. And we won't shoot you, Dingus, you know that, don't you?”

“Yes, yes . . .”

He was shaking, terrified. I looked at Charles, and his face was impervious; his voice was calm and cold.

“We will slice you open like a pizza pocket. Do you understand?”

“Yes sir, Mr. Irvington.” And he scuttled out like the cockroach he was. Matt slammed the door at his back.

The whole scenario had been shocking—the attack, of course, but also the rescue; Matt's violent reaction, and Charles's cold, terrible threats. I had not seen Charles since the union business, and had not even known he was back. As my lover crossed the room and took me in his arms, I was aware that I should be pushing him away, yet I did not. My heart was pounding and my breathing short, but despite that I collapsed gratefully into Charles's chest and was surprised to realize that I felt neither shocked nor afraid. In actual fact I felt a thrill run through me. In the back draft of this violent madness, I imagined that I felt truly alive. The feeling wasn't real, and it wasn't to last.

C
HAPTER
T
HIRTY

Charles left Yonkers four days later. He was the hero of the hour (a role to which he was well suited) and deftly avoided any reference to how he knew Dingus or had managed to strike such fear into him. The gangsters, the unions and the cops were all tied up with one another. The reins changed hands so often that it was impossible to keep up with who was in power on any given day. Charles' weapons were his charm and intelligence and his manly bravado; doubtless his union ties and rough docker links had afforded him some legendary status in the underworld. He had saved me from Dingus, and I knew that questioning him beyond that would be pointless and would ultimately cause me more worry than I would be able to manage.

In addition to denying his mob links, Charles also made light of my accusations of betrayal. The union business was politics, he said, and nothing to do with his feelings for me. He assured me that he had been going to talk to me about it, when he had heard from his wife and had to rush off to sort things out with his son.

On the trip he had made the decision to move upstate and live near his wife, until such time as they could decide what was to be done about Leo. Now he paused to allow me to respond. He was still hoping I would invite them both to live with me.

We had made love over an hour beforehand, and Charles was sitting on the edge of the bed as I lay on my side. He was addressing me, but was looking away, and I was hiding—my eyes staring at an empty corner, the bedcovers draped over my shoulders. I was no longer hurt or angry with Charles, but neither could I engage in what he was saying. I felt numb, apart from everything else. I had never felt this way before, as if I wanted to fall into a deep sleep that lasted forever. It felt strangely comforting.

As I stayed silent, Charles continued talking. He loved me, he said, and wanted to marry me, as he had intended to do before I had returned to Ireland. He knew I was still getting over John, but still hoped that we would be together one day. I was the great love of his life, he said. I listened, but although he was saying things to me that I might have dreamed a man as fine as him would feel, his words felt meaningless; they did not reach me, but crept instead toward the open window and were carried off into the enormity of the outside world. He continued: he understood that it was too much to ask me to take on his child. Perhaps one day in the future I could meet Leo and things might be different. He was going now, but I was to be reassured that he would return soon. He would never give up on our being together one day. He would always love me.

I curled my legs up to my chest and closed my eyes. I wanted him to leave.

Charles came over and kissed me. I stayed curled up in my tight ball and didn't respond to him.

He gathered his things from around the room and left. I did not move from my position or speak. He paused at the door and looked back at me—confused, perhaps, at my not responding—then left, walked down the stairs and out of my life.

As I heard the front door close behind him downstairs, the black clouds of grief gathered in my head.

I had kept this storm at bay for almost five months. Now it was coming.

Thick, black puffs crowded all light out of my head, and tendrils of spidery smoke drew themselves in a deadly circle around my heart.

John is dead. He's dead and he is never coming back.

The whisper grew louder and louder until it thundered through me, then with a sharp clap the rains came, and I started to cry.