North River (33 page)

“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.”

Delaney felt a tremor of uncertainty.

“Did they say where they were going?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Delaney looked at Grace, and she tried to read his tense face. They started into the house. Cottrell cleared his throat again.

“Dr. Delaney?” he said. Then squeezed out a word. “Thanks.”

Delaney nodded, then went to the gate and unlocked it.

Inside, Delaney pulled open his necktie, removed his suit jacket. He could feel Grace staring at him. He hurried up the stairs into his bedroom, glanced at Rose’s suitcase, removed his shoes and trousers, and opened the closet. Her dress was hanging in the space he had cleared for her, and her hat was on the shelf. The rest of her clothes remained in the suitcase, over by the closed sliding doors. He put his suit on a hanger and dressed in street clothes. It was done. Molly was buried. That part of his past was buried with her in the Green-Wood. Molly in life, Molly in the time of numbness and solitude. Gone. Ahead was the future. Ahead was no-man’s-land.

He went down to the kitchen, and Grace poured two glasses of ice water. She had changed into a blouse and dark skirt. Her face was distracted, her brow furrowed.

“I can’t stay here, Dad,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It’s not fair to you,” she said, staring at the ice water. “Or to Carlito.” She paused, then looked at him. “Or to Rose.”

He was silent for a moment. She was growing up fast. Then: “You can stay as long as you want, Grace.”

“It might be a few days, Dad, or a few weeks. But I have to find my own place in this town.”

“I understand,” he said, and did: she had to be free, living an unobserved life, free to paint too, free to imagine. Above all, she had to have her son. Delaney suddenly pictured the house with all of them gone: Grace, Carlito, and Rose. All gone. Rose came here because of the boy, and loved him as the child she couldn’t have, and when the boy goes, she would surely go too. And Delaney saw himself again in the mornings, with Monique handling the daily traffic, the war vets and the marriage vets, the endless casualties of the night, the addled and the lonely; then a hurried lunch; and off to house calls among the battered, hurt, desperate people of the parish; and then at night, solitude and numbness, and the dream of snow.

No. He could not go back. No. Goddamn it. No.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

Mr. Cottrell was gone, but there were more people on the street. Kids were returning from the beach, red and sandy. One of the shawlies passed, and Delaney thought she was as mossy as a river piling in a black dress. The afternoon sun was heading for New Jersey. A breeze rose from the North River.

“Did Rose plant those irises?” Grace said.

“Yes,” Delaney said. “I don’t know about gardens.” Grace grabbed his good arm and hugged it.

Then Grace leaned on the fence, gazing at the life of the street, a long way from the Plaza Real. Delaney sat on the stoop and looked at his hands and clenched and unclenched his fingers. In another week, the olives in the back garden would be edible. Rose said so. All the curtains would be washed and fresh. Rose said that too. Up ahead was the Fourth of July. Maybe he could take Grace and Rose and the boy to a ballgame. Maybe they could go to Coney Island together. Or down to the Battery. Or take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. To be caressed by harbor winds. Maybe Grace could paint Rose.

Then away off at the distant corner, he could see Rose crossing the avenue, holding the boy by the hand. He stood up.

“I see them,” he said.

He began walking quickly, stepping around some kids, slapping away a spaldeen hit foul. She didn’t see him yet. He passed some men shooting craps. He dodged a kid on a bicycle. She saw him now, her eyes wide, and stopped. She smiled her beautiful smile. He reached her, wrapped her in his arms, and whirled her around, as if they were dancing.

“Where is Mamá?” the boy said.

An hour later, the boy was explaining the garden to his mother and how olives were growing on the tree and how watermelons would soon grow right there in the corner.

“We’re going for a walk,” Delaney said, with Rose beside him.

“Okay,” the boy said.

“See you later,” Grace said, and smiled.

They went out together and paused awkwardly in front of the house.

“I don’t want to go to the river,” Rose said. “That’s where you used to go with, you know . . . with your wife.”

“We’ll just walk,” he said. “Away from the river.”

“That’s better,” Rose said. Her face was tight.

They walked without touching until they were out of the neighborhood. Then they saw a small triangle of park near Eighth Avenue, and he took her hand and led her in silence to a bench. A half-dozen pigeons gurgled around the next bench. An old woman was feeding them crusts of stale bread. A grizzled wino in a long army coat stretched upon another bench. Traffic was sparse.

“She’s moving out, of course,” he said.

“Maybe . . .”

“She needs to be on her own.”

“Maybe not yet.”

“And she’s taking Carlito.”

“If she goes, she better take him. He’s her son.”

There was acceptance in her voice, but no bitterness.

“But . . .” She paused. “But I keep thinkin’, maybe I can make it easier for everybody. Grace doesn’t need me around, watching her, watching the boy. . . . Maybe
I
could go. Then she could stay with the boy.”

“Rose —”

“No, listen to me, Dottore.” She turned away, then returned to him, her eyes glistening. “I’ll always love that boy. The rest of my life, I’ll love that boy. He gave me what I missed. A boy. A son.” A pause. “But he gave me something else too. I came to take care of him, and I met you, Jim. That was one of the best things ever happen to me.” A longer pause. “But I don’t want to be the woman that made you lose your daughter and that boy. He has his mother now to take care of him. You don’t need me.”

“Yes, I do,” Delaney said.

He saw her press her upper teeth into her lower lip.

“Don’t play with me, Jim,” she whispered.

“I’m not playing with you, Rose,” he said. “I love you.”

She leaned against him as if melting. He felt oddly lighter now, the words finally said.

“God damn you, Dottore,” she said.

He kissed her hair, inhaled her fragrance.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She suddenly stiffened. “Let’s go?” she said. “Go?” She shook her head, and her voice darkened. “To where? To what?”

He hugged her. “Wherever you want to go, Rose,” he said.

She went quiet, fumbling for words. Then she said: “I want to go where you go, and be with you.”

“I want the same thing, Rose.”

“Then let’s go home,” she said.

They stood up. Delaney waited for the fine print, but there wasn’t any. Rose looked behind her. The old woman was still tossing bread crusts to the pigeons. The wino did not stir. Rose took Delaney’s hand and squeezed it, and they started walking west, to the river.

The author gratefully acknowledges use of the following previously copyrighted material:

“Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?” Lyrics by E. Y. “Yip” Harburg and Music by Jay Gorney © 1932 (Renewed) Warner Bros. Inc. Rights for the Extended Renewal Term in the United States and 50% of the British Reversionary Territories controlled by Glocca Morra Music and Gorney Music and administered by Next Decade Entertainment, Inc. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of Next Decade Entertainment, Inc., and Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

“Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries” (From “George White’s Scandals”) Words by Lew Brown, Music by Ray Henderson © 1931 (Renewed) by DeSylva, Brown and Henderson, Inc. Rights for the Extended Renewal in the U.S. controlled by Ray Henderson Music Company and Chappell & Co. All Rights Reserved. Used by Permission of Alfred Publishing Co., Inc.

Lines quoted on pages 201–202 are from
The Story of Babar,
by Jean de Brunhoff, copyright © 1933 by Random House, Inc., copyright renewed 1961 by Random House, Inc.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pete Hamill is a novelist, journalist, editor, and screenwriter. He is the author of nineteen previous books, including the bestselling novels
Forever
and
Snow in August
and the bestselling memoir
A Drinking Life.
He lives in New York City, where he is a Distinguished Writer-in-Residence at New York University.