Pete Hamill - North River

“They used to be beautiful,” she said sadly.

“Breathe, please.”

He listened. Then removed the stethoscope from his ears.

“The heartbeat is strong and regular, Miss Wilson.”

She folded her arms under her breasts to form a shelf.

“I’m worried about lumps.”

“There’s a wonderful specialist at St. Vincent’s, Miss Wilson. I can make an appointment if you want.”

“I don’t trust strangers. I need you to check.”

He did, while she inhaled through clenched teeth, her eyes closed for almost a minute. Her body grew tauter.

“Everything seems fine,” Delaney said. “No lumps, Miss Wilson. But I can make that appointment if…”

She relaxed, arms folded under breasts again.

“You can get dressed now, Miss Wilson.”

He turned his back on her, heard her moving, a rustling of something silky. Her breathing was heavy.

“Every time I think of Alfie, I get the condition, the papulations.”

He chuckled. “Maybe you should think about your second husband.”

“That bastard.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what. Stop the coffee for a week and then come back. We’ll see how you’re doing.”

When he turned she was wearing the brassiere but not the blouse.

“You’d have loved them,” she said in a numb voice. “Everybody did.”

He heard the gate clang and the outside door open and slam shut and Rose’s voice and the laughing of Carlito. Bumping. Jumping. Shoes on wood. Blurred Italian. The boy’s squealing laughter.

“Excuse me,” he said to his patient, and went to greet them, smiling.

LATER — AFTER THE BOY HAD PRACTICED WITH HIS PADDLEBALL until falling into a nap; after Delaney had written three notes to his daughter and folded them into the stamped envelopes; after he had hung his suit neatly in the bedroom closet and peeled off the union suit; after he had spoken with Jimmy Spillane about a Monday-morning visit to check out a system for steam heat; after reading the newspapers in a hot bath; after dressing again in warmer clothes — after all of that, he and Rose and the boy went to Angela’s restaurant for an early dinner. He dropped the letters in a corner mailbox.

“This kid already grew half an inch in a week,” Angela said, leading them to a corner table.

“The cooking,” Rose said. “Whatta you expect?”

“He’s gonna be bigger than the doc,” Angela said.

“Bigger than the Statue of Liberty.”

Carlito was indeed 33 inches tall and weighed 32 pounds. A big kid, from the genetic line that had given Delaney his six feet. They sat down and Angela suggested veal or a nice piece of fish and the boy said “bagetti” and then they ordered. Veal for Delaney. Sole for Rose. Carlito had already said what he wanted. Then Delaney asked for a glass of the house red, and Angela raised her eyebrows.

“That’s the second glass a wine you had this year!”

“It might be the last.”

“An’ you, Rose — you on a diet or something?”

Rose blushed. “Just bring me the fish, Angela.”

The place was half-empty. They talked and laughed and said hello to people they knew. Knocko Carmody came in with his camarilla, asked Delaney if Spillane had called, smiled when told he had. He kissed Rose on the cheek while murmuring, “Hey, you hoodlum, how are you?” Carlito squirmed in his high chair and Rose took him by the hand back past the kitchen to the bathroom. Delaney watched a fresh snowfall drifting softly on the street. The flakes were thick and there was no wind. Parked cars were now glistening from the melting snow. Some had not been moved since the New Year’s storm. There was snow on the hats and shoulders of the new arrivals too. A few more people stopped to say hello to Delaney, exchanging small talk, giving him brief updates on the health of old patients. Nobody mentioned Eddie Corso. Or, for that matter, his daughter, Grace. He saw Rose emerge with Carlos by the hand. Angela threw her a conspiratorial glance. Then from the tables, a few men and more women reached for Carlito, touching him, talking baby talk, petting him as if he were a puppy.

They were silent through most of the meal, the food too delicious for chatter. The wine, alas, was too sweet, so Delaney sipped. Rose was very concentrated, lifting her food in a dainty way, as if remembering advice from the woman’s page of the Daily News. She tamped down her shimmering vitality too. The restaurant was now crowded, and when Carlito finished, Angela came over.

“What about dessert?” Angela said.

Delaney ordered a cannoli, the boy wanted ice cream, Rose passed on both and asked for tea.

“You’re gonna waste away, ragazza,” Angela said, a thin smile on her face, as she touched Rose’s shoulder. She glanced at Delaney and turned her back on Rose and hurried to another table. The mixed sound of men and women was higher now, a growly male baritone punctuated by shrill female whiskey laughter. The boy grinned every time someone laughed out loud.

They finished the desserts too quickly.

“This can’t be good for us,” Delaney said, “but I don’t care.”

“Once in while,” Rose said, waving a hand in dismissal. “You eat dolces three times a day, you weigh four hundred pounds. But one cannoli? Faniente, nothing.”

The boy rubbed his eyes, and Delaney called for the check and paid it. Dessert and the glass of wine were on the house. Rose buttoned up Carlito’s jacket and then her own long coat, while Delaney pulled his hat tight on his brow. Angela hugged them all and said something in Italian to Rose, who smiled thinly and jutted her chin in a gesture of defiance. Delaney waved to the blur of crowded tables and they went out. The snow was emptying the streets and gathering on the fenders of the glistening cars. They turned left toward Horatio Street.

Then a car door opened. An angular, sallow man, with yellowing eyes under a wide-brimmed hat, stepped out of the backseat. He jammed his hands in his overcoat pockets, as if they contained something dangerous. There were three other men in the car and a lot of cigarette smoke. They had been waiting a while.

“Hey,” the sallow man said.

Delaney looked at him, while Rose pulled Carlito closer.

“Me?” Delaney said.

“Yeah, you. I wanna talk to you.”

“About what?”

“You know what.”

“Tell me what.”

“About Eddie.”

“Eddie who?”

“Eddie Corso, that’s who.”

“What about him?”

“Where is he?”

Christ. Another punk gangster who’s seen too many goddamned movies.

“I don’t know.”

“Of course you know. You saved his fuckin’ life.”

Rose stepped in, blurting in Italian: “Vai!” The sallow man looked as if he’d been slapped. Then she turned to Delaney, her tone shifting into deference. “Don’t talk to this guy. Come on.”

“Stay outta this, Rose,” the sallow man said.

“Ah, bah fongool.”

The man took out a pistol, letting his gun arm hang at his side.

“Put that away,” Delaney said, stepping in front of Rose and the boy. Thinking: I can manage one left hook.

“There’s three cops inside Angela’s restaurant, pal,” Delaney said calmly. “This is a very bad idea.”

The sallow man glanced at the lights of Angela’s and then at the car. An older man shook his head. No. The sallow man returned the gun to his pocket.

“You better remember where Eddie is,” he said. “And let us know fast.”

“Let’s go,” Delaney said, and took Rose by the arm and started for home through the falling snow. He felt himself breathing hard.