Pete Hamill - North River

“Took your fuckin’ time,” the sallow man said to Bootsie.

“Fast as I could, Carmine. It’s a fuckin’ blizzard out there.”

The club was a mess of noisemakers, funny hats, overturned tables, and blood. Delaney could see smears through the blood where bodies had been dragged. Against the wall, Eddie Corso was lying on a cot. He smiled thinly when he saw Delaney.

“Medic, medic,” he whispered, and then grinned in a bleary way.

There was blood on his face, probably from his wet crimson hand, but there was a huge spreading stain of blood on the white shirt.

“Jesus, it hurts like a bastard, Doc.”

“You’ve been through worse.”

He grinned. “Morphine, morphine…” The call of the trenches in the rain. “Please, Doc…”

Corso laughed and then moaned, and Delaney gave him what he needed. He swabbed his arm with cotton soaked in alcohol, prepared a syringe, then injected him with a shot of morphine. Corso winced, then sighed in a gargly way. Delaney ripped open the bloody shirt to look at the worst wound, then used pressure and tape to staunch the bleeding.

“You’ve got to go to a hospital, Eddie.”

“A hospital? You nuts? You might as well drive me to the Daily News. ” His voice was quavering and whispery with morphine. “This can’t get out. This —”

“I can’t do what you need, Eddie,” Delaney said. “You need a surgeon.”

“You did it in the Argonne, Doc!”

“And botched it for too many guys.”

“You didn’t botch it for me!”

“You need a professional surgeon, Eddie. Someone whose right hand works right, not like mine. Someone at St. Vincent’s.”

“Anybody comes in shot, the nuns call the cops.”

“Let me see what I can do,” Delaney said. “Your phone working?”

“Yeah,” Bootsie said. “Over there.”

Delaney called St. Vincent’s, identified himself, asked which surgeons were on duty, and held on. His eyes moved around the club, the blood and disorder, and Eddie Corso moaning, and the sallow man guarding the door, and Bootsie nibbling at some cake left on the bar. His gaze fell on the framed photographs of prizefighters and ballplayers, of old picnics, feasts, weddings, and then on the browning photograph of the remnant of the battalion. In a gouged field in France. All of them were still young, the farm boys and the city rats, and he could see Eddie Corso laughing like a man who’d won a lottery, always joking, as brave as any man Delaney had ever known. He saw himself too, off on the side, with his medic’s armband, his face gaunt, a cigarette in his good right hand.

“Hello, hello,” came the voice on the phone. “This is Dr. Zimmerman.”

“Thank God,” Delaney said, relieved that it was this particular young intern. “Jake, I need a big favor.”

It was after eleven when Bootsie dropped him off at the house on Horatio Street. They had taken Eddie Corso through an old delivery entrance at the side of the hospital and hurried him into surgery. If he lived, there would be no records. If he died, it didn’t matter. Around ten, Jake Zimmerman came out, young and bony and frazzled, and told Delaney with a nod and a thin smile that Eddie would survive. The nuns would bring him along after the operation, adhering to their own special vows of silence.

“By the way,” Zimmerman said, “where’d your patient get those scars? One on the back, one on the leg?”

“The Argonne,” Delaney said. “I sewed him up. That’s why it looks so bad.”

“The Argonne?”

“Yeah.”

“You never told me that.”

“It was a long time ago, Jake.”

In another life.

Now he was on Horatio Street, with the snow still blowing hard. Bootsie’s exhausted breathing had fogged the windows. Delaney opened the door.

“Thanks, Bootsie,” he said.

“Thank you, Doc.”

Then he reached over and touched Delaney’s arm.

“You’re a good fuckin’ man, Doc.”

“I wish,” Delaney said, and stepped into the driving snow.

He looked up at the small brick house, the one he’d been given at her death by Evelyn Langdon. Ten years ago now, in a good year, before the goddamned Depression. She was the last of the old Protestant families who had come to the street in the 1840s, fleeing cholera and the Irish, building their impregnable brick and brownstone fortresses. He had kept her alive until she was seventy-three. She had outlived her two children and all of her friends. When she died and the will was read, there was a note to Delaney, explaining that the house was now for him and his wife, Molly, and his daughter, Grace. You have been my last and perhaps truest friend. Please use this house to enrich human life.

Well, I did try, he thought as he opened the iron front gate under the stoop, remembering Evelyn’s note. I tried, and too often failed. Most of all, I’ve failed those I loved the most.

Then he noticed the disturbed snow on the stoop itself, and, at the top, a fog rising on the tall glass windows of the vestibule. It was like Bootsie’s fog in the car, a streaky, uneven fog made by breathing. He hurried up the steps, gripping the iron banister with his good left hand. Foot marks were drifted over with fresh snow. He glanced back to the street, but Bootsie was gone.

The vestibule door was unlocked. It was always unlocked, so that in bad weather the boy from Reilly’s candy store could drop off the newspapers. In the left corner, he glimpsed the Times, the News, the Mirror. Maybe the footprints belonged to the newspaper boy. Maybe.

Then, pushing the door open a few inches, he saw the baby stroller. It was worn and ratty with age, strands of its wicker hood sprung and loose. Like something bought at a secondhand shop. Under a pile of covers, his head wrapped in a green scarf and a yellow wool hat, was a child.

He knew this boy with the wide, wary brown eyes. He had not seen him since the boy was six days old, another unformed infant huddled in the nursery of New York Hospital. But he had his mother’s eyes, and her blond hair. That morning Grace had let him hold the boy, saying only that the boy’s father, Rafael Santos of Cuernavaca, Mexico, was out running errands. She was not even seventeen that morning, his and Molly’s only child. Now a child with a child. Smart, gifted, spoiled, but a child. Like ten thousand other young mothers in New York. When Delaney returned to the hospital, late the next morning, she and the baby were gone. Almost three years now. The postcards came for a while. From Key West. From Cuba. Later Grace wrote a longer letter from Mexico, telling Delaney and Molly that all three Santoses had boarded a ship to Veracruz, with stops along the way. I tried calling before we left, she wrote. Nobody was home. Molly read the letter first, then slapped it against Delaney’s chest. “Spoiled rotten,” she said. “By you.” There were a few more letters, cryptic or guarded, as if Grace was afraid of having them read by anyone else. And then the letters stopped. It was like an erasure on a charcoal drawing. Grace was there in his life, and in Molly’s, but not there. He never did meet the goddamned husband.

He unlocked the inner vestibule door and wheeled the silent boy into the hall, closing doors firmly behind him. His own bedroom was to the left on the street side, the former parlor converted long ago by some forgotten inhabitant, with the former bedroom now full of chairs and couches, looking out on the back garden. Sliding oak doors separated the rooms, but the parquet floors stretched from front windows to rear like a dense oaken plain. He gently freed the boy from the blankets, thinking: Goddamned swaddling clothes. The boy had a lighter version of his mother’s dark blond hair, and he gazed up at Delaney in silence. And then Delaney saw the letter on the boy’s lap. Addressed DADDY. Sealed. He dropped it on the bed. Thinking: I’ll read this later, but not in front of the boy. I don’t want him to see my rage. She will explain herself, of course, but I can’t stop now. He slipped off his heavy clothes and felt a chilly dampness penetrating the room. Thinking: Build a fire. He lifted the child, breathing hard on the boy’s cold cheeks. Then the boy moved his arms. His face looked as if he had a toothache.