Pete Hamill - North River

They walked into the park, the boy swinging his arms freely. Under the brightening gray sky, students from New York University walked in groups across the park, talking intensely. Professors crossed their paths, overcoats open to the warming day. Carlito stared at a boy his own age who was pedaling a yellow tricycle under the watchful gaze of a red-haired Irish governess. There were battered men here too, as there were everywhere, sitting alone on benches. And on one bench, he saw the man in the gray coat, reading a Daily News. I should just confront him, Delaney thought. Go over there and…

Then Delaney was distracted by a man in a velvet-collared overcoat and modest gray fedora, walking in a jerky way from the Minetta Lane end of the park. It was Mr. Cottrell. Alone and far from Horatio Street. He staggered, then fell facedown, the fedora rolling a few feet. People stopped to look. Delaney ran to him, dragging Carlito. He squatted beside Mr. Cottrell and gently turned him over. His eyes were open, but he did not seem to be seeing anything. He certainly showed no sign of recognizing Delaney. Two students paused about ten feet away. Delaney called to them as he squatted beside the fallen man.

“ Hey! There’s a cop just past the arch. Tell him to call an ambulance. Right now! This man’s having a heart attack.”

The students hurried away to the arch. Carlito was looking down at the man, his face tense, holding the bag of books to his chest. Delaney leaned close to the stricken man’s ear.

“Don’t worry, Mr. Cottrell,” he said. “The ambulance is coming. Don’t worry. Try to breathe. Slow, yes, like that. Breathe…”

The cop arrived as Delaney placed Cottrell’s hat on his chest.

“They’re on their way,” he said. “This guy gonna make it?”

“Maybe.”

Delaney and the boy watched as the ambulance pulled away to the east with its siren wailing. About fifteen other people watched too, including the governess and the boy with the tricycle. The man in the gray coat was gone. Delaney thought about Mr. Cottrell, locked within his bitter cell, and what he would think if he learned who had tried to help him. I couldn’t save his son, Delaney thought, but maybe I’ve helped save him. He wondered what Cottrell was doing here. Down beyond Minetta Lane there were whorehouses that had been there since the Civil War. There were also churches. Maybe he just was out for a walk. Maybe alone, in an anonymous crowd, with the winter easing, he could find some consolation. Maybe.

Delaney gripped the boy’s mittened hand. He took a deep cleansing breath, then exhaled. Then saw people looking into the brightening sky. Some of them were smiling. The boy looked up too, and pointed.

“Gran’pa, look! El sol!”

“Yes,” Delaney said, smiling too. “El sol. The sun.”

“The sun!”

Delaney could feel winter seeping out of him. He fought against tears.

They stopped to celebrate in a hot dog place on Sheridan Square. First they scrubbed their hands in the men’s room and dried them with sheets of the New York Times stacked above the bowl. They went to the counter, and Delaney lifted Carlito onto a stool, and the counterman asked what they wanted. Two hot dogs, Delaney said. Mustard in a bowl. Sure thing, the man said. This time Carlito insisted on trying mustard on his hot dog, instead of his fingertip, as if it were a sign of manhood. The counterman placed a bowl of mustard before him, with a wooden stick to be used for dipping. Delaney tried to help the boy, but Carlito insisted on doing it himself. He splashed mustard on the bear and on his own coat.

“Don’t worry, boy,” Delaney said, wiping at the mustard with a handkerchief. The boy looked embarrassed. “I mean it, boy: Don’t worry.”

Carlito made a face at the first taste of mustard, but was able to chew and make a face at the same time. As he worked his way along the length of the hot dog, the boy seemed to enjoy it more. He looked slyly at Delaney, who was consuming his own hot dog, as if they were engaged in a conspiracy. To hell with Rose.

Then a man was beside him. The bartender from Club 65. The man who had vanished from Washington Square.

“Hello, Doc,” he said.

“Hello. What’s your name again?”

“It don’t matter. Whatta ya hear from Eddie Corso?”

“Not a word.”

“Mr. Botts, the boss, well, he’s still very interested.”

“Let me ask you something, mister. You been following me?”

“Nah, I was just passin’ by. It’s a nice day. The sun is shining. A good day for a walk.”

“That’s what we’re going to do too. Just walk in the sun. Give my regards to Mr. Botts.”

He nodded to the man, took the boy by the hand, and walked out. He didn’t look back. They walked west toward the North River. The sun followed them, brightening every street, casting long sharp black shadows under the El as they crossed, bringing vivid color from the bricks of the buildings. These fuckers are everywhere. Feds and gangsters. Jesus Christ… More tenement windows were being opened, welcoming the breeze, letting it scour the sour winter air of the flats. Kids were arriving in noisy battalions. Running, leaping, playing tag, throwing balls and catching them. One kid burst out of the door with what was called a pusho, a scooter made of a milk box nailed to a two-by-four, with a dismembered roller skate serving as wheels. Carlito watched them all. They were offering him lessons in what it was to be a boy.

Delaney looked at the Cottrell house, but there were no signs of life. He thought about ringing the bell and explaining what had happened to Cottrell and how the ambulance had taken him to Bellevue. He didn’t. They were probably at the hospital now, on watch. Like hundreds of others all over the city on this day when the sun had returned from exile.

They entered under the stoop, the boy whipping off his coat. He called Rose’s name in the hallway, but there was no answer. He wanted to show her his books.

“Later,” Delaney said. “Now we take a nap.”

“Okay. I like a nap.”

He woke abruptly from a formless dream and saw the clock: four forty-five. Still Sunday. He remembered the man in the gray suit, and the bartender from Club 65. His breath kept coming in short panicky gasps. He remembered Mr. Cottrell and wondered if he was alive or dead. He rose and went to the bathroom and stepped into the shower and scrubbed himself. He dried, then dressed quickly, in rough clothes. When he opened the door, he could hear Carlito talking below to Rose. She was back from wherever she went on Sundays. The aroma of garlic and oil rose through the house. He hurried down to the kitchen.

She looked at him and held up Carlito’s coat.

“Mustard on his coat!” she said with a laugh. “I know what that means!”

He laughed too.

“ Hot dogs!” she said, and now Carlito was giggling in a delighted way. The bear was seated on the fourth chair. Rose draped the coat on the empty chair.

“Rosa,” the boy said. “We see the sun.”

With that, she put her hands up, palms out.

“The sun, it’s beautiful,” she said. “It makes everything grow.”

They ate veal and pasta and bread, Delaney joking about how the hot dogs rose off the grill and flew into their mouths. Veal, he said, was definitely better. There was good color in Rose’s cheeks. She moved more easily now on her feet, and never mentioned the killer boots or murderous women at the funeral of John McGraw. Delaney cleared the table and washed the dishes while Rose helped Carlito feed imaginary food to the bear. When they finished eating, Delaney sat back in his chair. He said nothing about the man from Club 65. Or the man in the gray suit. He didn’t even mention what had happened to Mr. Cottrell.