Pete Hamill - North River

“The woman who came to help you with him?” she said. “In one of your letters, you mentioned —”

“Rose,” he said. “Her name is Rose Verga.” She said nothing, taking this in. “She’s Sicilian. In her thirties. Speaks very good English.” He paused. “When she and Carlos arrived, I was numb. I’m not numb anymore.”

She took his good arm above the elbow and leaned into him.

“Oh, Daddy, I’m so happy for you,” she said in a croaking voice, and Delaney thought: Save me please, O Lord, from the banality of the young.

They walked faster and his mind became a jumble. What if Rose goes? She can’t go. But what if she does? I’ll look for her and bring her back. But where will I look? No. She can’t go. She can’t. But if she goes, what then happens to Grace and Carlito? What happens to them if Rose stays? She can’t go. But what if she does?

So much else remained unsaid. He wanted to talk to Grace. She had uttered only a few sentences about Molly and not a word about Rafael Santos. Was he staying in Spain with his Bulgarian woman? Would he come to New York too? Would he choose his wife and child instead of his new woman? And then where would they go? To utopia? Where exactly was that glorious place?

They turned into Horatio Street, and he could see Grace looking at all the familiar places. The tenements on the corner. The house of the Cottrells and the boarded-up facade of the ghost house. This was the fragment of the world that she knew better than any other. She stared at the stoop of 95 Horatio.

“The last time I was here,” she said in a drained voice, “it was covered with snow, and so was I.”

He said nothing. The Packard was parked in front, the windows open, cigarette smoke oozing from the interior. He walked over and leaned in.

“Okay, boys,” Delaney said, “I’ll go up and open the doors at the top of the stoop. Just leave the bags in the hall.” He had his keys out. “Is this stuff heavy?”

“Not bad, Doc,” the bulkiest man said, climbing out of the car and going to the trunk. “No problem.”

Delaney went to the stoop.

“Wait here,” he said to Grace. She had put the beret back on her head and was standing in the areaway, her back to the fence. She was gazing at the irises, planted by Rose. Her face was slack and tired and uncertain.

Delaney hurried up the stoop and opened both sets of doors and waved to the men. There was nobody in the hall of the parlor floor. Was Rose already gone? The men came up the steps, the bulky man lugging the large suitcase, the other man the two smaller bags, the driver holding the wrapped paintings. They placed them on the parquet floors of the hall. This time Delaney insisted that they take a tip, and sent his best wishes and thanks to Mr. Carmody. Then they went back down the stoop. Delaney waited, listening, heard nothing. No voices. No music. Maybe she’s gone.

He locked the doors behind, and paused on the stoop. Grace seemed ready, as if she had sealed away the spoiled little girl that still lived within. Now she had to deal with Carlito and the mysterious woman named Rose. And they would have to deal with her. Delaney longed for the consolation of numbness. And he went down the steps.

Monique came to the door as they walked in under the stoop.

“Well, look at you, girl,” she said, and hugged Grace, then stepped back and looked again. “Prettier than ever.”

“Hello, Monique. You look exactly the same.”

“And you, girl, you’re a grown woman. I’ll be damned.”

Delaney was behind Grace, and they all stood for an awkward moment.

“Where is he?” Grace said softly.

“In the yard,” Monique said. Adding a deadpan message to Delaney: “With Rose.”

She was here. For now. She had not fled. Delaney led Grace through the new door to the kitchen. She waited at the window, peering into the bright green blur of garden. For a moment, Delaney thought Grace would turn and run. She didn’t. They went into the shed and eased past the bicycle. Grace took a breath, then gently pushed open the screen door and stepped into the garden. Delaney stood behind her.

In the far corner, they could see the boy’s back and Rose to his side. They were planting watermelon seeds. Rose looked up, and Delaney saw uncertainty in her eyes.

“Carlito?” Grace said.

The boy stood up, his skin coppery from the sun. There was no expression on his face.

“It’s me, chico,” Grace said. “Su mamá.”

He suddenly looked frightened, staring at this strange woman. He slipped behind Rose and held on to her hip. Delaney thought: I’ve seen this look before, but not on the boy. Grace took another tentative step. Delaney did not move. The boy peered around the fleshy shield of Rose’s hip. Then he eased away from her. He was squinting. Rose took his hand.

“Come on, boy,” Rose said. “It’s your mama.”

She led him forward, but the boy held back stubbornly and seemed to get smaller. Rose smiled widely at Grace, and Delaney thought: Goddamn, she is tough.

“He’s a little shy sometimes,” Rose said. “Come on, boy, give your mama a big kiss.”

Grace stepped closer, as if restrained by caution.

“Ven, m’hijo,” she said. “Come.”

The boy pulled away from Rose and ran to the farthest corner of the garden. Tears were flowing from his eyes. He squatted in fear.

“No,” he said. “No no no NO.”

Rose looked from the boy to Grace, whose face was forlorn. Delaney did not move.

“Take off the hat,” Rose said. “Maybe he —”

Grace whipped off the beret and dropped it on the grass. She walked cautiously to the boy, but he was bunched up like a puppy expecting to be punished. Delaney hurried past her and lifted the boy and held him tight.

“It’s okay, boy. Don’t worry, boy. You’re not going anywhere. Don’t worry —”

“I want Rosa,” the boy said, in a croaking voice. He curled his fingers in her direction. He was sniffling and turning his head away from the stranger. “I don’t want to go. I want Rosa, Gran’pa.”

“I got an idea,” Rose said. “Let’s eat.”

In the kitchen, the boy sat next to Delaney. Rose smiled and said to Grace: “Welcome home.”

“Thank you, Rose,” she said. “Let me help.”

“No, you sit down, Grace. It’s already done, I just have to heat up some stuff.” Then to the boy: “Show your mama your fire engine, boy.”

He sneaked a look at this woman he didn’t quite know, and went off slowly for the fire engine. Delaney tried to read the look on Rose’s face. Determined? Tough? Or was she producing a special version of a last supper? The boy came back, pumping the fire engine, but there was no energy in the effort. He wasn’t playing. He was performing.

“Your old room is all set,” Rose said over her shoulder. “It’s a new bed too. And Carlos is in the room where you used to paint. Dr. Delaney told me all about that.”

Delaney wondered where Rose’s own things were. Her clothes, her new boots, her dictionary and notebook full of English words. Then she called to Carlito.

“Okay, boy, time to eat. You know what!”

“Braciole,” he said, and for the first time since Delaney had arrived with his mother, the boy smiled.

“He loves this stuff,” Rose said to Grace. And Grace smiled in a tentative way and looked down at the food.

Grace insisted on washing the dishes and the pots and Delaney dried them with a dish towel. Grace thanked Rose for a delicious meal, and Rose shrugged in a polite way. The boy glanced at his mother, listened to her voice. Delaney thought: It’s only six months, but it could have been six years.

“He usually takes a nap around now,” Rose said. “Come on, I’ll show you.”