Pete Hamill - North River

She led the way up the stairs, the boy directly behind her, followed by Grace and then Delaney. Grace ran fingers over the banister, and touched the familiar walls, and squinted at some dark paintings. When she put a hand on the boy’s shoulder, he pulled away. Then they were on the top floor. The door to Molly’s old room was wide open.

“Here’s your old room, Grace,” Rose said. “The mattress is new and pretty good. Plenty of room for your stuff.” Then she stepped next door. “Here is Carlito’s headquarter. He loves those Babar books and that one about the Wizard of Oz.”

“That used to be mine,” Grace said. “I loved that book.”

“Him too,” Rose said. “It must be in the blood.”

Delaney held back as she showed Grace the bathroom and the yellow cheese box. But it was clear that this had become Rose’s house too. She was showing it off. Then they stepped through the open door of Molly’s room, and now Carlito was hanging back. Rough paintings by Delaney and the boy were leaning against the half-empty bookcases.

“These two guys come here and paint,” Rose explained, and added in a dry voice, “The boy is better than the dottore.”

Grace hugged the boy. “These are great, Carlito. Just terrific!” And turned to her father. “And Dad? I thought you’d never pick up another brush.”

“An objective person would say it was a terrible mistake, Grace.”

Grace looked around for a silent moment, then said: “My mother used to play her music here.”

“Him too,” Rose said, nodding to the boy. “Carlito, play something for your mama.”

“No,” he said. “I don’t want to play the piano.”

Rose raised her brows and said nothing. Grace looked wounded. She turned to Delaney.

“Where are Momma’s books? And her pictures? And the music scores?”

The question was like an accusation. “Boxed up,” Delaney said. “Safe and dry and sealed, down in the basement.”

“So she’s gone from this house,” Grace said. Rose backed away, squatting to whisper to Carlito. Delaney could hear the word “mama.”

“Yes, Grace,” Delaney said. “She’s gone.”

A muscle quivered in her face. She said, almost to herself, “God, there’s no end to the sadness.”

It was time for a nap. Rose put the boy to bed and was showing Grace the closets when Delaney went downstairs and into his bedroom. There in a corner was Rose’s cheap suitcase, with the black dress laid across the top on a hanger and her hat on top of the dress. She had not gone yet, but she was ready. He closed the door and removed his shoes, with every part of his body demanding sleep. But he was afraid to sleep. Afraid Rose would go. He removed his shirt, still damp from the river morning and the long walk. She can’t go. He removed his trousers too, and his socks, and put on a robe. This is her house too. He drew the curtains and stretched out on the bed and fought off sleep. He could hear the murmuring voices of Grace and Rose on the landing outside the bedroom door. Almost surely removing clothes from Grace’s suitcase. Both women returning upstairs on stockinged feet. He heard the sounds of traffic. And kids laughing. He did not hear Carlito’s voice. He, at least, must have fallen into numbed sleep.

Delaney was dozing when the door clicked open. He could smell Rose before he saw her outline in the muted light. She sat beside him on the bed, and he spoke before she did.

“You’d better hang up your clothes,” he said. “Before they get wrinkled.”

“I don’t think so,” she whispered.

“There’s plenty of room,” he said.

“Not enough for me and Grace.”

The bed sagged slightly as she got up, and then he heard her undressing. He thought: I’ve never seen her naked in the light. I know every inch of her body, but have never seen it all. She went into the bathroom and closed the door. Water ran. The toilet flushed. Then she was slipping beneath the covers beside him. He inhaled her fragrance of sweat and oil and roses. She touched him.

The next morning was glorious with sun. All of Delaney’s rage had been purged. He felt oddly empty and hoped that in his anger he had put no permanent marks on Grace. Casey the undertaker sent a car for Delaney and Grace. Rose stayed behind, watching with the boy from the areaway as they eased into the car. Three kids walked by, eating ice-cream cones. Both Delaney and Grace waved good-bye, and the car followed the hearse to the Brooklyn Bridge.

“Do you think he’ll ever remember me?” Grace said, her tone lighter.

“Of course. Little by little, and then pow! He’ll remember. It could be tonight. It could be tomorrow. But he’ll remember.”

“I wish I could believe you.”

“Grace? It happened once to you.”

They were quiet as the two cars entered thickening traffic on the great bridge over the East River. The sun had risen, as always, in Brooklyn, and when Delaney looked behind him, the towers of lower Manhattan were gilded by its rays. Grace followed his look and turned to see.

“You know, when I was away, I saw this view in my head all the time,” she said. “You brought me here when I was about ten. Remember? We took the subway to the Brooklyn side and then walked back. Then you took me to Chinatown.”

“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.