Pete Hamill - Forever

In the Bloody Ould Sixth, he also learned that observing—as a painter or newspaperman—was not the only way of living. So he walked away from both, for a dozen years, and plunged into other ways of living, laying stones on Broadway, laying track for the omnibuses, working as a drover, and then selling groceries, and then unloading ships. Three of those years were lost to drink, which he at first forced himself to do, to see what it was about, to try to understand why it pulled at so many people, and made them so happy, and wrecked them. It wrecked him too. Led him into brawls in sawdust bars, into ferocious arguments, into foolish performances, into strange and dangerous women. That created a different kind of sludge: briny, eradicating, filled with shame and guilt. But it had its rewards too: In almost every place he entered, there was a piano, and the owners let him play.

And look, here I am tonight on Mott Street.

Here I am, and the building is still there, lived in now by others, all lost in sleep.

He remembered clearly the L shape of the tiny flat. He saw again the pegs where he hung his clothes, felt himself swivel again to stand and turn in the two feet between the edge of the bed and the wall. He could see the shallow oak cabinet he built under the narrow bed, locked on each end, the secret place in which he placed the sword, the earrings, the letters he had saved; remembered that secret place, and the cloudy window opening toward the tottering walls and sloping rooftops of the streets that descended from the height of Mott Street into the Five Points, the streets swirling with corner boys and oyster sellers, whores and dock wallopers, lurching drunks and proud abstainers, church bells ringing, glass breaking at midnight, much laughter, many tears.

Across Mott Street in those first years stood the Presbyterian church, locked and abandoned, the building that would later open its doors to the injured and humiliated believers as the Church of the Transfiguration under the command of a Cuban priest named Varela. That Catholic church right there now, across the street. Closed for the night. But seeming to give off its odor of candles, incense, and piety. In its shadows, Cormac had studied the texts of the great religions. Judaism and Catholicism and the infinite variations of Protestantism. He had read among the limited texts of Buddhism. He had found a foxed copy of the Koran, stained by its journey from Turkey to London to New York. He tried to approach them all with an accepting mind. He found in each some small thing of value that might help a human being to be more human. In the end, none dislodged him from his belief in what they all called the pagan. The gods of Ireland and Africa. The gods whose powers were proved by the absurdity of his life.

Edelstein came calling just before noon.

“Get dressed and we’ll go,” the lawyer said. “Cahill’s there already.”

“How bad is it?”

“Very bad.”

They rode through streets where Tweed had worked day and night during the Draft Riots.

“You’re thinking too hard about him,” Edelstein said. “Let’s wait until we see him.”

“I was thinking of some good things he did,” Cormac said as they crossed Grand Street.

“He did a lot of them.”

“And nobody will remember any of them.”

“Except us.”

They were quiet for a while, the horse clip-clopping on cobblestones that Cormac had helped lay years before. They bumped over the rails of the tramlines, and he had worked on them for a year too: sanding them in icy winter, watering them in summer.

“The worst things he did, he did to himself.” Edelstein said. “Like the escape.”

“Definitely the dumbest.”

“That’s why three million in bail. That’s why twelve different trials. That’s why he’s not home now in bed.” He looked out into the street. “You were in on that, weren’t you?”

“I tried to talk him out of it,” Cormac said. “He said he wanted to see the ocean and flowers and his kids. He asked, so I helped.”

That was during Tweed’s first stay in the Ludlow Street Jail back in 1875. He had stayed in New York while the others fled, so he was allowed monthly trips around the city in the company of the warden and a policeman, and visits with his wife. On December 4, a Saturday, he went for a long ride. The last stop that day was his own house on Madison and Sixty-seventh Street, where he’d have dinner. Cormac was waiting around the corner in a landau carriage with a leather roof. He lolled on the seat as Tweed stayed until after dark. Then he saw him, dark felt hat pulled over his face, the huge body swathed in a cloak. He said nothing and climbed into the carriage. Cormac then took Tweed north along the river roads, to the cove where he had once waited with Kongo in sight of the mansion of the Earl of Warren. A rowboat was waiting. They embraced, and Tweed went off to a waiting sloop and the long journey that would take him to Key West and Havana and finally to Spain. Cormac was sure that night that he would never see Tweed again.

“He always said later that you were a stand-up fellow,” Edelstein said. They were at the jail now.

“I still wish I’d told him to fuck off.”

Here they were in the suite again, with Luke serving tea and biscuits, and Tweed dozing in his bed. His eyes were closed and his breathing was shallow. His body smelled like swamp. Cahill motioned to them to follow him to the living room.

“His daughter’s gone out for ice cream,” Cahill said quietly. “Her husband’s with her. She might be gone a while, since she doesn’t know the neighborhood.”

“I should have brought some from the German,” Cormac said. Cahill shrugged as if it wouldn’t make a difference.

“What is it, exactly, Frank?” Edelstein said.

“It’s everything. It’s his heart and his kidneys and his lungs. It’s his blood pressure. And now he’s got a mild pneumonia.”

Cahill inhaled deeply, pursed his lips and exhaled, then patted his jacket pocket for a cigar. He decided against it, as if the smoke would hurt Tweed.

“Why don’t you play the piano, Cormac?” Edelstein said. “You always make him feel better.”

Cormac sat down and noodled the keys, playing a nocturne. Tweed didn’t move. Then, slowly, Cormac began to play the Fight Song. Played it as a soft, distant march. But in some odd way, as a soft tune full of defiance. Cormac glanced through the connecting door at the heavy man on the bed.

Tweed’s eyes opened.

“God damn it, I was hoping it was you,” Tweed said. He smiled. His teeth seemed darker.

“Sing, Bill.” Cormac said. “Sing the song.”

“I’ll sing if you all sing.”

So they began to sing, the tempo slower than it was written, the march turned into a ballad. So pull off the old coat!And roll up the sleeve!Bayard is a hard street to travel.Pull off the old coat!And roll up the sleeve!The Bloody Sixth is a hard ward to travel…I BELIEVE!

Then it was quiet.

“Come here, Cormac,” Tweed said.

Cormac went over, his back to the others. Tweed reached under the covers and came up with an envelope.

“You’ve been a good friend,” Tweed whispered, his voice thin, the skin of his face slack, the fat no longer shiny. “The only one who never asked me for a fucking penny.” He handed Cormac the envelope. “So this is for you….”

“I don’t want anything, Bill.”

“Fine, you can throw it away if you want, or piss it away on a woman, or give it to the poor.”

He smiled, then laughed. “Just don’t give it to the fucking government,” he said. “It’s full of thieves.”

Cormac didn’t ask what was in the envelope, although he could feel the outline of a key. Tweed murmured that his wife and the family would be all right. “I took care of them long ago,” he said. “Before I went to Spain.” His lawyers had all been paid too, although that goddamned Hebe out there, that Edelstein, he wouldn’t take a dime.