North River

SEVENTEEN

THE PIER WAS A LONG HIGH UGLY BARN MADE OF CORRUGATED iron and splintery timbers, rusting with time and the Depression. He walked its length, his footsteps echoing in the dim light, and remembered the piers of Europe before the war, with their crowded bars and restaurants, their glad sense of imminent arrival, and the din and bustle of the New York piers, loud with the moneyed celebrations of departure. How did Rose get here? Where did she make landfall in this great strange scary city, with nothing but guts to get her through? A few couples passed along the pier, pausing to look out at the river through the open doors, joined in solitude. The slip was still empty, awaiting the arrival of the Andalusia, but Delaney could see the gulls watching from the next pier. Orange peels were floating in the water. Small waves slapped against timber. An unseen whistler was offering the melody of a song, off in the rusting silence. “It Had to Be You.” And lyrics rose in Delaney.

He walked back to the stevedores’ office, where Knocko had promised a chair. One of the stevedores stood up, smiling. There were two others waiting to go to work, and a phone on a scarred table.

“Have some coffee, Doc,” he said. “And, oh, Knocko called. The Andalusia? It’s out at quarantine, jus’ past da Narrows. Should be pretty soon now.”

“Thanks, Mr. McGinty,” Delaney said, and poured some coffee. It tasted like aluminum. The men started talking about the Giants and the goddamned Yankees. McGinty lit a thin Italian cigar. Delaney eased over to the door, trying to evade the smoke. The unseen whistler was now offering “Life Is Just a Bowl of Cherries.” Was he at Roseland too? Did he also believe that even the strongest oak must fall? Oh, Rose… He couldn’t remember what he had written to Grace about Rose. He didn’t remember whether he had even told Grace her name. He did tell her that he had found a woman to help with Carlito. He did remember that. But in her own letters she was not very curious about the details. He remembered telling Molly when Grace was small: I will spoil her? All right, I will spoil her. And he had, and had paid a price. Grace had sent one final letter before leaving Spain, brief and elliptical, that arrived three days before the Andalusia was due. The big news was personal: it was over with Rafael, her husband, the boy’s father. In Moscow he fell in love with a Bulgarian woman! Can you believe it? When he told me I burst out laughing! A Bulgarian! And I thought he was in love with Lenin!!! So she would arrive with hopes of curing her own solitude. Almost certainly with Carlito. Who had cured the solitude of Rose. And mine too.

Knocko called in a bulletin. The Andalusia was being lashed to a tug and the pilot was on board, to guide her in to safety. A bookmaker called and McGinty mentioned Likely Lad in the sixth at Belmont. Then Knocko again. The ship was coming into the Narrows. How many times had this ship passed Molly’s bones, going and coming? How many other ships had done the same? Another bookmaker called. The whistling stopped.

Delaney filled with images of Rose and what she might be doing at this very moment. Each image drove into him a stab of impending loss. Rose, fixing a last lunch for the boy. Rose, packing her bags. Rose alone, lugging her bags down Horatio Street. Bending under their weight. Pausing to gather strength, her eyes wild. Looking for a taxi that would take her away from Horatio Street before Delaney arrived with his daughter.

He stepped back, staring down at the rough planks of the pier, silently addressing himself. And Rose. I wouldn’t blame you, Rose, if you went away forever. You don’t need any of this. My daughter, Molly’s ghost, the boy. Why should you want any of this? That’s why I’ve never mentioned anything permanent to you. Never said those big little words that come at the end of every movie romance. They make movies about getting married, but not about being married. That’s why I’ve never even whispered certain words to you, Rose. Maybe I just lack guts. Maybe I’m afraid that I’ll let myself believe again in permanence and then wake up one morning and find that you’re gone too. And, of course, maybe you fear the same about me. But I’m too old now for such fears. I just don’t want to hurt you, woman. Now, or ever. Or to see you hurt because of me. By uptown snobs or downtown shawlies. The world has taught me that not a goddamned thing is ever certain.

That morning, he had treated patients until eleven-thirty, his right shoulder aching from tension. The long night’s dancing had been joy. Waking was not. He wished he could relax into something like peace. When the last patient left, Rose came in to see him alone in the office.

“All my life,” she said in a husky voice, “I’m going to remember all those people singing about the guy that just needed a dime.” She paused. “All my life, I’m going to remember dancing with you too, Jim. All my life.” She touched his face fondly. She had never called him Jim before. “No matter what happens.”

He knew that she had pondered these words, had even privately rehearsed them. He felt himself tremble. But she didn’t wait for a reply. She hurried out, without collapsing into self-pity. She has pride, he thought, but no vanity, and the pride will keep her from saying anything that would sound like begging. She did not want a dime’s worth of Delaney.

She and the boy were out again when he left for the pier. Delaney wore a white sport shirt and decided to walk. The humidity was rising off the North River, and he felt as if he needed shears to pass through the dense air. And the sun was climbing. The heat would get worse. And now on the pier hours had passed, and he was drinking coffee with the stevedores as they argued the comparative merits of Bill Terry and John McGraw as a manager. The phone rang. This time it was for Delaney.

“It’ll be docked in twenty minutes,” Knocko said. “I’ll see you there.”

They were standing together about thirty feet from the gangplank when the first passengers began descending. Knocko had already sent three longshoremen into the ship for the luggage. He had talked to the customs people too. An old couple walked unsteadily down to the pier, where the man did a little jig. A refugee, for sure. From what was coming in Spain. Or Germany. Now they were both safe. They walked away holding hands, into America. Three young men followed, rich kids coming back from a time in Europe that they did not pay for themselves, laughing and grab-assing all the way. A man in a chauffeur’s uniform went to greet them with a bow. Two old women, dressed in clothes from the time before the war, moved down the gangplank, clutching the railing. They might never see the Prado again or the palaces of Venice or walk together along the Ringstrasse. None seemed surprised by the rusting, unpainted condition of the pier. The Andalusia was not a luxury liner.

Then he saw Grace. She was at the top of the gangway, wearing dark slacks, a patterned blouse, a black beret. She squinted into the darkness of the giant shed. Delaney waved and she leaned forward, then smiled and moved faster, and hit the pier running. She went straight to Delaney and made a little leap and they embraced and hugged.

“Oh, Daddy, oh, Daddy, oh,” she said. Then dropped her voice. “Oh, Daddy. I’m so sorry. For everything.”

“Welcome home, Grace.”

Then she saw Knocko.

“Oh, Mr. Carmody! How are you! Thank you for coming!”

“You play any softball over there?” he said, and grinned.

“Not an inning,” she said. “How about tomorrow?”

They walked together toward the street side of the shed, and the longshoremen came up behind them with one large bag and two smaller ones, and they passed into the sunlight and the sparsely crowded avenue that ran along the piers. Before the Depression, Delaney thought, the crowds were so thick here you couldn’t cross without a rifle. Grace took off her beret and stuffed it in her belt. Her blond hair was darker and coarser, from too many years of hard water. Her smile was still lovely, her eyes remained a lustrous brown. But Delaney thought: She is twenty and looks thirty. Lines were scratched into her brow. Her mouth was more severe.

“I can’t wait to see Carlito,” she said.

“He doesn’t know you’re coming,” Delaney said. “I didn’t want him getting nervous.” He looked directly at her. “But first we have to talk, Grace.”

“Oh, there’ll be plenty of time to talk, Dad.”

“Now, Grace.”

The longshoremen were loading her bags into the trunk of Knocko’s Packard. He could see several canvases tied with cord. He went over to the car, but Knocko wasn’t there. The driver was standing at the door, smoking.

“Listen, could you go over to my house and wait for me?” Delaney said. “You know where it is. My daughter and I will walk home.”

“Sure thing, Doc,” he said. He got into the loaded car. Delaney turned to the longshoremen and tried to pass them a tip. “It’s okay, Doc,” the heavier one said. “It’s taken care of.”

Delaney turned to Grace. She was staring out at the river.

“The waterfront looks bad from the ship,” she said. “It looks worse up close, doesn’t it?”

“The Depression did it,” he said. “Not just to the waterfront.”

“Even Barcelona looks better,” she said.

She glanced at him as they started walking downtown beside the piers and the gaps.

“You’re angry, aren’t you, Daddy?”

“Yes.”

She jammed her hands in her pockets. “I don’t blame you.”

“You were selfish and careless, goddamn it,” he said, trying to wring the anger out of his voice. “That boy’s whole world was ripped up. He was crying for you, Mamá, Mamá, for days. Goddamn it.”

She looked as if she’d been slapped. A longshoreman passed, hook in his belt, lost in thought. She touched Delaney’s arm, and he could smell the sea rising from her clothes.

“We have to talk about now,” Delaney said. “What you’re going to do now.”

“Okay. First, we have to take care of what I came for,” she said, bristling slightly. “We have to get my mother buried. My mother. Your wife. Now.”

“It’s all arranged,” he said. “There’ll be no mass, but we’ll go with her to the cemetery. The Green-Wood in Brooklyn. That’s where we can say good-bye…”

She asked for details, and he provided them in a low, clinical voice, blocking the current of anger. They saw a small crowd of men around the entrance to a pier and a black freighter docking, like the ship in the Babar book. A hot dog cart with an umbrella was feeding the men. He thought of Carlos. And then Rose.

“I wonder what happened to her,” Grace said. “Did she just give up? Did she slip and fall?”

“There was no note,” he said. “We’ll never know.”

And told himself: Get to it. Get to now.

“Can I see her?” Grace said.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Grace. Remember her in life. The good and the bad.”

“Do you remember her?”

“Of course.”

Get to it.

“What else are you going to do, Grace? What are you going to do today?”

She seemed startled by the question, and stopped walking. Her eyes reminded him of Carlito’s when he was scolded.

“I’m going home,” she said.

“To stay?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” he said in a flat voice.

“You said today. You said now.” Her eyes flashed, her mouth seemed harder. “Can’t we talk about this later?”

“No.”

They were at Christopher Street now, with its pedestrian path under the highway, and a stoplight. He took her hand as he so often did when she was a child, and they hurried across. They waited for one lone truck as it groaned and turned, carrying heavy crates into the city. When they reached the opposite side, he released her hand. She stood there and faced him.

“Daddy, listen to me, Daddy,” she said with some heat. “Please listen. I did what I did because I had to. It wasn’t forever. It was for what I thought would be a month, at most. I had to find my husband. I had to know if he was alive or dead. If I didn’t know, I couldn’t get on with my life.” She paused for breath. “I thought I couldn’t be a decent mother to Carlito if I didn’t resolve the thing with Rafael.”

Delaney wondered: From what movie did she take this scenario? From what novel? Oh, how young she is.

“And so I went. I —”

Across the street, a few vagrants stood together, passing a pint of wine from one mouth to another. Some kids with a basket and a blanket were walking east to the subway. Delaney saw none of them. He stared into his daughter’s face.

“Goddamn it, Grace. You could have called me and said you were coming and why. You could have brought the boy into the house and introduced him to me and explained who I was. You could have slept in your own bed. You could have stayed a few days, taken another ship —”

“It was the last ship to Spain until the spring!”

“Then you could have figured it out better, goddamn it. You could have come a week early. Not the night before! Instead —”

She turned her back on him and began to sob.

“Stop!” he said, hating his own prosecutorial vehemence but unable to cage it. “You’ve got to face what you’ve done!” His voice lowered. “Now there are other people involved. Not just you.”

She turned to him. Her eyes were wet and she was sniffling, but she had stopped crying.

“And you have to face what you did when I was small.”

“I have faced it. I did what this whole neighborhood did, when the young men went off to the war. But yes, I didn’t have to go. And yes, I was sorry. But I tried and I tried and I tried to make it up to you. I spoiled you. I forgave everything, even if I could not forgive myself. But Carlos is also three years old. How could you do to him what I did to you?”

She seemed to be shrinking. He took her elbow and walked east, then took a left, heading for Horatio Street. His heart was drumming.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t want to make this worse.” She didn’t reply. “And it turned out —” He groped for the right words. “It turned out that Carlos was a gift. His innocence was a gift. His way of looking at the world, and naming it, and showing it to me fresh: that was a gift, Grace.” Say it, he thought. Now. “And because of him, I received another gift. A woman.”

She slowed down as they walked on Washington Street. Away off they heard the elevated train squealing against its tracks.

“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.”

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.

“It’s very beautiful,” Grace said.

“It is,” Delaney said.

The path began to rise, and he could see the undertaker and the gravediggers lounging a dozen feet above him. They knew their melancholy trade, all right, and timing was part of it. He took Grace’s hand and they approached the grave with its surrounding berm of fresh black earth. Big Jim’s grave was to the left, his wife Bridget’s to the right, with the fresh grave right beside hers. Delaney knew there was room in the plot for at least two more coffins, one of which would be his. The undertaker, Casey, came over, looking solemn.

“We’ll leave you alone for a while,” he said. “If you care to say anything. Take as long as you want.”

“Thanks, Mr. Casey.”

He walked off. Delaney leaned over and took a handful of earth and dropped it on the coffin. Grace did the same. The earth made a lumpy sound against the plain pine top. Then they stepped back.

“Good-bye, Molly,” Delaney said.

“Good-bye, Momma,” Grace said. “Rest in peace.”

Neither said another word. Then Delaney brushed the remaining dirt off his hands and took Grace’s hand, and they walked between the graves of strangers to the peak of the hill. Grace gasped. The entire harbor was spread out in the distance, with the sun bouncing off its glassy surface, One freighter moved slowly north, a tug alongside. The Statue of Liberty seemed tiny, the skyscrapers like toys from Billy McNiff’s window. New Jersey and Staten Island were distant smears.

“It’s very beautiful,” she said.

“Over there to the left,” Delaney said, pointing. “That’s the Narrows. That’s where they found her.”

She said nothing, perhaps thinking that she had passed her mother’s bones on the way to Spain. Or perhaps just struck by the beauty. Delaney took her hand again.

“Let’s go home, daughter.”

The car turned into Horatio Street and stopped at 95. As they got out, Delaney noticed Mr. Cottrell sitting on his own stoop, his feet in the areaway. He was wearing a straw boater, a long-sleeved blue shirt, and dark slacks. His face glistened with oil. He was sitting on a green cushion. In all the years on Horatio Street, Delaney had never seen the man sit on the stoop. Cottrell gave him a stiff little wave.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Cottrell?”

“Better.” He paused. “I’m alive.”

“Just take it easy.”

Then Cottrell cleared his throat. “If you’re looking for the woman and the boy, they’re not home.” He paused. “They went out a couple hours ago.”

Delaney felt a tremor of uncertainty.

“Did they say where they were going?”

“I didn’t ask.”

Delaney looked at Grace, and she tried to read his tense face. They started into the house. Cottrell cleared his throat again.

“Dr. Delaney?” he said. Then squeezed out a word. “Thanks.”

Delaney nodded, then went to the gate and unlocked it.

Inside, Delaney pulled open his necktie, removed his suit jacket. He could feel Grace staring at him. He hurried up the stairs into his bedroom, glanced at Rose’s suitcase, removed his shoes and trousers, and opened the closet. Her dress was hanging in the space he had cleared for her, and her hat was on the shelf. The rest of her clothes remained in the suitcase, over by the closed sliding doors. He put his suit on a hanger and dressed in street clothes. It was done. Molly was buried. That part of his past was buried with her in the Green-Wood. Molly in life, Molly in the time of numbness and solitude. Gone. Ahead was the future. Ahead was no-man’s-land.

He went down to the kitchen, and Grace poured two glasses of ice water. She had changed into a blouse and dark skirt. Her face was distracted, her brow furrowed.

“I can’t stay here, Dad,” she said.

“Why not?”

“It’s not fair to you,” she said, staring at the ice water. “Or to Carlito.” She paused, then looked at him. “Or to Rose.”

He was silent for a moment. She was growing up fast. Then: “You can stay as long as you want, Grace.”

“It might be a few days, Dad, or a few weeks. But I have to find my own place in this town.”

“I understand,” he said, and did: she had to be free, living an unobserved life, free to paint too, free to imagine. Above all, she had to have her son. Delaney suddenly pictured the house with all of them gone: Grace, Carlito, and Rose. All gone. Rose came here because of the boy, and loved him as the child she couldn’t have, and when the boy goes, she would surely go too. And Delaney saw himself again in the mornings, with Monique handling the daily traffic, the war vets and the marriage vets, the endless casualties of the night, the addled and the lonely; then a hurried lunch; and off to house calls among the battered, hurt, desperate people of the parish; and then at night, solitude and numbness, and the dream of snow.

No. He could not go back. No. Goddamn it. No.

“Let’s go outside,” he said.

Mr. Cottrell was gone, but there were more people on the street. Kids were returning from the beach, red and sandy. One of the shawlies passed, and Delaney thought she was as mossy as a river piling in a black dress. The afternoon sun was heading for New Jersey. A breeze rose from the North River.

“Did Rose plant those irises?” Grace said.

“Yes,” Delaney said. “I don’t know about gardens.” Grace grabbed his good arm and hugged it.

Then Grace leaned on the fence, gazing at the life of the street, a long way from the Plaza Real. Delaney sat on the stoop and looked at his hands and clenched and unclenched his fingers. In another week, the olives in the back garden would be edible. Rose said so. All the curtains would be washed and fresh. Rose said that too. Up ahead was the Fourth of July. Maybe he could take Grace and Rose and the boy to a ballgame. Maybe they could go to Coney Island together. Or down to the Battery. Or take the ferry to the Statue of Liberty. To be caressed by harbor winds. Maybe Grace could paint Rose.

Then away off at the distant corner, he could see Rose crossing the avenue, holding the boy by the hand. He stood up.

“I see them,” he said.

He began walking quickly, stepping around some kids, slapping away a spaldeen hit foul. She didn’t see him yet. He passed some men shooting craps. He dodged a kid on a bicycle. She saw him now, her eyes wide, and stopped. She smiled her beautiful smile. He reached her, wrapped her in his arms, and whirled her around, as if they were dancing.

“Where is Mamá?” the boy said.

An hour later, the boy was explaining the garden to his mother and how olives were growing on the tree and how watermelons would soon grow right there in the corner.

“We’re going for a walk,” Delaney said, with Rose beside him.

“Okay,” the boy said.

“See you later,” Grace said, and smiled.

They went out together and paused awkwardly in front of the house.

“I don’t want to go to the river,” Rose said. “That’s where you used to go with, you know… with your wife.”

“We’ll just walk,” he said. “Away from the river.”

“That’s better,” Rose said. Her face was tight.

They walked without touching until they were out of the neighborhood. Then they saw a small triangle of park near Eighth Avenue, and he took her hand and led her in silence to a bench. A half-dozen pigeons gurgled around the next bench. An old woman was feeding them crusts of stale bread. A grizzled wino in a long army coat stretched upon another bench. Traffic was sparse.

“She’s moving out, of course,” he said.

“Maybe…”

“She needs to be on her own.”

“Maybe not yet.”

“And she’s taking Carlito.”

“If she goes, she better take him. He’s her son.”

There was acceptance in her voice, but no bitterness.

“But…” She paused. “But I keep thinkin’, maybe I can make it easier for everybody. Grace doesn’t need me around, watching her, watching the boy… Maybe I could go. Then she could stay with the boy.”

“Rose —”

“No, listen to me, Dottore.” She turned away, then returned to him, her eyes glistening. “I’ll always love that boy. The rest of my life, I’ll love that boy. He gave me what I missed. A boy. A son.” A pause. “But he gave me something else too. I came to take care of him, and I met you, Jim. That was one of the best things ever happen to me.” A longer pause. “But I don’t want to be the woman that made you lose your daughter and that boy. He has his mother now to take care of him. You don’t need me.”

“Yes, I do,” Delaney said.

He saw her press her upper teeth into her lower lip.

“Don’t play with me, Jim,” she whispered.

“I’m not playing with you, Rose,” he said. “I love you.”

She leaned against him as if melting. He felt oddly lighter now, the words finally said.

“God damn you, Dottore,” she said.

He kissed her hair, inhaled her fragrance.

“Let’s go,” he said.

She suddenly stiffened. “Let’s go?” she said. “Go?” She shook her head, and her voice darkened. “To where? To what?”

He hugged her. “Wherever you want to go, Rose,” he said.

She went quiet, fumbling for words. Then she said: “I want to go where you go, and be with you.”

“I want the same thing, Rose.”

“Then let’s go home,” she said.

They stood up. Delaney waited for the fine print, but there wasn’t any. Rose looked behind her. The old woman was still tossing bread crusts to the pigeons. The wino did not stir. Rose took Delaney’s hand and squeezed it, and they started walking west, to the river.