effin’ North River!”
Then she dissolved again, sobs mixing with wails, squatting with her back to the door and her unmoving child tight against her chest. Delaney whispered to Monique: “Get your coat. Stay with her, no matter where she tries to go.” He mouthed the word Moriarty, which was the name of the undertaker on Ninth Avenue. She rubbed thumb and forefinger together, indicating the unspoken word “money,” and raised her eyebrows.
“Use what I gave you,” he said. “I’ll get some more.”
Together they raised Bridget Smyth from the floor and led her into the anteroom. She was silent now, and limp, as if her body was empty of the fuel of rage. The infant seemed like an extension of her own body, posed as a small Madonna awaiting some draftsman with a sepia stick.
Delaney closed his door now, breathing hard. The effing North River. . . . That summer evening, Molly walked toward the North River. There were still people on the streets, people she knew. Jackie Norris learned that in a few hours, with the help of his policeman’s badge. She was alone, wearing a blue dress, saying to one old lady that she was going to the ruined pier to watch the sunset. No surprise. Delaney had gone there with her many times, finding the scorched but solid timbers that served as small bridges between more solid planks. Sitting with her in silence as the sky reddened over New Jersey. She would draw up her knees, her arms hugging them, staring at nothing. Now and then she’d mention some moment from the years before the war, some character, some song. She’d mention a play they’d seen. She’d mention a café in Vienna. But that summer evening, she went alone, wrapped in a shroud of her own hard solitude, for there were five patients waiting for Delaney. She never came back. O my Molly-O.
He rose slowly and went to the safe and took another hundred-dollar bill from the envelope, to cover expenses after Monique paid for the infant’s funeral. And the woman’s rent. And some food. Thinking: The North River is jammed with ice. Thank God.
Brannigan took his quinine and left, angling past Monique’s empty desk. Then Sally Wilson came in. At twenty, she had been a star at Tony Pastor’s, a lush princess of the Rialto. Delaney had never seen her perform, but she had once showed up at his old office on Jane Street carrying her scrapbook. As if to prove that she existed. There she was, in big bustles, or in tights, and the stories said that she had a wonderful contralto voice. Her hair was so blond it seemed white in the photographs. Now it truly was white, but she had added forty years and fifty pounds. Along the way, she’d had two sons and three husbands. The sons were gone, one now working in despair for the Republicans in Franklin Roosevelt’s Washington, the other in California in the movie business. Or so she said. She only mourned the last husband.
“I can’t sleep,” she said abruptly. “I keep seeing Alfie, and when I turn over in bed, he’s not there.”
“Are you still drinking coffee?” Delaney asked gently.
“Of course.”
“Stop,” he said.
“You think it’s just
coffee?
”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t even
examine
me!
”
“Well, do you have any physical symptoms?”
She always wanted him to examine her. She always had vague worries about her breasts, which were soft and heavy. She seldom said the word “cancer,” but it must have been in her dreams.
“I have these flutters, especially at night, Dr. Delaney.” She squeezed her left breast. “What do you call them flutters?”
“Palpitations.”
“Right.”
Delaney sighed. “Well, let’s have a listen.”
She stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, then turned her back and unfastened her white brassiere. Delaney had long ago trained himself to be objective when examining human beings, but Sally Wilson had not. Her breasts were large, fallen, blue-veined, but she lifted the left breast as if offering it to Delaney. The
Then she dissolved again, sobs mixing with wails, squatting with her back to the door and her unmoving child tight against her chest. Delaney whispered to Monique: “Get your coat. Stay with her, no matter where she tries to go.” He mouthed the word Moriarty, which was the name of the undertaker on Ninth Avenue. She rubbed thumb and forefinger together, indicating the unspoken word “money,” and raised her eyebrows.
“Use what I gave you,” he said. “I’ll get some more.”
Together they raised Bridget Smyth from the floor and led her into the anteroom. She was silent now, and limp, as if her body was empty of the fuel of rage. The infant seemed like an extension of her own body, posed as a small Madonna awaiting some draftsman with a sepia stick.
Delaney closed his door now, breathing hard. The effing North River. . . . That summer evening, Molly walked toward the North River. There were still people on the streets, people she knew. Jackie Norris learned that in a few hours, with the help of his policeman’s badge. She was alone, wearing a blue dress, saying to one old lady that she was going to the ruined pier to watch the sunset. No surprise. Delaney had gone there with her many times, finding the scorched but solid timbers that served as small bridges between more solid planks. Sitting with her in silence as the sky reddened over New Jersey. She would draw up her knees, her arms hugging them, staring at nothing. Now and then she’d mention some moment from the years before the war, some character, some song. She’d mention a play they’d seen. She’d mention a café in Vienna. But that summer evening, she went alone, wrapped in a shroud of her own hard solitude, for there were five patients waiting for Delaney. She never came back. O my Molly-O.
He rose slowly and went to the safe and took another hundred-dollar bill from the envelope, to cover expenses after Monique paid for the infant’s funeral. And the woman’s rent. And some food. Thinking: The North River is jammed with ice. Thank God.
Brannigan took his quinine and left, angling past Monique’s empty desk. Then Sally Wilson came in. At twenty, she had been a star at Tony Pastor’s, a lush princess of the Rialto. Delaney had never seen her perform, but she had once showed up at his old office on Jane Street carrying her scrapbook. As if to prove that she existed. There she was, in big bustles, or in tights, and the stories said that she had a wonderful contralto voice. Her hair was so blond it seemed white in the photographs. Now it truly was white, but she had added forty years and fifty pounds. Along the way, she’d had two sons and three husbands. The sons were gone, one now working in despair for the Republicans in Franklin Roosevelt’s Washington, the other in California in the movie business. Or so she said. She only mourned the last husband.
“I can’t sleep,” she said abruptly. “I keep seeing Alfie, and when I turn over in bed, he’s not there.”
“Are you still drinking coffee?” Delaney asked gently.
“Of course.”
“Stop,” he said.
“You think it’s just
coffee?
”
“Yes.”
“But you didn’t even
examine
me!
”
“Well, do you have any physical symptoms?”
She always wanted him to examine her. She always had vague worries about her breasts, which were soft and heavy. She seldom said the word “cancer,” but it must have been in her dreams.
“I have these flutters, especially at night, Dr. Delaney.” She squeezed her left breast. “What do you call them flutters?”
“Palpitations.”
“Right.”
Delaney sighed. “Well, let’s have a listen.”
She stood up and unbuttoned her blouse, then turned her back and unfastened her white brassiere. Delaney had long ago trained himself to be objective when examining human beings, but Sally Wilson had not. Her breasts were large, fallen, blue-veined, but she lifted the left breast as if offering it to Delaney. The
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