breast seemed to blush.
“They used to be beautiful,” she said sadly.
“Breathe, please.”
He listened. Then removed the stethoscope from his ears.
“The heartbeat is strong and regular, Miss Wilson.”
She folded her arms under her breasts to form a shelf.
“I’m worried about lumps.”
“There’s a wonderful specialist at St. Vincent’s, Miss Wilson. I can make an appointment if you want.”
“I don’t trust strangers. I need you to check.”
He did, while she inhaled through clenched teeth, her eyes closed for almost a minute. Her body grew tauter.
“Everything seems fine,” Delaney said. “No lumps, Miss Wilson. But I can make that appointment if . . .”
She relaxed, arms folded under breasts again.
“You can get dressed now, Miss Wilson.”
He turned his back on her, heard her moving, a rustling of something silky. Her breathing was heavy.
“Every time I think of Alfie, I get the condition, the papulations.”
He chuckled. “Maybe you should think about your second husband.”
“That
bastard.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. Stop the coffee for a week and then come back. We’ll see how you’re doing.”
When he turned she was wearing the brassiere but not the blouse.
“You’d have loved them,” she said in a numb voice. “Everybody did.”
He heard the gate clang and the outside door open and slam shut and Rose’s voice and the laughing of Carlito. Bumping. Jumping. Shoes on wood. Blurred Italian. The boy’s squealing laughter.
“Excuse me,” he said to his patient, and went to greet them, smiling.
FIVE
L ATER — AFTER THE BOY HAD PRACTICED WITH HIS PADDLEBALL until falling into a nap; after Delaney had written three notes to his daughter and folded them into the stamped envelopes; after he had hung his suit neatly in the bedroom closet and peeled off the union suit; after he had spoken with Jimmy Spillane about a Monday-morning visit to check out a system for steam heat; after reading the newspapers in a hot bath; after dressing again in warmer clothes — after all of that, he and Rose and the boy went to Angela’s restaurant for an early dinner. He dropped the letters in a corner mailbox.
“This kid already grew half an inch in a week,” Angela said, leading them to a corner table.
“The cooking,” Rose said. “Whatta you expect?”
“He’s gonna be bigger than the doc,” Angela said.
“Bigger than the Statue of Liberty.”
Carlito was indeed 33 inches tall and weighed 32 pounds. A big kid, from the genetic line that had given Delaney his six feet. They sat down and Angela suggested veal or a nice piece of fish and the boy said “bagetti” and then they ordered. Veal for Delaney. Sole for Rose. Carlito had already said what he wanted. Then Delaney asked for a glass of the house red, and Angela raised her eyebrows.
“That’s the second glass a wine you had this year!”
“It might be the last.”
“An’ you, Rose — you on a diet or something?”
Rose blushed. “Just bring me the fish, Angela.”
The place was half-empty. They talked and laughed and said hello to people they knew. Knocko Carmody came in with his camarilla, asked Delaney if Spillane had called, smiled when told he had. He kissed Rose on the cheek while murmuring, “Hey, you hoodlum, how are you?” Carlito squirmed in his high chair and Rose took him by the hand back past the kitchen to the bathroom. Delaney watched a fresh snowfall drifting softly on the street. The flakes were thick and there was no wind. Parked cars were now glistening from the melting snow. Some had not been moved since the New Year’s storm. There was snow on the hats and shoulders of the new arrivals too. A few more people stopped to say hello to Delaney, exchanging small talk, giving him brief updates on the health of old patients. Nobody mentioned Eddie Corso. Or, for that matter, his daughter, Grace. He saw Rose emerge with Carlos by the hand. Angela threw her a conspiratorial glance. Then
“They used to be beautiful,” she said sadly.
“Breathe, please.”
He listened. Then removed the stethoscope from his ears.
“The heartbeat is strong and regular, Miss Wilson.”
She folded her arms under her breasts to form a shelf.
“I’m worried about lumps.”
“There’s a wonderful specialist at St. Vincent’s, Miss Wilson. I can make an appointment if you want.”
“I don’t trust strangers. I need you to check.”
He did, while she inhaled through clenched teeth, her eyes closed for almost a minute. Her body grew tauter.
“Everything seems fine,” Delaney said. “No lumps, Miss Wilson. But I can make that appointment if . . .”
She relaxed, arms folded under breasts again.
“You can get dressed now, Miss Wilson.”
He turned his back on her, heard her moving, a rustling of something silky. Her breathing was heavy.
“Every time I think of Alfie, I get the condition, the papulations.”
He chuckled. “Maybe you should think about your second husband.”
“That
bastard.”
“Well, I’ll tell you what. Stop the coffee for a week and then come back. We’ll see how you’re doing.”
When he turned she was wearing the brassiere but not the blouse.
“You’d have loved them,” she said in a numb voice. “Everybody did.”
He heard the gate clang and the outside door open and slam shut and Rose’s voice and the laughing of Carlito. Bumping. Jumping. Shoes on wood. Blurred Italian. The boy’s squealing laughter.
“Excuse me,” he said to his patient, and went to greet them, smiling.
FIVE
L ATER — AFTER THE BOY HAD PRACTICED WITH HIS PADDLEBALL until falling into a nap; after Delaney had written three notes to his daughter and folded them into the stamped envelopes; after he had hung his suit neatly in the bedroom closet and peeled off the union suit; after he had spoken with Jimmy Spillane about a Monday-morning visit to check out a system for steam heat; after reading the newspapers in a hot bath; after dressing again in warmer clothes — after all of that, he and Rose and the boy went to Angela’s restaurant for an early dinner. He dropped the letters in a corner mailbox.
“This kid already grew half an inch in a week,” Angela said, leading them to a corner table.
“The cooking,” Rose said. “Whatta you expect?”
“He’s gonna be bigger than the doc,” Angela said.
“Bigger than the Statue of Liberty.”
Carlito was indeed 33 inches tall and weighed 32 pounds. A big kid, from the genetic line that had given Delaney his six feet. They sat down and Angela suggested veal or a nice piece of fish and the boy said “bagetti” and then they ordered. Veal for Delaney. Sole for Rose. Carlito had already said what he wanted. Then Delaney asked for a glass of the house red, and Angela raised her eyebrows.
“That’s the second glass a wine you had this year!”
“It might be the last.”
“An’ you, Rose — you on a diet or something?”
Rose blushed. “Just bring me the fish, Angela.”
The place was half-empty. They talked and laughed and said hello to people they knew. Knocko Carmody came in with his camarilla, asked Delaney if Spillane had called, smiled when told he had. He kissed Rose on the cheek while murmuring, “Hey, you hoodlum, how are you?” Carlito squirmed in his high chair and Rose took him by the hand back past the kitchen to the bathroom. Delaney watched a fresh snowfall drifting softly on the street. The flakes were thick and there was no wind. Parked cars were now glistening from the melting snow. Some had not been moved since the New Year’s storm. There was snow on the hats and shoulders of the new arrivals too. A few more people stopped to say hello to Delaney, exchanging small talk, giving him brief updates on the health of old patients. Nobody mentioned Eddie Corso. Or, for that matter, his daughter, Grace. He saw Rose emerge with Carlos by the hand. Angela threw her a conspiratorial glance. Then
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