The ferry churns up a wake of thick white foam. He puts a hand on his empty stomach, wishes he’d thought to save one bottle of milk.
A seagull appears. It hovers beside the boat, only needing to flap its long gray wings once every five seconds to keep pace. Willie would give anything to be that seagull. He thinks about reincarnation. He hopes it exists. He hopes this stray thought won’t anger the Catholic God who’s gotten him this far. Who now holds his marker.
As Manhattan disappears behind a wall of mist, Willie drops into a fog. He grips the wooden railing and imagines falling over. Maybe it’s the only thing that makes sense—end all this running. He can feel the first shock of the white foam, then the bitter cold water. He can taste the salty brine, see the murky green darkness, followed by that different darkness. Waiting for that different darkness—a minute? five minutes?—would be the hard part.
The ferry enters deeper waters. It’s a hundred feet down out here, he read that once. He knows what a hundred feet of darkness will feel like. The tunnel beneath Eastern State. And Meadowport Arch. He feels himself floating down, down. His body might never be found. There will be a victory in that.
He starts to climb the railing. Now he looks up. The Statue of Liberty. So beautiful. He looks at her feet. He never noticed before that she’s stepping out of leg-irons. How has he never noticed this until now? He looks and looks and suddenly shoots out his arm and raises his hand to the statue. I get it, he shouts, smiling. I get it, honey.
He climbs down, pushes himself away from the wooden rail.
I get it.
Photographer drives onto the ferry. As soon as the Polara comes to a stop Sutton steps out, limps to the rail, looks eagerly at the water. He points. Look, he says. There she is. Jesus, isn’t she beautiful?
Photographer wipes the mist off his lens, shoots Sutton pointing at the statue.
Did you know, boys, that island where she stands used to be a prison?
Is that true? Photographer says. That can’t be true.
The morning after I broke out, I got to this point and I was on the verge of despair. No, not the verge. I despaired. Right here. I tell you, I was two seconds from jumping. But she told me not to.
She? Told?
Sutton faces Reporter. She talks kid. She’s the patron saint of prisoners and she ordered me to keep going. I know it’s cornball and square these days to love the Statue of Liberty. It’s like loving U.S. Steel or Bing Crosby. But we don’t choose who we love. Or what. And that morning I fell for her. No other way to say it. I knew her, and she knew me. Inside out.
After fifteen minutes the ferry slows, floats toward the pier on Staten Island. A ferryman, wearing a Santa hat, emerges from the pilothouse. All ashore, all ashore.
Reporter and Photographer climb back into the Polara. They wait for Sutton, who reluctantly follows.
Photographer drives slowly off the ferry. A one-legged seagull stands in the way. Photographer honks. The bird scowls, hops off.
We’re looking for Victory Boulevard, Reporter says. Mr. Sutton, you remember the way?
Silence.
Mr. Sutton?
Reporter turns. Sutton is grazing in the donut box, his mouth smeared with Bavarian cream and jelly. Jesus, Sutton says, these donuts are the best thing I’ve ever tasted. I never had such a sweet tooth in my life.
They pass block after block of tiny houses, identical, each one with barred windows, an American flag, a lawn Santa or reindeer. Photographer looks at Sutton in the rearview. Willie, brother, you walked all this way? On no sleep, no food? Wearing a prison uniform? Seems impossible.
I keep telling you boys, it was.
They turn up a hill, around a bend. They see a deep woods, then the faint outlines of massive brick buildings, dozens of them. Drawing closer they see that most of the buildings are covered with graffiti. Trees grow through their roofs and glassless windows.
Whoa, Photographer says. Ghost town.
A hurricane fence surrounds it all. Photographer pulls up to the fence.
This was the famous Farm Colony, Sutton says. Before Medicare, before Social Security, this was where New York put its sick and old and poor people. Thousands of them.
A landfill for humans, Photographer says.
A big one kid. Fifty buildings. A hundred acres. Not a happy place. But the perfect hiding place for me. And it had a kind of strange beauty. Twenty-four hours after I busted out of Holmesburg, I landed a job here. In the women’s ward. As a porter. And for a while, shit. I was happy. I was actually happy. Because it wasn’t me.
TWENTY
The head nurse points to the floor. She’s crowding sixty, loveless, bloodless, squeezed into a white elastic nurse’s uniform that seems to cut off her humanity along with her circulation. I want to see myself right there, she says.
Willie, wearing gray coveralls, JOSEPH stitched in red over the heart, squints. Mam?
The floor, Joseph. Your job is to make the floor shine like a mirror every night, so I can see myself in it every morning. The women in this ward have nothing. Less than nothing. The least we can do is provide them with a clean floor.
Willie nods, moves his mop a little faster. Yes mam.
Willie thinks Head Nurse might be insane. She goes on. And on. She talks and talks about the optimal shine and luster of the floor until Willie fantasizes about mopping it with her.
But in time he sees her point. There is a noticeable improvement in the overall mood of the women’s ward when the floor is clean. He’s always worked hard, taken pride in whatever he’s put his hand to. Why shouldn’t he be the best mop-per he can be? As he did with robbing, he makes a study of mopping. He never knew there were so many wrong ways to mop, or that there was just one right way. Lots of hot soapy water, two cups of ammonia, a smooth semicircular motion when applying the vanilla-scented wax. Like frosting a cake. He stands back. Voilà. He recalls that most of the banks he robbed had dull floors. Figures.
About once a week people walk a bit more gingerly across Willie’s floors—a woman in the ward has died. Aside from mopping, the other part of Willie’s job is loading the deceased onto a horse-drawn wagon and delivering her to the morgue. He dreads this task, but tries to perform it manfully, respectfully. Other porters call the morgue wagon the meat wagon. Willie never does.
This is the price of freedom, he tells himself as he lifts the lifeless woman into the wagon.
Better this than the Burg, he tells himself as he lifts the woman out.
Godspeed, he tells the woman as he drapes her onto one of the marble slabs.
On his day off Willie goes exploring. The Farm Colony sits in the center of Staten Island, a wilderness of thick, primeval woods. He can’t get over the variety of trees—maples, sycamores, elms, oaks, peppers, apples. Some were here when George Washington was alive, and their longevity gives Willie an odd feeling of comfort. He lies at the base of an old elm, floating on his back in the pool of shade, and feels calm. He tries to think of the last time he felt calm. He can’t.
One of the women in the ward tells Willie that Thoreau used to come to these woods. To get away.
Newspapers say that two of his fellow escapees—Kliney and Akins—have been recaptured. Only Willie and Freddie remain at large. So Freddie wasn’t shot after all. Good for Freddie. Go Freddie go. Willie hopes he’s wearing four-inch lifts, feeding papaya to some heart-stopping showgirl in Havana.
Then, gradually, newspapers move on. It’s 1948. A new era. With Truman’s bony finger on the Button, no one has time to worry about some Depression-era bank robber. Willie the Actor is dead, long live Joseph the Porter. In the Farm Colony library, Joseph reads several books on reincarnation.
The women of the Farm Colony adore Joseph, and he thinks of them as he thinks of the trees. They provide a kind of comfort, a psychological shade. Willie spent much of his life in a world of men; Joseph dwells happily in a world of women. Of course many of the women talk as much as the trees. But several are chatterboxes
. While waiting for his floors to dry, Joseph likes to sit with them, listen to their stories. They’re alone, like him. They’re trying not to think of tomorrow, like him. They’re stuck here, like him. They despise banks. Many ended up at the Farm Colony because they lost their life savings to a failed bank or a crooked broker.
Sutton stands just inside the front entrance, Reporter and Photographer right behind him. The door is gone, the furniture is gone. Everything is gone but a few iron filing cabinets. A uniform hangs in a doorless closet.
He points. That was the head nurse’s office.
They hear scuttling, fluttering. A pigeon flies past their heads. Photographer shoots a few photos through a large spiderweb.
Sutton backs out. He turns, stares at the surrounding woods. It wasn’t just the Farm Colony, he says. Back then Staten Island was like a colony of broken people. No wonder I fit right in. Over that way was the biggest hospital on the East Coast for tubercular cases. Over there was the old seaman’s home. Snug Harbor. Bunch of great old tars lived there. I used to play pinochle with them. They were always, but always, drunk. Couldn’t tell a meld from a trick. No one drinks more than a retired Irish sailor. Nice bunch of fellas though. They introduced me to Melville. Still, if I had a night off, I preferred my ladies at the Farm Colony.
His favorite is Claire Adams. With her long wrinkled hand she often pats the chair beside her bed. Come, Joseph. Have a chat.
Yes, Mrs. Adams.
She insists that he call her Claire. He frowns, shakes his head. She’s too queenly, too beautiful, for him to be so familiar. She’s at least twice Joseph’s age but he tells her that he’s in love with her.
Stop it, she says.
He puts his hand over the name patch on his shirtfront. Honest, he says. Ass over teakettle.
She laughs. If I thought you meant it, Joseph, I’d get out of this bed and dance you across the floor.
Mrs. Adams has traveled the world. She’s dined with viscounts and generalissimos and Nobel laureates. She speaks four languages, has perfect pitch, and her gaze is so penetrating, so wise and free of condemnation, Joseph wants to tell her every one of his secrets. The compulsion to confess is so strong, he doesn’t trust himself. He often sits, mouth shut, and lets Mrs. Adams do all the talking.
She tells him many times about the love of her life.
Oh Joseph—he had the most beautiful face. To look upon his face made me weak. His beauty afflicted me, can you understand?
Yes mam.
But my parents didn’t approve. He was a Catholic, you see.
What happened?
They packed me off to Europe. The Grand Tour, they called it back then, but for me it was l’exil à queue. I was never so miserable. On the Seine, I wept. In the Sistine Chapel, I wept. On the Grand Canal, I wept and wept. All beauty saddened me, because it reminded me of my Harrison. That was his name. Harrison. Finally after ten months I defied my parents, sailed for New York. I flew to Harrison’s side.
And?
He had married.
No.
She nods, looks off. It was so long ago, she says. How can it still have—such—?
Power, Joseph says.
Yes. That’s the correct word, Joseph.
July 1949. With a coat of floor wax drying, Joseph sits with Mrs. Adams, looking through the Sunday newspapers scattered across her bed. An article in one of the papers mentions Picasso, which reminds Mrs. Adams of a famous portraitist who once begged her to sit for him.
At the very start of our session this young artist asked me to remove my hat. I did. He asked me to remove my top. I refused. He commanded me. I put my hat back on and stood to leave. He gnashed his teeth, pulled his hair, pleaded. He said he’d never be able to paint again unless he could see my body. I told him I’d never be able to face myself again if I showed him my body.
Joseph is laughing. Mrs. Adams is laughing. Now, Joseph, I must tell you, this artist was very—
She stops. She looks to the side, seeking the right word. Joseph smiles, waits. Temperamental? Talented? Minutes pass. His smile fades. He looks around for a nurse. He feels his palms growing clammy.
Then Mrs. Adams looks back at Joseph, blinks once, smiles. What was I saying?
Joseph can’t tell if she knows that she’s been gone. He doesn’t ask.
It happens again days later. Mrs. Adams looks off midsentence and disappears, this time for ten minutes. This time her eyelids close. Joseph can see her eyes moving under the lids, like fish in a frozen pond. He tells her he’d better get back to his mopping. He stands, backs away from the bed.
In the weeks that follow it happens more and more, and each time she’s gone a bit longer. He always stands, reluctantly, always leans over her bed, kisses her forehead. She’s unaware of his kiss. His presence. She’s far, far away. The Grand Tour.
In the late fall of 1949 Joseph is sitting by Mrs. Adams’s bed, waiting. It’s been almost two days since her last departure. Now, as if someone has thrown a switch, her eyelids quiver, open. She turns her head. Joseph smiles. She smiles. I came as soon as I could, Harrison.
Joseph’s mouth falls open.
I thought of you every day in Italy. I went all to pieces.
Joseph looks around.
Harrison—did you wait for me?
Joseph rubs his neck.
Harrison, my darling, Father will not listen to reason. He’s the most stubborn man.
Joseph folds and unfolds his hands in his lap.
Whatever will we do, Harrison?
Joseph tugs his earlobe.
Harrison?
We’ll—elope.
Her face brightens. When?
Joseph clears his throat. Soon, he says.
Where shall we meet, Harrison?
You know.
She looks searchingly. Where?
Come into the garden, Maud.
At the place, Joseph says. Our special place.
I love you so, Harrison.
I love you, Mrs.—Claire.
When the time comes Joseph lifts her from the bed, carries her to the wagon. Draping her onto the marble slab, he holds her hand for a while. Then he goes and finds Head Nurse.
Mam?
What is it, Joseph? I’m busy.
I was just wondering, mam, what’s to become of Mrs. Adams.
Head Nurse tugs at the elastic of her uniform. What happens to all of them, Joseph.
There’s no family then?
None that wants to be found.
Where do they—where will they bury her?
Head Nurse stares at Joseph’s floor. Potter’s Field, I expect. That’s typically the place.
Joseph waits until after midnight. A misty rain is falling. He walks to the ferry, sails to Manhattan, rides the subway to Brooklyn. He walks to Prospect Park, sits on a bench, making sure he hasn’t been followed. Quickly he digs up a jar of his bank robbery money. A hundred yards from Meadowport.
He ducks behind a boulder, hidden from the street, pries open the jar. It’s sealed tight, but not tight enough. Moisture has managed to get in. Mold has eaten away at the bills. All that planning, all that risk, all those years in prison—for this? This? Joseph stares at Ulysses Grant’s mottled face. An awful chill comes over him as he wonders how airtight Mrs. Adams’s container will be.
Out of sixty thousand dollars he’s able to salvage about nine. He throws the rest in a trash can. Head down, collar up, he sets off for the ferry, but his feet take him a different direction. Within minutes he finds himself walking down President Street. He can feel his heart thudding as he comes close to the Endner house. It looks the same. The stained glass, the fancy balustrades, the iron fence. Someone has planted a small garden along the fence. Black-eyed susans, bittersweets, peonies. Several kinds of roses. There are no lights on. He creeps to the mailbox. No name. No telling who lives there, if anyone.
Hours later, back at the Farm Colony, Joseph sneaks into the morgue and sets a white envelope full of fifties on Mrs. Ad
ams’s chest. Wrapped around the money is a note. Give her the works.
A couple of women in this joint left a real mark on me. One was Mrs. Adams. She made me remember that we only go around once.
Gather ye rosebuds, Reporter says.
Gather whatever the fuck you need to gather. Just make the most of it.
Sutton reaches into the breast pocket of his suit, takes out the white envelope.
Mr. Sutton, why do you keep looking at your release papers?
No reason. Come on. I want to show you boys something.
Mrs. Adams is the first of many. Each time a woman dies, nurses at the Farm Colony find an envelope full of cash on her chest. Some say it’s the Lord. Some say it’s the Angel of the Farm Colony.
Joseph can’t help himself. He knows he’s taking a big risk, but it’s the only joy he has. The only mischief.
Then, January 17, 1950. In the North End of Boston a crew hits the Brinks Building, making off with three million dollars, the biggest heist in American history. Cops say the crime is so bold, so stylish, it simply has to be the work of Willie Sutton, whose picture is on the front pages again.
Joseph keeps his head down, keeps mopping, hoping it will all go away. From down the hall he hears his name.
Joseph. Oh Joseph?
He turns. Head Nurse is marching across his wet floor. If Head Nurse is disregarding his Wet Floor signs, this can’t be good.
She stops before him, looks at his face. Joseph, she says.
Mam.
That’s not your name, is it? Joseph.
Mam?
You’re Willie Sutton.
She hands him the newspaper. He looks at the photo. Looks at her. Yeah, he says with a sigh. Yeah. You got me.
I—what?
I’m Willie Sutton, he says. What a relief to finally say it out loud.
The color slowly drains from Head Nurse’s face.
I knew this day was coming, he says. I guess I’m lucky, I’ve had a few good years.
But—what?
Joseph waits. And waits. That’s a hot one, he says. Me—Willie Sutton. With all his money? A high-flyer like Willie the Actor wouldn’t be caught dead mopping floors at the Farm Colony. No offense mam.
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