A Deadly Affection

by Cuyler Overholt

  A few minutes later, they were moving up a river along the west side of the island, and she was looking into the beating heart of the city. My city now, she thought, her own heart beating faster in response. From every pier came the whir of hoists and the roar of donkey engines and the shouts of brawny longshoremen at work. Peering between the giant steamers and sailing ships that filled the slips, she saw a stone-paved street teeming with tangled carriages and clanging streetcars and overloaded wagons. It was all so big and busy and noisy; it made her feel very small and insignificant in comparison.

  At last the ship slowed and started turning toward an empty slip. A boisterous crowd was waiting at the end of the pier, waving hands and handkerchiefs and shouting up to the passengers. She searched for Antonio’s face, but couldn’t find it. He must be waiting inside the shed, she decided. Grabbing her valise, she hurried down to the lower deck—only to wait, quivering with nervous excitement, while the Madonna slowly warped in.

  Finally, with tugs pushing, windlasses pulling, and deckhands shouting back and forth, the ship was secured and the gang plank was dropped into place. Teresa rode a wave of passengers into the crowded pier shed, pushing through hordes of railroad and livery and boardinghouse agents as she searched right and left for Antonio. An official waved her toward the customs desk, where she handed over her landing card and the letter Antonio had sent, stating his occupation and address and confirming that Teresa was to be his wife.

  “Is your fiancé here?” the man behind the desk asked her in Italian.

  She looked once more around the crowded shed. “I don’t see him, but he is coming,” she answered in her best English, proud of how much she’d learned during her months working in Mrs. Hancock’s kitchen.

  Instructing her not to leave the shed until he arrived, he gave her back the letter and sent her on to the inspection table, where her bag was opened and sorted through. And then finally, after all the months of anxiety, it was over. She had made it, to America and Antonio.

  But…where was her beloved? She continued to the door of the shed to look for him on the street outside, longing for the sight of his face and eager to see the look in his eyes when they fell on her. Still, he was nowhere to be seen. She stepped aside to let other passengers exit the shed, listening wistfully to their shouts of greeting, trying not to feel left behind as they disappeared into the waiting conveyances. The Madonna was supposed to have arrived the day before, she reminded herself, but had been delayed and forced to remain in quarantine overnight. Antonio may have had important business to attend to this morning that kept him from returning on time. No doubt he would come as soon as he could.

  The sun was high in the sky, and the shed had grown uncomfortably warm. She loosened her shawl and plucked at her damp shirtwaist, trying not to let her shoulders slump so that Antonio’s first glimpse of her would be a good one. Gradually, the stream of departing cabin-class passengers slowed to a trickle, and then stopped altogether. Next, the steerage passengers were herded through the shed onto barges bound for Ellis Island, manifest tags dangling from their chests. She watched them shuffle across the floor, their faces reflecting equal parts hope and terror, their arms overflowing with bundles and baskets and solemn-faced children. And then even they were gone.

  As the last barge pulled away, her courage faltered, and her face grew hot with shame. She lowered her valise to the ground. Could he have forgotten? Or—God forbid—changed his mind? But no, that wasn’t possible; Antonio loved her more than the stars and the moon. He had told her so, and she believed him. She could feel the customs official’s gaze upon her, making perspiration bead along her forehead. How long would they let her wait here? If he didn’t come soon, would they force her to go to the dreaded detention room on Ellis Island—the room where people could disappear for months, or even years—while they decided what to do with her? What if they took her there and Antonio couldn’t find her? What if they sent her back home?

  She pulled Antonio’s letter from her pocket and peered at the return address. Maybe she could find her way to him. But…where was this 109th Street? She wished she had brought a map of the city with her. How could she have been so stupid, to come without a map? Hot tears sprang to her eyes. The fear was back, stronger and more insistent than ever. She fumbled for her handkerchief as the tears brimmed over.

  And then, someone called her name. She lifted her head. Through the blur of her tears, she saw a man stepping out of a carriage at the end of the pier. He called to her again, opening his arms in greeting. Teresa’s breath left her in a rush of relief. Shoving the handkerchief into her pocket, she scooped up her valise and, with a happy wave to the customs official, ran down the dock toward the carriage.

  Chapter One

  I raised the gun, training my gaze on the two boats that were moving shoulder to shoulder up the East River toward the pier. Unlike the sleek college shells that regularly plied this northern end of the river, these were weathered four-oared barges, with wide beams and fixed seats and oarlocks that were attached to the gunwales. Their occupants were similarly unrefined—husky, broad-shouldered boys in mismatched sleeveless jerseys who were chopping unevenly at the water with their oars as they struggled to keep the boats abreast. I held my breath and readied my finger on the trigger.

  “Now!” Finn shouted.

  I squeezed. A wave of wild cheering nearly knocked me off my feet as the boats crossed the invisible starting line at the foot of the pier and surged up the course, leaving churning pools in their wake. No one was shouting more loudly—or more desperately—than young Finn Moran, who stood beside me, pumping his bandaged fist in the air. It should have been Finn, not Simon, in the stroke seat of the Wieran Club boat; he’d been practicing for months for the Independence Day race. But his fingers had been crushed in an accident at the bottling factory just the day before, forcing Simon—the club’s head coach, as well as its founder—to take his place. As the Wieran boat trailed the competition out of the start, I wondered if Finn’s frantic shouts indicated a momentary lapse of faith in his mentor.

  Handing him the starting gun, I reached for the field glasses that hung from my neck and lifted them to my eyes. My sights landed first on the Wards Island insane asylum in the middle of the river, where pairs of women in white dresses were waltzing to music from an invisible band. I aimed a little lower, sweeping across a flotilla of brightly festooned watercraft and then a stretch of open, roiling water, until a magnified Simon suddenly popped into view. I jumped involuntarily—and then, with a twinge of voyeuristic guilt, adjusted the knob to bring his features into clearer focus.

  At this angle, my view was only partially obscured by the coxswain sitting across from him. I could clearly see the determination on his sun-bronzed face, the contraction of his muscles with each pull of his oar. He’d been rowing with the boys for the past several weeks, filling in for whoever was absent, and his already well-tempered physique had only improved with use. I dipped the glasses slightly to follow the sculpted lines of his shoulders and biceps, and immediately wished I hadn’t. The sight sent a familiar flutter through my belly that I, in what seemed to have become a regular practice, tried vainly to ignore.

  I dropped the glasses to my chest. Barely a day went by that I didn’t think of the kiss I’d shared with Simon the previous winter, after he’d helped absolve my patient of murder. To tell the truth, I’d been more or less waiting since then for him to pick things up where we’d left off. But over the past six months, he hadn’t so much as pecked me on the cheek. At first, I’d assumed he was just being discreet. Then I’d decided he was being chivalrous, not trusting me, after what had happened in our past, to know my own mind or body. Embarrassing as this possibility was, I had preferred it to believing he wasn’t attracted to me. Now, though, I was beginning to wonder.

  A drunken shout brought me back to the present. I raised the glasses again and scanned the florid faces of the spectators
along the riverbank, trying to gauge the general level of inebriation and the corresponding likelihood that my services would be required. Although my specialty was medical psychology, this wasn’t the first time Simon had recruited me to tend to the bodily injuries of his constituents. I’d resisted at first, thinking a general practitioner would be more qualified for the job, but as doctors had turned out to be scarcer than fur coats in the immigrant neighborhoods surrounding Simon’s district, I’d become unexpectedly adept at stitching bashed skulls and bandaging bleeding knuckles. Today, my medicine bag was stuffed with arnicas and alum powder and catgut, just in case.

  Although the competition had remained cordial thus far, knowing how many bets had been laid and how much beer was flowing along the twenty-block stretch of the course, I didn’t trust the bonhomie to last. The rivalry between Simon’s club and Dan Oakley’s club from the adjoining assembly district had a long and contentious history. There had been grumbling the night before over Finn’s injury, questions about why the strapping stroke’s machine had just happened to break after he took over another worker’s shift. Simon had done his best to squelch these suspicions, urging the lads to put their energy into the race instead of looking for trouble—but if his boat lost, I feared the simmering resentment might erupt into something ugly.

  “Come on, Doc,” urged Finn, grabbing my elbow. The spectators were streaming up the bank away from the pier, cutting through the adjacent stone yard and the produce stands of the Harlem Market to follow the boats upriver. Finn, who’d been saddled with my care by Simon, was clearly eager to be among them.

  I picked up my medical bag, and we joined the moving throng, staying as close to the bank as possible to keep the race in view. I watched with a shudder as a trio of half-naked boys jumped off the sewer pipe at 102nd Street and swam toward the boats with gurgling whoops of excitement, undeterred by either the clumps of sewage or the giant water rats that bobbed along beside them. The Oakley boat reached them first, with Wieran almost two seats behind. Simon seemed to be keeping his crew to a lower cadence than the competition, which must have accounted for their slower start. I heard unhappy muttering from a group of men sporting green Wieran flags and hoped again that there wouldn’t be trouble.

  Fortunately for me and the Greens, by the time we arrived at 105th Street, Simon’s boat had drawn even with the competition, whose faster pace had apparently proved unsustainable. Finn joined the Wieran supporters pressed three deep against the marble yard fence, cheering and pounding his neighbors on the back as the boats glided past. I drew up panting behind him, squeezing the stitch in my side, ducking reflexively as a firecracker exploded nearby. Fenced-in stone and coal yards lined the next several hundred feet of waterfront, blocking further progress by the spectators. A few of the more faithful had accordingly climbed down from the manure pier and were wading unsteadily into the water, shouting out drunken advice to the receding oarsmen. I was wondering if Finn expected me to do the same when he turned and said, “Come on, Doc! This way!”

  I followed after him toward a black delivery truck that was idling at the street corner. He opened the truck’s passenger door and half lifted, half threw me onto the seat before hopping onto the running board beside me. “Go!” he shouted, banging his palm on the roof.

  Turning to my left, I was astonished to see that our driver was eleven-year-old Frankie the Pipes, one of the youngest Wieran Club members, whose moniker stemmed from his unusually high-pitched voice. At Finn’s command, Frankie threw the hand lever and slid forward on his seat to stand on the clutch pedal. The truck lurched forward, straight toward a woman and child stepping off the curb.

  “Frankie!” I cried.

  “Sorry,” he squeaked as he swerved to avoid them, steering into the center of the street.

  I turned toward the three older boys standing in the back of the truck. “Why is Frankie driving?”

  “It’s his pop’s truck,” Danny O’Meara answered glumly.

  “And I’m the only one who gets to drive it!” Frankie crowed, his narrow chest puffing with pride.

  Simon had told me that Frankie’s father, who eked out a meager living as a linen supplier, spent a large portion of his day in the local saloons and often enlisted Frankie to drive for him when he was “indisposed.” I doubted, however, that this little junket would meet with his approval. “Did you ask your father if you could take it?”

  He shrugged, not meeting my gaze. “Couldn’t. He ain’t been home since last night.”

  Simon had introduced me to the current Wieran Club members shortly after we renewed our acquaintance, saying he’d welcome my advice on handling adolescent boys. I’d soon realized, however, that he had a far better grasp of the young male psyche than I ever would. Watching him manage budding rivalries, wounded pride, and the constant threat of fistfights, I’d come to understand that with these lads, a light hand was essential; you had to patiently draw out their better selves, not try to beat them out with a stick. Therefore, instead of reprimanding Frankie for taking the truck, I merely grabbed hold of the door as he careened up First Avenue and prayed that his father would remain oblivious for a few more hours.

  We were entering the heart of Harlem’s Italian colony, where the holiday celebration was already well under way. Groups of dark-haired women in red and yellow shawls congregated on nearly every stoop, chatting amongst themselves or calling out to the barefooted children who gamboled around them, while vendors in jaunty caps strolled past them down the sidewalk hawking colored ices, and ropes of nuts, and small tin pails carried on poles across their shoulders. On the roadway itself, a parade was in progress, with rows of red-shirted men moving in loose formation up the paving stones, weaving around clumps of matted refuse left over from the recent street cleaners’ strike. We inched past them up the avenue, unavoidably becoming part of the boisterous procession. Somewhere behind us, a brass band struggled through a rendition of “The Star Spangled Banner,” while what sounded like a campaign chant drifted back to us from marchers up ahead. Everywhere I looked, red banners with a bearded man’s face and the words La liberazione e l’unificazione! flapped alongside the American flag. I remembered that today was not only America’s birthday, but the birthday of Giuseppe Garibaldi, as well. A memorial was being dedicated to the beloved military hero on Staten Island this afternoon, and it seemed that Italians all over the city were taking note.

  An impatient oath rang out from the back of the truck. “Could you shake it, Frankie?” urged Donny O’Meara, who I’d heard had bet a full week’s wages on the race.

  “Not without running someone over,” I answered firmly. Although the parading men were staying to one side of the road, much of the other side was taken up by women carrying giant wicker baskets and herding flocks of dark-haired children before them. Frankie tried to squeeze past a boy pulling two toddlers in a rickety cart but had to slam on the brakes as a hokey-pokey man darted across the street in front of us, ringing his big brass bell.

  “So run ’em over,” Donny growled. “We’re going to miss the finish at this rate.”

  “Aw, keep your pants on,” Frankie piped back.

  Donny reached over the seat and squeezed the back of his neck.

  “Get your meat hook off me!” said Frankie, twisting away from his hand and driving one wheel up over the curb in the process, nearly costing Finn his footing on the running board.

  “Look, boys!” I interjected. “There’s our chance!”

  The phalanx of marchers closest to us had paused to buy some ices, creating a widening gap between our truck and the nearest intersection. Donny released Frankie, who somehow managed to get the truck off the curb, through the gap, and to the corner without maiming anyone. Taking a hard right onto 107th Street, he adjusted the throttle, fiddled with the foot peddle, and resumed his race toward the river, weaving expertly through a line of sanitation carts pumping chloride of lime into the alleyways. I
had to admit, I was impressed. Although my family had owned a motorcar for more than a year, I hadn’t learned the first thing about operating it. I decided to ask our chauffeur, Maurice, to teach me at the first opportunity.

  We arrived at the foot of Pleasant Avenue in time to see the boats half a block upstream, with Wieran now well in the lead. Donny whooped his approval as we turned up the avenue and followed them north. Although the fans were sparser here, they still formed a nearly unbroken line along the riverfront, allowing us only occasional glimpses of the race. Finn fed us updates from the running board until Frankie, fed up with secondhand reports, sped ahead two blocks, jerked to a stop in the middle of the street, and jumped out of the truck. I followed with the rest of the boys, running out onto the 110th Street pier in time to see the Wierans row past, a full length ahead of the Oakley boat. Simon was glistening with river spray and sweat, resembling a well-oiled machine as he drove his oar cleanly and deliberately through the water, his timing steady as a metronome. The boys behind him were more ragged, their shoulders slumped and their mouths agape, but looking no less determined. The Wieran fans sent up an unholy roar, not stopping until the rowers were indistinguishable on the horizon.

  While the boys lingered to watch the receding rowers, I started back toward the idling truck. The Consolidated Gas Company occupied the entire next block, and Jefferson Park the three blocks after that, which meant we were going to have to make another detour and rejoin the race farther north. I was consulting my pendant watch, trying to calculate how long it would take the boats to reach the top of the park, when a collective moan rose from the spectators behind me.

  I turned and looked back toward the boys, who were now staring upriver with matching expressions of dismay. Following their gaze, I saw the Wieran boat floating listlessly near the 112th Street recreation pier, its rowers at rest and their oar blades lying flat on the water.