Bronx Noir

by S. J. Rozan

  “This is Linda, my wife, and also gonna be my nurse. Isn’t she gorgeous?”

  Linda turned sharply at this unexpected piece of news. His nurse?

  “Too good for the likes of you, you, pisher. Just call me Phil,” the other chess player told Linda. A man who introduced himself as Sam teased Frank. “We always had Jewish doctors in this building. When Dr. Mayer retired to Miami, we didn’t expect a goyish kop like you to show up.”

  Frank laughed aloud. “I promise I’ll be just as good.”

  Phil shrugged. “Who said he was good?”

  “Nice people, your in-laws,” said one of the mothers, Alice. “They got great food in their Italian restaurant on Arthur Avenue. That’s the Little Italy of the Bronx,” she informed Linda.

  She shuddered. Don’t tell me about the Bronx. I could tell you horror stories.

  “And speaking of food, don’t mind the smell.” Mrs. Schwartz pinched her nose with two fingers to make her point. “That’s Flanagan in 1G. They always have corned beef and cabbage on Thursdays.”

  “Phew,” agreed Irving. Turning to Mrs. Schwartz, he said, “And your gribbines don’t smell all that great either. That chicken fat stinks up your floor pretty good.”

  She made a face and waved a dismissive hand at him.

  “Hey, doc.” Irving started to take a shoe off. “One of my big toes hurts. Could you take a look at it?”

  Again Frank laughed. “Call my nurse for an appointment.” He hugged Linda, who stiffened.

  “What a blondie, such a cutie,” the third man, Sam, commented with a leer. “She can take my temperature any time.” There was group laughter at that.

  “Frank, get me inside right now!” Linda grabbed his arm, squeezing it hard.

  Frank waved again. “Gotta go. Just drove in. The little woman needs her rest.”

  With that, he lifted her up and carried her into 1A to a chorus of cheers.

  When the door closed behind them, Frank faced his wife, beaming with pleasure. He waited for her to say something.

  Linda turned away and walked from room to room examining the apartment.

  “Swedish modern foam couches,” Frank recited, following after her as she looked at the bilious green fabric covering hard-looking flat pillows that sat on wrought-iron frames. “The salesman said it was the latest thing.”

  He then flung himself into one of the plastic beanie bag “chairs” in the same ugly hue. He bounced around, legs flying upward, to show the fun of them.

  She ignored him and continued down the dark hall. Frank dashed after her. The bathroom was small and also dark. She entered the next room and gasped. It was a nursery. Painted in blue. No furniture yet, but toys. Little boy’s toys.

  He grinned at her and shrugged. “Just thinking ahead.”

  Not here, never in this place, she thought.

  He opened the master bedroom door for her with a flourish. She moved straight to the windows. She was chagrined to see they faced directly onto the courtyard. One of the kids on a bicycle rode by and stuck his tongue out at her. She quickly closed the curtains.

  Frank continued his spiel. “And here’s our boudoir. And there’s our honeymoon bed, sweetheart.”

  Finally she turned to him, red in the face. “Shut up! Shut up!”

  That night, with great trepidation, she met Frank’s family—aunts, uncles, cousins, and siblings—as they introduced themselves en masse at the big dinner held in the newlyweds’ honor across the street in his parents’ side of the two-family building. Too many people pushed in close to meet her. And to offer congratulations to the son who became a doctor. Frank’s brother-in-law, Al, laughed. “Yeah, he’d do anything so he wouldn’t have to work in the restaurant.” Much agreeable laughter at that. She was offered antipasto, which she refused. And she was presented with more names she wouldn’t remember.

  “Our spaghetti sauce cooks for four hours, our secret recipe,” Mama Lombardi told her proudly as she doled her out a huge portion. But Linda merely moved her fork around the plate.

  “You marry a girl with no appetite?” Papa Lombardi asked, astonished.

  Frank laughed. “Hey, she’s gotta get used to you guys. Get your garlic breaths off of her. Let her breathe air.”

  After a massive dinner of six courses, which Linda only picked at, they finally reached the spumoni and espresso. The men lit up their huge cigars. And Mama asked the inevitable question.

  “Linda, where are your folks?”

  She spoke in a low, flat voice. “I have no family. I’m an orphan.”

  There was a silence at that. Mama crossed herself.

  Frank put his arm around his wife. “Well, honey bun, you sure have one now.”

  The tense moment over, Papa grinned and said, “Welcome to la famiglia.”

  Frank turned the key in the lock and made his way back through the foyer into his parents’ living room.

  Knowing his brother could hear him, Vincent said, “It’s what I always said about him. Frankie’s such an easygoing guy. Ya have to kick him in the ass three times before he knows you’re mad at him.”

  His sister Connie grinned. “Yeah, what a pushover. Girls always take advantage of him.”

  Frank addressed his siblings, also grinning. “Thanks for nothing. You’re just jealous.”

  They laughed.

  The immediate family was sitting around drinking more espresso “She’s all right?” Mama offered him a cup.

  “Just tired. Been a long day with a lot of new things to get used to.”

  Papa said, “I like her. She’s quiet.”

  Mama gave him a gentle hit across his head. “You always were a sucker for the blondes.” She patted her pitch-black hair, with the slight gray feathering at her forehead, and winked at him.

  They sat quietly digesting.

  Mama couldn’t resist a shot of guilt. “You had to go and elope? And disappoint the whole family?”

  “Mama, what else could I do? I told you, Linda had no one to invite. I didn’t want to make her unhappy on her wedding day.” Mama sighed. “I understand. So, all right, she met everyone tonight.”

  “And we saved a bundle in wedding costs,” Papa commented with satisfaction.

  “And you lost a bundle in wedding gifts you didn’t get, dummy,” Connie laughed.

  “I’m such a lucky guy.” Frank sipped his espresso.

  “She’s not Catholic.” Mama poured Papa his after-dinner Strega.

  “Well, she ain’t Jewish.” Al beckoned his mother-in-law for another refill.

  Connie put her two cents in. “Not Irish either.” She pretended mock horror. “You mean we’ve got a Protestant in the family?” She laughed. “She will be so alone in this neighborhood.”

  Linda was alone but not for cultural or religious reasons. Linda belonged only to the darkness within herself. In the numbing blackness of a fog that never lifted. In a mind that shut off unbearable memories. She left the apartment only when she had to. She spent her days reading forgettable books or watching mindless television. She cleaned the house obsessively and cooked simple meals that filled the belly, but not the imagination. She waited for time to pass. She waited for a way to get out of here.

  For a month, Frank whizzed about in a whirlwind of happiness, insensitive to his wife’s lack of interest. Getting the office fixed up. Getting flyers out into the neighborhood. Though it seemed word of mouth was enough. Mayer’s gone, come see the new young doctor. They were lining up at his door.

  “Sure you don’t want to help out?” he asked Linda on the fly. “I could really use my pretty nurse in the office.” He intended to give her a peck on the lips, but she turned abruptly and he got her cheek.

  “Find somebody else.”

  A week later, because it was so hot outside, Linda, carrying groceries, decided to take the shortcut through the outside office door to get to their own quarters. As she entered, a set of chimes rang out “O Sole Mio.” She thought they were annoying, but Frank liked them bec
ause they’d been a housewarming gift from Connie.

  Linda was surprised to see someone sitting at the appointment desk. She was somewhat older than Linda. The woman’s long, thick black hair was piled haphazardly atop her head. Her blue eyes flashed. She obviously liked bright colors. She wore a dropped-shoulder red drawstring blouse and a multicolored dirndl. And high heels. This exotic-seeming woman smiled widely at Linda and reached out her hand. She had a husky voice. “I’m Anna Marie. I’ve known Frankie all his life. I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”

  Linda didn’t return the gesture, so Anna Marie lifted an eyebrow and placed her hand back on the desk.

  Linda looked closely. A wedding band.

  “I’m helping out temporarily until he finds time to get someone else.”

  Linda glanced at her quickly to see if there was disapproval there. If there was, Anna Marie covered it.

  Anna Marie reassured her that she wasn’t a threat to the newly wedded Mrs. Lombardi. “I’m married to Frank’s old friend Johnny. We all went to P.S. 93 together and then on to James Monroe High. Frank was the only one of us who went off to college.”

  Linda didn’t comment, so Anna Marie had to fill the silence. “He got a scholarship, but you know all that…”

  Luckily, Frank walked in from his examining room. He grinned. “At last the two loves of my life meet. I was mad about Anna until Johnny stole her from me,” he said to Linda with a twinkle. “But all’s well. We’re happy, aren’t we?”

  Neither woman spoke. Linda was aware that Anna Marie was attempting to evaluate her.

  Let her try, she thought.

  The chimes were heard again as an elderly lady walked in the front door.

  “Ah,” Frank said, “here’s Mrs. Green. Please get her chart, Anna.” With that he went back to his office.

  “Nice talking to you,” Anna Marie said sarcastically.

  “Yes,” Linda replied, and walked past her to get to the inside apartment entrance.

  In her fog she learned the streets of the neighborhood. A chubby couple, Betty and Burt, ran the luncheonette, called the candy store by one and all. Everyone gathered there. The men came to schmooze and read the sports pages in the Daily News or the New York Post. The young mothers dropped in for black-and-white sodas or a two-cents plain. The younger kids hung out after school, poking playfully at one another like bear cubs. The teenagers flirted and did their mating dance. At one time or another, just about everyone checked in at the candy store for the local gossip.

  Linda knew some of the gossip was about her. She imagined them asking, What do you make of her? But she didn’t care what they thought.

  The grocery was next door. Murray used the stub of a pencil to add up Linda’s purchases on the brown paper bag, as other customers sized her up. Were they wondering, That Linda, who does she think she is—she stuck up or something? She imagined so.

  The butcher was next, and as she waited her turn the women gaped and looked at her brazenly. “Give the pretty doctor’s wife a nice cut, Herman.” This was from a frumpy-looking housewife trying for sarcasm.

  I know what you’re thinking. Linda stared back. She some kinda snob? Right? Well, gossip all you want, you’ll get nothing from me. I’ve got nothing to give.

  Up and down Watson Avenue the neighborhood lived and breathed. And Linda moved like a shadow, speaking only when spoken to. She was meticulous in her dress. She wore calf-length pencil-slim skirts and simple blouses with matching cardigans. Her hair was page-boy length, her outfits in muted colors. Looking as lifeless as she felt.

  Nobody knew of the cancer that grew inside her. A cancer called the Bronx.

  On an occasional Saturday night, when Frank could make time to go out, they spent it with his best friends. Linda had been introduced to Anna Marie’s husband, Johnny. The three buddies were close, sharing childhood memories and private jokes. Frank worried about Linda feeling left out, but she didn’t seem to mind. Sometimes they had dinner at Johnny and Anna Marie’s apartment in Parkchester, in a fairly new development that was considered very classy for the East Bronx. Linda didn’t like to cook so it was their place or eating out.

  Tonight they ate at a deli and took in a movie at the Ward Theater. Afterwards, they went for a walk. Anna Marie and Linda lagged behind the men. Typically the guys sauntered ahead to gab about sports and cars and other male subjects and the girls were expected to talk girl stuff.

  The guys passed a store that featured sexy underwear. Johnny stopped and whistled at a red bra and matching garter belt. “Whooey. That’s my Christmas present for Anna Marie this year. What about something like that for Linda?”

  Frank shook his head. “She’s not the type.”

  Johnny finally had to ask. “What type is she—that wife of yours? What’s with her? Can’t she help out and sit in your office? What else does she have to do?”

  “She’s different,” Frank told his buddy. “She’s shy and fragile.”

  “Crazy. You have to pay Anna Marie a salary when you’re just starting out?”

  “I don’t mind.”

  Johnny shrugged “Well, it’s your funeral.”

  Linda walked with Anna Marie who chatted about items in the windows. She laughed when she saw the red lingerie.

  Linda gagged at the sight and stopped short. She felt faint and grabbed for a wall.

  “I bet I know what Johnny was saying.” Anna Marie stopped when she realized Linda was no longer beside her. She turned. “Hey.”

  “What?” Linda could barely speak. No…no, not those memories…go away…

  “What? What’s with you? I’m trying to be friendly and hold up my end of the conversation and I get nothing back. You don’t talk about clothes. Or the movie we just saw, or even Frankie. What goes through that head of yours?”

  Linda’s voice was so low that Anna Marie could barely hear her. “All I think about is how to get out of the Bronx.”

  When Linda, to her shock, realized she was pregnant, she didn’t tell Frank. She prayed it would go away. But after watching her race to the bathroom to throw up enough times, and realizing her breasts were swollen, the doctor quickly figured it out. He was thrilled. He started calling her his Madonna. Even though she told him not to, Frank immediately announced the good news to his entire family. Of course, they all wanted to be part of it. Connie took her out to buy maternity clothes, not that she really needed them. She couldn’t keep much food down and stayed thin. Connie’s husband Al worked in a furniture store, so they got baby furniture at a discount.

  It didn’t take long for the neighbors to find out, and they got into the act as well, bringing her casseroles so she wouldn’t have to cook. Frank did the cooking after work or Mama Lombardi had food sent over from the restaurant. Mrs. Schwartz brought down her famous Kosher chicken soup. Mrs. Lee from the Chinese laundry carried over her egg drop soup. Mrs. Flanagan made a huge pot of potato soup. The strength and variety of smells made Linda throw up even more. The entire building was involved in trying to keep the doctor’s skinny wife fed.

  And the new baby-to-be, clothed. Bassinets were put together. Little blankets were crocheted. And infant sweaters and caps, as well. People were dropping in all the time with their offerings. What little privacy she had was gone.

  Frank surprised her one day by bringing home an insurance policy on his life.

  “Why did you do that?” she asked. “I would never ask you to do that.”

  He kissed her gently. “Never say never.” As he was about to head to his office, he informed her, “Now that I’ll have a son, I want him protected if anything happens to me.” Frank was sure it would be a boy.

  “Frank.”

  He turned. “What, my darling little Madonna?”

  “I can’t take pain. I’m so afraid.”

  He came back and held her close for a moment. “I’ll be nearby, so don’t you worry.” Then he left.

  “I can’t stand anymore pain,” she said to the closed door.
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br />   Linda was aware that all the Lombardis were in the waiting room of Monteflore Hospital the night she gave birth. She knew that Frank was pacing worriedly outside the door, as expectant fathers do. What good did it do her? Let him hear his wife screaming. He knew nothing of her pain. He knew nothing about being torn apart so badly, so many times before, that giving birth was a new pain beyond endurance.

  The OR nurses tried to hold her down, but she was too strong for them. Arms flailing, the next scream was blood-curdling. “Damn you, Dyre! Damn you!”

  “Push!” urged the doctor.

  She pushed, her fingernails digging into the sheet, and shouted, “Prospect!” at the top of her lungs.

  And at the final push, the pain more horrific than before, “Damn you to hell, Burnside!”

  She fainted. When she came to, her doctor was gone and she listened to the nurses talking about her. The one bending over the bassinet that held her six-pound infant girl said, “Did you ever hear anything like that in your life?”

  Her partner agreed. “In all my years they yelled for husbands, for God, or cursing, sobbing, and screaming, but I never heard anyone cry out, Dyre.”

  “Or Prospect or Burnside. What do you make of it?”

  “Who knows? She’s peculiar, that one.”

  You don’t want to know, Linda thought. She had dared not call out their names, the ones who murdered her childhood with their foul misuse of her body. Which had they damaged more—her body or her mind? Those foster folks who promised to care for her, who debased her instead. On streets in the Bronx where she had been forced to live. Where her pain had been excruciating and her blood had spilled. She could still see that trembling nine-year-old being forced into sleazy lingerie, her mouth smeared with lipstick, and a monster bearing down on her. But she could shout out those names—that litany of shame—those Bronx street names. Places she thought she had escaped…but there was no escape, was there?

  Baby Frances (no longer Frank, Jr.) was adored by one and all. Frank was driven to work even harder for his darling little girl. He was taking more and more house calls in addition to his full days at the office.