“I have met someone—lots of someones. But I turned them down. I only want you. Okay?” She nodded at him. “I just got myself a live birthday present. And you just got yourself a girl, Brendan.”
The snow was still holding off but the city was getting ready for it nonetheless. Before two in the afternoon, exiting car traffic had become heavy at all the bridges and tunnels. Brendan saw several city trucks with snowplows parked on side streets.
He watched Anne drive the long motor home through the streets. Her expression changed with each maneuver, and he watched her face with joy and love. She caught him at it and took his hand.
“Two hands on the wheel,” he said, and they laughed.
But the memory of the morning trip to the morgue was still strong in his mind and made him feel a certain guilt for the happiness he was feeling: Mrs. Anne Davitt. Everywhere he looked on the streets as they drove, he saw adolescents. How many were runaways in trouble, like the girl in the morgue?
When he had first joined the Wandering Child agency, the staff members had warned him not to let his feelings become involved in his work. “These kids can break your heart,” they said. And, they said, “You can’t save them all. You can’t save one tenth of them. You have to grow calluses.”
But the counseling was not enough. Helping dozens of them return home just whetted his appetite. Helping castoffs find new homes spurred him on. What if he could intercept them when they were in the process of running away?
He began, on his lunch hours, to walk down from his office to the Port Authority Bus Terminal. Buses from all over the country came there and there was always a crowd of people streaming out of the terminal and into the streets. Many of them were young; a number were runaways.
Brendan learned to spot them and intercept them. He found himself in a modern morality play, dicing with the devil for the souls of children just blocks away from the lights of Broadway and Forty-second Street. He would talk to them and when he was successful he would bring them back to the office to call home.
One day the head of the office spoke to him. “You’re not going to make it here, Davitt. You give away your food money. You give away your clothing. After hours you go shopping for homes for these kids. And one of these days you’ll pour out your lifeblood. Wake up. Most of these kids don’t deserve it. Grow some calluses. And stop hanging around the bus terminal or you’ll have to find another job.”
He did stop. And he tried to grow calluses. But now he wondered if one day he might not have intercepted the girl in the morgue. Had she come through the bus terminal?
Up Eighth Avenue, Anne drove the motor home toward his office. As they approached the bus terminal, Brendan said, “Let me out at the corner.”
As he got out, Anne said, “I’ll pick you up at your office at five.”
He frowned.
“Five,” she said. “Tonight. Dinner, Brendan, remember? At your Aunt Maeve’s.”
“Oh, right. Five o’clock.” He hurried into the terminal.
Well-dressed business executives and shoppers were queued up for buses to the expensive suburbs in Jersey. Poor people, blacks and whites from the ghettos lugging shopping bags, shambling derelicts, Puerto Rican farm laborers, police in pairs, bus drivers, porters, all swirled around him. What arrested his attention was a small dark man with oiled hair who stood by the stairway to the subway, looking at faces of young women, searching for that certain furtive look, the glitter of excitement, the squint of fear—the runaway girl.
Quick as a ferret, when he found a target he would move, with his practiced speech tumbling from his lips, business card in hand.
“Pardon me, miss, have you ever done any acting?” Hope lit his face.
She was possibly fourteen, a worn backpack swinging from her left shoulder, blue jeans with a split right knee and an imitation deerskin jacket with dangling sleeve fringe. She had acne at both temples and a rather plain face framed by lovely chestnut hair.
She stopped and stared gap-mouthed at the man.
“I mean, miss, are you planning a career in the theater? Or perhaps modeling?”
“Well—” She seemed not to be able to believe her own extraordinary good luck. “Modeling. That’s what I want to do.”
“My card, miss.” He probably had used dozens of different ones over the years—Guido DiStephano, Director, or Roberto Lorenzo, Talent Scout, and his company name always had the ring of familiarity: Twentieth Century-Fox Talent School. Acting and Modeling. Pay As You Earn in Your Career.
“Excuse me, miss,” he then said. “Would you put the shoulder bag down? That’s it. Now just stroll around me. That’s it. Head up. Yes. A bit higher.”
She stared at him hopefully, suppressing a smirk and a giggle.
“Yes. Oh, definite possibilities. I must say, miss, you are indeed fortunate that we’ve met like this. I was just on my way to Cape Cod for a photography session with some of the models from our school. We’re doing spring wardrobes for some of the fashionable shops on Fifth Avenue. It’s funny how you caught my eye. Something in the way you hold your head, I suppose, and that ingenue’s expression on your face. Unforgettable. Do you have a moment? We might be able to work something out for you right now.” Deftly he brushed back some of the strands of her hair and she began to talk … about modeling and the money she’d saved for the bus ticket, and as she talked, he wheeled her about and strolled with her toward the stairs to the street.
Brendan watched with the familiar dismay and impotence. He could call a policeman. Guido DeStephano Lorenzo Olivier de la France could be hustled out of the building and dismissed on the street, but he’d be back in twenty minutes. Or if he was booked, a replacement would appear within the half hour, to lean against the same wall, idly smoking and waiting for the buses to arrive, then watching for that certain age and that certain expression on the face that branded the runaway girl.
Brendan walked up to them as they strolled.
“My parents don’t understand me,” the child was saying.
Guido Carlo Dino’s nodding sympathetic face abruptly changed expression when he saw Brendan. “Goddamn it,” he said, and turned abruptly and bounded up a staircase marked EMERGENCY EXIT ONLY.
“Do you know who that was?” Brendan asked the girl.
She shook her head.
“He trains girls for prostitution.”
The girl in protest looked down at the card in her hand. Brendan took it and tore it in half. “Do you have a place to stay tonight?”
“I—” She became evasive. “Yes. I do.”
“No, you don’t. There’s a snowstorm coming. You could freeze out there. Look, go up these stairs. You’ll be on Eighth Avenue. Walk six blocks to Forty-eighth, turn left and you’ll see a big church, San Sepolcro. There’s a door with a small sign that says ‘Mary Refuge.’ Okay? And underneath it says ‘No questions asked,’ Okay? Ring the bell and you’ll get something to eat and a clean bed for the night. Okay?”
She nodded doubtfully.
“They’re nuns,” Brendan said. “Very nice people. You go there and don’t talk to anybody on the way. Not anybody.”
She seemed hesitant.
“Come on. I’ll show you where it is.” When she hung back, he said, “Would you rather sleep in the park? It’s full of muggers and worse. Look. It can’t hurt to look at it. I won’t say another word. How’s that?”
She nodded mutely and strolled along beside him, up the main stairs to the main concourse of the terminal and through the swinging doors to the street.
It was chilly and damp. The streets were filled with foot traffic and automobiles. Manhattan was a blaze of lights even by day. As they crossed Forty-second Street, her eyes stared hungrily at the flashing lights of the X-rated movie houses and at the crowds of young people packed onto the sidewalks. She walked beside him to Forty-eighth. She was small, perhaps under five feet, and may have weighed eighty pounds and her eyes saw everything, the Hispanic food stores, the restaurants and c
offee shops, the apartments over the stores with torn shades, the old cobblestones showing through the broken tar road surface. Baghdad.
They turned left and walked into the middle of the block. There was the old stone church with its high spiked wrought-iron fence and the glassed sign listing the hours of the Mass. Next to it was a doorway with a light and a sign MARY REFUGE. No QUESTIONS ASKED.
“That’s it,” Brendan said to her. “Push the button.”
This was not what she’d planned on. Her expression said so.
“Do you have a better choice?” he asked her.
She swallowed and pushed the button. After a moment’s wait, the door opened. An older woman in a blue service smock smiled at her and led her inside. “Would you like something to eat?” she asked the girl as she shut the door.
For the first time, Brendan began to feel overwhelmed. And as he walked away, it began to snow.
It was after noon when Father Joseph approached the Brooklyn Bridge. Nearby, a construction crew was erecting an office building near City Hall. Five workers warmed themselves around a fire in a steel barrel. Father Joseph saw the leaping hanks of flame and strode toward the warmth. Without a word the five men made room for the monk and watched him put out his arms to the fire. There were some white spots on the back of both his hands.
“Ain’t you got no gloves, Father?” one of the men asked.
“I’ll be all right,” Father Joseph replied.
“Not with hands like that. You got frostbite.”
“I don’t have much farther to go.”
“Where you going, Father?”
“Brooklyn Heights.”
“You’re walking? That’s quite a hike, Father. Whyn’t you take the subway?” The man reached into his pocket for coins.
“I prefer to walk.”
“Oh.”
The men all stared at his frostbitten hands.
“Listen, Father. Don’t go away for a minute. Okay? You’ll stay here? I want to get something.” The man ran over to his car, holding one hand on his yellow hard hat. He came running back. “See? These are an old pair of gloves I’ve had in the trunk. They’re leather, see? And they have this fleece lining. There’s a couple of holes in the fingertips, that’s why I can’t wear them for working no more. But you take them, Father. They’ll make all the difference.”
Father Joseph nodded. “That’s very kind of you.”
The man felt the monk’s cloak. “That ought to do the job. All wool. You should have a windbreaker over it, though.”
“The wind is very sharp,” the monk said.
“Whyn’t you put newspaper under it, across your chest? Here. Get them papers.” And the three men quickly opened the monk’s heavy wool cloak and fitted thick layers of newspapers across his chest and back, then refitted the cloak and cinched the leather belt around his waist.
“There you are, Father. Windproof. Get your hands and feet real warm and you’ll reach Brooklyn in a breeze.”
It was snowing heavily now in Pittsburgh, Washington, Baltimore, Wilmington and Philadelphia. Also in Altoona, Easton, and Harrisburg. Soon the entire length of the Pennsylvania Turnpike would be closed. The snow was rolling directly toward northern New Jersey and New York City. And riding on the edge of it, over Philadelphia, one hundred miles from New York, was the black hawk.
Father Joseph walked up the ramp to the Brooklyn Bridge with grave misgivings. The wind over the water would be much stronger, he knew, and he could easily freeze in it. The whole bridge seemed forbidding and hostile. The wind fingered the skirts of his gown as though eager to begin the attack. He could hear the wind’s voice soughing in the steel cables over his head. Only the strongest premonition that Brendan Davitt was in danger made the monk go on.
The newspaper padding worked wonders. It stopped the penetration of the cold completely and he felt the glow of warmth under it. And in the old leather work gloves with the fleece lining, his hands began to recover their circulation. Indeed, as he walked, body heat flowed down into them and they were no longer numb. He promised himself to remember those workingmen in his prayers always.
But it was his legs and feet that were most exposed and they quickly became numb. Before he was halfway across the bridge, he’d lost most of the sensation in his feet; he couldn’t feel them striking the paving as he walked.
Most of all he feared collapse. He’d known monks in his order who had frozen to death and he knew he was daring a similar fate. He told himself he was a very old man but if he froze the true victim would be Brendan Davitt. For if he failed to warn Brendan, the young man would soon be found by Satan and destroyed.
His premonition made him hasten his pace over the bridge. And the fast pace helped him generate warmth. But he had no reserves of energy, he was still very sick from the flu, and now in spite of his heavy wool hood his head began to pound with the pain of cold. He felt disoriented.
Yet he was determined he would not break his vows; and he was equally determined he would not freeze. He would survive and find Brendan Davitt this day.
When he reached the crest of the bridge high above the East River, the wind was roaring and he felt the bridge moving slightly under its onslaught. He could see all over New York City, down to the tip of Manhattan, far out over Brooklyn, far upriver to the other bridges. And once when he glanced back, he was astonished by the black clouds that were filling the sky, racing after him. Heavy snow was coming. He hastened his step even more.
It was so absurd: The cars went whizzing by with people relaxed and warm, chatting idly while he struggled to keep his life in his old bones.
Sand struck his face. Windblown and cutting. White sand. With no warning, wind-driven snow enveloped him. The whole world was whited out, gone was Manhattan Island, gone was Brooklyn and the other bridges and the water below.
He bowed his head and turned it away from the wind. It was difficult to see the footing ahead of him. He hesitated for fear he might stumble over the railing and fall.
He resorted to his customary defense; he prayed while he walked, groping. He concentrated on each word and its meaning. Every few steps he had to raise his head and look for his footing, and each time the granular snow slashed at his face. He sang hymns, at first softly, then defiantly in a loud voice. There was no feeling below his knees. He realized he was in serious trouble when he couldn’t remember the words to the hymn and found himself singing the same phrase over and over.
Then he walked into a stone abutment. He staggered and nearly fell, and he stepped around it and stared with disbelief. He’d made it. He was at the foot of the bridge in Brooklyn, still alive, still moving. Only a few miles to go. He thanked God for deliverance from the bridge. But he felt terribly weak. Above all, he wanted to lie down and go to sleep. It would be so easy; even for just a few moments to lie there out of the wind and rest. He knew if he did he would never rise again.
He was shivering from a fever. In spite of his victory over the bridge, he feared that fate was closing in: There were too many streets ahead of him. He was much weaker. His steps began to falter.
He paused. He needed to take quick action, and his eyes scanned the buildings around him. When he saw a cellar doorway nearby he stepped over to it, down two steps, and got in the lee of the remorseless wind. Then as though heaven-sent, the door opened and he turned face to face with the building superintendent. He was a gray-haired black man and he looked like a delivering angel to Father Joseph.
“Ain’t getting any better,” the superintendent said. “We going to get a whole lot of snow out of this one. Radio says way over twelve inches.”
The monk nodded at him.
“I got some errands to do but I wish I didn’t.”
The monk nodded again.
“You look kind of done in, Padre. You want to come in and sit down for a while? It’s nice and warm in there. Sure. Come on.”
The superintendent turned and the monk mutely followed him in. He felt the warm air caress his face
like a blessing.
“Here. This is the warmest spot in the whole building. You sit yourself right there in that old armchair. How about some hot soup? I got some here, more than I’ll ever eat. Hot chicken noodle. Here.” He picked up a pot from the heating plate and swirled the steaming contents, then poured off a coffee-cupful. “And here’s your spoon. Now you take that and you’ll be warm as a bun in a couple of minutes. Come on. You’re looking real poorly. This’ll help.”
The overstuffed armchair felt wonderful. All Father Joseph wanted to do was take a nap and let his feet get warm. “You’re very kind,” he said gratefully. “That storm is overwhelming.”
The superintendent watched him spoon the hot soup in. “Neither one of us should be out there today,” he said. “I have the asthma and I have some errands to do. We should leave that weather to the young people.”
The monk nodded. The soup was delicious and he spooned it in greedily. His face was getting warm and he felt his ears burning. He thought he would never feel his feet again. When he finished the soup, the heat was closing his eyes. He sat back in the chair and tried to smile at the superintendent. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am. I was in worse shape than I thought.”
“Stay awhile. I’m going to get a few things, then I’ll be back. Rest yourself.”
“God bless you,” Father Joseph said.
“Thank you.”
Before the superintendent got to the basement door, Father Joseph was asleep.
Over northern New Jersey, the hawk was enveloped in the snowstorm. Flying was increasingly difficult; there was zero visibility as she moved through the complete darkness and snow. So over Jersey’s Great Dismal Swamp she circled and dropped. Only her unparalleled eyesight enabled her to locate a suitable roost, an old sycamore tree, and when she landed, a flock of sparrows burst from a nearby hemlock and darted away, chittering in the darkness.
She gave herself a shake, composed her wings and feathers and sat on a branch, hearing the icy snow crystals fall on the frozen marsh.
The Monk Page 15