“Nah, I got it. You know who’s a saint?” he said, indifferent to her sarcasm, righting the glass and filling it to the rim. When no one responded, he went on. “My Annie, that’s who. That’s why I don’t have to be good, to get into heaven. She’ll let me in the back door.”
Sal looked at Mama, who laughed and playfully slapped his hand. Marie wanted to slap him, too. “Not such a bad plan,” Marie said. “But what if you die first?”
Sal’s smile faded, and the line of his mouth straightened, then twisted. Mama gripped his wrist, as if to keep the Angel of Death from taking him away. She sputtered in clear English: “How you say such a terrible thing to Salvatore!”
“It’s a practical question,” said Marie sweetly. “Now that you’re in insurance, Sal, you know that better than anybody. Anything could happen.”
Marie thoroughly enjoyed the rest of the meal. She was about to clear her plate when she noticed the change in Papa. Tears brimmed in his eyes, and then one spilled, and another. “God is good to me. That’s no lie. Still, if only he was here, my son, my lost boy . . .”
“It’s okay, Papa. It’s okay.”
Marie stood up and kissed him. She couldn’t stay for this, not tonight. He didn’t slip into these moods at every family party; when he did, they didn’t last long. Maybe five minutes of soft moans and stifled cries, as his watery eyes searched for some vanishingly far point on the horizon. Mostly, Marie pitied him for his grief, even envied him for how he could love someone who never was, forty years after they never met. Tonight, Marie couldn’t bear to listen. She picked up her plate, then his, and left for the kitchen. Ann rose as well, clearing dishes. Luigi tried to join them in their jailbreak, but Papa raised a hand—this was women’s work—and he reluctantly returned to his seat.
Marie scraped the scraps into the garbage and put the plates in the sink. The kitchen warmth was cozy now, and she was content to stay. Ann put her hands on her shoulders. “Have a seat, you. Don’t make me get rough,” she said, pushing Marie into a chair. “You know how he is. It doesn’t mean he doesn’t love us any less. But I guess you just can’t hear that right now. To hear him talk about losing a baby, when you . . . You are pregnant, aren’t you, babe? You can tell me, I won’t tell anybody. I already know. I know you.”
For a moment, Marie thought she might begin to bawl again. She’d labored to contain all the emotional roil and broil about Sid, the toll the birth had taken on her last time. But when she opened her mouth, only empty breath left her, a weary sigh. “I don’t know for sure, but I think I am. With Papa, I don’t—”
“Don’t let it get to you. Papa’s too much sometimes. I wanted to say there was a phone call for you, or to set something on fire, just to get you away.”
Marie laughed. Ann was like Doctor Levine, uncanny in what she picked up, astonishing in what she missed. No matter what goodwill Marie felt, taking in the limitless sympathy in her sister’s eyes, she knew she couldn’t confide in Ann. It was a sin, abortion. A crime. Professional suicide. Sometimes, actual death. And it would have been inhumanly cruel for Marie to say she wanted nothing more than to be rid of what Ann wanted most. “Thanks, sweetie.”
“Don’t mention it. And I wanted to tell you . . . I shouldn’t. It’s a secret, but I don’t know why you shouldn’t know, especially now. Are you taking vitamins?”
Marie was intrigued, even as she felt a twinge of anxiety about Ann’s ability to keep her mouth shut. “Let’s hear it.”
“I don’t know why Mama didn’t tell anybody but me, why Papa never told anybody at all. It’s not something to be ashamed about.”
“Ann, please—”
“Not that I don’t know that they didn’t tell you, too. Did they?”
“Out with it.”
“You really don’t know, do you?”
“Ann—”
“Do you remember when Mama was pregnant with Vera?”
“Yeah.”
“You remember how she was?”
“Sick.”
“That’s right. Sick as a dog through the whole thing. In bed, most of the time. Barely gained any weight, until the end. I remember it better than you. I remember when Mama was pregnant with Dee, too, but not as well. Still, it was the same.”
“I know, she had a hard time carrying all of us,” Marie recalled. “She mentioned it a couple of hundred times. But she had four kids, so we know she was healthy enough. A lot of women miscarry, especially with the first pregnancy.”
The notion almost cheered Marie. Ann looked furtively out the window. She was so flamboyant in her effort to be clandestine that Marie struggled not to giggle. Ann took a seat beside her, huddling in close as she whispered, “Mama didn’t.”
“What?”
Marie didn’t care that she was shouting, until she saw how pale and spent her sister looked, as if the secret had taken all her strength. “Ann, what do you mean? Just tell me, without all—”
Ann clutched her hand, and Marie lowered her voice. “Please, just—”
“Mama was sick, skinny, like she always was when she was pregnant, but they didn’t know, because it was the first time. The doctor, he told Papa she couldn’t keep it, it would kill her. She was pretty far along. He didn’t ask Papa—forget about asking Mama—he just said it had to be done. After, the doctor told him that it would have been a boy. Papa started breaking things in the office, he tried to choke the doctor. Other people were there, they had to pull him off him.”
Marie wanted to run back outside to her father. She tried to imagine how it was for him, a young immigrant with a new wife dying from the child he put in her. He could haggle over the price of kerosene in three languages, but he couldn’t say a thing about gynecology in any of them. Any woman was a foreign country to him. And who could question a doctor? Marie thought of Dr. Levine again, how he talked about how little they knew about pregnancy back then. Witchcraft, he’d called it. The doctor who took care of Mama thought he was saving her life. Maybe he had.
“My God, Ann. My God. I had no idea.”
“I know. I feel better, having told you. I mean, I know why he’s ashamed, but he shouldn’t be. Poor Papa!”
“Poor Papa, I know. Different times, back then.”
“I can’t even imagine. Do you think I should tell Dee and Vera?”
“Absolutely, Ann. But let’s me and you go through it first, beginning to end. As much as you remember. By any chance, do you remember the doctor’s name?”
12 YOU’VE HEARD THIS SONG BEFORE
When a felon’s not engaged in his employment
Or maturing his felonious little plans
His capacity for innocent enjoyment
Is just as great as any honest man’s.
Our feelings we with difficulty smother
When constabulary duty’s to be done.
Ah, take one consideration with another
A policeman’s lot is not a happy one.
—“The Policeman’s Song” W. S. Gilbert and Arthur Sullivan
APRIL 25, 1963
1645 HOURS
Marie never learned the old doctor’s name. She found it maddening that she was so inept at finding another one, given her experience in the field. Had she spent the last three years handling bank robberies, she’d know how to rob a bank. And she’d know how not to get caught—what to do and not-do with guards and alarms and getaways—to remain a masked man instead of a face on a wanted poster. But AB cases weren’t whodunits—the girls had the names and telephone numbers of the perpetrators. Some even had receipts. The investigations could be demanding, but they weren’t difficult. A child could . . . Marie didn’t want to think about children. Not the one she didn’t want, by a husband she couldn’t stand, which would lock her into marriage she hated and keep her from the job she loved. At the very least, she had to ask Mrs. M. for reassignment. Whatever happened, Marie didn’t want to think about pregnancy during every waking moment.
Marie struggled against taking out h
er impatience on Sandy, but she’d told her, time and again, how to take telephone messages. To say only that “some lady called yesterday” was worse than no message at all, since it inspired a period of fraught and profitless speculation as to whether she’d missed a late notice for a court appearance, or if Carmen hadn’t taken her death threats to heart.
Katie delivered the same cryptic message the next day, and the day after that. She then followed a revised protocol, instructing the caller on the second day that Marie would be home on the third, at five in the afternoon, should she care to make her intentions plain. Marie suspected it was Carmen, or a friend enlisted to call on her behalf, especially when Sid appeared at home, at a quarter-to-five. “Hey, honey! You got a minute to talk?”
“No, wait—I have to—”
Marie didn’t know whether it was morning sickness again, or the twenty-four-hour-a-day revulsion she’d felt for him since he’d raped her, but she had to run to the bathroom when she saw him, and she didn’t rush back. She rinsed her mouth, but she hoped that her breath still smelled of bile when she returned. “Yes?”
Sid’s smile put her on guard. It was one she didn’t recognize from his repertoire. She knew the contrite Sid, boyishly abashed; the brash, leading-man grin he wore among other men; the cavalier smirk with which he favored waitresses. This one had aspects of all three. It was softly pushy but withholding, as if he were a salesman who hadn’t decided if she had any money. “Honey, you and me ought to get away for the weekend. Just the two of us. It’s been a little rough between us lately. I know I’ve been a bit of a heel, but you haven’t been your old self, either. And I wanna make it right. Whaddaya say? The Catskills? Or we hop on a plane to Miami. Why not? I know a guy, can get us a rate at the Fontainebleau. We can lay out by the pool. Or—Hey! We charter a boat for the day, go fishing. Nobody but you and me.”
Marie hadn’t expected the offer any more than she’d expected the smile. She wasn’t sure if the just-us exclusivity referred to Sandy and Katie, or to Carmen.
“You know you’re stuck with me,” he went on, shifting back to contrition, biting his lower lip. Marie was glad she had nothing left in her stomach. Had he really just suggested a boat trip, in another jurisdiction? Where the happy couple would be alone together, miles from shore? Till death do us part—Sid had already won a medal for rescuing someone from drowning. Who could blame him, if his batting average dropped to .500? “Um—I don’t know, I really don’t think—”
“Baby, come on, we have to go away somewhere—”
“Catskills. Definitely, the Catskills.”
Before Marie could consider the risks of going to the mountains, the phone rang, and she ran to get it. “Household Marie, how can I reference you?”
There was a pause on the line, and then there was laughter. “Poor kid! You sound worse than I feel! Don’t tell me you’re still stuck in the same rut, too, after all these years?”
The voice was familiar, but Marie was still too rattled to recognize it. “Who may I ask is calling?”
“I’m your favorite manicurist. We both had fiancés on the USS Abraham Lincoln. They were on a secret mission, you said. That’s why they couldn’t write home. Just calling to check in to see if your ship ever came in.”
Now, Marie knew who it was. She was very glad to hear from Charlie, even if boating remained the topic of conversation. Her voice was lower, huskier than she remembered. There must have been a lot of cigarettes in the intervening years, a lot of shouting. “No, it’s still at sea. Me, too. How about you?”
“I’m about to cast off. Finally! But I have something for you that’s gonna put Gino away. Can you come over?”
Marie would have liked nothing more than to jump in the car, but she held back. She wanted to escape Sid, but she’d been down this road before. And the sound of Charlie’s voice brought back all the other songs in that jukebox, including Paulie’s endless serenades on informants: “If you need something from them, it has to happen now. If they want something, you stall, make ’em give you more.”
“I don’t know, Charlie. I have a lot of stuff going on here, and I don’t know if I can leave. It’s great to hear from you, and we can talk if you want sometime, but—”
“Come on, Marie. I know I deserve the runaround, but I need to see you, right away. What I have on Gino, it’s pretty big.”
“I’m listening, Charlie. Tell me what you got.”
“How much time could he get for three ounces of heroin?”
“I don’t want to make up any numbers. It depends on his record. Not as much as he deserves.”
“How about a pound of heroin?”
“Is that what you have?”
“Well—”
“Well nothing, Charlie. We’re not starting from scratch here, you and me. Calling in a hot tip about Gino selling dope? I’m not taking bets on last week’s race. That horse is already in the glue factory.”
Marie feared that Charlie would hang up. Had she been too harsh? She doubted Charlie had much to offer, but she still wanted to talk. Marie missed their desultory days in diners and beauty parlors, chatting about nothing and everything. And there was no one else she could even consider confiding in regarding her . . . situation. There were times when a bad friend was a true gift from God.
“Would you listen to yourself, Marie! You’re not the same sweet young girl I once knew. I hate to hear it. Not that I have a right to complain. But time goes by, doesn’t it? You don’t notice what it takes until it’s too late. And it goes a little faster for girls like me and you.”
“What’s ‘me and you’? If you’re trying to say—”
Charlie cut her off. “Stop! No, sweetie! Stop! Would you listen? You’re a cop, and I’m . . . I’m a lost cause. Time’s not on our side. Neither of us are gonna be as pretty as we used to be before we know it.”
Marie closed her eyes and lowered the phone. She couldn’t stand the self-pity, and she hadn’t heard anything useful. “Come on, Charlie, what are you—thirty? Quit crying. If you have something real for me, we can maybe meet sometime, but—”
“Marie! That’s the meanest thing I’ve ever heard! I just turned twenty-six last week, and I can’t believe—”
Marie would have apologized, but Sid seized the receiver from her hand. “What the hell is this? Who’s this Charlie guy you’re so buddy-buddy with?”
Marie didn’t reply. Sid barked into the phone, “Listen, you son of a bitch, this is Sid Carrara, Marie’s husband, and I’m a cop. That’s not gonna keep me from hunting you down, and shooting you on sight. Tell me where you are, right now, and I’ll—”
Sid seemed confused at the response. “Eighty-eighth, between Second and Third. Fine. Second floor.”
Marie liked where this was going. Sid’s bewilderment deepened. “No, we’re not gonna arm-wrestle for her. What I’m gonna do to you—”
She owed Charlie one, she supposed.
“What? ‘Dinner after’? Are you out of—”
Finally, Sid caught on. Marie had enjoyed the exchange until she saw him shift to his third smile, the one he used for waitresses. “So, Charlie—what’s it short for, Charlene?”
Marie took the phone from him. Sid lingered for a moment, waiting to see if his goofball exit from the conversation meant more than his thuggish entrance. When Marie turned her back on him, she heard him walk away, muttering. Now she wouldn’t have to pack for the weekend, either for the mountains or the beach. “So Charlie, you were saying?”
“Jeez, Marie, he sounds like a barrel of laughs. How you can put up with—would you listen to me? Other people’s problems are a cinch to fix, aren’t they? I’d give your husband hell if he even looked at me crooked, and you’d have kicked Gino to the curb a long time ago. Should we both run away together? All us girls—I know you got a full house there. I got your kid on the line one day. Who’s the other one, who talks like My Fair Lady?”
“Oh, that’s Katie, the babysitter. I wouldn’t know what I’d do
without her.”
“Fine, bring her along. The more, the merrier. And I like what she brings to the party. Very classy sounding. Tea at four, every day.”
“Little cucumber sandwiches.”
“Sherry, too. And champagne, of course.”
“Why not?”
“We’ll be very proper. I was gonna to say we should head to Miami, but with the gang we have, maybe Palm Beach is a better fit.”
Marie might have gone along with the gag a little longer, but the mention of Miami brought the daydream to an end. She had no time to waste. She needed to tunnel out of prison, but Charlie was just digging holes. “Ah well, Charlie. It’s good to hear from you. Really, it’s been good to talk. Really.”
“Really-really-really, Marie? Is this old home week? Am I asking you to be on the decoration committee for the dance? Are you going to hang up, without even hearing what I have to say?”
Marie was chastened by the obviousness of the brush-off. She’d let too much slip, like Patten’s triple tells of thank you and possible, feasible, and necessary. “Tell me, Charlie. I’m listening.”
“So all the dope Gino has, maybe pounds of it . . . it doesn’t matter to you?”
“Not really. Don’t get me wrong, it would be a great to lock him up. But he’d have to have it on him, and I couldn’t do it on my own. I’d have to call Paulie. And he’s not your biggest fan after the first go. Do you remember how long that took?”
“Every goddamned minute.”
“Are you saying you have it? Or that he has it now?”
“No.”
“No?”
“No.”
Charlie sounded more confident than she should have. Marie took the bait. “So what do you have for me?”
“You remember how you told me to keep a diary? About every date, every drop? All the license plates? I did more than that. I wrote down everything Gino ever said about those guys. About how this Frankie is skimming money from that Frankie, and how the other Frankie’s wife is cheating on him with Nunzi.”
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