Strings Attached

  “A year is so far away.”

  “Can you imagine us in New York? We’d conquer it! We’d get everything we want out of it. And we’d get away! Don’t you want that, too?”

  “You know I do. Or at least I did.” I knew I had to say it. “I can’t have you exploding on me again. I couldn’t take that.”

  “I’m sorry. I know how wrong I was. It’s like, I get angry and I just can’t see anything. Jamie will tell you — I’ve been kicking myself about it ever since. I just couldn’t stand seeing you with him. I thought… well, I thought the wrong thing. I know that now. I understand that. It will never happen again.”

  “Never again?”

  “Never, ever again. Never, ever, ever.”

  “You’ve got to trust me, Billy.”

  “I do. That’s the crazy thing. In my heart, I do. I can do anything if you’re with me. If we’re married. You don’t have to say anything, this isn’t a proposal. No, don’t say a word. I just wanted you to see it like I do.”

  Our bodies crashed together and we hung on. The last smell of summer was in his hair. Over his shoulder, past the rooftops of Providence, I could see our future. The apartment, the jobs, the way we’d discover the city and not let it frighten us, because we were together. We would lie together in our own bed, in our own home, and make our own lives.

  “We can do it,” he said. “One more year.”

  That embrace, right there, on the top of the hill? So tight, so urgent, so necessary. That was how love felt. That’s what safe was.

  Twenty

  New York City

  November 1950

  The headline screamed up at me from a neighbor’s morning paper when I bent down for the bottle of milk outside my door.

  GANGLAND SLAYING AT LIDO

  Ray “The Coat” Mirto Shot to Death on Dance Floor in

  After-Hours Hit

  Cops Say Mob War Likely

  My stomach dropped, and I couldn’t catch my breath. I didn’t believe the headline at first. But the photograph said it all — a man slumped in a chair on the dance floor of the Lido. The man Nate had asked me to spy on.

  My heart went triple time, and I pressed one hand to it. I tried to swallow. Quickly, I snatched the paper from my neighbor’s mat, grabbed my milk, and slipped back inside. I winced at the sound of the door slam. I felt faint, and I sank down into the chair.

  I smoothed the newspaper out on the kitchen table. I tried to read the article, the type jumping in front of my eyes. My hands pressed against my heart as if I could stop its thumping.

  Ray Mirto, “reputed crime boss in Frank Costello’s operation,” had been shot sometime last night, right in the club. I looked again at the gruesome photograph of the dead man. A thin sliver of light illuminated one outflung hand. His white shirt was stained black with blood.

  I want you to tell me if Ray Mirto is there.

  All that interest in Ray Mirto and when he was at the club, how long he stayed. Nate had asked me to sit at his table last night! To keep him there?

  Was Nate involved in the murder?

  Because if he was, I was, too.

  I ran to the sink and splashed cold water on my face. I grabbed the faucet and hung on, trying to think. What should I do? I had reported back about a man who turned up dead.

  When the phone rang, I nearly jumped out of my skin. I ran for it.

  “Hello, Kit, it’s Ted Roper.”

  I sank down on the carpet, holding the receiver hard against my ear. What did Ted Roper know?

  “Did you see the paper?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Yeah.” My voice came out hoarse and barely there.

  “I’m calling all the girls, just to reassure them. The club is safe. The cops were all over it this morning, but we’re set to open tonight, like usual. And you know they caught the guy.”

  I sat up straight. “They caught the killer?”

  “It’ll be in the next edition. Come on, you’re kidding me, you didn’t know?”

  “Why would I know?”

  “It’s all over the radio, kiddo. I guess Mirto was skimming off the top, the lunkhead, and Costello ordered the hit. Some button man from the organization.”

  “What?”

  “You know, a hired killer. The guy’s got a good lawyer, though. C’mon, you really don’t know?” Ted paused. “Benedict’s the lawyer.”

  “Nate Benedict?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “There’ll be reporters at the club tonight. If I were you, I’d come in early and get out fast. It won’t be long before they start kicking up some dirt on your boyfriend.”

  On Billy? But how would reporters know about Billy?

  “Listen, it sells papers. Don’t worry about it. Keep your head down and your powder dry, right?”

  “This is all so awful,” I said.

  “Sell, sell, sell, doll. That’s New York.”

  COPS NAB LIDO KILLER

  Francis Maretti Arrested and Charged

  Providence Lawyer Nate “No Witnesses”

  Benedict to Defend

  Reputed hit man Frankie “No Bones” Maretti got a surprise this morning when he picked up a bag of donuts for his usual breakfast in Fort Lee, New Jersey. Police surrounded Maretti and slapped on the cuffs. Protesting his innocence, Maretti was led away, even while he insisted he’d already paid for his Boston creams.

  The phone sat on the table, black and squat. I dressed and sat there, staring at it, waiting for Billy to call. What would I say? I couldn’t tell him that his father had asked me to keep tabs on a guy who’d been murdered. Then the whole story would come out, how I was living in Nate’s apartment. Billy must never know, I thought suddenly, with horror. Before, I’d figured that we could tell him eventually. But he wouldn’t understand. He would never understand. He thought I’d made my own way in New York, that I was that strong. But I wasn’t. I wasn’t strong at all.

  I had to talk to Nate. I had to see him face-to-face and ask him about Ray Mirto. I didn’t know if he’d tell me the truth or not, but before I talked to Billy, I had to talk to his father. I had to know if I was in the clear.

  I was waiting for the ring of the phone, but it still startled me. I picked it up after two rings and said hello.

  Billy’s voice was low and deep, still husky from sleep. “Good morning, beautiful.”

  He didn’t know. He hadn’t seen the papers yet.

  Relief made me sag back against the couch cushions. “Good morning.”

  “Did you sleep well? I did. Like a log.”

  “Me, too.”

  “So what time should I swing by? I’m going to grab some coffee here, and —”

  I was suddenly scared to see him. “Would it be okay if… if we didn’t meet until later?” I asked. “I need some time to think. Can I meet you at the club tonight?”

  I could tell by his hesitation that he was hurt. “Sure. Of course. I don’t want to push you.”

  “It’s just easier to think if you’re not in front of me. Or touching me.”

  He laughed softly. “Tom here was at me to meet his buddies. Why don’t I do that today, and I’ll see you tonight. Would it be pushing to say I love you?”

  “No. It would be nice.”

  “Then I love you, too.”

  “I love you, too,” I said, and hung up.

  I needed to clear my head, and I needed to get away from the phone. I pulled on some clothes and my old navy coat. I slipped outside and started for the corner. A walk in the park with a bag of chestnuts. I’d been wanting to do that for weeks.

  I don’t know where he’d been, but suddenly he was walking next to me, a man in a dark suit, his hat pulled low.

  “Where are you off to?”

  I walked quicker, but he kept up easily.

  “Listen, Kit, can you take a tip from somebody?”

  “Who are you? How do you know my name?” I stopped and faced him. He had weary gray eyes and a big nose.

  “You’
re just a kid,” he said, looking at me with a glance that seemed to add me up like a cash register. “How’d you get mixed up in this? If you want to talk…” He handed me a card.

  I almost threw it in his face, but I caught the initials. FBI.

  “I’m not going to inform on anybody,” I said. “Just keep the card,” he said.

  I was too afraid not to. I turned and walked back to the apartment, and he let me go. I went in the lobby door. Hank was there, just sitting in the gold chair by the mailboxes.

  “Are they out there?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” I said. “One of them just tried to talk to me. I didn’t tell him anything. I can’t believe they’re hounding your parents like that.” I looked at Hank. “Are you okay?” He looked even jumpier than I did.

  The question seemed to take a long time to settle. “Can I go out your window, in the back?” Hank asked. “I know it’s a weird question, but they could be out there, and I don’t want them to see me.”

  “Sure,” I said. “But how will you…”

  “My friend Iggy lives in the building behind this one. I know they leave their back door open.”

  Hank followed me into my kitchen. He went to the window and opened it.

  “Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” I asked. “Is it your parents? Did something happen?”

  “I have to go see my mother at work.”

  “Can I walk with you a little bit? I’ve got to get out of the house for a while. Did you see the papers this morning? Somebody was killed at the club last night, and I’m spooked.”

  He turned for just an instant, but I couldn’t read his expression. “I saw the papers.” Then he turned back and was out the window in a flash. I jumped out and trailed after him over the cracked pavement of the garden to the far wall. He hoisted himself up and I scrambled after him. We jumped down into a nicer yard. Here I could see more clearly the back of a town house. There were curtains at every window, pushed back to let in the light.

  Hank knocked on the door, and when there was no answer, he pushed it open. “Mrs. Kessler? Hello?” There was still no answer, so he walked in. “Iggy’s at school. His mother works on the third floor; she knows I come in and out.”

  He walked down the center hall. I could see rooms as we passed, rooms with couches and rugs and polished tables with silver vases on them filled with flowers.

  “These guys have dough,” I said.

  “His father is a lawyer. Who knows, we might need him someday.” Hank gave a hollow laugh.

  “Hank, what’s the mystery? Are your parents in more trouble?”

  He didn’t answer. He opened the front door and peered around. He walked out, and I followed, the heavy door shutting behind us. I followed him all the way to Second Avenue without speaking.

  “Billy — is he your boyfriend?” he asked.

  Boyfriend, fiancé, or love I had to part with. Because if I said no to marriage, he would ship out and it would be over. No letters, no dreaming, no waiting. Suddenly, I felt empty, thinking of that.

  “Honestly, I don’t know what he is now.”

  We didn’t say anything for a few crosstown blocks. I guess the talk about Billy dampened the conversation, and Hank seemed lost in his troubles. A little girl was walking in front of us, carrying three balloons. Yellow, blue, and red. They bobbed in the wind over her shoulder. I tried to catch Hank’s eye, but he was walking fast, eyes straight ahead.

  “In my family, balloons are magic,” I said. He cocked an eyebrow at me. “Really,” I said. “Once, we —”

  Suddenly, a siren went off. People on the sidewalks stopped in their tracks. A traffic cop up ahead held up a white-gloved hand, and all the traffic stopped on Lexington Avenue.

  “What’s going on?” I asked as a woman grabbed her child and hurried away.

  “It’s the air-raid drill,” Hank said. “We’re only a block from the subway. Come on.”

  “Air raid?” I asked, struggling to keep up with his long stride.

  “Didn’t you see it in the paper last week?”

  “I only read the gossip columns and the headlines.”

  “Today is A-day. You know, in case Russia drops the Bomb on us. We’ve got to prepare. Duck and cover, remember?” Hank said the words with a sour twist.

  People were getting out of their cars, pulling over and abandoning them right on the street. The man with the little girl and the balloons picked her up when she began to cry.

  It was eerie. I knew it was a phony drill, but I could still feel the apprehension in the air. People were walking faster, some almost running to the office buildings that had yellow-and-black FALLOUT SHELTER signs. Nobody spoke, and without the roar of traffic the city was quiet. You could hear footsteps on Lexington Avenue. It felt like the world was actually ending.

  “It’s all stupid,” Hank muttered. “If there was a real bomb, we could go underground, but when we’d come up, we’d be dead from radiation in a couple of weeks anyway.”

  “That’s comforting, thanks.”

  “Sorry. I hear about it at dinner. Who wants to talk about Hiroshima while you’re eating roast chicken? Not me.”

  There were a couple of men in white helmets directing us toward the subway stairs. We joined the people waiting to go down. All we could hear was the shuffle of footsteps, like everyone in Manhattan was doing the soft shoe.

  We followed a crowd of people into the subway station. Most people just stood around, and Hank and I found a place to lean against the wall. There were so many people pressed close, and I felt a sudden flutter of panic. I’d seen pictures of people doing this in London, during the Blitz, while the bombs rained down. Now we only needed one Bomb, so powerful it had a capital B. And it could destroy a whole city. Everything gone in one bright flash.

  “You look scared,” Hank said. “It’s only supposed to last ten minutes. Don’t worry.”

  I had no idea how to do that. Not worry. There was way too much to worry about.

  I squeezed my eyes shut. A body in a chair, arms flung out, like the end of the very last dance. A dark pool of blood on the floor. The eager photographer, angling for the shot. The police, asking questions. Who knew the guy, what was he doing there, who talked to him, who knew him.

  Everything gone, in one bright flash.

  Twenty-one

  Providence, Rhode Island

  May 1937

  It was Muddie who saw them first. Three balloons, floating on the breeze, heading straight for us.

  She reached out her arms. “Look — it’s our present!”

  Jamie and I followed her, all of us racing to be first to catch the waving strings. It was our fourth birthday, so of course the balloons had to be for us.

  Muddie clutched the string of her blue balloon. She wound it tightly around her index finger. “It’s our present,” she repeated. Her eyes shone. “From heaven. It’s from her.”

  “Don’t be a dope,” Jamie said. “She’s dead.”

  “She’s an angel,” Muddie insisted. “Da says so. And she sent them!” She stamped her foot.

  I tipped my head back and looked up at my red balloon. Behind the balloon, blue sky. And heaven, up where I couldn’t see. Was my mother looking down, right then, right into my face?

  We never did find out where the balloons came from. Balloons did not fly around the neighborhood of Fox Point. It was made up of the working poor, and in the Depression, that changed to the occasionally working poor and those desperately hanging on to the little they had. The Irish shared the neighborhood with the Portuguese from the Azores and Cape Verde, all of them drawn to the work on the docks, despite the fact that it was disappearing and heading into the factories instead.

  In Fox Point the air smelled like the river. Visitors were ushered to the kitchen, not a parlor, where manchupa simmered on a stove, fragrant with garlic and the parts of the pig the swells on College Hill would not eat. In the backyards, tomato plants and grapevines competed with shrines to the Virgin Mary f
or attention. You could buy a New Deal lunch for fifteen cents on South Main. If you had fifteen cents.

  We saved the balloons until they were just scraps of rubber trailing on grimy strings that we worried like rosary beads. Even years later, after I knew the balloons hadn’t dropped from heaven but had probably floated down from up the hill, from a birthday party where children got presents and cake and ice cream, even then, I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was watched over by someone unseen. Someone greater than God. I’d burn in hell for thinking such a thing. But that would probably happen anyway.

  Someone I’d killed on the very day I was born.

  Da always told the story the same way.

  They didn’t have money for the doctor, you see. They didn’t know it was triplets — the midwife thought twins. After ten hours of labor, Da saw the fear in the midwife’s eyes and ran down the street at three in the morning and pounded on Jack Leary’s door. Jack was a good man, and he had a car. He drove them to the Lying-In Hospital with Maggie groaning in the backseat. Even then, Da said, she was too polite to scream. The woman had the manners of a duchess.

  They took her away from him and he started to pray, even though he’d walked out of St. Joseph’s when his parents died and had never gone back. God would have to find him where he lived, Da always said, because why should he have to go to His house all the time? He seems like a bit of a loafer, if you ask me, Da would end, with a glance at his sister, Delia, and a wink at us. Delia would press her lips together and shake her head and say God did live in our house, He was watching all the time, in every room. One time Jamie asked, Is He in the crapper, too? And Delia had to get up and leave the room she was so mad, because Da had laughed along with us.

  That night when Da heard the first scream, he couldn’t stand it any longer and pushed back the nurse who was saying — and here Da would imitate a high, bossy soprano — Mis-ter Corrigan, get back where you belong! And he had shouted, I belong with my wife! and burst in.