Part 42 (2/2)

In the weeks that follow it happens more and more, and each time she's gone a bit longer. He always stands, reluctantly, always leans over her bed, kisses her forehead. She's unaware of his kiss. His presence. She's far, far away. The Grand Tour.

In the late fall of 1949 Joseph is sitting by Mrs. Adams's bed, waiting. It's been almost two days since her last departure. Now, as if someone has thrown a switch, her eyelids quiver, open. She turns her head. Joseph smiles. She smiles. I came as soon as I could, Harrison.

Joseph's mouth falls open.

I thought of you every day in Italy. I went all to pieces.

Joseph looks around.

Harrison-did you wait for me?

Joseph rubs his neck.

Harrison, my darling, Father will not listen to reason. He's the most stubborn man.

Joseph folds and unfolds his hands in his lap.

Whatever will we do, Harrison?

Joseph tugs his earlobe.

Harrison?

We'll-elope.

Her face brightens. When?

Joseph clears his throat. Soon, he says.

Where shall we meet, Harrison?

You know.

She looks searchingly. Where?

Come into the garden, Maud.

At the place, Joseph says. Our special place.

I love you so, Harrison.

I love you, Mrs.-Claire.

When the time comes Joseph lifts her from the bed, carries her to the wagon. Draping her onto the marble slab, he holds her hand for a while. Then he goes and finds Head Nurse.

Mam?

What is it, Joseph? I'm busy.

I was just wondering, mam, what's to become of Mrs. Adams.

Head Nurse tugs at the elastic of her uniform. What happens to all of them, Joseph.

There's no family then?

None that wants to be found.

Where do they-where will they bury her?

Head Nurse stares at Joseph's floor. Potter's Field, I expect. That's typically the place.

Joseph waits until after midnight. A misty rain is falling. He walks to the ferry, sails to Manhattan, rides the subway to Brooklyn. He walks to Prospect Park, sits on a bench, making sure he hasn't been followed. Quickly he digs up a jar of his bank robbery money. A hundred yards from Meadowport.

He ducks behind a boulder, hidden from the street, pries open the jar. It's sealed tight, but not tight enough. Moisture has managed to get in. Mold has eaten away at the bills. All that planning, all that risk, all those years in prison-for this? This? Joseph stares at Ulysses Grant's mottled face. An awful chill comes over him as he wonders how airtight Mrs. Adams's container will be.

Out of sixty thousand dollars he's able to salvage about nine. He throws the rest in a trash can. Head down, collar up, he sets off for the ferry, but his feet take him a different direction. Within minutes he finds himself walking down President Street. He can feel his heart thudding as he comes close to the Endner house. It looks the same. The stained gla.s.s, the fancy bal.u.s.trades, the iron fence. Someone has planted a small garden along the fence. Black-eyed susans, bittersweets, peonies. Several kinds of roses. There are no lights on. He creeps to the mailbox. No name. No telling who lives there, if anyone.

Hours later, back at the Farm Colony, Joseph sneaks into the morgue and sets a white envelope full of fifties on Mrs. Adams's chest. Wrapped around the money is a note. Give her the works.

A couple of women in this joint left a real mark on me. One was Mrs. Adams. She made me remember that we only go around once.

Gather ye rosebuds, Reporter says.

Gather whatever the f.u.c.k you need to gather. Just make the most of it.

Sutton reaches into the breast pocket of his suit, takes out the white envelope.

Mr. Sutton, why do you keep looking at your release papers?

No reason. Come on. I want to show you boys something.

Mrs. Adams is the first of many. Each time a woman dies, nurses at the Farm Colony find an envelope full of cash on her chest. Some say it's the Lord. Some say it's the Angel of the Farm Colony.

Joseph can't help himself. He knows he's taking a big risk, but it's the only joy he has. The only mischief.

Then, January 17, 1950. In the North End of Boston a crew hits the Brinks Building, making off with three million dollars, the biggest heist in American history. Cops say the crime is so bold, so stylish, it simply has to be the work of Willie Sutton, whose picture is on the front pages again.

Joseph keeps his head down, keeps mopping, hoping it will all go away. From down the hall he hears his name.

Joseph. Oh Joseph?

He turns. Head Nurse is marching across his wet floor. If Head Nurse is disregarding his Wet Floor signs, this can't be good.

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