he screamed into the phone. “They wouldn’t tell me. Last time, the lockups were full and they got sent down to Manhattan.”
Another phone call. He turned away from me, cupped his hand around the receiver.
“Adelita?” he said.
His grip deepened around the phone as he whispered. He had spent the previous few afternoons with her, at her house, and each time he came home he was the same: roaming the room, pulling at the buttons on his shirt, muttering to himself, trying to read his Bible, looking for something that might justify himself, or maybe looking for a word to leave him even further tortured, a pain that would leave him again on edge. That, and a happiness too, an energy. I wasn’t sure what to tell him anymore. Give in to the despondency. Find a new posting. Forget her.
Move on. At least with the hookers he didn’t have time to juggle notions of love and loss—down on the street it was pure take and take. But with Adelita it was different—she wasn’t pushing any greed or climax. This is my body, it has been given up for you.
Later, around noon, I found Corrigan in the bathroom, shaving in front of the mirror. He had been down to the Bronx county courthouse, where most of the hookers had already been released on time served. But there were outstanding warrants in Manhattan for Tillie and Jazzlyn.
They had pulled some robbery together, turned on a trick. The case was old. Still, they were both going to be transported downtown. He pulled on McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 64
64
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a crisp black shirt and dark trousers, went to the mirror again, pasted his long hair back with water. “Well, well,” he said. He took a small scissors to his hair and lopped off about four inches. His fringe went in three smooth snips.
“I’m going to go down to help them,” he said.
“Where?”
“The parthenon of justice.”
He looked older, more worn. With his haircut, the bald spot was more pronounced.
“They call it the Tombs. They’ll be arraigned in Centre Street. Listen, I need you to take my shift in the nursing home. I talked with Adelita.
She already knows.”
“Me? What am I going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. Take them to the beach or something.”
“I have a job in Queens.”
“Do it for me, brother, will you, please? I’ll give you a shout later on.”
He turned at the door. “And look after Adelita for me too, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Promise me.”
“Yeah, I will—now, go.”
Outside I could hear the sounds of the children following Corrigan down the stairs, laughing. It was only when the apartment had fallen into full silence did I remember that he had taken the brown van with him.
At a rental joint down in Hunts Point, I used the very last of my tips to make a deposit on a van. “Air- conditioning,” said the clerk with an idiotic grin. It was like he was explaining science. He had his badge name pasted over his heart. “Don’t run it too hard, it’s brand new.”
It was one of those days when the summer seemed to have fallen into place, not too warm, cloudy, a tranquilized sun high in the sky. On the radio a DJ played Marvin Gaye. I maneuvered around a low- slung Cadillac and onto the highway.
Adelita was waiting by the ramp of the home. She had brought her children to work—two dark beauties. The younger one tugged at her uniform and Adelita went down to eye level with her, kissed the child’s eyelids. Adelita’s hair was tied back with a long colorful scarf and her face shone.
I understood perfectly, then, what Corrigan knew: she had an interior McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 65
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65
order, and for all her toughness there was a beauty that rose easily to the surface.
She smiled at the idea that we should try the beach. She said it was ambitious but impossible—no insurance, and it was against the rules.
Her kids screamed beside her, tugged
Another phone call. He turned away from me, cupped his hand around the receiver.
“Adelita?” he said.
His grip deepened around the phone as he whispered. He had spent the previous few afternoons with her, at her house, and each time he came home he was the same: roaming the room, pulling at the buttons on his shirt, muttering to himself, trying to read his Bible, looking for something that might justify himself, or maybe looking for a word to leave him even further tortured, a pain that would leave him again on edge. That, and a happiness too, an energy. I wasn’t sure what to tell him anymore. Give in to the despondency. Find a new posting. Forget her.
Move on. At least with the hookers he didn’t have time to juggle notions of love and loss—down on the street it was pure take and take. But with Adelita it was different—she wasn’t pushing any greed or climax. This is my body, it has been given up for you.
Later, around noon, I found Corrigan in the bathroom, shaving in front of the mirror. He had been down to the Bronx county courthouse, where most of the hookers had already been released on time served. But there were outstanding warrants in Manhattan for Tillie and Jazzlyn.
They had pulled some robbery together, turned on a trick. The case was old. Still, they were both going to be transported downtown. He pulled on McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 64
64
C O L U M M c C A N N
a crisp black shirt and dark trousers, went to the mirror again, pasted his long hair back with water. “Well, well,” he said. He took a small scissors to his hair and lopped off about four inches. His fringe went in three smooth snips.
“I’m going to go down to help them,” he said.
“Where?”
“The parthenon of justice.”
He looked older, more worn. With his haircut, the bald spot was more pronounced.
“They call it the Tombs. They’ll be arraigned in Centre Street. Listen, I need you to take my shift in the nursing home. I talked with Adelita.
She already knows.”
“Me? What am I going to do with them?”
“I don’t know. Take them to the beach or something.”
“I have a job in Queens.”
“Do it for me, brother, will you, please? I’ll give you a shout later on.”
He turned at the door. “And look after Adelita for me too, will you?”
“Sure.”
“Promise me.”
“Yeah, I will—now, go.”
Outside I could hear the sounds of the children following Corrigan down the stairs, laughing. It was only when the apartment had fallen into full silence did I remember that he had taken the brown van with him.
At a rental joint down in Hunts Point, I used the very last of my tips to make a deposit on a van. “Air- conditioning,” said the clerk with an idiotic grin. It was like he was explaining science. He had his badge name pasted over his heart. “Don’t run it too hard, it’s brand new.”
It was one of those days when the summer seemed to have fallen into place, not too warm, cloudy, a tranquilized sun high in the sky. On the radio a DJ played Marvin Gaye. I maneuvered around a low- slung Cadillac and onto the highway.
Adelita was waiting by the ramp of the home. She had brought her children to work—two dark beauties. The younger one tugged at her uniform and Adelita went down to eye level with her, kissed the child’s eyelids. Adelita’s hair was tied back with a long colorful scarf and her face shone.
I understood perfectly, then, what Corrigan knew: she had an interior McCa_9781400063734_4p_01_r1.w.qxp 4/13/09 2:31 PM Page 65
L E T T H E G R E A T W O R L D S P I N
65
order, and for all her toughness there was a beauty that rose easily to the surface.
She smiled at the idea that we should try the beach. She said it was ambitious but impossible—no insurance, and it was against the rules.
Her kids screamed beside her, tugged
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