Max felt simple. He wondered aloud, “How do you know?”
“Anyone can tell that a wife and son would miss someone like you, Max,” she said. They were having strawberries and cream for dessert. Max had tasted one of the strawberries, but he left it unfinished because it wasn’t sweet enough. Carla ate them as though they were delicious. She cocked her head back and sucked the berry in most of the way before biting off a piece. “And Jeff’s children. They need you.”
“Jeff’s boys?” Max didn’t know why she thought of them; he didn’t think he had even mentioned them to her once.
“I know it isn’t fair, Max, but you gotta take care of them too. He was your partner. And you loved him.”
Max hesitated at her saying he loved Jeff. He had been about to dismiss her directive to take care of Jeff’s children when she said it. Max heard Jeff’s hurt tone answer him at the airport, “We’re not second-rate, Max.” And what had he added? “At least you’re not, Max.”
“You loved him, Max,” Carla said again. “And you miss him.”
This made him feel grief. He thought of his partner’s greyhound head, buying cheap tickets and worrying about the security of his wife and sons. He remembered his own pleasure at informing Jeff that they were going to die. He covered his face and wept into his hands.
She left the strawberries, pulled his hands away, and dried his tears with her kisses.
After that, they went to bed again. He had watched her skin meticulously — peering at every pore — desperate to memorize her forever.
When Carla came out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel Max was still stretched out on the bed like Christ crucified. Her long black hair was flat against her head and down her neck, painted onto her shoulders. He had expected the morning would make her less beautiful, but she looked prettier than ever to him in the Plaza towel, rubbing at her drowned hair, and smiling with those big white teeth.
“Good morning,” she said as if it were a joke.
“How do you know Manny needs you?” Max said, resuming the previous night’s argument. He wasn’t ready to give her up.
“You don’t know him,” she said. She stopped smiling and moved toward her clothes, draped on an ugly wing chair by the window.
“They might be happier without us,” Max said, rising to his elbows.
“Maybe,” Carla said. She had picked up her red panties. She dropped the towel and quickly put them on, with hasty modesty. “But we won’t.”
Max tried to remember what had already been concealed: her whitest skin, the cheeks of her taut ass; the deep silky black V of her groin; the flat tender skin of her belly. While he made that effort more was lost. She had put her stockings on; her bra; her pale blue blouse.
“I can be happy with you, Carla,” Max argued.
“No, Max,” she said. “Think about it. You almost went crazy when you tried to run off with me. You want to be free and brave, Max, but you can’t be free of your duty to your people. Every time you try to get free of people you just get stuck to another. Like that kid you saved on the plane. Or that blond woman who came to that meeting — on a plane for Chrissake — just ’cause she might meet you.” She had finished dressing. She looked small — a young pretty Catholic girl — a stranger. “Or me.” She smiled and moved her feet together, coming to attention. “You ain’t never gonna be free of the people who love you. I’ll come see you from time to time. But no more of this good stuff.” She nodded at the bed and grinned for a second. “I got to go home now. I won’t be talking to you for a while. And don’t call me, okay? I got to make peace with my husband.”
“Wait.” Max scrambled out of bed. The looseness and strength in his body wasn’t an illusion. She had healed him somehow.
“No, no,” she pushed at his chest with both hands. They felt little and cool. “Don’t make me cry. I’m happy,” she said and he saw tears begin to well. “I don’t want to cry. Let’s say goodbye like it isn’t goodbye.”
Max saw she was determined. Nevertheless, he insisted, “I don’t want to.”
“Yes.” She touched his chest with her index finger where she imagined his heart was. “In there you do. Come on,” she moved off, almost skipping out, “say goodbye like it means nothing.” She left the room. Her voice called back. “Bye, Max. See you.”
He didn’t answer. He refused to acknowledge her going. The room felt empty. It looked ugly. She had opened the drapes before taking a shower and he could see all of the leafless park, a huge artificial rectangle of dead brown things.
“Please, Max,” she called from the sitting room. “Be nice.”
“Goodbye, Carla,” he said quickly, but not quickly enough. His voice caught on the last syllable of her name and they could both hear the choked noise of his loss as she shut the door behind her.
Carla walked home, despite the cold gray weather. She wanted to be outside and see all the people and stores and buildings. She went down Fifth Avenue, dignified and wealthy at midtown, seedier below Forty-second, and a mess south of Twenty-third because of repairs on something that had exploded underneath the street. She cried — or rather her eyes teared — for part of the journey. But although her heart was sad, it was also an easy load to carry. She didn’t feel she had lost Max; at least not the angel who had saved her. She had lied, of course, about them being able to talk eventually. If what she had done was right, if she had solved His mystery, then Max would be well again and soon forget her. That was not a loss: she had regained herself and what Max had given her she would always have.
When she reached Mulberry she went into Old Saint Pat’s and lit a candle for Bubble. She would never go to confession to be absolved for last night’s sin — that would have broken the agreement with Him. Instead she knelt and prayed to Him to allow her to conceive another child.
The Monsignor happened by and waited for her by the door. He looked at her curiously and said, “Hello, Carla. You’re looking very fit.”
“Hello, Monsignor. Did you get my message? I wanted to find out if I could volunteer for work at the Foundling Hospital.”
“I already gave them your name and phone number.” He chuckled. “You’re certainly going to be hearing from them.” He followed her down the steps to the street; she watched him negotiate the steps warily. “Did you hear the news about Pierre Toussaint? He’s a candidate for sainthood. The committee’s going to exhume his body next month. Cardinal O’Conner himself will preside. He’s going to bless the grave and dig the first shovelful. It’s very exciting. Toussaint is the first black candidate for sainthood in America.”
“What did he do?” Carla asked.
“It’s a very interesting story.” Monsignor O’Boyle lifted his right hand in a lecturing gesture. She noticed his hand trembling faintly. She felt he would die soon. She smiled patiently while he explained that Toussaint was a Haitian slave brought to the United States by the family that owned him. The family lost all its money shortly after emigrating and rather than deserting them, Toussaint had worked as a hairdresser to support them. Years later, when they had recovered their wealth, they gave him his freedom. As a freeman he devoted the rest of his life to caring for the poor and sick.
“They kept him a slave while he was making money for them to live on?”
They had reached the last step. Monsignor O’Boyle was breathing hard through his nose and his white face was even more bloodless. His eyes looked scared. He nodded.
“Are there black children at the hospital?” Carla asked.
Monsignor O’Boyle frowned at her. “It doesn’t have anything to do with race,” he said in a breathless whisper. “The hospital accepts all children with special problems who need its services.”