7

Rosemary sat in the law office over the bakery, filing documents in an old cabinet, and her boss came in, Mr. Imperato, returned from a rare morning at the criminal courts. He was a shambling man who told jokes expertly, who rose to the occasion of a joke. He was bald, flat-footed and carelessly dressed and he was forgetful in his work, sometimes, but when there was a joke to tell he heard the music of the spheres. He never botched a punch line or missed a pause. He did voices and accents, men, women, talking birds, unfalteringly, a quickness rising to his eyes.

"Smell the bread," he said.

"That's the trouble with being over a bakery. I keep buying bread. My boys can't keep up."

"What'd you buy?"

"It's for dinner."

"Show me. Is it round or long?"

"Last time, remember what you did to my bread. It's dinner bread. Getaway."

Four or five years ago Mr. Imperato hired a private investigator on her behalf to try to locate Jimmy. The biggest secret of her life, a thing no one knew but the lawyer and the investigator. When nothing came of the effort Mr. Imperato paid the man himself and told her she could do some clerical work to settle her fee. She'd been working here ever since and he never deducted the fee from her salary because he needed someone, he said, to listen to his jokes.

"I'm buying us a bigger fan."

"I think we need it," she said.

"I got one for home. The kids sit in front of it sometimes. The TV is on the blink. I tell Anna. They're watching the fan."

"I don't want TV in my house."

"You have to have it," he said.

"I don't want it."

"The kids want it."

"Matty wants it. He goes upstairs to a neighbor and watches wrestling."

"I never miss the wrestling if I can help it. You have to have it. The kids have to have it. It's the one thing you have to have."

When she went home with her bread she climbed past her floor, going up the worn steps, seeing laundry hang outside the smutty stairway windows, because there was a thing she wanted to talk about with Mrs. Graziani, up on the top floor.

Carmela put out a coffee ring and made coffee and they sat in the kitchen.

"How you climb these steps every day."

"Three, four times," Carmela said. "I know every step by name. I have names for the steps."

"And Mickey's feeling better since the operation."

"If you could call it feeling better. He's the same as he always was. I don't know if that's better. Because these men, all they want to do is sit in a room playing cards for seventeen hours they can play. Cards till they drop."

"But he had a real scare. If he can play cards, more power to him. You nearly lost him."

"I don't think I could lose him if I went to China," the woman said.

Rosemary usually felt better after a visit with Carmela. The woman had a running argument with men, not just the husband and the sad son, Cosmo, but men everywhere, and even if Rosemary agreed with her only two percent of the time she still felt cleaner somehow, purged like confession, having a cup of coffee with Carmela.

"I wanted to ask. Did you hear about the woman at 607? The grandmother?"

"There's nothing to hear," Carmela said.

And she made a gesture, the hand that sweeps under the chin, a sign that meant this is not a story we're obliged to take seriously. The nothing sign. A very dismissive gesture as Rosemary understood these things.

"So you don't think."

"If I thought there was anything to it, I'd be the first to go over there and wait for him to appear and get down on my hands and knees to thank God for this miracle."

The woman at 607, saying her rosary in the basement room of the narrow shingled house occupied by two families and two grandparents, looked up from her beads and saw a saint standing in the doorway, Saint Anthony, and Rosemary needed guidance in this matter, a sense of how much acceptance she should be willing to risk.

Carmela put four spoonfuls of sugar in her coffee.

"You know what I say, Rose? Domani mattin. In other words, sure, tomorrow morning, here he comes again, this time with an angel blowing a trumpet."

This reaction was a letdown. For all her endless skepticism, Carmela was a frequent figure at early morning mass and Rosemary wanted her to take the story more seriously, or to concede the grandmother's credentials at least, long periods of prayer with a number of other old women, all in graveclothes, reciting the mysteries.

Carmela told her for the dozenth time to get out and see people.

"You're still young, Rose."

"I'm not so young."

"Don't argue with me. You need to spend less time at home and more time making friends. You give your whole life to those two boys. This Nicky, I hate to say it."

"Then don't say it."

"I hate to say it, Rose."

"Don't say it."

"This boy has got I-don't-know-what written all over him. You know exactly what I mean."

"He works hard. He hands over his money without a complaint."

"The other one. I don't know."

"If you don't know, Carmela."

"I don't know, Rose. The other one. But it's Nicky I'm watching. I watch this boy."

"That's funny because you know what? I don't watch him. He gets up at the crack of dawn. He goes to work. He gives me his money. He gives me his pay envelope. Plus I don't hear a word of complaint."

"The mother's always the last to know."

"He grew up fast, Nicky. He's a man now. He's more responsible than someone ten years older. He grew up like lightning, this boy."

"I'm sorry, Rose. But him I would watch."

Carmela's son had spent a year in the basket-weaving class and another year in remedial reading and a third year falling down a flight of stairs and recovering in bed, three meals a day in bed, and he lived with his grandparents now, upstate.

And she tells me she's worried about mine.

No, it was not the average satisfying visit with the woman on the top floor and in the days that followed, warm days and cool evenings, the water truck spraying the streets and dirt and grit running in the gutters-there were many days when Rosemary walked past the narrow house, 607, and thought about the old woman, Bettina, saying the rosary in the basement room with her friends, the five joyful mysteries, Mondays and Thursdays, the five sorrowful mysteries, Tuesdays and Fridays, the five glorious mysteries, and so on, but then again they probably didn't follow a set routine, no, they wouldn't, these women, because there were women like that who wore monks' robes on the feast of Saint Anthony, women and children both, brown robes and bare feet, the statue bobbing above them, and it was amazing and strange and impressive, Rosemary thought, and women like that would say their prayers without regard for schedules.

She was too shy to knock on the door but she liked to think of the women sitting around the table, big beads the Our Father, little beads the Hail Mary.

She didn't have time, herself, to do this every day. She had her own form of beadwork. She had the frame and the material pinned to the edges of the frame and the needle with the wood handle that she used to string the beads onto the material, iridescent beads to decorate a dress, and she never really wondered who would wear it.

She was too shy to talk to the grandmother, who spoke no English anyway. Thirty-five years in this country and not three words of En glish. But this was a mark of her faith in a way, an indication of what truly mattered. What mattered were the mysteries, not the language in which you said them.

The fresh-air inspectors stood on the corner nearly every day, three or four or five men, and Rosemary walked past the narrow house and thought about the thing that supposedly happened there.

Sometimes faith needs a sign. There are times when you want to stop working at faith and just be washed in a blowing wind that tells you everything.