Sutton (42 page)

Sutton stands just inside the front entrance, Reporter and Photographer right behind him. The door is gone, the furniture is gone. Everything is gone but a few iron filing cabinets. A uniform hangs in a doorless closet
.

He points. That was the head nurse’s office
.

They hear scuttling, fluttering. A pigeon flies past their heads. Photographer shoots a few photos through a large spiderweb
.

Sutton backs out. He turns, stares at the surrounding woods. It wasn’t just the Farm Colony, he says. Back then Staten Island was like a colony of broken people. No wonder I fit right in. Over that way was the biggest hospital on the East Coast for tubercular cases. Over there was the old seaman’s home. Snug Harbor. Bunch of great old tars lived there. I used to play pinochle with them. They were always, but always, drunk. Couldn’t tell a meld from a trick. No one drinks more than a retired Irish sailor. Nice bunch of fellas though. They introduced me to Melville. Still, if I had a night off, I preferred my ladies at the Farm Colony
.

His favorite is Claire Adams. With her long wrinkled hand she often pats the chair beside her bed. Come, Joseph. Have a chat.

Yes, Mrs. Adams.

She insists that he call her Claire. He frowns, shakes his head. She’s too queenly, too beautiful, for him to be so familiar. She’s at least twice Joseph’s age but he tells her that he’s in love with her.

Stop it, she says.

He puts his hand over the name patch on his shirtfront. Honest, he says. Ass over teakettle.

She laughs. If I thought you meant it, Joseph, I’d get out of this bed and dance you across the floor.

Mrs. Adams has traveled the world. She’s dined with viscounts and generalissimos and Nobel laureates. She speaks four languages, has perfect pitch, and her gaze is so penetrating, so wise and free of condemnation, Joseph wants to tell her every one of his secrets. The compulsion to confess is so strong, he doesn’t trust himself. He often sits, mouth shut, and lets Mrs. Adams do all the talking.

She tells him many times about the love of her life.

Oh Joseph—he had the most beautiful face. To look upon his face made me weak. His beauty
afflicted
me, can you understand?

Yes mam.

But my parents didn’t approve. He was a Catholic, you see.

What happened?

They packed me off to Europe. The Grand Tour, they called it back then, but for me it was
l’exil à queue
. I was never so miserable. On the Seine, I wept. In the Sistine Chapel, I wept. On the Grand Canal, I wept and wept. All beauty saddened me, because it reminded me of my Harrison. That was his name. Harrison. Finally after ten months I defied my parents, sailed for New York. I flew to Harrison’s side.

And?

He had married.

No.

She nods, looks off. It was so long ago, she says. How can it still have—such—?

Power, Joseph says.

Yes. That’s the correct word, Joseph.

July 1949. With a coat of floor wax drying, Joseph sits with Mrs. Adams, looking through the Sunday newspapers scattered across her bed. An article in one of the papers mentions Picasso, which reminds Mrs. Adams of a famous portraitist who once begged her to sit for him.

At the very start of our session this young artist asked me to remove my hat. I did. He asked me to remove my top. I refused. He commanded me. I put my hat back on and stood to leave. He gnashed his teeth, pulled his hair, pleaded. He said he’d never be able to paint again unless he could see my body. I told him I’d never be able to face myself again if I showed him my body.

Joseph is laughing. Mrs. Adams is laughing. Now, Joseph, I must tell you, this artist was very—

She stops. She looks to the side, seeking the right word. Joseph smiles, waits. Temperamental? Talented? Minutes pass. His smile fades. He looks around for a nurse. He feels his palms growing clammy.

Then Mrs. Adams looks back at Joseph, blinks once, smiles. What was I saying?

Joseph can’t tell if she knows that she’s been gone. He doesn’t ask.

It happens again days later. Mrs. Adams looks off midsentence and disappears, this time for ten minutes. This time her eyelids close. Joseph can see her eyes moving under the lids, like fish in a frozen pond. He tells her he’d better get back to his mopping. He stands, backs away from the bed.

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 glass, the fancy balustrades, 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 fuck 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.

She stops before him, looks at his face. Joseph, she says.

Mam.

That’s not your name, is it? Joseph.

Mam?

You’re Willie Sutton.

She hands him the newspaper. He looks at the photo. Looks at her. Yeah, he says with a sigh. Yeah. You got me.

I—what?

I’m Willie Sutton, he says. What a relief to finally say it out loud.

The color slowly drains from Head Nurse’s face.

I knew this day was coming, he says. I guess I’m lucky, I’ve had a few good years.

But—what?

Joseph waits. And waits. That’s a hot one, he says. Me—
Willie Sutton
. With all his money? A high-flyer like Willie the Actor wouldn’t be caught dead mopping floors at the Farm Colony. No offense mam.

Head Nurse looks at Joseph, looks at the front page. She inhales sharply. Right, she says, suddenly laughing. I don’t know what I was. Well. But he does look like you.

I guess. Around the eyes a little.

He turns back to his mopping.

Sutton leads Reporter and Photographer behind the women’s ward, down a hill slick with mud and wet leaves. Reporter grabs Sutton just before he falls. Thanks kid. They push through a group of intertwined trees, into a clearing. A spear of sunlight pierces the trunk of an enormous apple tree. Sutton approaches cautiously. He puts on his glasses, examines the bark. He smiles. Carved into the bark is a ragged heart. Inside are three letters
.

What is that, Mr. Sutton?

Photographer moves closer. S-E-E?

Boys, you are now standing in Willie’s sacred grove
.

Hold the phone. S-E-E? Sarah Elizabeth—Bess? She was
here?

After the Brinks job the Feds put me on their Most Wanted list. Their first list ever. Kind of an honor. They listed all my aliases, all my women—starting with Sarah Elizabeth Endner. I knew she’d be in a state. I looked her up in the phone book—I remembered her married name. And why did I remember? It was Richmond. And I was living in Richmond. You think that’s not a sign? Sure enough she was in Brooklyn. And just as I thought, she was beside herself. She was panicked. She didn’t know what to do. Reporters were calling her, cops were calling her. A few hours later I met her at the dock. We got in her car, drove to these woods. We only had a few hours before she had to get back. But that’s all you get in life. A few hours here, a few there. If you’re lucky. Mrs. Adams taught me that. She’s buried on the other side of this hill
.

Photographer shoots Sutton, the tree. Was Bess still married, brother?

Yeah kid. She was
.

Reporter looks at the sky. The sun is getting low, Mr. Sutton. I hate to take you away from your sacred grove, but we’re officially pressed for time. I have to file my story in a little more than two hours. So. We need to get to Brooklyn
.

We’re taking the Verrazano back, Photographer says. It’s faster
.

Okay, Sutton says
.

Just one more stop on your map, Mr. Sutton. Dean Street. Then—Schuster?

Mm
.

Mr. Sutton
.

Yeah kid. Yeah. Whatever you say
.

TWENTY-ONE

Willie doesn’t catch the landlady’s name. Something like Mrs. Influenza. She speaks no English and he speaks prison Spanish, so they have a hard time communicating. He tells her that he’s a veteran, that he needs quiet, that his name is Julius Loring. She smiles, bewildered. He peels off two hundred dollars, six months’ rent in advance. The language barrier crumbles.

The address is 340 Dean Street. It’s a narrow three-story clapboard in the barrio. Landlady gives Willie her best room, third floor, overlooking the street. It’s tiny, but furnished. Dresser, Hide-A-Bed, club chair. He doesn’t need more. The club chair sits by a window that catches the afternoon light. He spends the first few days sitting there, watching the sunsets, thinking. The first order of business, he decides, is his face.

He prowls the docks, wharves, waterfront saloons, looking for guys he knew in the joint. He finds Dinky Smith, who sends him to Lefty MacGregor, who gives him an address for Rabbit Lonergan, who sends him to an old coffee warehouse, in the back room of which he finds Mad Dog Kling reading a newspaper by a gooseneck lamp. Well fuck a duck in Macy’s front window, Mad Dog says, squinting up through the corona of light. If it aint America’s most wanted.

The years since Sing Sing have not been kind to Mad Dog. The years have kicked Mad Dog’s ass. Pursed mouth, goggle eyes, he has a bleary, defeated Book-of-Job air about him. He reminds Willie of those black-and-white photos: Dust Bowl Farmer. He wears a baggy brown suit with a frayed blue necktie, but looks as if he should be wearing denim coveralls and watching a cloud of locusts eat his crops.