three children she had aborted. To leave cakes and milk out for them:”
“Christ.”
“Yes, Christ:”
Pat looked into Annabella Jeritza’s eyes and then down at his hands. He had used these hands to do and fix many things. Move the earth with a giant machine, tear apart and rebuild a car engine, make a soda box wagon for Megan. He sometimes thought that whatever he was good for in life was contained in his hands. But now he had entered the territory of the broken heart, which hands could not repair.
“She also wanted the name of a midwife;” Madame Jeritza said. ”She was pregnant:”
“Pregnant?”
“Yes, and she wanted no record of the child’s birth:”
“No abortion:”
“No.”
Pat was silent. Three abortions. He was not surprised or shocked. Megan’s entire life, her inner life, the one that mattered, was a secret she kept from him. A weapon. But Megan giving birth, passing a child from her womb into the world, Megan a mother ... The feelings these images stirred in his heart did surprise him, so forcefully did they announce themselves.
“Where was she staying? Where did she go?” he asked.
“She was staying with gypsies here in Montmartre. I found her a midwife in that neighborhood:”
“Did she have the child?”
“Yes, a boy. She brought him to me for a reading:”
The candle between them had nearly burned down. Before it did, Annabella reached to the shelf behind her for a new one, which she lit from the old one’s sputtering flame and then stuck into the melting wax in the bottom of the brass holder.
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She left a few days after the baby was born:”
“The people she was staying with, do you know them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to them?”
“Yes, but I must speak to them first. They will not speak to a stranger. Come tomorrow, in the evening. Doro—my grandson—will take you to them:”
Outside, Pat made his way to the small park, the only route he was certain would lead to a Métro station. Entering it, he was oblivious to the wind whistling softly through the naked branches of its trees or the chill that had descended on Paris. Against this chill he put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, finding in the right one the wrench he had lifted from Doro’s toolbox. Its heft and rough metallic texture comforted him. It was a tool, something familiar that, unlike the souls of the dead and the murky world of gypsy fortune-tellers and midwives, he could put his hand around and know what to do with. Ahead, the path was lit by an ornate lamppost with only one of its cluster of three ball-shaped lamps working. In its dim light he saw two men in ski jackets walking slowly in his direction. As he neared them, he moved to his left, but they blocked his path and suddenly one of them had him by the arm and was sticking something hard and metallic into his ribs—a gun—and saying in thickly accented English, Be silent, Mr. Patrick Nolan, and come with me or I will shoot you through the heart.
Reflexively, Pat pushed the man away and in the same motion pulled the wrench from his pocket and swung it at his head, where it crunched against bone and knocked him flat onto his back on the park’s cinder pathway. At the same time there were two gunshots. Pat whirled in the direction of the second one in time to see the other man falling to the ground clutching his chest and a woman in a black trench coat walking quickly toward him: Officer Laurence.
“Step away, Monsieur Nolan. Step away. Vitement!”
Pat took two steps back and watched as Laurence, whose long brown hair shone in the glow from the broken lamp, nudged the second man over onto his back with her foot. There was a large blotch of blood on the front of his gray sweater, still oozing. In his right hand he was gripping a small gun. She kicked the gun away, then knelt and placed
“Christ.”
“Yes, Christ:”
Pat looked into Annabella Jeritza’s eyes and then down at his hands. He had used these hands to do and fix many things. Move the earth with a giant machine, tear apart and rebuild a car engine, make a soda box wagon for Megan. He sometimes thought that whatever he was good for in life was contained in his hands. But now he had entered the territory of the broken heart, which hands could not repair.
“She also wanted the name of a midwife;” Madame Jeritza said. ”She was pregnant:”
“Pregnant?”
“Yes, and she wanted no record of the child’s birth:”
“No abortion:”
“No.”
Pat was silent. Three abortions. He was not surprised or shocked. Megan’s entire life, her inner life, the one that mattered, was a secret she kept from him. A weapon. But Megan giving birth, passing a child from her womb into the world, Megan a mother ... The feelings these images stirred in his heart did surprise him, so forcefully did they announce themselves.
“Where was she staying? Where did she go?” he asked.
“She was staying with gypsies here in Montmartre. I found her a midwife in that neighborhood:”
“Did she have the child?”
“Yes, a boy. She brought him to me for a reading:”
The candle between them had nearly burned down. Before it did, Annabella reached to the shelf behind her for a new one, which she lit from the old one’s sputtering flame and then stuck into the melting wax in the bottom of the brass holder.
“Where did she go?”
“I don’t know. She left a few days after the baby was born:”
“The people she was staying with, do you know them?”
“Yes.”
“Can I speak to them?”
“Yes, but I must speak to them first. They will not speak to a stranger. Come tomorrow, in the evening. Doro—my grandson—will take you to them:”
Outside, Pat made his way to the small park, the only route he was certain would lead to a Métro station. Entering it, he was oblivious to the wind whistling softly through the naked branches of its trees or the chill that had descended on Paris. Against this chill he put his hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, finding in the right one the wrench he had lifted from Doro’s toolbox. Its heft and rough metallic texture comforted him. It was a tool, something familiar that, unlike the souls of the dead and the murky world of gypsy fortune-tellers and midwives, he could put his hand around and know what to do with. Ahead, the path was lit by an ornate lamppost with only one of its cluster of three ball-shaped lamps working. In its dim light he saw two men in ski jackets walking slowly in his direction. As he neared them, he moved to his left, but they blocked his path and suddenly one of them had him by the arm and was sticking something hard and metallic into his ribs—a gun—and saying in thickly accented English, Be silent, Mr. Patrick Nolan, and come with me or I will shoot you through the heart.
Reflexively, Pat pushed the man away and in the same motion pulled the wrench from his pocket and swung it at his head, where it crunched against bone and knocked him flat onto his back on the park’s cinder pathway. At the same time there were two gunshots. Pat whirled in the direction of the second one in time to see the other man falling to the ground clutching his chest and a woman in a black trench coat walking quickly toward him: Officer Laurence.
“Step away, Monsieur Nolan. Step away. Vitement!”
Pat took two steps back and watched as Laurence, whose long brown hair shone in the glow from the broken lamp, nudged the second man over onto his back with her foot. There was a large blotch of blood on the front of his gray sweater, still oozing. In his right hand he was gripping a small gun. She kicked the gun away, then knelt and placed
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