“Fantastic.”

“Yes, really fantastic.” A large envelope was propped against the older Natalie. Inside were several eight-by-ten black-and-white pictures of both sculptures. “He must have had these done yesterday,” I said. I realized both heads had hair. Heaven only knew where DiMartino had found wigs, but a wig sat on each head, brown on the younger Natalie, auburn on the older one. They weren’t real hair, but the pictures looked so lifelike, I knew they would do for our purposes.

“Here’s a book of addresses,” the cop said from the desk. “Loretta DiMartino? Sound like his wife?”

“Sounds like a relative anyway.”

“I’ll take it along.”

I had brought a couple of boxes with me and some soft cloth to wrap the heads in. The officer carried one and I took the other out to my car. The pictures I had left with DiMartino last week were on the floor near the stand with one of the sculptures. I had a lot of money I wanted to give him, but I didn’t want to leave it in an empty cabin. We drove back to the hospital.

—

Someone had already called his wife—she was still his wife, it seemed—and she was on her way. I asked a couple of times if I could see him, but they wouldn’t let me. Everyone looked grim and I settled in to wait for his wife or for a chance to see DiMartino. I had brought a book with me in case I stayed over. Now I read it distractedly, my attention wandering at every movement, every sound. I wished I could have a few minutes to address the medical team, to tell them about the man they were working on, to let them know this was a worthy human being, a person who had devoted himself to public service, that he had accomplishments that would be remembered, artistic talent greater than that of most people, that if he had erred, he had already paid a heavy price and he deserved to live out his three score years and ten. I saw myself as his advocate, but I had no audience for my thoughts, only myself, and I was already convinced.

It was a long afternoon. When I knew I would not be able to make it home, I called and left a message for Jack, then called our own number and left the same message on our answering machine. From time to time a nurse would come out and update me, but there was little real news.

“We’re still working on him,” one of them said.

“Keep hoping,” from the other.

At six a middle-aged woman in a gray coat and black boots stepped into the waiting room and looked around as though expecting someone to be waiting for her.

“Mrs. DiMartino?” I said, standing.

“Yes. I’m Loretta. Who are you?”

“Chris Bennett. I found your husband. I was coming to pick up some sculptures he did for me.”

“Do you know where I can find the doctor?”

I took her to the nurses’ station and they picked up from there. She was gone for a long time and I sat with my open book, wondering what effect her presence would have on DiMartino—if he was aware enough to know she was at his side. She came back to the waiting room finally, looking worn and miserable, and sat beside me.

“There’s a lot of damage,” she said in a low voice. “It would’ve been better if he’d gotten here right away. He was out in that freezing cold for hours.”

“I passed his car on my way to the house, but I didn’t know it was his car. I wish I’d stopped.”

“It’s not your fault, honey. If not for you, he’d still be out in the cold.” She patted my hand and gave me a smile. “He’s a crazy man, my Al. Never learned how to keep his mouth shut. I used to say, ‘Al, do your work and mind your business,’ and he’d say, ‘Loretta, I can’t stand by and watch them make mistakes. The Constitution gives me the right to say what I think.’ But he was wrong. The Constitution doesn’t give you any rights on the job. They should have read him the Miranda warnings when he got out of the Academy.”

I smiled at her assessment. “I admire a man who says what he thinks,” I said.

“So do I, but admiration doesn’t pay the bills, and they were out to get Al so long, I knew they’d do it eventually. Why can’t a man learn to live with his mouth shut? He loved his work. He could’ve been still doing it and getting a paycheck and living in a decent house with heat and three square meals a day.”

“I only met him once, but he struck me as a good man.”

“Better than good,” she said under her breath. “Just raving mad. You don’t have to stay, honey. I’m OK. Go home to your husband.”

“Would you like to go to a motel for the night?”

“I can’t leave.”

“What did the doctor say?”

“He probably won’t make it the night.”

—

I went to the coffee shop and picked up some greasy hamburgers and worse coffee and brought them upstairs. We ate together, waiting for something to happen, hoping it would be good or, failing that, that nothing would happen, that he would get through the night unchanged and start to recover when the sun rose.

I fell asleep at one point, never one to stay awake easily after dark. When I awoke sometime after midnight, Loretta was gone. I went to the ladies’ room and washed, wishing I had my toothbrush from my overnight bag, but that was out in the car. I found a nurse in the hall who told me Loretta was with Al, so I went back to the waiting room and sat and closed my eyes again. I woke up with a start at two A.M. There was noise and activity, people running. I walked to where I could see them, but they disappeared around a corner and I didn’t want to walk down the hall to see where they were going. Sometimes not knowing is a comfort.

At two-thirty Loretta reappeared. I didn’t have to ask. It was in her face, her shoulders, the very fit of her skin.

“He’s gone,” she said.

I stood and went over to her, put my arm around her shoulders.

“The doctor said, ‘We lost him,’ and I said, ‘What do you mean, you lost him? You never had him.’ I had him, thirty-two years if you count the ones he lived in that shack. I’m the one that lost him. Goddamn job. It’ll kill you every time.”

“Let’s go find a place to sleep, Loretta.”

“Why not,” she said.

—

We slept till after eight, sharing a room in the motel I had stayed in last week. I called Jack when I got up and told him the news. Then Loretta and I dressed and went down for breakfast. She was a thin woman who looked older than I thought she was, and she ate as if breakfast were not part of her daily activities. When we finished, we checked out and drove to the hospital. Loretta had left her car there. She dropped her bag in it and we went inside together. After a few formalities, she called a mortuary in Queens and they promised to drive out to pick up Al’s body.

“It’s done,” she said as she put down the phone. “I’m glad you were here, but I’m OK now. You go home.”

I protested, but she really meant it.

“I’m a cop’s wife. I know the score.”

“I can drive you back.”

“And then figure out how to get my car back to Queens? I’m better off driving myself. Honest. You’re a honey, Chris. Go home.”

“Loretta, I never paid Al for his work.” I opened my bag and took out my wallet. “We agreed on four hundred dollars.”

“He charged you that?” Her voice rose in disbelief.

I took out the four hundreds I had gotten from the bank. “We agreed on that. It’s yours now.”

She took it and looked at it. “Thanks, honey,” she said.

“He deserved it.”

“That and a lot more. I wish it had come to him.”

24

I was home by afternoon and I let Jack and Sandy know I had arrived. Sandy was anxious to see the sculpture of the young Natalie.

“You’re welcome to come out and look,” I said, feeling weary and hoping he wouldn’t take me up on my invitation today, “but I’m going ahead with ads in Indiana and upstate New York right away.”