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Executive
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2007
Book Reviews |
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North
River by Pete Hamill |
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Rating: |
**** |
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(Highly
Recommended) |
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Click on title or picture to buy from amazon.com |
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Home Pete Hamill displays the breadth of
his writing skills in his new historical novel, North
River. Set in the 1930s, the title refers to what New Yorkers of the time
called the Hudson River, and it becomes a symbol for the life of the
protagonist, a general practitioner, Dr. James Finbar Delaney. Delaney wanted
to be a surgeon, but an injury during World War I left him with limited use
of one arm, and a life as a GP with patients who could barely afford his
care. His wife abandoned him, and one day he finds his grandson, Carlito, on
his doorstep with a message from his daughter that she has followed her
husband to Spain, and didn’t know when she would return. Here’s an excerpt, from
the beginning of Chapter 3, pp. 35-38, when help for Carlito arrives in the
form of Rose: The
woman arrived just before seven o’clock the next morning. At the first ring
of the bell, Delaney was in the cellar, shoveling coal into the small boiler
that heated the water. A flashlight was perched on a milk box. The sound of
the bell first made him think it was Bootsie again. Some demand in the
ringing. A feeling of alarm. And Monique was not yet at her desk. He closed
the furnace door, laid down the shovel, grabbed the flashlight, and went up
the darkened stairs, afraid the sound would wake the boy. But Carlito was already
awake, sitting on the stairs near the bottom, his pajamas blotchy with urine.
He must have tried, Delaney thought. He must have stood on the bowl and
tried. The boy hugged Delaney’s leg as if consumed with shame, and the doctor
hefted him and carried him to the door under the stoop. This should take only
a minute, boy, he whispered. Hug me to stay warm. The
woman stood beyond the gate, snow on her wool hat and shoulders. She was in
her middle thirties, with olive skin, a longish nose, a strong jaw, a faint
mustache. Her body looked heavy under her dark blue coat, and she was wearing
men’s boots. Her black eyes glistened. She was carrying a woolen bag and a
cheese box. “I’m
Rose,” she said in a gruff voice. “Angela sent me.” “Come
in, Rose. Come in.” She
stepped in as Delaney backed up, her feet crunching on the hard snow that had
blown in through the night. She pulled the gate shut. Steam was easing from
her heavy lips. She stomped her boots on the mat and, as Delaney held the
vestibule door open, passed into the hallway. Delaney closed the second door
behind her. “This
is him, huh?” she said, and smiled. “This
is Carlito.” She
grinned more widely, showing hard white teeth, and turned to Delaney. “Okay
Where’s the bathtub?” Still
in bathrobe and work shirt, Delaney brushed his teeth and washed at the sink
while water ran into the small bathtub. An old showerhead rose above the tub.
Steam drifted from the running water, and he used his fingers to wipe a
space in the fogged-out mirror. The bathroom door was still open, and he saw
Rose drape her coat over a chair. She looked thinner in a long dark dress
that went below her knees, over the men’s boots. Then she pushed into the bathroom
and placed the cheese box at the foot of the bowl. She removed the boy’s
clothes, dropped them on the floor, and wrapped him in a large beige towel to
keep him warm. The boy’s eyes were wide. What was this? Who was this? How many
people were there in this world? “Okay,
get out,” she said to Delaney. “Get dressed. I gotta wash this Delaney
wiped his face, dried it, smiling as he shut the bathroom door behind him. He
pulled on trousers, a clean shirt, socks, and boots. He could hear her low
affectionate voice through the door: “What a handsome boy. All nice and clean
now, you’re gonna be nice and clean. Hey, what’s this thing? What you got
there? Nice and clean now. And your hair? Gotta wash that too. Pretty blond
hair. Can’t wear it dirty” Thank
you, Rose. Thank you, Angela. There
was a slight New York curl in her voice, “doity” instead of ‘dirty” She
dropped the d off every “and.” The h was banished from “thing.” She must
be here a while. She’s definitely not just off the boat. Then the telephone
rang for the first time in many hours. He lifted it. “Hey,
it’s me,” Monique said. “I’m at the telephone company. I told them we need
the goddamned phone. I told them, hey, the man’s a doctor, people could die. Then I shot three guys at the front
desk. That worked,” Delaney
laughed. “What
would I do without you, Monique?” “You’d
be doing house calls, that’s what. The patients must be going nuts trying to
get through to you. I’ll be there in maybe twenty minutes.” “I’ve
got a surprise waiting for you.” “I
don’t like surprises.” “You
might love this one.” “See
you.” She
hung up. He buttoned his shirt. How long have you been here, Monique? How
long have you been nurse and secretary and bouncer? Since we laid out the
office. Since before the goddamned Depression. Since Hoover was president.
Since the time when Molly found her secret garden on the top floor, her
aerie, her retreat. Away from Monique, who annoyed her with her energy or
her precision or her daily presence. Away from the patients. Away from me.
The bathroom door Opened and Rose was there, smiling a lovely smile, her face
glistening from the small steamy room, snuggling the boy with one arm to her
generous breasts and lifting clothes from the stroller with her other hand.
Carlito was smiling too, pointing a finger at Delaney, then curling it. She
dressed him quickly in two shirts and corduroy trousers. Delaney
makes a home for Carlito, and for Rose. Thanks to Hamill’s fine writing, what
could become a schmaltzy story remains a tightly written historical novel
that tells a plain story in a fine way. North
River is among Hamill’s best works. Steve
Hopkins, October 25, 2007 |
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Go to Executive
Times Archives |
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The recommendation rating for this book appeared in the November
2007 issue
of Executive Times URL for this review: ttp://www.hopkinsandcompany.com/Books/North
River.htm For Reprint Permission, Contact: Hopkins & Company, LLC • E-mail: books@hopkinsandcompany.com |
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