Hells Kitchen

Center is today. I tell you, he’da brought that off he’da been one rich mick. I can say ‘mick’ ’cause he said that ’bout himself.”
    Then, motion from the bed interrupted these thoughts.
    The elderly woman, eyes still closed, picked at thehem of the blanket, two dark thumbs, two fingers lifting invisible pearls.
    This concerned Pellam. He remembered, a month ago, the last living gestures of Otis Balm as the 102-year-old man had glanced toward the lilac bush outside the window of his West Side nursing home and began picking at his sheet. The old man had been a resident of Ettie’s building for years and, though hospitalized, had been pleased to talk about his life in the Kitchen. Suddenly the man had fallen silent and started picking at his blanket—as Ettie was doing now. Then he stopped moving. Pellam called for help. The doctor confirmed the death. They always did that, he explained. At the end they pick at the bedclothes.
    Pellam leaned closer to Ettie Washington. A sudden moaning filled the air. It became a voice. “Who’s that?” The woman’s hands grew still and she opened her eyes, but still apparently couldn’t see too well. “Who’s there? Where am I?”
    “Ettie.” Pellam spoke casually. “It’s John. Pellam.”
    Squinting, Ettie stared at him. “I can’t see too good. Where am I?”
    “Hospital.”
    She coughed for a minute and asked for a glass of water. “I’m so glad you came. You got out okay?”
    “I did, yep,” he told her. Pellam poured a glass for her; Ettie emptied it without pausing.
    “I kind of remember jumping. Oh, I was scared. The doctor said I was in surprisingly good shape. He said that. ‘Surprisingly good.’ Didn’t understand him at first.” She grumbled, “He’s Indian. Like, you know, an overseas Indian. Curry an’ elephants. Haven’t seen a single American doctor here.”
    “Does it hurt much?”
    “I’ll say.” She examined her arm closely. “Don’t I look the mess?” Ettie’s tongue clicked, looking over the imposing bandages.
    “Naw, you’re a cover girl, all things considered.”
    “You’re a mess too, John. I’m so glad you got out. My last thought as I was falling toward the alley was: ‘no, John’s going to die too!’ What a thought that was.”
    “I took the easy way down. The stairs.”
    “What the hell happened?” she muttered.
    “I don’t know. One minute nothing, the next the whole place was gone. Like a matchbox.”
    “I was shopping. I was on my way to my apartment—”
    “I heard you. You must have gotten back just before I got there. I didn’t see you on the street.”
    She continued, “I never saw fire move like that. Was like Aurora’s. That club I told you ’bout? On Forty-ninth Street. Where I sang a time or two. Burned down in forty-seven. March thirteenth. Buncha people died. You remember me telling you that story?”
    Pellam didn’t remember. He supposed the account could be found somewhere in the hours and hours of tapes of Ettie Washington back in his apartment.
    She blew her nose and coughed for a moment. “That smoke. That’s the worst. Did everybody get out?”
    “Nobody was killed,” Pellam answered. “Juan Torres’s in critical condition. He’s upstairs in the kids’ ICU.”
    Ettie’s face went still. Pellam had seen this expression on her face only once before—when she’d talked about her youngest son, who’d been killed in Times Square years before. “Juan?” she whispered. She didn’t speak for a moment. “I thought he was at his grandma’s for a few days. In the Bronx. He was home ?”
    She looked heartsick and Pellam was at a loss to comfort her. Ettie’s eyes returned to the blanket she’d been picking at. An ashen tone flooded her face. “How ’bout I sign that cast?” Pellam asked.
    “Why, of course.”
    Pellam took out a marking pen. “Anywhere? How ’bout here?” He signed with a round scrawl.
    In the busy hall outside a placid electronic bell rang four times.
    “I was thinking,” Pellam said, “you want me to call your daughter?”
    “No,” the old woman responded. “I talked to her already. Called her this morning when I was awake. She was worried sick but I said I’m not in the great by-and-by yet. She oughta wait ’bout coming and let’s see what happens with those tests. If they’re gonna cut I’d rather her come then. Maybe hook her up with one of those handsome doctors. Like on ER. ’Lisbeth’d like a rich doctor. She has that