of Manhattan. It was dirty and run-down and full of gangs. Every day at major intersections in broad daylight cars would be hijacked, people shot, drugs sold. I would never let my girls go anywhere near Newark. But now, thanks to a new arts center and new businesses and talk of a hockey stadium, and lots of money, Newark is becoming a golden place. Full of hope and promise. It is amazing to me that in my lifetime I have seen the rebirth of a city. Anything can happen, and sometimes anything does. It makes me think about what I can do for Kelly. Perhaps I will bring an ice cream back to the hospital with me this afternoon. A triple-header of her favorite flavor, pralines ’n’ cream. She is bound to forget to eat, with all the commotion of her family. The idea of handing her the white bag with a cup of ice cream inside pleases me. I can practically see her smile.
When Eddie’s wife leaves the hospital, she is not wearing her uniform. She has on gray slacks and a short-sleeved blouse. Her hair is down. She carries a large purse, as most mothers of young children do. I have seen her, on other days, pull amazing things out of that purse. A sandwich for her son, a doll for her daughter, an entire newspaper or an apple or a fat novel for herself. Now she takes a pair of sunglasses out of the purse and slides into the white Cadillac. She drives out of the parking lot, and I follow her.
My men used to make fun of Eddie because of his car. They called it the pimp mobile. Eddie called it a classic. When I got pulled into the teasing, I would only say that I’d never understood why anyone would buy a white car. Like white carpet, a white car shows dirt too easily. There is no way to hide or diminish its bumps and scrapes, and it’s hell to keep clean. Eddie washed the damn car twice a week, though, and it was always gleaming. It is clear that his wife no longer abides by that practice. The white has grown grimy, and there is dirt streaked across the windows. I am two cars behind her, and the glimpses of dirt bother me. We approach a car wash, and I think, Turn in, turn in. But she drives right by. We hit a traffic light and I watch to make sure her reflexes are good. I know she must be tired after the night shift, but she doesn’t show it. She’s a good, solid driver.
I worry that I upset her this morning more than she showed. I have seen a comment from Catharine or one of the girls set Kelly off for days. I know how sensitive women are. And Kelly has never suffered a loss like Nurse Ballen has. She has not felt that kind of pain. I hate the idea that I might have sent her back there, reeling toward an abyss. I know from what I’ve seen that this woman is very strong, but still, everyone has a breaking point.
As we turn onto her street, it occurs to me that I now think of her as Nurse Ballen, not Eddie’s wife or Mrs. Ortiz. She has a new name to me. Noreen Ballen. She pulls into her driveway and I slow down, pretending to be interested in a house a few down from hers. She gets out and kicks the car door shut with her heel, adding another scuff mark to the white paint. She follows the short walkway from the driveway to the front door. There are weeds poking through the cement, and the lawn needs to be cut again. I make a mental note to send over one of my guys with a lawn mower when she is at work. Now she looks tired to me. Her blouse has come untucked in the back. There is a thin stain of sweat on the fabric between her shoulder blades. It is half past noon, which means she can sleep for only two hours before her kids are dismissed from school. She stands at the front door for a minute, the key idle in her hand, before she lets herself into the house. She crosses the threshold with her head down.
I can feel, sitting behind the wheel of my truck, the effort it takes Nurse Ballen to go inside. To walk