Chapter 9 - The Silence of Forty Men
The light in the private recovery room on the fourth floor of the Ashland medical center was soft, filtered through thin green curtains that smelled of linen and alcohol.
Thalia opened her eyes slowly, fighting through the heavy, sweet fog of general anesthesia that made her tongue feel thick and dry.
The first thing she felt was not pain, but a strange, light coolness around her right forearm and wrist.
She turned her head upon the stiff pillow and saw that her arm was encased in a lightweight white fiberglass cast that extended from her knuckles to her elbow.
The fingers—those five fingers that had been numb and frozen for nearly a year—were exposed at the tip, pink with returning capillary blood.
Beside her bed sat a small vinyl chair, where Emmett Sabatini sat with his overcoat unbuttoned, reading through a stack of architectural blueprints.
On the bedside table stood a small glass jar containing the wild mother culture from Halsted Street, sitting beside a bowl of fresh ice to keep it dormant.
Thalia moved her lips, trying to form a word, but her throat produced only a dry, raspy click.
Emmett immediately set the blueprints aside, rose from the chair with smooth, silent grace, and poured a small glass of ice water from the pitcher.
He held the plastic straw to her lips, supporting the back of her neck with his broad palm until she had swallowed enough to clear her voice.
She looked at the white cast covering her arm, her heart fluttering with a sudden, sharp spike of panic.
She asked him if the surgeon had been able to save the nerve pathways.
Emmett sat back down on the vinyl chair, his dark eyes resting on her bandaged fingers with quiet satisfaction.
He told her that Dr. Morrison had released the carpal tunnel and excised three inches of restrictive burn scar tissue that had been choking the radial tendon.
He said the doctor had promised that within six weeks of therapy, she would be able to feel the difference between coarse salt and fine flour with her eyes closed.
Thalia closed her eyes and let her head sink back into the pillow, a profound, shuddering wave of relief washing through her tired body.
She asked about Nico, her voice still trembling with maternal fear.
Emmett pointed toward the adjoining room, where an open door revealed a small bed with bright yellow cartoon blankets.
Nico was sleeping soundly, his small chest rising and falling in rhythmic peace, his legs resting comfortably without the heavy steel braces that had bound him for three years.
Emmett said the pediatric specialists had corrected the tendon alignment in both of his ankles during a ninety-minute procedure that morning.
He told Thalia that by the time the spring thaw arrived along the lakefront, her brother would be running across the grass at Humboldt Park without falling once.
Thalia looked at the powerful man sitting beside her bed, trying to comprehend the sheer scale of the change that had overtaken her life in seventy-two hours.
She told him that she had no money to repay the medical bills, that even a lifetime of work at Verdan would not cover half of what he had spent.
Emmett leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, his hands clasped loosely between them.
He said that the Sabatini foundation had purchased the old three-story brick building on the corner of Halsted and Taylor Street the previous afternoon.
He told her that fifty years ago, that building had housed a shoe-repair shop on the ground floor and an empty bakery in the basement with a brick hearth oven.
He reached into his breast pocket, pulled out an iron key attached to a heavy brass tag, and laid it gently on the blanket beside her left hand.
He said that the city of Chicago had enough restaurants selling two-hundred-dollar plates of tiny vegetables to men who didn't know what hard work felt like.
He told her that what the city needed was a place where a working man could buy a loaf of Saturday bread that had the memory of daylight baked into its crust.
He offered her full ownership of the bakery, with no rent for ten years, on one single condition.
Thalia looked at the iron key, her breath suspended in her chest, waiting for the demand that would reveal the price of his generosity.
She asked him what condition he wanted.
Emmett looked her directly in the eyes, his face completely serious, without a trace of his usual cold authority.
He told her that every Saturday morning before the doors opened to the public, she had to reserve the first two loaves from the hearth for him.
He said that he wanted one loaf for his table, and one loaf to carry to his uncle Ignazio, so the old man would never forget that they were still human beings.
Thalia looked at the key, then reached out with her good left hand and closed her fingers tightly around the cold, heavy iron.
She looked at Emmett and whispered that she would make sure the stones were hot by four in the morning.
May you like
Emmett stood up, looked at her for a long, quiet moment, and gave a brief, decisive nod of his head.
He told her to sleep and heal her hands, because winter was coming fast, and the city was going to be hungry.
