The Daughter She Used To Be

by Rosalind Noonan

  Had they made a mistake, calling it quits?

  They’d been a good couple, best friends and lovers, until their fathers got involved.

  Her first mistake had been telling her father his real first name.

  “You’re dating a guy named Rashid?” Sully asked her one day after Mass, having overheard her sharing the name with Sarah.

  “It’s just Keesh, Dad,” she had said. Her father had already met him more than once and had found Keesh respectful and polite. “But yeah, his real name is Rashid.”

  “Good Lord, he sounds like a terrorist!” The stained glass windows in the vestibule of St. Peter’s reverberated with the thunder of Sully’s voice. “And where did the name Keesh come from? Is that an alias?”

  “It’s just a nickname his friends dreamed up.” She avoided explaining that, as kids, when they called him “Sheed,” grown-ups got annoyed because it sounded like “shit.”

  “My parents wanted me to have a good Armenian name,” he’d said. It was important to Salat and Ara Kerobyan to preserve their Armenian culture, a goal Bernie respected until she realized it struck her from the list of possible wives for their son. Keesh had explained that Rashid was from the Arabian for “teacher” or “tutor.” It also meant “walking the right road,” an apt description for Keesh.

  “And Kerobyan,” Keesh told her with a smile, “that comes from Kerovbeh, which means ‘angel.’ ”

  “A teaching angel? Oh, you’re just too good to be true.” And she’d kissed him then and pressed against him for an activity that was the antithesis of angelic.

  Oh, she missed those days. Twenty-seven and she was on the downward slope.

  Life was fickle. Only in Queens could the son of a world-renowned brain surgeon from Armenia fall in love with the daughter of an Irish Catholic cop who had parlayed his retirement into a local coffee shop. And though she understood her father’s trauma from the World Trade Center attacks and Dr. Kerobyan’s desire to preserve his culture, she sometimes wanted to rail against them both and point out that this was the twenty-first century in the great melting pot of America.

  Or as her mother would say, “Get over it.”

  A song ended and Maisey was in the group taking a bow.

  Bernie clapped briskly, shouting, “Go, Maisey!”

  Granny Mary looked at her bare wrist and frowned. “It’s late. I’ve got to get home and start the pot roast.” She stood up and turned to go, spry as ever, though, in truth, she hadn’t cooked a roast for at least ten years.

  In a flash, Sully was on his feet, guiding her back to her chair. “Sit down, Ma. You’re coming to our house for a bite to eat after the pageant.”

  “I am?” She patted the back of her hair. “Well, I hope my deodorant doesn’t let me down.”

  Bernie linked her fingers through her grandmother’s. “You smell good to me, Granny.”

  “April fresh!” Mary said.

  Brendan leaned back from the row in front and touched Granny’s knee. “This is where Grace has her solo,” he explained. “That’s your great-granddaughter up there.”

  Granny waved him off. “Oh, I know all that.” But she quieted as the pianist began the first notes of the song “Some Children See Him.”

  The piece was familiar to Bernie, who had heard a version sung by James Taylor.

  Four children in red T-shirts stood on stage. Bernie held her breath as the intro slowed and Grace stepped forward.

  “Some children see him lily white, the infant Jesus born this night ...” Grace’s voice was thin as a reed, and yet her sincerity and warmth held it together.

  A girl with lush dark hair and mocha skin stepped forward to sing the second verse about children who see God “bronzed and brown.” The next verse, about an “almond-eyed” God, was sung by David Chong, a Chinese boy whom Brendan’s kids knew from the neighborhood.

  For the fourth verse, Tasha Hilson, Indigo’s daughter, stepped forward and sang: “Some children see Him dark as they, Sweet Mary’s Son to whom we pray ...” Of all the children, Tasha had the voice, a belter. Bravo, Tash. Make it work for you.

  The four students joined together for the next verse, which described how children of all races see their own image in Baby Jesus’s face. The choice of vocalists for the song hit its message hard, and Bernie wondered if it was having its desired effect. She glanced past Granny Mary to her dad and noticed tears shining in Sully’s eyes. Okay, he got it. But could he take it home and really embrace it?

  Probably not. As soon as the glow wore off, he would be suspicious once again of a man of Middle Eastern descent named Rashid.

  Racism and fear ran deep.

  Watching Gracie and the other kids onstage, she felt that maternal tug and her throat grew tight at the possibility that she might never have a baby. How would she get there from here when she didn’t even have a boyfriend?

  Chapter 12

  “Can’t we leave Zuli in the car?” Eager to get inside to the party at the Sullivans’, Tasha hopped at the edge of the open car door.

  “You never leave a child alone in a car,” Indigo Hilson told her daughter. “I’ll carry her. You just close the door after me, and push the lock button on the keypad, okay?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t hear you.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “That’s better.” Indigo extracted Zuli from the car, her feet dangling, her maroon lips hanging open in the throes of sleep.

  Dutifully, Tasha slammed the big door, pressed the button to make the car screech to alarm, and ran toward the house.

  “What’s your hurry?” Indigo called after her.

  “Grace said there’s cake.”

  “Give me the keys and you can go.”

  Tasha looked down at the keys in her hand, as if she had forgotten they were there. She hurried back, put them in her mother’s hand, then skipped up the sidewalk toward the lights of the house.

  “Thank you,” Indigo called after her. She was glad that her daughter didn’t share her intimidation about entering the Sullivans’ house in Bayside Hills. Not that the place was so grand; the intimidating part was that it belonged to Sully, the famous cop who’d served till they made him retire. Sully was an NYPD Personality. People talked about him as if he’d run the entire department. And now that he’d retired, Indigo figured the man was one miracle away from sainthood.

  Indigo Hilson still found it hard to believe that she was partners with Brendan Sullivan. Two years ago, when they first landed in the 109th Precinct in a group of six transferred patrol officers, she’d been determined to work with a woman. In her experience, working with a man—especially a married man—incited jealousies and got people’s tongues wagging, even when you were just friends.

  She’d been determined to hook up with Connie Strazinski, and had been resigned to a year or so of Connie’s idiot questions like: “Do you think he’s into me?” or “Does this uniform make my ass look fat?”

  But then she got the phone call, not from Brendan, but from his wife, Sarah. “I don’t know if you remember me,” Sarah said, “but we chaperoned a class trip together at St. Peter’s.”

  Indigo told her she remembered, and she did. Of the three moms, Sarah had been the only one who didn’t have a baby clamped onto her breast or a shiny Mercedes waiting in the parking lot.

  “So I just want you to know, Brendan and I, we talk about what goes on at the precinct a lot. You know, he likes to unwind, and I like to hear his stories. Anyway, not to sound like the manipulative wife, but I want you to know that it’s totally fine with me if you two hook up as partners. Actually, you’re really the best choice, because Puchinko is too much of a talker. Nice guy, but a motormouth. Between you and me, it sounds like Walters has a drinking problem, and Thornton, the guy’s been divorced three times. The jokes about giving Brendan a Jacoby and Meyers gift certificate just don’t fly around here.”

  “Wow.” Indigo had known that she liked Brendan’s wife, but s
he had no idea that she’d click with her like this. “You’ve got your finger on the pulse of our little hotbed of law enforcement.”

  “That’s what we’re trying to avoid, isn’t it? Keep the hotbed out of the precinct and in the home?”

  The two women had laughed at the same time, and just like that, they became friends. Over the past two years, they had grown closer, and Indigo had gotten to know Brendan pretty well, too. In truth, it was the first white man she’d ever had as a friend, and boy, did she luck out. Brendan loved his wife and kids, cared about people on the street, came to work every day hoping to help at least one person before the end of the day, unlike some of the rookie guys who wished for a car chase or a chance to use their weapons.

  Yeah, Brendan and Sarah were special people.

  The door opened, casting light onto Tasha’s expectant face.

  “There she is!” Peg Sullivan, Brendan’s mom, bent down to make a fuss over Tasha. “You were fantastic! Where did you learn to sing like that?”

  Tasha shrugged. “My mom.”

  “Not true,” Indigo laughed, stepping into the warmth and music.

  “Grace is waiting for you. She told us we’re not to cut the cake until you arrive.” Peg pointed Tasha toward her friend, then greeted Indigo. “Oh, and the little one’s asleep. Want me to take her to the back room? I’ve got a crib set up there.”

  “I can take her,” Indigo offered.

  “Let me have her.” With tender efficiency, Peg scooped the baby from her arms. “You get settled and find yourself something to drink. There’s coffee, tea, and stronger, if you like.” Peg cradled Zuli with affection.

  Indigo knew that Peg watched Brendan and Sarah’s kids a lot; now she could see it was a labor of love.

  “Thank you,” Indigo said, “and thank you for inviting us.”

  “Our pleasure. Grace said it wouldn’t be a party without her friend Tasha. Now I think Sarah’s in the kitchen, and I see Brendan over in the dining room with the guys.”

  “I see him.” Indigo nodded to Brendan as he raised a hand to gesture her over. Could she pretend she didn’t see him? She wanted to join Sarah in the kitchen, where they could be themselves over a cup of tea, away from the cop talk and the pressure of having to face Sully, the bigger-than-life Godfather of Cops. But Brendan was calling her name now.

  She followed Peg into the house, and peeled off at the dining room.

  “Hey, you.” Indigo tapped Brendan’s shoulder with her fist. “So what did you think of our girls up there?”

  “Awesome performance,” Brendan said. “I was proud of all of them.”

  “Very talented kids.” Sully beamed, a highball glass of whiskey rocks in his hand. “And the solos they did ... take out the two boys and we would’ve had Charlie’s Angels up there.”

  Brendan and his sister Bernie laughed, though Indigo had to push a smile. She could think of a lot of career aspirations for her daughter that would top undercover bimbo.

  Puchinko was also there with his wife, Laura. They also had a kid at St. Pete’s, a son in fourth grade who seemed content to watch the SpongeBob movie Peg had set up in the back room.

  “So Sully, what’s your take on the new crime stats?” Puchinko asked. “Did you see the drop in violent crimes citywide? What do you think about that?”

  Indigo stirred her tea, thinking that Puchinko sure liked to hear himself talk.

  “I say you guys and gals are doing a good job out there.” Sully spread his arms wide, reminding her of a huge eagle, and clapped Brendan and Puchinko on the back.

  Brendan rocked forward from the contact, pretending to be spilling his drink.

  He acted as if he didn’t care, but Indigo happened to know that his father’s approval was very important to Brendan. It was a guy thing.

  That made her think of Elijah, and sorrow tugged at her. Yeah, her husband needed that approval, too. Unfortunately, Elijah had lost all chance of pleasing his father when he married Indigo, and now it had crumbled into a situation beyond repair.

  As the guys talked business she sipped her tea and wondered if there was something she could do to bring Elijah back to his kids. If he was done with her, she would deal with it, but he wasn’t allowed to be done with their kids. Tasha and Zuli had a father, and she was going to make damn sure he didn’t abandon them.

  They talked about the police contract, and the issue of parity with the fire department. They talked about the education requirements for bosses, and Puchinko complained that the required sixty-four college credits had nothing to do with being a good boss. He was taking two community college classes at night, but said his wife complained that he was never home now.

  “You’re quiet tonight, Indigo Blue,” Sully said, using a nickname Brendan had come up with.

  “She just can’t get a word in with Puchinko foaming at the mouth here,” Brendan said.

  Amid the chuckles, Puchinko made a fist and bumped Brendan on the shoulder. “You’re lucky I got a thick skin, Sullivan.”

  “Thick skin and a big mouth,” Laura said from the kitchen doorway. “Who wants cake?” She held up two slices of a blue and white frosted sheet cake.

  Sully passed, but Brendan and Kevin accepted. “Come to Papa,” Kevin said, eyeing the cake, then planting a kiss on his wife’s cheek.

  “So give me the latest from the 109. What’s happening in my old stomping grounds?” Sully asked. “I miss the old grind.”

  “Ah, but you’re on to the new grind,” Puchinko said. “The coffee grind. And you’re right across the street from the house every day. I bet you’ve got your finger on the pulse more than most of the bosses.”

  Sully’s blue eyes had a misty quality that intrigued Indigo; masked wisdom. This was a man who had seen things, but didn’t want to admit to the center of the spectrum, the wide gray area in which right and wrong mixed and bled into each other.

  “I like to keep on top of things,” Sully said, surveying the faces there. “You three came through the academy in the same class, right? How long have you been in the 109? Upwards of two years, right? Time for some movement?”

  Brendan made eye contact with Indigo and shook his head very slightly. She got the message: keep mum. They had been talking about transferring together to a unit where they’d have weekends off. She had been looking into a parking detail in the precinct. It was boring, thankless work writing parkers all day long, but the hours were flexible. She could work when her kids were in school and be off for them on the weekends.

  “Put in for it with me,” she had told Brendan. “Come on. It’ll be tolerable if we do it together.”

  “My old man would have a cow,” he’d told her. “Sarah would love it. I’d love it. But Sully, he’d be mortified that I’d become a meter maid.”

  “I’m looking at getting into the warrants unit.” Puchinko scratched at a spot on his upper arm. He was a broad-shouldered guy who could come off as intimidating, but Indigo had never seen him lose his cool. “I got an application in, but it may be going right into the circular file.”

  “Warrants ...” Sully took a sip of his whiskey, considering. “Not a bad place to earn a shield. I could make some calls for you, if you’re really interested.”

  “I’d appreciate it.” Kevin clinked his beer against Sully’s glass.

  When Peg called, Sully excused himself to go snap some photos of the kids.

  “Nice move, Puchinko,” Indigo said. “But you forgot to drop to your knees and kiss his ring.”

  Everyone laughed at that.

  “But you’re missing the point, Indigo,” Bernie said. “Dad wasn’t a big boss, but he does have a lot of juice still. You need to use that. Everyone knows the plum details are all about the phone call.”

  Indigo nudged her partner, nodding at Bernie. “How does she know so much about the job?”

  Brendan opened his arms wide. “She grew up sitting at this table. A lifetime of cop talk.”

  “And I always loved it.” Cradling
her mug, Bernie smiled. “I used to bow out of movies with my friends because I didn’t want to miss hanging out here with Dad and his friends.”

  “God help you, girl.” Indigo hadn’t realized that everyone in the family had the father-worship issue. Who knew it would be so hard to have a father destined for sainthood?

  Thank God her dad was just an ordinary bus driver.

  Chapter 13

  Someone was banging on his head. He rolled to his side, but the banging didn’t stop.

  The door. He looked to the window. Still dark.

  Banging on the door in the middle of the night is never a good sign in the projects.

  He pushed out of bed with his good arm and shuffled to the hall.

  “Who the hell is it?” his mother asked, wrapping a robe around her bulk.

  “Open up! New York City Police.”

  The cops. Aw, no. Hadn’t they razzed him enough?

  “Don’t let them in, Mama.” He gathered the front of his shirt, pulling it close around his neck. The heat was blazing in this building, but he was suddenly cold. Shivering.

  He couldn’t let the cops see him shaking like a scared chicken. “Don’t open it.”

  “Open the door, or we’ll break it down,” the voice boomed.

  Yvonne pressed her palms to her face. “You sure you got the right address?”

  She threw the bolt and cracked the door as wide as the chain allowed. Peyton could see the sheen of the hall lights on the helmet of one of the cops. These guys weren’t playing.

  “That’s a start, ma’am, but if you don’t open it all the way, we’ll have to break it.”

  “Officer, you must have the wrong address. Ain’t nobody here that—”

  Before she could finish, the door burst open, chains popping, and an armed soldier inched through the opening.

  “Get back! Against the wall!”

  Uniforms stormed in, along with men in dark clothes with black jackets that had something printed on them. Peyton couldn’t see what was written there because he was thrown against the wall, the weak side of his face smashed to the plaster. It pressed through his cheek, boring into his bone.