No Matter How Much You Promise

by Edgardo Vega

  A policeman tried stopping them when they attempted to go into the building. Cookie kicked the policeman in the leg and called him stupid.

  “You fucking pig,” she said. “You killed my father, didn’t you?”

  “Hey, take it easy,” the cop said, feeling ridiculous for placing his nightstick in front of him to protect himself from Cookie. And then another policeman came over.

  “Take a walk, girls,” he said. “Just keep moving.”

  “We live here, you fucking pig,” Cookie said.

  “Stop it, Cookie,” Vidamía yelled, her own voice on the edge of screaming out her own pain, the hysteria barely controlled. “Officer, we live here. Can we go up, please?”

  “What’s your name?” the second policeman said.

  At that point a policewoman with sergeant’s stripes named McGowan came out of the door. She saw what was taking place and told the other two policemen to let them up.

  “They’re his daughters,” McGowan said. “I saw their pictures up there.” Turning to Vidamía and Cookie, she motioned them forward. “Go ahead up. Your mother’s gotta go downtown with us. I’m sorry about what happened. Your father did the right thing.”

  “No, he didn’t,” Cookie said, subdued now by the policewoman’s voice, reminding her of her great-grandma Brigid, but younger. “You killed him,” she added weakly.

  “We wouldn’t do that, honey,” McGowan said, her voice almost soothing. “You know better. Go ahead up. I’m really sorry. Your mom’s waiting for you.”

  “Okay,” Cookie said, and all at once she was a little girl and she was crying full out, all the toughness gone out of her, her face soft and vulnerable, her nose ring and black lipstick looking out of place. As she stepped inside the door, she nearly collapsed, so that Vidamía had to put an arm around her.

  “I’m sorry,” she said to Sergeant McGowan. “I didn’t mean it.”

  “I know you didn’t,” McGowan said, her eyes beginning to grow moist. “I know that. Go ahead up. Your mom needs help.”

  They had gone up on the elevator, the creaking of the cables and the machinery magnified in the deathly silence that was now Billy Farrell’s absence, which they felt already without knowing the particulars of what had taken place.

  66. Never Coming Home Again

  When they came out of the elevator and into the loft, there were at least ten other policemen standing around, their expressions pained, perplexed. Lurleen was talking to one of them. Cliff was sitting in Billy’s rocker staring out of the big factory windows at the failing light of dusk, the sun a huge red disk dipping behind the skyline of Downtown Manhattan. Caitlin was sitting on the floor, looking at a comic book. Cookie rushed over to her mother and, burying herself in her hair, sobbed, the pain coming out uncontrolled in long keening sounds that tore at the hearts of the young cops as well as those of the older detectives. Vidamía went over to Cliff, knelt next to him, and took his hand. Cliff began crying softly. After a few minutes, Vidamía bolted upright.

  “Where’s Fawn?” she said, starting to walk away from Cliff to look for her.

  “They got her, Vee,” he said, his eyes in shock. “They killed her. That’s why Papa went after them.”

  “Fawn?” Vidamía said. “Fawn, too?”

  “Yeah, some boys from Avenue B, the cops said. Papa shot them.”

  “And they killed him?” Vidamía asked.

  “I think so.”

  “Oh, my God,” she said and went over to Lurleen, who had now taken Cookie to her room and helped her lie on the bed, soothing her as if she were once more a colicky baby, talking to her in a sort of halfspeech, half-lullaby whisper.

  When Lurleen saw Vidamía she sat up on the bed and opened her arms, and Vidamía went to her, feeling her knees grow weak, and then collapsing and finally letting the pain out as Lurleen held her, smoothing her hair and saying, “That’s okay, baby. It’s gonna be all right. Your daddy loved you very much.”

  “I shouldn’t have gotten him the piano, Mama,” Vidamía said.

  “No, no. Don’t think that way. He loved the piano. You don’t know how much he appreciated you getting that piano in here. What happened couldn’t be helped. You know that. He was just trying to get Fawn back. Can you do me a favor?”

  “I think so,” Vidamía said, tremulously.

  “Can you stay here with the kids?” Lurleen said. “I gotta go downtown and make sure it’s them. Your daddy and Fawn. I’ll be back.”

  And then Vidamía looked at Lurleen. She looked small and shrunken, her eyes faded and beaten. Vidamía took Lurleen in her arms and hugged her and felt Lurleen stiffen and then sigh and after a moment say she’d be all right.

  “It’s a damn shame, ain’t it?” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes and sweeping the ash-blond hair behind her ears. “A damn shame.” And then she turned away, nodded to the policeman, and was gone. Vidamía went over and sat down cross-legged in front of Caitlin, who seemed oblivious to everything around her. Vidamía sat and simply watched her little sister, creating a net of protection lest the pain that had invaded their souls intrude upon her innocence.

  Fawn was buried next to her father two days later. While there was no viewing of Billy’s remains, Fawn had lain in her white casket at the Ortíz funeral home on First Avenue, her pale face luminous and her blond hair brilliant in the candlelight. Friends from the neighborhood wanted to have a minister or a priest say a few words, first at the funeral home and then at the graveside, but Lurleen had stoically resisted, saying that she didn’t want religion to be part of saying goodbye to her husband or daughter. Maud Farrell sat with Ruby Broadway next to her, and Buck Sanderson next to Ruby. Maud sat quietly with a rosary and prayed over the bodies. She didn’t oppose Lurleen’s refusal to have a religious funeral, nor did Lurleen oppose others grieving in their own way.

  When a social worker from one of the Settlement Houses where the kids went for drama classes and arts and crafts came to the house and insisted on a service, Lurleen had looked at her, imploring her to stop.

  “I think it would be the best thing to do, considering the circumstances—”

  “No religious services,” Lurleen said, firmly, her eyes absolutely cold and determined. “If that ain’t good enough, then so be it.”

  “I was only trying to—” the social worker started to say.

  “And I’m gonna tell you one more thing,” Lurleen said, her efforts to modify her southern accent in order to adapt to New York now gone. “I’m a widow left with three children to raise. I’m tired, full of heartache, and damn near collapsed, but I don’t want an ounce of pity. If you’re going to sit around here trying to decide for other folks what’s best for them, I’m going to have to ask you to leave my home.”

  The social worker slinked off, muttering as she left the loft. Lurleen put her head down and it was clear she felt worse for the social worker than she did for herself. The rest of the week was hell. Lurleen couldn’t sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. Sergeant Mary McGowan returned to the loft and sat with Lurleen and told her exactly what the police had been able to piece together from their investigation. She had the reports of the autopsies, but said that Lurleen didn’t have to look at them if she didn’t want to. Sergeant McGowan hadn’t wanted to show them to her, but Lurleen insisted and again, stoically, made herself read them.

  Lurleen, knowing Vidamía would want to know the whole truth, no matter how painful, later told her that Fawn had been raped, and they had eviscerated her. Her father had shot the four of them and their dog and had then committed suicide. One of the four survived and had told the detectives what had taken place. Lurleen asked her not to discuss it with the children.

  The worst aspect of the tragedy had been the newspaper coverage. Not because they had reported unfairly or inaccurately, but because people in the neighborhood invariably pointed at the family and stared at them when they went outside the loft. The New York Post, the Daily News, and Newsday all carried the stor
y on their front pages with extensive coverage. There were pictures of “a distraught daughter of the deceased veteran being restrained by the police,” and Cookie being handled very gently by Mary McGowan in front of their building. They had gotten a photograph of Billy in his Marine dress uniform and a school picture of Fawn in the sixth grade which a classmate had given the newspaper. The four young men who had been shot by Billy Farrell had their moment of glory when their pictures, provided by their families, appeared alongside the accounts of the event.

  There were sympathetic pieces written about the tragedy. The New York Times did an investigative piece on the backgrounds of the four young men, highlighting the fact that they were the product of four generations of poverty since the arrival of their great-grandparents from Puerto Rico in the 1940s. The actions of Carlos “Papo” Marcano, José “Pepe” Baez, Antonio “Pipo” Correa, and Henry “Pupi” Mercado, although the article didn’t state this directly, appeared to point to the greater problems of overcrowded schools, lack of opportunities for youth, and a society that places little value on the needs of the children and parents of the poverty culture.

  The television networks had a field day. Lurleen refused to be interviewed or to allow reporters into the loft. Several reporters attempted to speak with Cliff, Cookie, and Vidamía, but each refused to speak to them. The consensus in the media was that this was simply a case of a Vietnam vet who had gone to his daughter’s rescue. Little was made of the fact that Billy Farrell had been attempting a comeback in the world of jazz. In fact the most commonly held belief was that the developing crisis over Iraq’s invasion of Kuwait might have been responsible for Billy’s problem. In spite of the clumsiness of the shot-in-the-dark approach by reporters, they weren’t too far from the truth.

  Talk shows, including A Current Affair, Donahue, Oprah, and Geraldo, attempted to get Lurleen to tell her story. Some promised considerable sums of money, but in each case Lurleen thanked them and simply requested that they not interfere with the family’s mourning. Spurred by Mary McGowan, whose father, Terrence, had worked with Billy’s father, Kevin, at the 23rd Police Precinct in East Harlem at the time of his death, police officers made sure the family was not disturbed.

  During the first few days, some of the relatives of the four young men who died made unfortunate remarks about revenge on the family. The veiled threats got back to the police, who dealt with them with haste and efficacy, warning those involved that they would treat any attack on the family as if it were being perpetrated on the family of a police officer. Day and night, fearing retribution, there were at least two police officers in civilian clothes, parked in their own cars in front of the building, making sure the family was safe. They stopped Wyn a few times, but he explained who he was and was allowed to go upstairs.

  The day after the funerals, Wyndell Ross went and spoke with Art D’Lugoff of the Village Gate.

  “I heard something about it and kept hoping it wasn’t the same Billy Farrell and then I saw the papers,” Art said. “I heard he was doing real good. You still want to do the gig?”

  “Yeah, I was kinda looking forward to it, but I don’t know,” Wyn said. “I’d have to find another pianist, and one of the musicians is his son. I don’t know if he’s gonna be ready. He’s a kid, you know. Fifteen.”

  “Anyway, don’t worry about it,” D’Lugoff said. “Let me see what I can do. Maybe you can switch with the Brazilian group playing in September.”

  A week later the dates were switched. It was now a matter of finding another pianist, which should’ve proved easy, but everyone seemed to be involved in something or going out of town. Some could do the date, but didn’t have time to rehearse. Vidamía returned to Tarrytown to inform her mother that she wouldn’t be going to Harvard in September. Elsa began to protest, but Vidamía stopped her and explained that she had already called and asked for an appointment to discuss the matter with the administration. She would be going up sometime in the next few weeks. She had packed two suitcases and ordered a car to bring her to New York to stay at the loft. Barry was willing to help her, so there was no need to worry about money. He, at least, understood her loss. She sat with him in his den, her legs curled up under her on the leather couch, and told him how well her father had been doing.

  “You did the right thing in trying to help him,” he said. “Whatever happened is regrettable, but if there is one consolation, from everything you told me he was playing his music again, and I’m sure that wouldn’t have happened without your persistence.”

  “But maybe if I hadn’t pushed him, the rest wouldn’t have happened,” she replied.

  “You can’t think that way,” Barry said. “Things have their own organic sequence. There are too many factors involved. All that you can do in life is make efforts on your own behalf and on behalf of others. As long as you keep in mind that what you’re doing is for an ultimate good, then no one, including yourself, has the right to judge the outcome.”

  She got up, and he walked her to the door. She told him that what he said was difficult for her to accept, but that she would try. She hugged herself to him and remained in his arms, weeping softly. When she was done she wiped her eyes and smiled.

  “Can I ask you something?” she said.

  “Anything,” he said.

  “I can’t call you Dad or Daddy, but could you be my father now?”

  “I’ve always thought of myself that way,” he said, smiling sadly.

  “No, not my stepfather,” she said. “My father.”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I love you, Barry,” she said.

  “I love you too, Vidamía,” he said. “If there’s anything I can do, ever, don’t forget to ask. Whatever it is, I trust you more than ever.”

  “Thank you,” she said. “You don’t know how good that makes me feel. I’ll see you when I get back.”

  “I’ll be here.”

  “Good night, papi,” she said.

  “Good night, mijita,” he said.

  That weekend, Vidamía stayed at Wyndell’s apartment. On Saturday they had lunch at a Japanese restaurant nearby. When she announced her plans to go up to Harvard and speak with them about delaying her entrance, he told her about the postponement of the gig and his difficulty finding a pianist. Buster Williams had tried to get Kenny Barron and then Cedar Walton, but both of them had commitments.

  “What about your friend in Boston?” she said.

  “Rebecca Feliciano?”

  “Yeah, she’s a pianist.”

  “I didn’t even think of calling her.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess because she’s not in New York. She’s pretty busy.”

  “When did you see her last?”

  “Six months ago when …” Wyndell hesitated, as if he didn’t want to reveal something.

  “What’s the matter?” Vidamía said. “Please don’t do that. It’s like you’re trying to hide something from me.”

  “I’m not. I just don’t want to remind you of things.”

  “What things?” she said, feeling the anger which had lately begun to surface with little provocation.

  “She came in for her father’s funeral about six months ago,” Wyn said. “I saw her briefly. She was in pretty bad shape.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vidamía said. “I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m all right. Really. Why don’t you call her? Maybe she can do it.”

  “I guess I should.”

  They returned to his apartment and Wyn went into the bedroom and made the call.

  She walked away from him and out into the garden and stood contemplating the wet yard. It had rained all night and she’d awakened to the thunder and lightning. They had spent the night together, but hadn’t made love. Since her father’s death she hadn’t wanted to be intimate and Wyndell understood that. She had been unable to sleep and had remained awake wondering again about her part in her father’s death. Now she felt tired and grouchy. Wyn came out into the garden, put
his arms around her, and said he was sorry.

  “Are you all right?” he said.

  “I’m all right. Just thinking.”

  “I feel bad about your dad,” he said. “He was really great, Vee. Really. Not just great for a white guy, but gifted as hell. We were just starting to blend. It would’ve been fantastic. I’m sorry.”

  He held her and she cried, softly at first and then violently, the racking sobs making her angry as she recalled once more the horror of that day her father had ceased to exist. And poor little Fawn. She couldn’t figure out what they could’ve done differently to prevent what took place. Lurleen said Fawn had been apprehensive about the operation. How would she ever rid herself of feeling responsible for what had happened to her father? How could it have all happened? It was so horrible.

  Most people were so cynical and she didn’t want to be that way. They weren’t content with destroying their own dreams but went out of their way to dash others’ hopes and dreams to the ground, and, not content with merely shattering those dreams, they would step on the pieces so that only dust remained. They escaped through drugs, sex, booze, careers, family, and religion and never faced their personal responsibility. And then there were people like Lurleen, who felt a duty to help others become happy and healthy. What would she do? Poor Mama. Vidamía felt as if she had no parents now. As if her lifeline to those she loved had been truncated. She knew better, though. Barry loved her. He was her papi and Lurleen was her mama. Neither one of them her blood, but without question her parents. One Puerto Rican and the other American. That’s what she was about, a blending of the two cultures.