No Matter How Much You Promise

by Edgardo Vega

  “Good. That’s much healthier than what I’ve done.”

  “Daddy had a little black, too, you know,” Vidamía said mischievously.

  “He what?”

  “Oh, not like that. He had a little black man that he talked to. You know. Imaginary. He was mumbling to himself one day, and, kidding around, I asked him who he was talking to. He said it was Mr. McQuinlan, his black leprechaun friend.”

  “Sure, of course,” Elsa said, seemingly unfazed by the story. “Bright people often have something like that. When they’re children and they’re lonely. They have imaginary friends. I guess Billy kept his.”

  “Yeah,” Vidamía said wistfully, noting that her mother had also called her father by his name. “You called Daddy Billy,” she’d added.

  “Yeah,” Elsa said, wistfully as she got up. “That was his name. I’m sleepy, baby.”

  They’d gone up the stairs with their arms around each other’s waist. The large clock in the library struck three in the morning and Elsa checked her watch to confirm the hour. When they reached the second floor Elsa rested her head on her taller daughter’s shoulder.

  “I love you, mami,” Vidamía said.

  “I love you, too,” Elsa replied.

  “Good night, mami.”

  “Buenas noches, negrita,” Elsa said.

  They kissed and hugged and went to get ready for bed.

  Wyndell and the quintet were now deep into “Night in Tunisia,” everyone blowing incredibly fast. Cliff was totally into the tune, one chorus after the next, the tones of his trombone throaty but clear. People were stomping and whistling and Rebecca was pounding the piano and lifting up off the piano bench as she accented a chorded phrase.

  They had slept late and then at breakfast they continued talking. Elsa now revealed why it had been so difficult for her to use the name Vidamía—and, by extension, Billy’s. She ended up telling her about her relationship with Billy Farrell.

  “It was as if I had given much more of myself than I had intended. I don’t know if you understand. Maybe I’m not explaining myself clearly.”

  “I understand.”

  “Like I had lost control of my life in getting pregnant. I never regretted having you. What I did regret is that I was too hasty in making the decision to break up with your father. He never abandoned us like I said.”

  “Really? You would’ve stayed with him?”

  “I think so. He wanted us to get married. I have no idea what I would’ve done with two or three more like you, but he was very serious about it. Kind of dopey and idealistic, but he really loved me. He was a very passionate man, and believe it or not, I’m no slouch.”

  “Wow,” Vidamía said, suddenly feeling the same lightness she felt when she talked about sex with Cookie, at the same time reflecting on the fact that her mother was, after all, only thirty-four and extremely attractive. “I guess my interest in the subject is in the genes, huh?” Vidamía added, looking at Elsa like a junior vamp.

  “How are you spelling that, J-E-A-N-S?” Elsa said, and they both laughed.

  “It was his idea to give you the name,” Elsa said. “Did you know that?”

  “Yeah, Grandma Ursula told me the story. I figured you were trying to sound mature and impress him with some sort of Latin passion.”

  “Sort of like that, except that after a while being with him was really powerful. But I really think that if we had been more mature we could’ve made it work,” she said, her memories making her pensive.

  “You really loved him, didn’t you?” Vidamía said.

  “I was very young, but I loved him,” Elsa said. “I love Barry now, and that helps me to recognize that I did love your father. I guess that’s why I didn’t want too much contact with him. I didn’t want to be reminded. It was all very crazy, but I did. I loved him. If I hadn’t, I really don’t think we could have made such a beautiful and smart daughter.”

  “Well, you had a lot to work with,” Vidamía said.

  “Thank you. And I’ll tell you another secret. Smart and beautiful are okay, but it’s always been your charm and wit that I’ve been jealous of, dear.”

  “It’s the Irish part of me.”

  “Sure it is,” Elsa said, dismissing the assertion. “Wait till you get a little older and the Latin from Manhattan starts making herself at home in your life. I’m sure you’ll change your mind.”

  “Lethal combination,” Vidamía said.

  They went on talking until nearly two o’clock in the afternoon, Elsa speaking about her life honestly, Vidamía spellbound by this new mother who had emerged from her tragedy. At one point Vidamía asked Elsa why she had agreed to see her own father.

  “I guess on account of what happened to Billy,” she said. “It shook me up and I started thinking that my father could die and I’d be stuck with all kinds of hateful feelings toward him. I didn’t want to feel that way. He can’t help being who he is. He was never mean to me. I just resented him not being around, and I was afraid of his being dark and everything.”

  “And now?”

  “Watching that movie helped. I guess I still feel pretty scared, but I want to go through it,” Elsa said. Recalling how she had wished that her parents were dead, she then told Vidamía the story of Barbara Gelfand and the grief she had felt at losing her parents in the Holocaust. Vidamía got up and went to Elsa’s chair and hugged Elsa.

  Vidamía imagined the fallen leaves covering the ground in Washington Square Park and the air growing cold and she and Wyndell apart. Maybe she wouldn’t go to Harvard. Maybe she’d stay in New York and go to Columbia. She suddenly felt an overpowering feeling of desire as she imagined being with Wyndell again, but knew she had to follow through and go to Boston and attend school and do her best and get into the medical school.

  Vidamía still couldn’t believe that her mother was sitting a few tables away watching Wyndell play. No more than two hours before, they had been at dinner together. Elsa and Barry sat with Vidamía and Wyndell discussing life and art and movies after the four met and had gone to an Italian restaurant near the Village Gate.

  “Vidamía has told me so much about you,” Elsa said and conspiratorially she looked at Vidamía. The two of them smiled mysteriously, sharing the private joke of the times Vidamía had taunted her mother with references to their lovemaking. Both Barry and Wyndell were left wondering what the joke was and demanded explanations but were simultaneously told that it was none of their business. When it came time for Wyndell to return to his apartment to pick up his saxophone, Elsa did the most charming thing that Vidamía had ever seen her mother do. They were standing in the street, and Wyndell turned to her to say goodbye. Elsa stuck out her hand, and when Wyn took it, she gently pulled him forward and offered her cheek for him to kiss. Wyndell leaned down and touched his lips tenderly to Elsa’s cheek. She returned the gesture, pecking him and lingering there for a moment before drawing back and winking coquettishly at Vidamía.

  “Vélalo bien, mija, que no te lo roben,” Elsa said, warning Vidamía to watch him closely to make sure nobody stole him from her.

  “Unbelievable,” Vidamía whispered to Barry.

  Barry snickered, and when Wyndell looked to him for support, Barry shook his head, told Wyndell not to pay too much attention to women, especially to his wife, and definitely not to his daughter. Elsa and Vidamía immediately slapped at Barry’s arm and laughed.

  An hour later, right before the first set began, at eight-thirty, Barry and Elsa came in and sat down a few tables away from where Vidamía was sitting with Cookie, Mario, and Meredith, Rebecca’s lover. They had agreed that Elsa would meet with her father in between sets. Several times during the performance Vidamía caught her mother looking at her father, sitting near the stage, unaware that his daughter was behind him. Vidamía couldn’t help admiring everything the quintet had accomplished in such a short period of time. She felt her head bobbing and her body swaying to the final strains of “’Round Midnight.” Wyndell was loo
king past Cookie at her, pleading with his eyes, asking Vidamía again to understand why he couldn’t move to Boston. But just as he couldn’t move to Boston, she couldn’t pass up going to Harvard, and he knew that. She’d told him she was going to find a place to live and begin getting used to school. They’d see each other on weekends and promised not to see other people.

  A few days before the gig, Vidamía asked Barry why he thought there had been such a drastic change in Elsa’s attitude toward her. They were sitting on the terrace outside the library, the late afternoon was warm and sunny. Mrs. Alvarez had brought them fresh lemonade. Barry removed his sunglasses and shook his head. He explained that Elsa was an extremely complex woman.

  “I think once you became interested in Puerto Rican culture, it eased her mind,” he nodded philosophically.

  “Eased her mind? Explain. I know she was happy about it, but I never thought much of it.”

  “Elsa has always been concerned with the issue of color. Irrational as it seems, she was afraid that you’d be drawn to the black side of being American. Especially with Wyn.”

  “And once I got into Puerto Rican history and culture there was no chance of that?” Vidamía asked.

  “Something like that.”

  “That is hilarious. Mami explained about her problems with race. It’s like being Puerto Rican is an antidote to this black and white stuff that is such a hang-up with Americans. Brilliant. Wow! That’s what I was trying to explain to Wyn when we were arguing about his wanting me to be black. In other words, being Rican means that you don’t have to decide whether you’re black or white.”

  “That’s as good an explanation as any, and probably healthier than having to decide between black and white. That kind of crap damages this country.”

  “But why was she so distant and now she’s so nice to me?”

  “I don’t know. I told her if she kept it up she was going to lose you. Elsa is a very competitive woman. I think it was a combination of your independence, your interest in P.R. culture, fear of losing your respect, and Lurleen’s love for you.”

  “But mami loves me,” Vidamía said with a mixture of pride and uncertainty.

  “She loves you more than you can imagine,” Barry said. “As long as I’ve known her.”

  “But she was so cold sometimes. She would never even call me by my name. I mean she’s not like that anymore. She calls me Vidamía and Vee. It’s cute. It’s like she’s one of Cookie’s homegirls, but grown up like their mothers, but different. Sophisticated. You know?”

  Barry nodded and drank from his lemonade. Putting on his sunglasses, he looked out at the expanse of lawn that led into the woods. Vidamía was certain that he was hiding some private hurt from her. Perhaps her mother had been so distant because being close to her would remind her, as she had said, that she should have stayed with Billy Farrell. She certainly was a complex woman. The air had grown chilly and the light of day dimmer. Vidamía and Barry rose from their patio chairs. Vidamía took Barry’s hand, hugged him and kissed his cheek. She thanked him for clearing things up. He nodded, and they walked back into the library with their arms around each other.

  69. Little Rootie Tootie

  Cookie loved Thelonious Monk and sometimes called Mario her “little rootie tootie,” whatever that meant. She and Mario were swooning over each other, pecking each other’s lips, oblivious to everyone around them. As inspired as Wyn’s solo was, Vidamía couldn’t keep her mind from wandering. She thought about Cookie’s confidence regarding everything she did. She had gotten a part in a movie and it didn’t even faze her. Vidamía recalled her attitude after she went to the audition three months earlier.

  “You think you’ll get the part?” Vidamía said.

  “Probably,” Cookie answered, matter-of-factly.

  “Did you meet the other people yet?”

  “No, but my agent says I will when rehearsals start.”

  “And you play somebody in a girl’s rock band?”

  “No. I mean, yeah. She plays in this rock band, but she’s in love with this boy, right? And he’s, like, a jerk and everything. He’s the friend of the boyfriend of the lead. They’re trying to get Winona Ryder or maybe Molly Ringwald to do it. Anyway, my character really loves this boy even though he’s a nerd, but very smart and everything. So she climbs up on the roof of the house.”

  “Her own house?”

  “No, the boy’s house. In the middle of the night. And she’s up there playing stuff from Charlie Parker, and he loves Bird. So the police and the firemen come and it’s a whole big deal. I’m gonna get the part. It was a good thing I had my ax with me the day of the audition, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. And you just took out your ax and started playing?” Vidamía using “ax” as she heard Wyn and other musicians refer to their instruments.

  “Word. Surprised me, too, homegirl.”

  “Tell me, tell me what happened,” Vidamía said, sitting cross-legged on the bed.

  “No, nothing,” Cookie said. “Like the man is talking and explaining the scene and all these girls are watching me and they’re all, like, twenty-seven and maybe even thirty years old and trying to make themselves look younger, and he’s explaining that this girl’s in high school, plays the saxophone, and that she’s a very good student, which I’m not, as you know, but lives with her parents who are very poor and she has a dream of going to college and becoming a doctor, like you wanna do, which is totally weird and very myoho, like Rima would say about Buddhism. And the girl, Diana, plays in the marching band at school and on weekends plays with a rhythm-and-blues band, and they’d seen me walking into the audition to sign in. And I can hear these other girls talking about ‘she’s crazy and she’s bringing props and why didn’t someone say you had to play the saxophone and shit?’ and I’m studying the sides, trying to understand the role.

  “And this man’s talking about how this boy, Harold, loves Charlie Parker and that’s all I needed to hear, man. When they call my name to read I had my ax out and I walk in, blow the hell out of ‘Ornithology,’ all crazy and fast like Bird played it on his alto, right? You know what I’m talking about? The side where he’s at Storyville in Boston in 1953, right? Wyn played that for us on the system one time at his apartment, and you know me, I hear any kind of sounds and I remember them.”

  “God, that was almost a year ago,” Vidamía said.

  “I dug what Bird was doing so I had practiced it. Anyway, I’m playing like a crazy person and when I finish after about three minutes, this one guy, who I found out is the writer, says to the guy running the audition, ‘That’s it, Murray. That’s it. Look at her, she’s perfect.’ And the other guy isn’t paying attention, and then he says, ‘Take a look at this, please, and read the parts that are in yellow.’ And I go, ‘Right,’ and don’t even put my ax away. I just put the guard on and let it hang offa me. I go over the lines and they say something like, ‘Harold, this may come as a surprise but you and I have very similar interests.’ So, like, I think to myself, if this girl Diana knows Charlie Parker’s music, she’s gotta be pretty hip so I go into character and remember Dizzy Gillespie from that time we watched him on television and I say, ‘Yo, Harold, like this is gonna blow you away but you and I dig the same kinda stuff and whatnot,’ which I know Diz doesn’t sound like that, but it kind of gave me some inspiration, thinking of him goofing on everything, and I felt like this girl would be like that, right?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “And this man goes, ‘Thank you very much,’ but the writer was smiling and nodding and winked at me. He was okay, not a hunk, but cute.”

  She and Vidamía had originally thought nothing much would come of the audition. Billy had been opposed to Cookie’s acting career. Lurleen, however, had been quietly supportive and had spoken to their father about letting Cookie have a chance at something she evidently loved doing. And now things were suddenly changing. They had kept everything a secret from everybody until things finally materialized. B
illy never knew how successful Cookie would become in a short period of time. A week before Wyn’s gig, Cookie and Vidamía were in the loft alone, listening to music and talking about things in general.

  “Are you really going to change your name for acting?”

  “Yep.”

  “Flores Farrell like they introduced you in the poetry slam at the Nuyorican Poets Café?”

  “No, boba. That’s a joke. That’s to mess with the homeboys.”

  “What, then?”

  “You know. My middle name. McAlpin. McAlpin Farrell. I discussed it with the agent last week and that’s what we agreed on. I got my glossies. Two hundred and fifty. I kept twenty to give to my fans,” she said, laughing at the put-on. “You want one?”

  Vidamía laughed some more, the tickly feeling of pride growing in her chest. And then Cookie brought out from her attaché case her new eight-by-ten glossies. Her sister Hortense “Cookie” Farrell looking like the foxiest young woman you’d ever want to see; her hair long now and coifed like a lady’s, no longer spiked as it was three years prior, the nose ring hole airbrushed out and her complexion clearer than it was to begin with, her blue eyes bright and innocent in the black-and-white photographs. There, on the bottom of the picture in bold script, everything looking official and as if the name had existed forever: McALPIN FARRELL.

  “Damn, homegirl,” Vidamía said in her best, downtown, Loisaida, Afro-Rican accent. “You the real thing, ain’t ya? Check you out, mami. You don’t dare.”

  “I got it, honey.”

  “Now, don’t be playing yourself. You gonna give some folks heart attacks and whatnot. Te ves preciosa, honey. You look beautiful. You gonna be the real thing.”

  “Thank you, mamita,” Cookie said, her eyes becoming teary. “Who says you can’t take the country outta the girl? I love you. You’re the best friend a person could have, even if you’re my big sister.”

  “I love you, too, you animal.”

  And then Cookie was jumping up and down like a little girl at Christmas when she’s gotten the best present ever.