No Matter How Much You Promise Page 73

  No matter what happened he had to act now. This time there mustn’t be any mistakes. No more walks on the ledge of the roof or wandering out into traffic. The tears were flowing from him, but he was dead inside. Everything in his life had been too much suffering, everything tainted with a sorrowful dirge that followed him wherever he went. He heard the bagpipes again, skirling into the marrow of his bones as they had when he was a boy. He heard the drums and the pipes and inside of him he marched forward. His entire life had been pain. First his father, and then Joey, and now Fawn. The only thing that had taken the pain away was the piano and Lurleen, and he couldn’t face her now. He had let one of the babies die. She’d understand, as she always did, but he couldn’t face her. Couldn’t face anyone. Playing the piano was no longer possible because now God had taken that away from him for good.

  He heard the second wave of sirens, summoned by the shots. Pop Butterworth was gone, and he had gone out strong. He knew now that he had to go out strong as well and once again picked up the .45, put it to his temple, looked out at the hazy blue sky through the broken roof, and pulled the trigger just as the policemen, guns drawn, peered into the apartment. The loud booming sound of the .45 made them instinctively flatten themselves against the wall or hit the dirty, piss-stained floor of the corridor outside the apartment.

  A red, opaque film of sound and darkness enveloped Billy Farrell. Lifeless, he slumped sideways, the pistol still firmly in his left hand.

  Fourth Movement

  The Drum

  65. Mourning

  Vidamía imagined a sturdy leather-bound photo album with a lock and key. It was in this album that she would keep the memories of her father. She would treasure them and store them in a private place in her life. Among those memories would be the one of her father’s casket, the large American flag draped over it and the Marine honor guard in their dress blues standing at attention and then firing their rifles into the solemn gray sky. The rifles had fired blanks but she was certain even the sound was wounding something and once again she knew that no matter what happened in her life she would heed Maud Farrell’s advice and never let a son or daughter of hers go to war, no matter what the circumstances. “Even if you have to break their legs, shoot them in the foot or blind them in one eye,” her grandmother said, angrily, her face set in a mask of stone. Vidamía knew she’d never go quite that far, but she would raise her children lovingly so that when she spoke, they would listen, just like Lurleen, who didn’t have to repeat things, the wisdom of whatever she said revealing itself immediately.

  At the funeral Vidamía recalled that on July 30, 1990, about the same time that Wyndell notified her that he’d gotten an opportunity to play at the Village Gate, Iraqi tanks stood poised on the border of Kuwait waiting to invade the smaller country. As soon as the confrontation began to take shape, her father had taken a position in front of the television set. He remained in front of the set, taking in the reports, his eyes wild and his fists clenched.

  During the entire three weeks of August, her father had been diligent about rehearsals. He was always on time, definitely focused, influenced by Buster Williams’s serene attitude and professional demeanor, Wyndell’s enthusiasm for his playing, and the fact that he wanted to regain Cliff’s respect. But when he wasn’t rehearsing, he appeared obsessed by the military action in the Gulf. One time at supper he mentioned that perhaps he ought to call the Marines and ask if they needed him to report for duty. Lurleen reminded him that he was forty years old, and, as if he were waking up from sleep, he shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and asked her what she’d said. When Lurleen repeated that he was forty, he said he knew that and why was she bringing it up. It was as if he’d been someplace else, his mind tuned to a different reality from the one they were experiencing. It scared Vidamía, but eventually Lurleen made light of the matter and they went on eating.

  Vidamía still didn’t know how Lurleen had managed everything, but she had gotten hold of the Veterans Administration and they’d sent a detail of Marines. After the coffin was lowered into the grave, the sergeant brought his saber down, two Marines folded the American flag into a neat triangle, and the sergeant brought it to Lurleen, who stood by the graveside, dressed in black, her eyes far away and lost.

  Funeral wreaths with inscribed purple ribbons came from all over the United States, Canada, Ireland, and Australia, where the Farrell clans had settled. The Sandersons, the Meekinses, the McAlpins, and the Burrells—relatives from Tennessee, Mississippi, Missouri, and Texas—all sent wreaths and condolences. Garlande, Davina, and Dr. and Mrs. Ross also sent wreaths and a handwritten message to Vidamía. There was a wreath from Barry on their family’s behalf.

  Her mother, Elsa, was there with Barry, her demeanor betraying the confusion this new event had produced in her life. Vidamía observed her and couldn’t tell whether Elsa was actually feeling genuine grief or, as she stood apart from the others, feigning sorrow. She no longer felt dislike for her mother or was even embarrassed by her lack of sincerity. Rather, she pitied Elsa and her attempts at genuineness. It was as if with the passing of time Elsa had forgotten totally her original identity and had invented herself from textbooks, lectures, magazines, and the influence of her profession. Everything that came out of her mouth sounded manufactured and without true meaning.

  Vidamía declined to drive from the cemetery with her mother and stepfather. She returned to the Lower East Side with the Farrells, riding in Mr. Contreras’s car, with Baby and Cookie. Lurleen, Cliff, and Caitlin rode in Mrs. Pitino’s car. Mrs. Pitino was a friend of Lurleen’s who taught at her school and had a brother who was a Vietnam veteran—now in a mental hospital in Pennsylvania. Barbara Pitino remained with the family for two days, helping to straighten things out, making trips to the supermarket for boxes and packing things away because Lurleen was thinking of moving. Barbara had suggested a roomy apartment in a brownstone owned by her father, not too far from Barbara’s home in Brooklyn Heights.

  When Vidamía had phoned home to let Elsa and Barry know about the tragedy, Barry offered to send a car. Vidamía thanked him but said she preferred taking the train back to Tarrytown. Her senses numbed, she rode the train staring blankly at the gray-green landscape, the absence of sunlight adding to her grief. When she reached Tarrytown, she got off the train and didn’t bother with a taxi. Methodically, she walked home up the hilly streets in the steady late-summer drizzle, getting soaked and feeling with increasing awareness the heaviness of everything she thought about her father and sister. When she arrived, she went around to the back of the house like the deliverymen, the plumbers and electricians, the men who did the yard work, the black people who came and served whenever her mother threw a big party. Feeling like a stranger in the house she’d grown to love, she went in through the back door and into the kitchen. When she trudged up the two steps of the entrance to the kitchen and opened the door, Beanbag came up and greeted her. Usually, he came bounding up to her and banged heavily against her legs, wishing to be petted and played with. This time, however, he emitted a small whine of seeming grief, as if he understood and were offering his condolences. When she didn’t even respond to that, he walked slowly away. “I’m sorry, Beanbag,” she said. Sensing how drained of emotion she was, the big dog lay down outside the kitchen, his eyes staring sadly at her.

  As soon as Mrs. Alvarez saw her, she opened her arms, and the two of them cried together. Mrs. Alvarez took her upstairs and helped her to take off her clothes and dry her hair. Mechanically, she changed, came downstairs, and ate some soup and a sandwich, the only things she had been able to eat since the deaths of Billy and Fawn.

  She recalled the way Lurleen looked when she returned from identifying the bodies. Her devastation was so complete, the horror in her face carved so deeply. It was as if she were wearing a mask in the most profound of tragedies, something in which the words of the actors tear at your heart. Even Lurleen’s eyes seemed etched in that granite of sorrow that humans wear when confronted w
ith the immensity of such a loss.

  Vidamía was alone in her room, choosing appropriate clothes for the funeral. She had just placed her “little black dress,” which her mother insisted was good for any occasion, on the bed and was standing by the window, watching the rain, noting that the air was the color of gray-yellow metal, everything cool and moist, when her mother came into the room.

  “How are you feeling, baby?” Elsa said.

  “I’m all right, mami,” Vidamía replied. “Numb, I guess. I don’t know. I really thought he was going to be okay. But maybe Lurleen was right.”

  “What?” Elsa asked, her voice suddenly defensively inquisitive, betraying the profound jealousy she felt toward Lurleen. Over the half-dozen years Lurleen had been, albeit peripherally, in Vidamía’s life, her blond whiteness, her quiet confidence, and her beatific attitude of suffering inspired greater and greater resentment in Elsa.

  “What did she say?” Elsa now inquired.

  “Oh, nothing. She worried that playing the piano again might make all his trouble resurface. I suppose she was right.”

  “Yes, perhaps she was,” Elsa said, smugly, seeding Vidamía’s shattered mind with doubt, her displeasure over the purchase of the piano the previous year surfacing once more. “Oftentimes having to relive a painful part of one’s life will produce hatred and self-destructiveness.” And then with little sensitivity for the import of her words, she added, “Perhaps in the larger scheme of things it’s all for the best. He was a troubled man, a man filled with tremendous pain.”

  Vidamía turned from the window, feeling an overwhelming desire to scream at her mother that she was a phony and didn’t have an ounce of sympathy left in her.

  “That is so much bullshit, Mom,” she said, sharply.

  “I’ve asked you to please not use that kind of language, young lady,” Elsa said.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, okay?” Vidamía shot back, going to the closet and getting her raincoat.

  “Where are you going?”

  “None of your business. Just leave me alone.”

  “We should talk about this.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it. I’m tired of talking about it. Especially to you. All you know is how to judge people and look down on them from some self-proclaimed exalted state.”

  “Self-proclaimed exalted state?” Elsa said sarcastically. “Are you sure you’re using those words correctly?”

  “You are so screwed up,” Vidamía said to her mother and shook her head disapprovingly. She then walked deliberately up to her mother and spoke in exaggeratedly enunciated tones, her nose no more than six inches from Elsa’s face, realizing for the first time, that she was actually much taller, physically and otherwise, than her mother. “And another thing. Why is it you still insist on this idiotic ‘baby, darling, sweetie,’ or, when you’re not feeling well, ‘young lady’ or ‘Miss,’ but never my real name? Let me introduce myself. I’m Vidamía Farrell, thank you very much. I’ve always been Vidamía, and I’ll always be Vidamía. Just like my father wanted. Vidamía Farrell. I know you hate it, but that’s the way things are,” she said and turned to go.

  Elsa laughed nervously. Vidamía turned back to say something else, thought better of it, and instead shot her a look of disdain and rushed out of the room, buttoning her yellow slicker and pulling up the hood as she ran down the stairs and out of the house again. Beanbag made a halfhearted attempt to follow her but with a simple look she ordered him back to the place where he was resting on the rug in Barry’s den. The rain fell in a steady misty drizzle, giving the grass and the leaves and every surface it touched a gauzy texture, and producing a pleasant fragrance as if somehow each flower and tree and the earth itself had been blended to produce a sweet yet melancholy end-of-summer scent. Her father and Fawn, she thought, could no longer smell the fragrance of flowers or grass or rain as it fell.

  Lurleen was absolutely right. Giving people hope of Heaven, or reincarnation only made them lack appreciation for the here and now. Oh, yes, it provided a bit of comfort, but after the loved one was dead, the rationalizations didn’t matter. If all that nonsense didn’t exist, then maybe people, knowing they would never see each other again, not in Heaven and not in their next lives, would appreciate each other more now and treat each other better now. Vidamía made a determination to understand her mother.

  Through the mist of falling rain, she peered out from the other mist forming in her eyes, this mist caused by the awful, persistent pain in the middle of her chest. The tears came easily now, flowing freely from inside of her as if she had suddenly given herself permission to mourn her loss fully. She recalled Lurleen finding Fawn’s diary and poetry and showing it to her after the funeral arrangements had been made. There was one poem in which Fawn had likened rain to the tears of nature as it mourned the death of trees and small animals.

  Vidamía and Cookie had gotten off the D train at Grand Street after saying goodbye to Leslie Rosen and Betsy Fuller, Cookie’s classmates at Performing Arts, with whom they had gone to the beach at Coney Island. They heard the sirens and the police cars screeching around the corner and followed them, since they were headed in that direction anyway. They walked fast, as if they were being pulled by the magnetic force of the destruction all the way to the building on Eldridge Street, following the commotion, never imagining that it had to do with their family. When they got there, at least thirty police vehicles had crowded into the block. There were TV cameras, reporters interviewing people, and patrolmen trying to keep the crowds away from the crime scene. Down the street in front of the abandoned building the police had cordoned off the area with yellow DO NOT CROSS tape to indicate that a violent crime had been committed and there was a police investigation under way.

  “Yo, what happened?” Cookie asked a couple of homeboys standing around with their arms crossed. “Drugs?”

  “Yeah, drugs,” one of them said. “Some white hara busted the dudes. There was a whole lotta shooting. Beep, beep, beep. Automatic, right, Freddiea?” he said, turning to his friend.

  “Word,” Freddie said. “Some blond long-haired dude with a mustache. He was across the street watching everything and all of a sudden he disappeared and went up and got the dudes. Had to be a hara.”

  “Oh, my God,” Cookie said, pulling at Vidamía’s shirt.

  “We should go home, Cookie,” Vidamía said.

  “No, wait, Vee,” Cookie said. “Wait. Oh, my God.”

  The two of them stood fixed to the spot as the doors of the morgue wagon opened and the police placed more yellow tape around the area and more policemen and morgue personnel went upstairs with empty body bags. Sometime later they came down carrying the bodies in their bags and then the doors of the morgue wagon closed and the vehicle pulled away and people started moving off, and Vidamía and Cookie were left staring at the scene until finally Vidamía, Cookie clinging to her arm, went over and asked a man what had happened. The man said a veteran had gone crazy and shot some people.

  “How do you know he was a veteran?” Cookie said.

  “People said he was dressed in soldiers’ clothes,” the man said.

  “The veteran,” Vidamía said, her voice trembling, “what happened to him?”

  “They shot him,” the man said, matter-of-factly. “You live around here?” he asked, his eyes going up and down the front of her like he wanted to undress her. She turned away without answering him and pulled Cookie away from the scene.

  “It was him, wasn’t it, Vee?” Cookie immediately said, the tears welling up in her eyes. “What are we gonna tell Mama?”

  “You don’t know it was him,” Vidamía said, also avoiding having to say the word “Daddy.” “He didn’t have a gun. Mama told me she wouldn’t let him have guns in the house.” She knew she was lying to herself, still hoping the truth could be delayed. She knew it was him because something inside of her had been torn away and already the place where Billy had been was empty and raw and the only image that she co
uld conjure up was of that time in the desert with her mother and stepfather when she had wandered off and looked into the window of an abandoned house, at the stark desolation of the interior, and the absence of any discernible humanity tore savagely at the core of her soul. That is how the building and the block now felt to her as she led her sister away.

  “I don’t wanna go home, Vee,” Cookie had said.

  “We have to, Cookie. Mama’ll worry.”

  “I just don’t wanna go there and have him not come in and stuff, Vee. Please. I don’t wanna go back.”

  “Fine, we won’t go back right away,” Vidamía said. She went into her bag, took out a quarter, and called Wyndell from a public phone. She spoke into the receiver, explaining that she was on the way to his apartment. “The machine’s on, but we can go over to Wyn’s apartment if you want,” she said after hanging up the phone. “We can go there and wait.”

  “Maybe we should go back and see how Mama’s doing,” Cookie said. “Oh, God, what are we gonna do? What’s gonna happen to us?”

  “Don’t think about it. It’s gonna be all right. We’ll be all right. Maybe nothing happened.”

  “It was him, wasn’t it?” Cookie said, digging her nails into Vidamía’s arm. “They killed him. The police killed him and now they’re covering it up like they do everything else. You heard the man. Just like the stuff that happened over in Tompkins Square Park, when they went crazy and beat on everybody.”

  “No, stop it, stop it. You don’t know. Let’s just go home and wait. He’s probably waiting there. You don’t know. Maybe he’s worried about us.”

  Cookie didn’t say anything more as they walked down Houston and away from the direction of their home, not consciously, but as if needing to avoid the confrontation with the reality they both knew was inevitable. Toward eight o’clock that evening when the sunlight was beginning to fade, they made their way back to the loft, and it was worse then because when they turned the corner they saw that the police cars had returned and were now in front of their building, and then they knew that whatever they had feared, whatever they were to face, would be greater and more devastating.