The Daughter She Used To Be
Page 3
“You tell him, sister girl.” Brendan held up his hand and Bernie slapped him five.
“Still ...” Tony poured himself a cup. “I’d love to nail that guy.”
Chapter 4
The burning at the back of her throat was probably indigestion from the seasonings on Ma’s roast, but Mary Kate equated it with sickness of heart. Like those pictures of Christ that revealed his heart, a red, glowing heart shape sometimes on fire with faith or burdened with his crown of thorns. One look at a picture of the Sacred Heart of Jesus and your eyes bugged out. That heart was the only thing you noticed.
And right now, Mary Kate’s heart radiated pain through the rest of her body.
I’m suffering from a broken heart, she thought as she rinsed the large carrot bowl clean. At forty-two, she seemed far too old to be suffering romance problems. Forty-two and three kids in college; she was over the hill. The thought made her eyes sting, a tear forming as she recalled those black and white “over the hill” banners the kids had hung for her fortieth two years ago. She was over the hill, and losing her husband, and once it was all over, drained like the dirty dishwater in the sink at her hands, she’d be an old matron. Like Mrs. Harmon across the street who lived and died alone after her husband left her. “They’ll carry Mrs. Harmon out of that place someday,” Sully used to say when people asked if he worried that their neighbor might sell the house. And her father had been right. They’d all been here for dinner the day the coroner’s station wagon came to get her. “Ah, the meat wagon,” Tony had said, with barely a hint of sadness.
The bastard. Sadness wasn’t in his repertoire, probably because he was too busy tap dancing into someone else’s limelight.
She wondered if anyone sensed the trouble.
Was that why Ma had argued with her about clearing away Tony’s place at the table? And the pressure to bring Conner along ... one more push and she’d be over the edge. Of course Conner didn’t really want to come to his grandparents’ house, and right now she couldn’t risk him spilling their secrets. Not now, when the slamming doors and muted sobs still hadn’t given way to any sort of resolution.
As Mary Kate rinsed the roast pan and gave it a moment to drip into the stainless steel sink, she sensed her sister-in-law Sarah moving behind her. Lingering close.
“Oh, look at you, finished scrubbing all the pots and pans single-handedly.” She touched MK’s shoulder, and Mary Kate felt her composure crumbling. Sarah was kind and smart, a big help in the kitchen, unlike Bernie. Mary Kate and Sarah had a lot in common with their kids, their husbands on the job.
Only Sarah’s husband wasn’t about to move in with his twentysomething girlfriend.
“Why don’t you take a break and let me load the dishwasher?” Sarah stepped up beside her, rolling up the sleeves of her sweater. “Give me the gloves.” In a low voice, mimicking a cop, she added: “Surrender the gloves and step away from the sink, ma’am.”
“Okay.” Mary Kate forced a trembling smile as she stripped off the rubber gloves. “I’ll dry and put away.”
“Get outta here. You’re not an indentured slave. Go out there and sit with your husband. I’ll be done with this stuff in two minutes.”
“I’m good.” Mary Kate took a clean towel from the drawer and began to dry the towering mound of pans on the counter. She had a love-hate relationship with this kitchen she’d grown up in. She resented the splatter and grit of kitchen chores, but when her insides twisted with worry, this was the room that brought her comfort. The vinyl floor, worn but still shiny, held a million footprints of their family history. The wallpaper over the table had been wiped clean so many times its flowers had faded from periwinkle to a soft baby blue, and yet no one wanted to change it. Her mother’s kitchen was hallowed ground.
She hoisted a squat casserole dish into the towel. “This dish is a relic,” she told Sarah. She’d dried the piece with tiny blue flowers on the side all her life. When she’d been a kid, dreaming about her devout life in the convent. She wanted to be the Flying Nun! As a stupid teen, when she gave up the nun plan for Brian Finnegan. Then, even more stupid, when she got pregnant with Erin and had to drop out of college at twenty. Not that she regretted any of her kids, God bless them, but what if she’d taken a different track?
What if she was sitting out there with the men, tossing around her own stories like Bernie?
Bitterness stung the back of her tongue as she wondered how things had unraveled in the patterns they all lived. You’d think Mary Kate would be endeared to her father because she’d married a cop. But then along comes Bernie, going to law school and working in the DA’s office. Already she’d trumped MK, and she didn’t have a husband and kids yet.
Cradling the roasting pan in her arms, Mary Kate paced toward the dining room door and peeked out. Her Tony seemed to glow from the center of the table, probably because he sat under the hanging light. That and the tan, which he’d gotten from the salon upon his doctor’s recommendation for “light therapy.” A lot of hooey. He might have a little less hair, and it was graying, salt and pepper, her mother called it, but he was still a handsome man. His hair was longish now for anti-crime, and that made him look kind of roguish. Or maybe he kept it longer to cover up the bare spot on top. She had noticed, oh, yes, she had, but she had kept it to herself, knowing how sensitive Tony was about his looks.
And that beard ... When he first grew it for undercover work, she’d liked it. But now, now it was one of the things that turned him into another person, a man she didn’t know or trust.
She watched the back of Bernie’s head bob, the chandelier bouncing gold and red lights on her hair. Mary Kate reached up to her own A-line cut, curled demurely at her chin. She got the Kenny hair, thin and wispy. Bernie was telling a story, and her brothers watched her, riveted.
Dad looked on with that distant look, reserving judgment, while Tony had his finger in the air, waiting for an opportunity to interject something.
All these years, Bernie had her place at the table with the men. Even as a girl, she’d seemed welcome there. MK rubbed the towel vigorously over a small spot on the pan, shining it to a gloss as she contemplated the dining room dynamic.
“Did you ever notice how Bernie always lingers at the table?” Mary Kate worked to keep jealousy from leaching into her voice. “She does that every week. Ignores all the cleanup while she talks locker-room scuttlebutt with the men.”
“She enjoys it,” Sarah said as she scraped a plate into the garbage. “Bernie’s the smart one, avoiding the kitchen.”
Peg entered with an armful of dessert plates, just in time to pick up the gist of their conversation. “Bernie will find her way to the kitchen,” Peg said. “The right motivation will turn her around. She just needs to find the right guy, is all.”
Mary Kate felt her lips harden. That had always been Ma’s goal for her daughters. Find the right man.
“Sarah, your cherry tarts are a big hit, as usual,” Peg said. “I don’t know how you find the time.”
“They’re not hard to make, as long as I can keep Brendan away from the batter. Your son has a sweet tooth.”
Peg smiled. “Oh, you just have to cut him off. You know, when he was a boy he used to pay Bernie to bake cupcakes for him.”
“That wasn’t Bernie, Ma, it was me.” Mary Kate felt stung. Was Bernie now going to get credit for Mary Kate’s part in the family history?
“Oh, was it?” Peg’s brown eyes opened wide for a second. “Well, of course. Bernie doesn’t like the kitchen.”
“We were just saying.” Sarah nodded toward the dining room. “She likes to play with the big boys.”
Peg nodded, as she bent over the table to transfer more desserts to the platter. “Yeah, God broke the mold with Bernie.”
“I don’t know about blaming God,” Mary Kate said. “But she definitely got cheated on domestic skills. Have you ever seen her apartment?”
“I try to avoid it,” Peg said. “I keep my nose out.”
There. She’d said it, and it felt good to hit a bull’s-eye.
Until Bernie stepped into the kitchen. “What’s that about my ovaries?”
With a jab of guilt, Mary Kate stared down at the roasting pan. “I was just saying, you manage to avoid the kitchen. Like you’re allergic to dishes or something.”
“You know that kitchens make my glasses steam up.” Bernie leaned over the open dishwasher to stow her mug. “So, yeah, I guess I’m allergic. Besides, I have to get to work.”
Always racing off to work, Mary Kate thought. Or are you just trying to remind us that you’re a big-shot lawyer now?
“It’s ungodly hours like that that are keeping you from getting a husband,” Peg said.
Thank you for jumping in, Ma, Mary Kate thought. Finally, someone had her back.
Sarah laughed, covering her mouth. “Really? Is that the secret to landing a man?”
“I’ll tell you all the tricks,” Tony announced from the kitchen door. “I’m off to work, sweetheart.” He bussed Mary Kate on the cheek, bits of his facial hair brushing against her. It had the feel of a small animal.
It was sick how her heart jumped when he called her sweetheart, but the perfunctory kiss reminded her that there was no passion, no strong attraction. He could have been kissing the winner of a PBA scholarship or his great-aunt Mary.
“So what do you want to know about landing a man?” Tony asked.
“Nothing from you.” Bernie held one hand up like a crossing guard. “No, thanks.”
“Seriously, what do you want to know? Advice is free.”
“And talk is cheap,” Bernie said, grabbing her coat from the hook in the hall.
“We’re just wondering why Bernie can’t seem to hold on to a guy,” Mary Kate said as she shoved the roasting pan into the cabinet with a thud.
Tony glanced at Bernie and shrugged. “Guys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses.”
“I’ll wear my contacts next time I go hunting,” Bernie said. “ ’Nuff said.”
“And you’ll never find a man if you keep working that ridiculous shift,” Mary Kate added before she could stop herself.
“Whose business is it what hours I work?” Bernie paused, her brown eyes squinting at Mary Kate as if an intruder were lurking in her sister’s body. “It’s part of my job, and I don’t even do it all the time, okay? All the junior prosecutors in the trial bureau work the Complaint Room on a rotating basis. Besides, Tony works the night shift, and he found a spouse.”
Mary Kate whipped the towel over one shoulder. “A good wife learns to work around the breadwinner’s schedule.”
“Right.” Bernie bit her bottom lip, retreating from the attack. “Maybe I need a wife then.”
Chapter 5
The dingy concrete was cold under his butt, the white tiles that supported his head grimy from soot, but he had to lean. With his hands cuffed behind his back, he kept falling toward his right side, the bad side, and he needed the wall to hold him up. From time to time a draft sneaked down the stairs, flooding them with more cold.
But the chill of the subway did nothing to cool the fury burning in his gut over getting slammed by the cops. It burned from his toes on up to the cap on his head. Injustice didn’t sting. It burned like a spitting furnace.
Busted for walking in the subway.
What was the sense in that?
Five years might be a long time, but the city had changed while he was gone. A man could get arrested just for being in the subway at night. No sense in that at all.
And how long had they made him sit here, hot and cold?
Hot and cold.
He was going to blow up inside, Fourth of July, while his body froze to the cement.
Besides the two guys in plainclothes, three other uniforms lingered.
Now one of the cops’ radios crackled, and a female voice said something about transporting a prisoner.
They were talking about him ... a prisoner again. Hot and cold ...
Blue jean legs in leather boots stepped into his line of vision. The Italian cop who seemed to think he was some movie star nudged him with the toe of his boot. He wore his silver badge on a ribbon around his neck, like an Olympic medalist.
“Get up, you piece of shit.” Of the two cops, the one who thought he was Al Pacino was playing badass cop. “You ready to take a walk?”
“I told you, I didn’t do nothing.”
Pacino got down low, stuck his pretty face in Peyton’s grill. A Hollywood tan with very straight teeth. A pretty face, but the leather coat and boots? The guy could have stepped out of an old movie. “Because we caught you before you had a chance to attack tonight. But don’t think I didn’t see you eyeballing that woman. Closing in. You thought you were going to take her down, like all the others. Friggin’ animal.”
The cop’s words fanned the fire in Peyton’s belly. He was not an animal. Just because he didn’t walk straight, just because his skin was the color of black coffee, that didn’t make him a beast.
“You have a good heart,” Angel used to say. “The heart makes the man.”
But Al Badass Pacino didn’t want to hear about his heart.
“Come on, get up,” the cop growled. “Get up, get up.”
Peyton bent his good leg and pushed, but with his hands cuffed behind his back he couldn’t get real leverage. He sank back down to the ground.
“Are you kidding me?” The cop was screaming like a drill sergeant. “You think this is a big joke?” When Peyton didn’t answer, the cop sputtered, “Do you?”
“No, sir.” Peyton felt himself slipping into the closet, a place of shadows where he’d hidden from people like Big Pa and Darnell. Only it wasn’t a real closet anymore, but a pretend one where he could be safe.
“Get up!” Pacino growled again.
Peyton scrambled again, but this time it didn’t amount to much more than his shoe scratching the ground.
“He needs a hand,” the other cop said. “He’s got a bum leg. Right? Is that it?” he asked, looking down at Peyton. This guy was older, with a gut, a banana nose, and a shiny pink head.
When Peyton nodded, the old cop bent down, grabbed him by the shoulder, and pulled. Peyton pushed with his good leg, wobbled for balance, and finally stood on his own.
Pacino’s beady eyes watched suspiciously. “All right. Let’s go.”
“Wait.” Peyton knew Pacino had no use for him, but maybe the other cop would listen. “I can’t walk on my own. I need my walking stick.”
The cop supporting him paused long enough for Peyton to glance over at the bench, where the white-handled stick had clattered to the ground when the two undercovers had sprung out at him.
That stick was the only good thing he owned, a gift from Angel. She told him she wouldn’t have been able to get it through most prisons, but since the inmates at Lakeview Shock were nonviolent offenders, they let him have it. Peyton didn’t want to lose it now. He knew Pacino wouldn’t give him any play, but this other cop, the old guy, he seemed okay.
“Officers ...” Peyton swallowed. He would not beg, but he could make a simple request. “I need help walking. Can you please bring along my walking stick?”
Pacino backed away until he could see the wood stick, only half-hidden by the bench. “Is this it? This what you’re talking about?” He held up the stick. Its white enamel tip seemed shiny clean in the fluorescent lights.
“Yes, sir, officer. I need it to walk.”
The cop stuck his foot under the bench and rolled it out with the toe of his leather boot. “A stick.”
“Pick it up already, Marino, and let’s get this guy to the Tombs.”
Badass Marino p
icked it up, examined both ends like maybe there’d be some kind of secret compartment for drugs or a knife. Like Peyton was James Bond or something.
“It’s just a stick.” Marino waved it around. “Ladies and gentlemen, Justin Timberlake.” He hopped, a bad dancer. “Moonwalk!”
He’s burning me, fanning the fire. The rage inside him swelled to a fury. Hot and cold. Peyton considered throwing himself at the cop, handcuffs and all. Take him right down. He imagined the two of them rolling, toppling down to the tracks to a quick thwack of electrocution on the third rail.
The cop didn’t think Peyton had it in him, a cripple with a bad limp, but he could take him down. He could do it, and it would feel good. And it would be the right thing to do.
“For the Lord has a day of vengeance ...” That was what it said in the Bible, Book of Isaiah.
Adrenaline stung his blood as he stepped toward Marino, and stumbled.
“Whoa ...” The older cop planted himself under Peyton’s shoulder and saved him from falling. A human crutch.
Peyton closed his eyes, reconsidering. He could just hang back. Curl up inside. Go to the closet.
“Hey, what’s that show—So You Think You Can Dance?” Marino’s cackles fired like a nail gun, but at least now he was far away ... in the distance.
“That thing can be vouchered as a weapon,” Duval said from beside Peyton. “Stop monkeying around and let’s go.”
And though the injustice of it all burned inside him, Peyton thought this cop guiding him along wasn’t a terrible person. And if he had really broken the law again, his first night out of prison, maybe it was an easy ticket back.
Back to Lakeview Shock.
He kept thinking on that, his old cell, shared with just one other guy, as the cops stuffed him into the back of a patrol car and rolled into the night. The car smelled of humanity but the seat was soft and the warmth eased his achy muscles as he thought of having his own bed again. His own place to go. Outside the car, people walked into the street without looking. The old seaport blocks were still buzzing with tourists and drunk brokers, but beyond that were the metal roll gates of closed shops and dark alleyways. This city had grown too cold. Not his city anymore.