The Daughter She Used To Be

by Rosalind Noonan

  She cried that day of the trial, when they sentenced him and took her baby away for five years. Five years and he didn’t even hurt anybody. That was justice for you.

  She keyed her way in, calling, “Peyton? Where’s my boy, after all these years?”

  At first she thought no one was home; then she saw him sitting on the sofa, bent over and staring like he was thinking real serious.

  “Baby, what you doin’ sitting all alone in the dark?” She flicked the light on, saw that he had his sneakers on her coffee table. “Get your shoes off my table and come give your mama a hug.”

  Peyton rose, and she saw he was wearing a jacket with a bulge in his pocket. She hoped that wasn’t a gun. Eyes on the ground, he shuffled over to her. “Hey, Mama.”

  “Oh, baby ...” She folded him into her arms. “All these years, I been worried about you up there all alone in that prison.”

  “I know, Mama. I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not your fault, Peyton. I know how it is. But you’re back now and I brought you fried chicken.” She patted his shoulder. “You want some chicken, baby? Biscuits, too.”

  “No, Mama, I can’t eat. I ... I can’t take your food.”

  She squinted at him. “What? You been taking it since the day you were born.”

  He shook his head, staring at the floor. “I can’t eat, Mama. Don’t be mad.”

  “Who’s mad? It’s more for me, and it’s my last bucket for a while, after doctor killjoy. Where’s your sister and the others?”

  “They went to eat with Gwen’s boyfriend.”

  “Okay. You just relax now, honey. Now that you’re out of prison, the worst is over, okay? Baby, you look so down. What they do to you in that prison?”

  “It wasn’t so bad.” He shrugged, standing in the same spot as she went to the kitchen and took the chicken from the bag. “I had a friend there. My counselor, Angel.”

  “So you had an angel of mercy?” she called from the kitchen area. “That’s good. You sure you don’t want a plate? There’s wings in here.”

  “No. No, thank you.”

  She felt a surge of pride. Five years in prison and her boy still said thank you. She had done something right.

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind if I eat, because I’ve been working in the laundry all day and I am tired and hungry.” She emerged from the kitchen area with a plate and lowered herself to a chair opposite the couch.

  “From what the man from Lakeview Shock said on the phone, I thought you’d be here yesterday. You make some stops?”

  “I ... I got arrested last night.”

  She stopped chewing. “Oh, Peyton. What did you do?”

  “Nothing. I was just in the subway, minding my business when this cop, this ... Marino is his name ...” He shook his head as his face crumpled in pain.

  “But they let you go?”

  He nodded. “It was a mistake. They were looking at me for some rapes that happened while I was locked up.”

  She rolled her eyes. “When are those cops going to leave you alone?”

  He just shook his head. “I don’t know, Mama, but this time I didn’t do anything wrong, I swear.”

  “Don’t swear, but I believe you, sure I do. You’ve been having a string of bad luck, baby, and I don’t believe it’s your fault at all.”

  Here she was, talking to her grown son of thirty-one years old like he was a twelve-year-old boy, but that was always the way she’d had to handle Peyton. He was around twelve when he had that accident down on the playground. Hurt his head bad, and never really recovered from it. After that he had the limp and the bad hand. Half his face sagging. One doctor said it was a palsy he would grow out of, but he never got better. Just stayed the same, and she believed he was somehow locked into the world of a ten-year-old, whatever that was.

  Her eyes grew wide as he reached into the bulging pocket of his jacket. The object he took out wasn’t familiar. A white statue on a stick, sort of.

  “What’s that?”

  “A cane. This is just the handle that’s left. Angel gave it to me.” He held it toward her. “See the animal? Angel said it was a horse, but I think it looks like a rat. I call it a rat-horse. It’s made of faux.”

  “Okay.” She nodded at the sculpture that more than filled his hand. Its beady black rat eyes gave her the creeps. “So what you planning? Of course, you can stay here. Gwen will sleep with me so you can have a room.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother, Mama.”

  “No bother.” At least, not for now. Down the road it would be great if he met a nice girl and got the hell out of here. Men his age shouldn’t be living with their mothers. But right now he was just a worry, with that haunted look in his eyes.

  “I won’t be another lazy-ass empty belly to feed.”

  “Watch your language, and sure you won’t be a problem. You’ll find some work this time. There’s jobs in the city and you got a brain, Peyton.” And a handicap. He could make that work for him.

  He stood up, cradling the handle of the stick in the crook of his arm like a baby. “G’night, Mama.”

  “You get some rest, now. You’ll feel better in the morning.” She watched him head down the hall, then grabbed another drumstick and sank onto the couch and into a funk of regrets.

  What was wrong with him? He used to be such a fine son. Had a good mind. That boy was going places. Might have gotten a scholarship but something went wrong after he got hurt. He just seemed to give up, didn’t listen when she told him you got to keep on keeping on.

  Peyton was her firstborn, her baby when she was a baby, too. She’d thought his daddy would stick around, but no. That man stuck her with little man Peyton and another one on the way, stuck her living with her own crazy mama. It was too much back then, with Peyton and Gwen. And then she met Darnell’s daddy and whoo. Another mistake.

  But God bless Peyton. Your first baby is the one you never forget, no matter how much you screw up with them. She did much better with the girls. Boys were near impossible to raise.

  Like Darnell. Well, he was another story, not blood kin but she took him in and tried to set him right. That Darnell had a mind of his own and got him into a mess of trouble.

  But the girls turned out better.

  She crunched on a piece of crispy skin, thinking if she’d had all girls like Rhonda Shakes on the third floor, her life would have been so much easier.

  Chapter 10

  “Just call me back, okay?” Sarah tried not to sound whiny as she ended the message to her husband, but she was tired and on a roll here at work, and it seemed grossly unfair that she would be called upon, once again, to leave work and go home and deal with child-care issues when Brendan had been off for an hour already.

  She took the packs of disheveled paper from her in-box and stacked them neatly on the desk. If I could just have two more hours here, I could get this stuff done.

  Not that it was interesting. God, no. As an architect with the New York City Department of Buildings, Sarah was charged with reviewing blueprints, permits, building and demolition applications.

  Of course, when she’d signed on she was convinced that she’d eventually be promoted into a dynamic, worthwhile position in which she would be hobnobbing with developers like the Donald and architects like Gluckman or Kondylis. She had thought she would be fundamental in revitalizing the tired structures and replacing the dead with buildings that reflected the pizzazz, elegance, and strength of New York City.

  Ha.

  She had thought she’d have a hand in preserving the great structures—the Flatiron Building, the Brooklyn Bridge, the Chrysler Building—and addressing the “problem areas,” like ... well, most of Queens; the Mets’ new stadium, where too many seats had a restricted view; the boxy Cineplexes; the Uni-sphere—please! She could go on complaining for an hour.

  But no one was consulting Sarah on the façades of New York City. Instead, she was approving plans for bumped-out kitchens, family room extensions, mother-d
aughter additions, and apartments over garages.

  I’m just here to rubber-stamp things, she thought as she literally pounded a rubber stamp on the blueprints for a boxy family room to be added to a residential dwelling in Rockaway Beach. With windows for ventilation and an outside door for escape, the room was up to code, but Sarah would be the first to agree that the design was hideous.

  Back in architecture school, she had been told that a strong architect possessed the eye of an artist along with the pragmatism of an engineer. The idea seemed charming and yet grounded, but she was still waiting for a chance to reveal her creativity here in this dusty, airless city office.

  And this application for a variance so that the homeowner could build a shed near the property line ... really? Was this what she attended architecture school for?

  Sarah had begun to dread the tedium of her job, but secretly she enjoyed the cut-and-dried approval process that appealed to her organizational skills. Besides, getting out of the house, taking a break from the bickering and cleaning, even wearing heels and a nice sweater were perks she couldn’t bear to give up right now.

  “But what if we have another?” Brendan kept asking her. “Let’s have a third, hon. A little boy, or a mini-you. Another little Sarah.”

  She had been dragging her feet on a decision, knowing that, if they had a third kid, this job would become the indulgence that would have to be sacrificed.

  But she was getting older ... Brendan, too. He’d just turned thirty-four, and she was staring at the big three-oh next month. If they were going to make a move, the time was now.

  Yeah, the time really was now, because she was overdue on refilling her birth control prescription. By the time she got out of here this evening, their local pharmacy would be closed. Damn. She wanted to switch to one of those twenty-four-hour places, but Brendan was fiercely loyal to the neighborhood they’d grown up in. In Bayside Hills you got your prescriptions filled by Joe, you bought rock salt and hardware from Posners and bagels from Oasis. Loyal to a fault and defender of the meek, that was Brendan.

  It was the quality that had first drawn her to him in high school. They’d had coed gym together, and when athletic, popular Brendan had captained a dodge ball team, he’d picked Steven Yi, a kid with some kind of physical handicap, first. Sarah had expected the other guys in the class to groan, but when Brendan stood tall with his hand on Steven’s shoulder, no one made a peep. Later in the process Sarah had been picked for Brendan’s team, and she was still by his side.

  She was rubber-stamping a plan for a breezeway when the phone rang. It was Brendan, with a bad connection.

  “Got your message,” he said. Then there was something about being in the truck, and she heard him say “Puchinko.” Kevin Puchinko was one of the cops he worked with in the 109th Precinct, and over the last year the guys had put together a landscaping business.

  “You’re breaking up,” she told him. “What are you and Kevin doing?”

  “Estimates. Remember I told you about it? We’ve got appointments with people. One lady wants a fountain in her backyard.”

  “Oh. At least I can hear you now.” She had forgotten about the landscaping appointments. “So that’s why Peg picked the girls up from school today. Okay, I get it. The problem is, they want Gracie to wear a red T-shirt in one scene of the show, and I’m not sure there’s one in the house that fits her. Can you stop by the house and see?”

  “A red T-shirt?” He made it sound ludicrous. “You can’t check?”

  “I can’t leave work now. And if she doesn’t have one, one of us is going to have to get her out shopping. Tonight. Before the stores close.” That would screw up dinner and bedtime. She stared at the picture of a sun-drenched pyramid that was part of her screen saver. Oh, to be there, standing on the hot sands of Egypt ...

  “I guess we can swing by,” he said reluctantly.

  “Thank you, honey.” Sarah hated throwing the task on her husband, but it was impossible to manage everything from her desk at the office. When she’d gotten the call from Peg, who’d been told about the costume change at school, she’d railed against the school for being so disorganized. But she was over it now. It didn’t help to point blame. As Brendan liked to say, “Either lead, follow, or get out of the way.” She would get out of the way on this one, now that Brendan was in control.

  She slipped her shoes off under her desk and rubbed her feet together. “How are the estimates going?”

  “Good. I really don’t want to stop to do costuming for the pain-in-the-ass school show.”

  In the background Kevin mentioned something about a costume malfunction and laughed.

  “It’s so important to Gracie,” she said. “She’s so nervous about her solo.”

  “I know, I know. It’s just ... one step up and two steps back.”

  “I hear ya.” The plans in front of her proposed to install four toilets in a residential basement. Really. What were they smoking? She pulled that one aside for further review and glanced up at the majestic sun and moon pagodas on her screen saver. The moon was lit by silver lights, the sun gold, and the sight of the two tiered towers rising gracefully to the heavens always made her want to sigh. Two elegant columns of gems sparkling on the water.

  China. Someday she and Brendan would go there to visit the Great Wall, ancient pagodas, and gravity-defying skyscrapers. It was one of the places on the list of architectural gems she’d been compiling.

  Someday, they would see them all.

  But for now, a red T-shirt, girls’ size ten, was the priority of the day.

  Chapter 11

  Gracie shone onstage, with the help of a sparkling snowflake on her shirt. The lights onstage caught the wispy edges of her hair as she sang “Winter Wonderland” along with the other fourth graders in the auditorium at St. Peter’s Catholic School. The auditorium itself hadn’t changed much since Bernie and Brendan and their siblings had attended the school, but Bernie was glad to hear that the format of the pageants now included more updated songs. Back in her school days the raciest song they did was “This Land Is Your Land” with a folk guitar accompaniment.

  The ethnicity of the student body had changed as well. It was no longer just neighborhood Catholics who sent their kids here, but also families from nearby communities who were willing to pay for the “safety” of a private school. The faces that now smiled out at the audience reflected the beautiful mosaic that was Queens, mixing kids from white, African-American, Asian, and Hispanic families.

  “Oh, that’s just wonderful,” Mary Sullivan said in a loud voice. Nearly ninety, Granny Mary had lost her sense of decorum along with parts of her memory a few years ago. These days, you could count on Granny Mary to be cheerful but out of it.

  Bernie turned to her and patted her shoulder. “We need to be quiet now, Granny, so everyone can hear.”

  Seated in the row in front of them were Sarah and Brendan, along with Brendan’s partner Indigo Hilson and her baby girl, Zuli, who enjoyed standing on the chair backward and mouthing the bar at the top. Sarah turned around and smiled at Bernie, as if to say, good luck with Granny.

  “Okay, okay.” Granny patted the back of her hairdo and turned back to the performers.

  On the other side of Mary, her son Sully exchanged a whisper with Peg. Bernie gave them a lot of credit. They’d been attending performances in this drab basement for years, and yet they faced every show with enthusiasm.

  The song ended, and applause peppered the air.

  “This is a good school, you know,” Granny said. Her loud voice wasn’t a problem with the applause and the shuffling onstage to set up the next song.

  “I know,” Bernie agreed.

  “I’ve got a young one coming up next year. He’s already registered for kindergarten.”

  Bernie’s mouth dropped open in momentary surprise, but she covered quickly and nodded. “Really?”

  “He’s a sweet little guy. Those big round eyes, but stubborn as a mule.” Lines creased her
face as Mary Sullivan smiled.

  So you had him in your mideighties? Bernie wanted to say. We have to get you into the Guinness Book of World Records, Granny.

  “Really?” Bernie had to fight to keep a straight face.

  “Oh, yeah. And where are your wee ones tonight?” Granny’s eyes narrowed. “Are they performing later?”

  “Me?” Bernie froze as embarrassment washed over her. It was the great failure of her life, not having kids at age twenty-seven. Not even married yet. The old-maid card had not been in her plans.

  “I’m still single, Granny. No kids yet.”

  “Oh.” Although she had explained her childlessness to her grandmother before, it took a moment for Granny to digest the facts. “But you’re getting on in your years, honey.” She put a hand up to cover her comment, but her voice was as loud as ever. “You know, you can get him to marry you if you get pregnant first.”

  Sully leaned forward for that one. “Ma, the show’s starting again,” he said. “Let’s keep quiet and watch.”

  “Okay.”

  As the third and fourth grades took the stage to sing “Frosty the Snowman,” Bernie sank into herself to coddle her wound.

  Single and pushing thirty. Why did it bother her so much when women were waiting much longer to have a family? You could still get pregnant at forty, God forbid.

  Oh, it hurt when she thought about it. Not just because she craved kids more than chocolate. The real crux of the dilemma was that she had fallen in love, but it didn’t work out.

  And she was still in love.

  Much as she tried to deny it, the attraction was there, the scintillating, addictive lure that had her looking across the aisle at Keesh, calling him when the littlest thing happened, meeting him for breakfast or dinner or coffee whenever she could trump up a lame reason for an invite. Keesh was in her head every night as she tried to drop off to sleep. Sweet thoughts, though lately she’d been worrying about his move to the Queens DA and dreading the day he told her he had a new girlfriend.