“No.” He couldn’t even open his eyes. “I just need to lie down.”
“And get blood all over my bed?”
“Get some towels or something. I only got the energy for one move. One short move.”
Yvonne stood over him with her hands on her hips. She didn’t want him bleeding on her bed, but she couldn’t leave him here. She grabbed a plastic-top tablecloth, spread it on the bed, then brought in some clean towels starched white from the laundry where she worked. She figured if she had to do the work, she might as well be able to use some at home. In the kitchen she dug out a mixing bowl and filled it with warm soapy water. She was no Nancy Nurse, but a mother did what she had to.
“Okay, let’s get you up.”
The muscles in his face strained with the effort of trying to rise to his feet. Pain made him miserable, and she worried that she was doing the wrong thing. What if he didn’t get better? She’d never forgive herself if she lost her baby boy just because he was afraid of the police finding him.
“Okay ... I got you,” she said as she guided him down the hall. Truth was, she couldn’t support him on her own, but he needed distracting. Tears were running down his face from the pain.
At last, she was easing him down to the bed. “Before you lie down, let me get this jacket off.”
The smallest tug on the collar and he was bawling like a baby. “It hurts, it hurts.”
“I know it does. I know, but I can’t clean it out unless you get this off.” Her pulse was thudding fast, and it got faster when she saw all the bright red blood. His shirt and jacket were soaked with it.
“Ooh.” She cringed when she saw the bullet hole in his shoulder, but this was no time to sit around squealing like a baby. Peyton was doing plenty of crying as she washed the wound out with soapy water.
“It stings!” he complained.
“That means it’s working.” Damned if that was true. She didn’t know. She was just doing her best.
“Now you’re going to lie down, and I’m going to keep pressing this towel down to stop the bleeding,” she said.
He glanced down at the wound sheepishly. “Did you get the bullet out?”
“No, I didn’t get the bullet out. I’m not a surgeon, and there’s no way I can do something like that when it hurts you just to be touched. Just lie back.”
Sniffing, he eased back against the pillow. “It wasn’t my fault.”
“I know, baby. You know, I heard that sometimes the doctors leave the bullet in. It’s better to leave it than to, I don’t know, dig in there and stir everything up.”
“Mmm.” He started to relax, but when Yvonne pressed the clean towel to the wound he nearly jumped out of the bed. “That hurts!”
“I’ll get you some Tylenol when it stops bleeding. Right now I want you to tell me how this happened.”
“It must have been a stray bullet. I was walking by this place near Main Street. Sully’s Cup. And damned if a bullet didn’t come flying out the window. Somebody was shooting it up inside, but I caught a bullet walking by.”
“A stray bullet.” She kept her tone even, though she was doubtful. Flushing wasn’t East New York. “It smells a little to me, you just walking by at the same time somebody was shooting. And you don’t have Darnell around to blame for this one.”
“Darnell’s always to blame,” he said.
“In the past, yes. That boy was bad as the devil himself. Torturing you and making a pest of himself. They gave him twenty-five years, but I’m glad he’s gone.”
“Everyone’s glad he’s gone.”
“But we can’t have you going off to join him ’cause you got a bullet in your shoulder with not even one week out of prison.”
He opened his eyes slowly. He was all sloppy and in slow motion like a drunk. “I know. You’re thinking, a bullet coming out of nowhere. What’s the sense of that? But I got hit, and now I got to get out of here. Get me out of here, Mama. Put me on a bus.”
“A bus? You must be crazy from delirium. You can’t go traveling when you’re dripping blood everywhere, and you said yourself that you couldn’t even sit in the bathroom while I cleaned it up for you. No, sir, you’re staying put. You’re probably weak from losing blood.”
He didn’t answer. His head just rolled to the side. So hurt.
Yvonne pursed her lips as she kept the pressure on his shoulder. If she stopped the bleeding, she could get him some painkillers. And water, too. Or something to drink. Didn’t they give out juice when you gave blood for the blood bank? Yes, he needed some medicine and he needed to drink. Maybe she could find a can of chicken soup in the cupboard. And maybe if he rested and got hydrated, he’d get better. Sleep would make him feel better. A good night’s sleep and he’d be moving around again, just like his old self.
She closed her eyes and remembered her proud boy, so neat and polite in the Catholic school uniform she’d ironed for him. He’d been a good boy. So smart he got a scholarship to go to school for free.
“It wasn’t my fault, Mama.”
“I know, baby. I know.”
PART II
Chapter 21
Bernie couldn’t stop the images from flashing in her mind. The way the tinted glass puddle had sparkled on the sidewalk when the sun had poked through. Kevin’s body under the blanket, his hand casually tossed back as if he were hanging out of a car window, catching the air. Her father’s big hands covering his face to hold back the tears.
And then there was Brendan’s face smiling at her, the face that appeared on his NYPD ID card and in his St. Peter’s yearbook. Chipmunk cheeks, freckles, and a grin that could make you forget what you were mad about.
She couldn’t get those images to stop burning her thoughts, no matter how much she forced herself to help in the kitchen.
“Ma, there’s nowhere to put these sandwiches,” Bernie called to her mother as she looked over the chicken drumsticks, casseroles, and bowls on the dining room table. With a perverse flicker, she considered dumping the entire table out the window.
Grief needed company, not food, Bernie thought as she squeezed the platter onto the table. At a time like this, it was reassuring to have plenty of Sullivans available to share the pain. The terrible news had beckoned family members to drop what they were doing and head home for comfort, and they had come ... Sarah, James and his wife, Deb. Mary Kate and Conner.
James had left the academy as soon as he got word, and now he kept busy feeding wood to the living room fire. Deb had also left work, and she’d spent the last half hour talking with her kids, promising to keep Kelly and Keaton posted on funeral plans. Mary Kate had come immediately, though Tony was conspicuously absent. Bernie didn’t have the energy to ask.
Coincidentally, this was Granny Mary’s day to visit Peg and Sully, so everything had to be repeated twice, and louder, and even then Mary Sullivan seemed to comprehend about a third of what was going on.
Sarah, who had wobbled in, dazed and red-eyed, had decided to leave Grace and Maisey in school until the end of the day, thinking that would maintain “normal” for as long as possible. Sarah’s parents were driving up from North Carolina. Her brother, Mike, would fly in from Chicago.
Family.
Bernie wanted to draw strength from them, but as she scanned the room she bristled at the sight of her siblings playing their usual roles in their usual seats.
This is not fucking Sunday dinner! she wanted to shout.
But she kept her jaws clamped tight as Peg moved her aside and fussed at rearranging the food on the table.
“Don’t make anything else, Ma. Why don’t you take a break?”
“People have to eat.” Peg blinked, her eyes misting over again. “The food will get eaten. Trust me. I’ve held wakes before.” She ducked into the kitchen.
Trying to escape her emotions, Bernie thought. Bernie understood that food was the dance of life, but at times like these you had to let the casserole go cold. She followed into the kitchen, where Peg stood rinsing thi
ngs at the sink, her back to Bernie.
“Ma ...” Bernie put her hands on her mother’s shoulders and gave her a little massage. The bones felt thin and brittle in her hands. Had the mother they’d always relied on for strength and fortitude always been just a wisp of a thing?
“You’re shrinking away to nothing, Ma,” Brendan would have said. And then he’d land a series of karate chops over their mother’s tight shoulders.
“It’s not natural.” Peg’s voice cracked, and though she kept her hands in the dishwater, she paused to wipe her eyes against a rolled-up sleeve.
Bernie’s mouth puckered at the show of emotion as her hands slipped awkwardly from her mother’s back.
“A mother shouldn’t have to bury her babies,” Peg went on. “Parents are supposed to go first. That’s the natural order of things.”
“I know.”
“He didn’t even want to be a cop. Not really. Of all the men in this house, Brendan didn’t want it, with his surfing and such. He wanted to go to California.”
“But, Mom, that was years ago.” Before he’d married Sarah. Before they’d had two kids.
In high school Brendan had dreamed of heading to the West Coast and finding a job in one of the many parks on the Pacific. Surf while you work, he used to say. What could be better? And he’d spent a few weeks checking out the coast with a college friend. Pismo Beach. San Onofre and Big Sur. He’d talked about the beaches and surfing for weeks, but Bernie knew he wouldn’t leave New York.
Sullivans did not leave Queens.
Well, there was one exception: Lucy Sullivan Strasberg.
Lucy. How could she forget her own sister? Another pound of guilt to add to the weight on my back. Bernie paced into the living room.
“I knew I forgot something,” she said to anyone who would listen. “I didn’t call Lucy.” The meaning of the oversight was obvious; for Bernie, Lucy wasn’t a part of their family anymore. By moving to Delaware, marrying into money, and converting to Judaism, Lucy Strasberg had divorced herself from the Sullivans in all the ways that mattered, and though Bernie sometimes thought of Lucy in the context of her childhood as the older sister who wore tie-dyed shirts, took in strays, and had the nerve to talk to old Mrs. Epstein, the adult Lucy had no place in the family.
“Good luck getting her to call you back,” Mary Kate said.
Granny Mary perked up, her eyes watery fish behind the lenses of her glasses. “Oh, I knew her in the day. You know, before she was president and all the cameras were popping and whatnot.”
James’s wife, Deb, put a hand on Mary’s arm. “Granny, we’re talking about Lucy. Your granddaughter Lucy. She’s a college professor, not president.”
“And you believe that?” Granny waved her off. “It’s just her cover.”
“I spoke to her already,” Peg said from the kitchen doorway, surprising everyone.
Mary Kate squinted. “You’re making that up.”
Peg shook her head. “She sends her heartfelt condolences to Sarah and the girls. I’m sure we’ll see her in the days to come, for the wake and funeral.”
Bernie shivered and scooted closer to the fire. Those words always made her think of old people, and it seemed downright creepy to start thinking about Brendan’s funeral.
“Well, she can send all the good wishes she wants. Don’t expect to see Lucy around,” Mary Kate said.
“Yeah,” James agreed. “You can’t count on her. Back in the day, you could count on her to be goofy in her pink hair and flowered dress and boots.”
“Remember that trench coat she had that was lined with fur?” Mary Kate asked.
“The nineties was not a good era for fashion,” Deb said.
“Enough.” Peg held up a hand to stop the remarks. “She’s not here to defend herself. And I’d think you’d have a little more compassion for your own sister.”
Bernie twisted to look up at the clock over the mantel. Almost two. Peg would go to pick up the girls soon.
“When do you think Dad will get home?” Mary Kate asked.
“No telling,” Peg said.
James got up and opened the fireplace screen. “There’s a lot to be done to process the crime scene,” he said. “It’ll take a while. Of course, Dad doesn’t have to be there, but I’m sure he wants to. He wants to make sure no one screws anything up.”
Not true, Bernie thought. Sully trusted the detectives on the scene to do the right thing. “He wants to stay with Brendan.” The words were out before Bernie could censor them. She glanced up at Sarah apologetically, but Sarah just nodded, as if it was okay to talk about it.
Of course, they had to talk about it. But that didn’t make it easy.
“Your father told me he’s sticking around to cooperate in the investigation,” Peg said.
“I’m sure that part is true, too. But when I was at the coffee shop, I got the feeling Dad is staying for Brendan. He won’t leave Brendan alone until the investigation is finished. Then, I don’t know. I guess the coroner will do an autopsy?” She shot the question to her brother.
James nodded. “That’s the protocol.”
“Such a pity.” Peg worried the hem of her apron. “They make things difficult for the funeral director. It’s just not the same when you want an open coffin.”
“There won’t be a viewing,” Sarah spoke up, and the room was silent but for a pop from the fire. “Brendan wouldn’t want that. He hated those things, always stayed to the back of the room or outside. Dead bodies creeped him out.”
“But we will have a wake,” Peg said, her eyes narrowing in that stern expression that warded off disagreement. “That’s the Irish way. It brings people together to talk about their loved one. Gives them time to grieve.”
“I haven’t thought that far ahead,” Sarah said.
Bernie caught her mother’s eye and shook her head, signaling her to back off. This was no time to badger Sarah.
“So, Bernie, did you see the crime scene?” James asked. “I mean, we’ve all heard the news, four cops shot, two killed, but I’m trying to get a picture in my head of how it went down.”
“I didn’t get inside. One of the big windows—the one by the door—was blown out of the shop, and I could see through the opening.” Bernie paused, not wanting to mention the body or the blood.
“Did you see Uncle Brendan?” Conner asked from the end of the couch.
“No, but I saw his friend who was killed, Kevin Puchinko.”
Behind her, there was a breathless whimper, like the shocked distress of a small child. She turned to find Sarah sobbing, a crumpled tissue pressed to her nose.
“Did somebody die?” Granny asked.
“Your grandson Brendan,” Deb said. “He got shot. He’s dead, Mary.”
“Oh, dear. That’s sad.”
“I’m sorry, Sarah.” Bernie felt awful. “I’ll shut up now.”
“No, go on.” Sarah’s voice quavered. “People need to know. We all need to go there before we can let it go.”
Was that true? Bernie looked to their faces, the vacant eyes and pinched lips. Were they also scrolling through the details they knew, trying to piece together a strip of memories that would bring them closer to Brendan and reassure them that he hadn’t suffered?
“The scene was still pretty chaotic when I was there. Dad said they were taking Sean Walters out on a stretcher when he got there. It looked serious. Indigo was rushed into surgery. The bullet is pressing on her spine and they’re worried about some numbness in her legs. But she was able to give the police a description of the shooter. A black man, twenty or thirty-ish. And there were nine other people in the coffee shop at the time. The police were still getting statements from the witnesses when I was there, but there was a consistent story emerging. Apparently the suspect came in, stood in line, and then, without saying anything to anyone, he began shooting. Kevin and Sean by the window were first. He hit Indigo, who was at the sugar bar. Then Brendan came out of the restroom, and the suspect shot him.”
“So there were nine other people in the shop, and this guy managed to hit only uniformed cops.” James rubbed his chin. “I guess we know what his plan was.”
“But why?” Conner asked. “It doesn’t sound personal. I mean, it doesn’t sound like he even knew them. Why would he do that?”
“Who knows?” Mary Kate said. “The guy’s a psycho. I just hope he doesn’t hurt anyone else before he’s caught.”
“And we’ll catch him, all right,” James said with a dark star in his eyes. “That perp is a dead man walking.”
Chapter 22
The house phone was ringing in the kitchen, and Peg jumped up to answer it. Bernie had to restrain herself from ripping the old phone out of the wall. Back in college she had begged her father to replace it with a portable phone that could go anywhere in the house, but he had resisted. Sully didn’t want the phone to overrun his home, and Peg liked having her kitchen be the communication center.
“Yes, dear. Everyone’s gathering here,” Peg was saying. “I’m going to pick up the girls from school soon. How’s it going on your end?”
Bernie listened in as she placed two empty glasses beside the sink. A stain on her mother’s countertop took her back to the bloodstained tiles in the center of Dad’s coffee shop. A heavy smear. Was that where Indigo had gone down? Had she tried to move away, tried to get her gun? Had Brendan had a chance to reach for his gun? A moment to panic?
She shook her head. If she could just shake out the desire to know the terrible truth, the need to be with her brother in those last moments. To know his pain and selfishly catch one last flicker of his goodness.
The shop must be cold by now. Would they be allowed to board up the broken window? As a junior prosecutor, Bernie had never worked on a case that involved a crime scene, so she wasn’t sure how the details were handled. But she imagined that the investigation would go on long into the night. The shop would be a golden box in the twilight, its peach walls warm against the night, belying the terrible thing that had happened there.
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