Havoc-on-Hudson
Page 12
“I know I’m going to need this,” she said, to no one but herself.
She turned her tote bag upside down, shook it, and several local newspapers, including The New York Times, fell out. The papers spread neatly in front of her, she took a nice long sip of her drink. “Aahhh,” she said gratefully as it went down.
Then she took in the headlines: HUDSON VALLEY RAPIST IN CUSTODY … RAPIST-MURDERER APPREHENDED … DRAMATIC CAPTURE OF REALTY RAPIST … PSYCHO HAD VIOLENT HISTORY. …
The news articles couldn’t be any clearer. They told of a psychopath with an extensive criminal history that had begun at an early age. They laid out that he had spent most of his youth behind bars—for burglary, rape, aggravated assault. But she was still in denial.
How could it be?
At a news conference today in Hudson Hills, Police Chief Betsy Colwell told reporters that, when he was thirteen, the suspect, now twenty-eight, stabbed his father with a steak knife and served one year at Wartsburg Juvenile Correction Facility near Kingston, New York. His father survived the attack, but lost one of his kidneys as a consequence.”
Is this really happening?
She studied the grainy newspaper photos of the man in custody. He had dark hair, surely dyed, but aside from that, he bore an uncanny resemblance to her father and to other close family members. Like the rest of the Svenson clan, Daniel Joseph Farrell was a tall, muscular Swede.
Obsessively, she picked up the newspapers, one by one, rereading the articles about his capture from beginning to end, not wanting to miss anything. The truth stared at her from every word she read, and each of those words stung.
Yes, it was her child, her Danny Joe.
She wondered if Leah Goldman, her old friend from Buffalo, had ever given Danny Joe the goodbye letter she wrote him when he was eight years old. She’d asked that Leah hold the letter until Danny Joe was mature enough to deal with its contents. It had spoken of her intended suicide, and, now in retrospect, she was sorry she’d ever written it. It had been a gloomy letter and, even though she’d spoken of her deep love for Danny Joe, an awful memory for a mother to leave with her son.
She knew now, that she’d been suffering from clinical depression and low self esteem at the time, having endured years of verbal and physical abuse from her crazy, alcoholic husband. She knew that, as much as she’d loved her child, she could not have taken him with her, only to abandon him by carrying out her plan to commit suicide.
Twenty years had passed, and here she is, still alive, a testament to the healing power of the human spirit. At least, her spirit. Danny hadn’t been so fortunate. Had it been all her fault?
The last time she’d seen Danny Joe, he’d been just a little tyke. Now he’s a grown man, and—as horrible and shameful as it is for her to accept it—he’s a rapist and a murderer. When she passes on, this violent psychopath will be her only legacy to the world. All her lofty immigrant dreams for a successful life in America for herself and her only child will die with them both.
Ironically, leaving Frank and Danny Joe was all she’d needed herself in order to thrive. She’d legally taken back her maiden name, Svenson, taken up her career as a real estate broker, and thrived in her new environment. Although she’d enjoyed a good social life, she never discussed her past with friends or colleagues, nor had she ever married again. The past was a closed book and best forgotten.
She hoped that no one will ever discover that she is Daniel Joseph Farrell’s mother. The shame she now feels so deeply is only partly for the terrible crimes her son is accused of, but even more for her own failings as a parent. Had it been her decision to abandon him that had turned her innocent, loving child into a grotesque monster?
She emptied the bottle of Stoly, then opened a second one and poured another drink. She was trying to remain calm, but guilt, intensified by shock, overcame her.
She knew now what she had to do: what she’d meant to do so long ago.
“Please let me die, dear God!” she cried out to the heavens. She slid off the tufted chair onto her knees, sobbing, her body heaving with grief, her soul agonized. Then she began screaming; loud, animal-like sounds reverberated in the room and beyond. Consumed by her inconsolable grief, she reached up to the table for the bottle to refill her glass once more. Her body shook uncontrollably, but she was still able to reach over to the chair where she had thrown her purse. Yes! There was the vial of pills! The small white pills whose prescription she’d filled at a pharmacy on her way home from downtown.
She emptied them into her drink.
Skol! She held the glass high; it shook in her hand, radiating light from the crystal chandelier. Then, shot by shot, she gulped down the remainder of the vodka.
Oh my poor, sweet little boy, it’s all Mommy’s fault. When I left you in your father’s care, I failed you. I’m the one responsible for your anger and violence. I’m the Angel of Death!
May God forgive me!
It had taken twenty years, but Tessa Svenson was finally at peace, and Danny Joe Farrell’s search for his mother had ended.