End of Watch (17 page)

Sunday, 16 Jan 05
—
Canarsie

Here I am. Sitting in a cemetery. Guess it beats lying in one. Grumpy sky. Looks like more snow on the way. Got to admit I don’t miss the dirty slush plowed up against the curb.

Quiet yesterday. Couple funerals but no one near the grave.

Went to a good meeting last night and afterward went out with a couple ladies. I was of course the youngest one there. They had twelve, ten and seven years of sobriety on me. Felt like a four-year-old hanging out with her sister from Vassar. But it was nice. They’re pretty serious about their sobriety. Talked a lot about the
“G”
word. They all reiterated that if I was willing to believe then eventually I would. That’s the thing, though. Am I willing to believe in something greater than myself? Why am I so stubborn about this? Christ, that business at Mother Love’s should be enough to convince anybody. Why not me? Self-reliance almost bought me a bullet to the brain. Why can’t I just say, yeah, okay, uncle, there’s something bigger out there than me?

All right. Bottom line is it’s scary. Scary to think I might not be in charge here. How fucked is that? Not like I’ve done such a great job of it lately. You’d think Td
want
someone else to be running the show. Like those ladies last night, Mary says I just have to be willing to believe. Fact I called her before I went to bed last night.

She said, “Just be willing to entertain the possibility. And that possibility can be anything. Jesus, Buddha, Allah, the London Bridge
—
whatever floats your boat. Just take one step toward God and he’ll take five to you.”

I said she makes it sound so simple and she countered that it is
—
I’m just making it harder than it has to be. Said Tm creating “paralysis by analysis.” Told me to stop thinking about what God is and just hang with the idea that God
is.

Smart ass that I am, I had to say, “So I could use the Empire State Building as my God?”

“Absolutely,” she says
—
got a fucking answer for everything. A friend of hers who’s been sober nineteen years walks the Golden Gate Bridge every morning because that’s where she feels closest to God. Says it doesn’t matter who we send our prayers to because they all go to the same address.

I said, “Like all those letters the post office gets for Santa Claus.”

She laughed and said, “Yeah, but those don’t get returned. Our prayers do. Not always the way we want them or expect them, but God always gives us what we need.”

“Always?” I asked.

“Always,” she answered. “Like it or not.”

She said she thinks of God as a good parent. We’re the kids always asking for something
—
the new toy, a candy bar, day off from school
—
and does a good parent give her kid everything she asks for? Hell, no. The kid would be sick as a dog if you let her eat everything she wanted. The kid can’t understand that, of course, and gets frustrated, but the parent is taking good care of her by not indulging her every wish. A good parent is concerned with her kid’s long-term health, not her immediate gratification for things she doesn’t need. Mary thinks that’s how God is. Might not always give us what we want but we always get what we need. Didn’t Mick Jagger say that? Damn, maybe he’s god. That’d work for me.

So I’m trying to be open-minded about this thing. Willing. I’m willing to be willing.

Think I’d be more willing if I hadn’t watched my father bleed to death or my mom go crazy or Maggie drown in a sucking chest wound. Or Noah. Christ. Barely forty and his sternum gets crushed against a steering wheel, so three more kids grow up without a dad. What’s that about? Kind of begs the question what kind of a heartless bastard would let this shit happen, but hey, what the fuck do I know? I was the one eating a nine mil, right?

And I can’t ever get away from Marguerite James and Darcy and all that weirdness with Mother Love. No explaining that away. Definitely beyond mere coincidence there.

Shit. Feel like
Thelma and Louise.
The FBI’s behind me, wanting to throw my ass in jail, and in front of me, just a huge leap of faith. We don’t know that they died, right? Like Butch and Sundance leaping over the cliff. Maybe they lived, right? Who knows? Skedaddled off to a quiet little corner of the globe and started new lives.

But first they had to jump.

Monday morning the sun shone pale but sweet. Perching her long frame against a headstone Frank faced east, absorbing what she could of the far candescence. It occurred to her in that moment of calm that she’d gotten sidetracked from the point of her trip. She’d come to apologize to her mother, yet in all this time she hadn’t looked twice at her mother’s grave.

A stone rolled into Frank’s chest and settled under her heart. A sigh did nothing to move it. From a couple yards away she studied her mother’s grave. She scanned the cemetery. It was deserted. She stepped the few feet to the grave. Considered the packed snow a moment. Squatted on her heels.

She squinted at surrounding stones, the hazy sky, crows squabbling on bare branches. She looked at everything but the granite slab in front of her. The flowers she’d left on her first visit were gone. Manny and Robert must have thrown them away. She was ashamed she didn’t have an offering, some token of reconciliation.

“But you’re dead,” Frank said to the block of stone. “Dead people don’t need flowers, right? Don’t need anything. Not even apologies from daughters who let them freeze to death.”

She winced. She sounded like a promo for the Jerry Springer show. She stood up, giving the stone her back. Under the delicate sun the snow had turned into a field of gems—fiery rubies and glinting emeralds, flashing sapphires and glowing amber, filaments of gold and silver. Frank closed her eyes against the twinkling beauty.

Her mother had loved the snow. She’d bundle Frank into layers of clothes and they’d run to the park to make snowmen and snow angels. Frank flashed on lying in the snow against her mother’s chest, both of them panting after making a choir of snow angels. Her mother’s arms were so tight around her that Frank could barely breathe. Smothering her in a flurry of kisses, her mother had whispered fiercely, “I love you
so
much. You’re my very own snow angel that I get to keep forever and ever. You’ll never melt or leave me in the spring.”

Frank bit her lip. The snow jewels blurred and her throat ached. She looked up to the sky. “Why?” she asked, her voice a harsh whisper. “Why all this waste? Why me running and you dying? Crazy out of your fuckin’ mind. God, you scumbag cock-sucker, can you explain that? Huh? You got a goddamned point or do you just groove on suffering? Some sorta sick fuck or what?” She glared at the benevolent sky. “Fucking asshole,” she growled. “What is your goddamned point? Crazy goddamned idiot. Can’t even run a fucking planet.”

Her rage degraded into sorrow, crumbled into the loss she could never admit, could never allow. She bowed her head. Great, fat tears melted through the snow.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” she whispered.

Over and over she swore, the curse becoming a mantra. Crouched at her mother’s stone, Frank felt the smooth granite, letting the hate drain from her. Sorrow and ruin and loss poured from her in twin rivulets, coursing down her cheeks, steaming through the snow to touch the ground at her feet, the ground that surrounded and cradled her mother, and through her tears Frank was connected to her.

A single cloud covered the sun and wandered on.

Trucks bleated backup warnings. A siren rose and fell.

Two women talked outside the cemetery, their words a steady purr as they passed.

Pigeons waddled and cooed. Crows fought over an empty potato chip bag.

Frank traced her mother’s name. Bent her head to the flat rock.

At last she stood, palming her face dry. The cemetery was still empty. The sun had angled higher and Frank glanced at her watch. She rested a hand upon the granite, receiving the stone’s cool touch as benediction.

Frank sat in the Nova with a warm cup of coffee. When her phone rang she answered without looking at who the call was from.

“Hi,” Gail said. “How are you?”

“Funny you should ask.” Frank thought a minute, deciding she couldn’t articulate an answer. Didn’t want to. “What are you up to?”

“I just got out of a meeting and I’m walking back to the office. It’s a beautiful day. I was thinking about you in the cold and the ice and snow. How are you?”

Damnably on the verge of tears again Frank sat up straight. She squinted into the snow. “Oh,” she said, fighting to keep the quaver from her voice. “I’m a lot of things. Mostly right now I’m awful damn glad to hear your voice.”

“Are you crying?”

Frank swallowed hard. “Not yet. But I seem to be doing a lot of that lately. Weirdest thing. Just about anything can set me off. Hold on.”

Grabbing a napkin from under the seat, Frank blew her nose. She gave her cheek a not so gentle slap.

“There we go,” she said into the phone. “All better. Christ. My cheeks are gettin’ raw from all the salt on ‘em lately. But I guess it’s good. S’all good to the gracious.”

“Is this LA Franco I’m talking to?
The
Lucifera Angelina Franco?”

“Hey, come on.” Frank kidded. “This isn’t a secure line. You swore to secrecy about my name. So no, it’s not LA Franco you’re talking to.”

“Well, tell me who I am talking to.”

“Christ, I wish I could. She’s a damn crybaby, for one thing. Guess that’s just the way it’s got to be for a while. There’s a lot that’s got to come out. I’m reading
The Da Vinci Code
—probably the last person in America to read it—and there’s a great line. Something to the effect that men will go to greater lengths to avoid what they fear than to obtain what they want. And that’s me. I’ve spent my whole life avoiding pain rather than facing it and getting what I want.”

“What
do
you want?”

You,
Frank almost answered, but she knew it was a cheap answer. She took a big breath, finding the truth there. “I want a quiet heart. A quiet head. I don’t want to be scared all the time, wondering what I’m going to lose next. Wondering which corner the next bombshell’s coming around. I just… .I want to live and not be afraid. Just take each moment as it comes and not spend so much time trying to protecting myself. Trying to anticipate where the next blow’s coming from and heading it off. Shit happens. Much as I hate it, all the running in the world hasn’t kept me from it. If anything, I think it’s been running right alongside me, getting even stronger and faster. So what I want is to quit running. To quit looking over my shoulder trying to see what’s coming after me. I just want to be still. I want to be quiet inside.”

The phone sounded dead.

Frank asked, “You there?”

Gail sniffed. “Now you’ve made
me
cry.”

“Why?” Frank gave her time to answer.

“Because I always knew you were brave. Not the knock-down, drag-out kind of brave, but brave in your heart. Do you know when I first fell in love with you?”

“Nope.”

“Remember that night you came by to get Placa’s tox report? We had dinner at the Grill and I asked if you were ready for a real date. You said you weren’t, remember? That you were cleaning up your past and weren’t ready for anything new yet. And that’s when I fell in love with you because I could see that you were honest and brave. That your heart was strong and that I’d wait you out. And I did. Even through Noah’s death and even after you left I couldn’t believe that was really you. It was like you were possessed by an evil twin. She looked like you and sounded like you but she couldn’t act like you because she forgot the best of you. She forgot your heart.”

“Hey, cut it out. I’m gonna start crying again, too. Know when I fell in love with you?”

“Uh-uh.”

“The night you told me about your mastectomy. I wanted to tell you then how beautiful I thought you were. I wanted to kiss you but I’d barely had the thought before I talked myself out of it. See how brave I am?”

“You were brave enough to keep dating me.”

“Ah, that wasn’t brave. That was easy. Like falling off of high heels.”

“It’s funny. I know how much you cared for Placa so I don’t mean to sound callous, but if it hadn’t been for her murder I wonder if we’d have gotten together. You spent a lot of time on that case and a lot of time at the morgue.”

“Yeah. We spent a lot of time together.”

“Before that I rarely saw you. You were usually content to let someone else do the posts.”

Frank nodded. “I wanted everything firsthand with Placa.”

“I know. And thank God. It’s a selfish thing to say but thank God for her. Is that awful?”

“No. I was just thinking, you know, all these things in my life— these things I’ve always hated—they’re not all bad. To stretch the cloud with the silver lining analogy, my dad dying and my mom being nuts made me capable and self-reliant. That pain made me strong and hard—granted, to an extreme— and his death made me want to be a cop. By then, after taking care of my mom so long, taking care of strangers was second nature. I can look back and see how the path was laid. If he hadn’t been killed and if I hadn’t been forced to rely on myself I might never have been a cop. I wouldn’t have met Maggie or partnered with Noah or known Placa and probably not you. It’s like you said, I can look back at each one of those events and almost be grateful for them, awful as they were. And that night with the gun, bad as it was, it got me here, sober and talking to you. I’d go through it all over again just to get another shot at you. No pun intended.” When there was no reply, she asked, “I do have one, don’t I?”

“Oh, Frank. I want to say yes and tell you to come home and we’ll be together and happy and it’ll all work out, but there’s a part of me that needs time. I know alcoholics have the best intentions. I know you can mean to stay sober and not do it. I grew up with those sincere promises and they were broken every time. I want to believe you’re different, Frank. I hope and pray that you are. But I’m not willing to fall head over heels for a sincere promise.”