The Almost Murder and Other Stories (8 page)

Mom didn't budge but stared at the blood all around us and at her knocked-out husband.

Valdo put the flask to my mouth. The smell repelled me, but he ordered, “Drink.” I did as I was told. Strong, hot rum burned my tongue, but cleared my mind. The moans, mine all along, stopped.

Valdo held his flask up to Mom again, this time prying her lips open with his free hand, still dirty from work. She took a sip, swallowed, stared. Tears trailed down her face. At least she was reacting.

A siren wailed. Heavy footsteps. Two cops burst in, one a tough white lady, the other a husky African-American officer. Abuela told them what had happened.

The man checked my father's pulse and said, “breathing steady.” Then handcuffed him. Pops was still out cold.

The lady cop called on her walkie-talkie for two ambulances. Abuela muttered, “That pig doesn't deserve one.”

I silently agreed.

Mom's ambulance came quickly. Paramedics took over, got her onto a gurney, took her vitals and shouted out some numbers. Soon, they were rolling her out of the apartment.

I asked to go with her. It wasn't allowed. I wanted to scream at the cops, the paramedics, anybody, “Mom can't go without me.” But I didn't—couldn't speak.

Valdo saw me looking around in a panic and offered me and Abuela a ride to the hospital. I nodded my thanks.

We followed Mom's gurney and the muscle-bound EMT's down two flights of tenement stairs. Once she was in, the ambulance pulled out and we piled into Valdo's beat-up Honda. Luckily, the hospital was close.

We saw “Emergency Room” in yellow neon. Valdo parked right underneath the sign. Abuela and I hustled out of the car and followed him inside.

Valdo cut in front of a line of people, shouting mom's name. The receptionist pursed her red lips and snapped, “Get in line.”

Valdo mumbled in Spanish, telling me to wait in line with Abuela. Once up there, I was to tell the lady what happened and ask how we could find my mom. He went to repark the car, so it wouldn't get towed.

I almost wet my pants in that long line, but wouldn't let myself use the restroom until we knew how Mom was. I asked Abuela to sit and save her energy. She refused. I was glad, since her hand around mine felt so good.

Twenty minutes later, we got to the head of the line. I stated Mom's name clearly. The woman looked down at a piece of paper, and said, “Wait a sec, kid.” She dialed the phone and announced our presence to someone. Putting down the receiver, she gave me a tense smile and asked us to wait in the lobby. I settled Abuela down in an empty chair, then rushed into the ladies room.

I was relieved to finally pee, then went to wash my hands. I stared at my image in the mirror; it seemed a stranger was looking back at me. I was the color of gray chalk, with a big smear of Mom's blood on my forehead.
I scrubbed my hands and face with antibacterial soap and went back to join Abuela.

My grandmother was praying the rosary. Drowsy from the rum, I sat down next to Abuela, putting my head on her shoulder. She stroked my hair like I was a little girl and murmured, “She'll be okay.”

Moments later, my handcuffed father's gurney was wheeled in, flanked by two paramedics and the police officers who'd been at our place. I looked away, disgusted.

The receptionist called our names and we jumped to our feet. She told us we could go back to see Mom. Abuela and I followed a nurse's aide to Mom's cubicle. I was relieved to see her alert, sitting up, with her arm bandaged. She looked anxious and weak.

“Thirty-five stitches,” Mom said, trying for a smile.

I grabbed her and cried, grateful she was okay.

An administrative lady came in and asked Mom if she could speak to a detective. She nodded yes and Abuela took me outside.

We passed a blue-suited, balding man in the doorway. I peeked back at Mom, who said. “Go,
mija
.” Abuela and I again sat in the waiting room.

Twenty minutes later, a nurse told us that we could take Mom home in an hour or so. I was amazed she didn't need to stay overnight.

After the detective interviewed Mom, he came to the waiting room and introduced himself as Sergeant Ríos. He asked to speak to Abuela and me, separately.

Abuela asked if I could handle it. I told her I knew what I'd seen and wanted to tell it all.

I went first and gave Ríos a blow-by-blow description of what had happened. The attack was stamped in my memory forever. He thanked me, saying I'd been brave and thorough. Then, he suggested that I visit with my mother while he spoke to Abuela.

I walked back into Mom's cubicle and was relieved to find her looking better, but very drowsy.

“You get some medicine, Mami?” I asked.

She said, “
Sí
, it helps,
mija
.”

Abuela joined us, with Valdo at her side. Both were relieved to see Mom looking less panicky and anxious. He whispered to Abuela that my father was down the hall still shackled to a gurney and that he was going straight to jail.

A nurse came in with paperwork for Mom to sign, then helped her into a wheelchair. We went back up the same hall. I felt a lot better than I had earlier and said a quick prayer of thanks.

Valdo and Abuela helped Mom into the front seat and padded her bandaged arm with the brown afghan.

Mom was asleep before Valdo started the car. Abuela thanked him for all his help. I leaned over, my head on her lap. The nightmare was almost over. Mom was okay.

When we got back to our apartment, Valdo picked Mom up as if she was a kid and carried her up the stairs. His wife, Blanca, was at the landing between our place and theirs.

As we passed her, she whispered that Mom's bed was all ready. Valdo put Mom down gently on her bed in the big bedroom, right off our front hall door. She moaned once, then fell back to sleep.

Abuela thanked Valdo and Blanca, kissed my forehead. She patted my shoulder, and they were gone.

We checked on Mom, who was now in a deep, narcotic slumber. Abuela nodded at me to follow her. Just outside the bedroom, we saw the kitchen. Grandma sucked her teeth at the sight.

Yellow crime scene investigation tapes criss-crossed much of our
cocina
, so that it looked like a scene from
Law & Order
. The stove and fridge were free.

Weaving around the web of streamers, we made some hot tea and ham sandwiches. I had no appetite, but carried a tray for Mom to her room. We tried to coax her awake but, shrugging us off, she slept on.

Abuela urged me to eat, but I was too exhausted to obey her. Snuggling in next to Mom, my arm around her, I fell asleep, too.

All of this took place on the first day of my new life as a would-be killer's daughter.

I stayed in bed, cuddled up to Mom, most of Friday and Saturday. Neighbors brought us home-cooked meals. Abuela bustled around, gave Mom her medication and tried to pry me out of bed. I stayed put.

On Sunday morning, I finally took a shower and helped Mom get dressed. Abuela insisted we all go to Mass. Valdo gave us a lift to the eleven o'clock service, in Spanish, at St. Andrew's.

Father Salinas said our names during the prayer request. Afterward, neighbors came over to our pew. There were hugs and tears.

Valdo offered us a ride, but Mom wanted to walk the four blocks home. Mom's pal Betty held her arm; they whispered together. I followed behind them, arm linked in Abuela's.

The next day was my first one back at school. Every kid and teacher knew one version or another of what had happened. I felt many curious sets of eyes, all focused on me. Some bolder ones spoke aloud about my dad, my mom's injuries and me.

My father was in jail: big news. Other South Brooklyn Middle School kids had dads or brothers in jail. I was the only one whose father had tried to kill her mother.

I walked to my first class, feeling numb and lonely, until my best friend, Mali, linked her arm through mine.
She became my five-foot-tall bodyguard, snapping fiercely at kids who stared or asked questions. Mali was a pit bull.

After lunch, we sat together at side-by-side desks in study hall. I was taking out my loose-leaf binder when a kid came in with a note. The monitor called my name.

Miss Reyes, the guidance counselor, wanted to see me.

I looked at Mali, who whispered, “Stay cool. Meet me next class.”

Then I left.

The boy, who told me his name was Marco, led me to the main office. Miss Reyes was waiting and introduced herself.

I didn't get why she knew me on sight and asked her if we'd met before.

She quietly said, “Your picture was on the news this weekend.”

I hadn't known.

She was tall and curvy, with short, thick, curly hair and eyes that looked at me, straight and true. I trusted her. Miss Reyes led me out of the main office and down the hall. At a blue door with her name on it, she took out her key and let us into a tiny room barely bigger than a cubicle.

It was an inviting little space, unlike the rest of our institutional-looking school. Everything was in shades of blue.

I expected Miss Reyes to hit me with nonstop questions. Instead, she simply said, “I'm happy your mom is okay.”

At the sound of these words, I wept. Deep, heaving sobs wracked me.

Miss Reyes handed me tissues. I went through almost a whole box. I couldn't seem to stop crying.

Miss Reyes' skirt made a swishing sound as she came around her desk. She embraced me, and I inhaled perfume. In a few minutes, my sobs began to subside. Miss Reyes touched my cheek, then went back to her seat. I'd
never had physical affection at school, but was glad she'd given it.

The bell rang, and I jumped. Then, I gathered up my things.

She asked if I wanted to see her daily, instead of going to study hall. I nodded yes gratefully.

As I went out the door, Miss Reyes reminded me, “Keep breathing.”

This was the first of many sessions with her. I bonded with Miss Reyes, who confided that her father was an alcoholic, too. When she was a kid, he'd slapped her mom around, right in front of Miss Reyes and her sister.

The cops were called to her house more than once. Her parents divorced, but not until Miss Reyes was out of high school. She had seen plenty in her youth. I related to her.

At home, Mom, Abuela and I tried to act like things were normal. Abuela insisted we say the rosary together each night, like we did years before when I was getting ready to make my First Communion. Mom and I obeyed. My rosaries had been misplaced, so Abuela bought me a fine set of beads, shimmery white pearl and silver ones. They felt cool and good as they slipped through my fingers.

We gathered, clacking our beads in unison in the same kitchen where Dad had stabbed Mom. All of us thanked Jesus and the saints for sparing Mom and putting Pops behind bars.

One night, Pops tried to call Mom from jail, collect. What a jerk. Abuela answered and, of course, refused to accept the charges.

All three of us stared at each other. I expected Mom to fall apart, but she didn't. Instead, she was furious. She asked me to call the DA's office and her caseworker, leaving messages on their services about what had just happened.

The next day, Pops' phone privileges were revoked. Contacting the victim of his violent attack, or even trying to, was a crime in itself. We were told that he couldn't call anymore, but kept our answering machine on, always screening calls, just in case.

The one good thing about Mom's near-murder was that Pops was out of our lives. He'd been tearing up our household and making us miserable ever since I could remember. Whenever Mom had threatened to leave him, he'd vowed to kill her. She believed him and stayed.

It always bugged me that when Pops was sober he expected me to treat him like a regular, dear old dad. He'd act over-nice, ask me for kisses and try sucking up to me. I was nearly as repulsed by this behavior as when he was drunk, tyrannical and out of control.

Except for the day he attacked Mom, my father hadn't gotten physical much. Twice, when I was eleven and twelve, he'd slapped Mom, hard enough to leave a bruise. I told friends, who said it was no biggie. Their dads did the same. Sometimes worse.

Now, Pops was gone. Peace at last.

Time was weird. I felt calmest during my sessions with Miss Reyes and when saying the rosary.

The days leading up to Pops' pretrial hearing went by quickly. I dreaded seeing him in the courtroom. Mom said she was not afraid, that he'd be shackled and in a prison jumpsuit, harmless. We'd all be fine. Abuela echoed her. I was still terrified.

The prosecutor, Assistant D.A. Ramón, was our guy; he headed up the case, which was called “The State of New York vs. Oscar Monton.” All three of us went downtown to talk to Ramón and hear what to expect.

He was clear: the hearing would be quick. All Mom had to do was identify Dad. We weren't needed, but
Ramón felt it'd be good if we came, and we wanted to be there to support Mami.

As we left Ramón's office, I spotted a red-lettered sign on a wall in the hallway. In bold, red print, which to me, looked like blood, were the words, “Are you a victim of a violent crime?” I asked the D.A. what this meant.

He said, “Wait.”

Ducking back into his office, Detective Ramón came out with a pamphlet, apologizing that he hadn't given it to us earlier. I looked down and read “Victims Witness Assistance Program.”

“You'll get help,” he said, “these are good folks. Call them for sure.”

I nodded that I would.

On the subway home, Mom asked me to look through the booklet. I did and was glad we'd picked it up. For sure, we qualified for a bunch of helpful services and compensation for Mom's work loss and medical treatment.

The next day, I left a message on VWA's answering machine. Nanci Colón, a victim-witness advocate called back and asked if we'd like her to sit with us before, during and after the hearing and trial. I asked what it cost. When she said it would be paid for by the state, I told her I'd ask Mom.