Manhattan Noir - Lawrence Block [51]
“Hi,” I said shyly. I immediately wondered if he knew I was saying the Rosary twice because today was the fourth anniversary of his death.
“So what are you doing?” he asked.
I guessed that he couldn’t read my mind after all. I breathed a little easier and held up the Rosary beads.
He nodded. “My mom does that all the time.”
He seemed very much at ease, but my knees were shaking like Bill Cosby’s Jell-O Pudding. I was glad I was kneeling so he couldn’t see. Did he know I had a huge crush on him, still?
“I hear you’re my number one fan,” he said.
I wanted to die. I felt my face turning red-hot. “Who told you that?” I asked, trying to be cool, sending up a quick prayer that my brother wouldn’t pick this moment to burst into my room.
He shrugged elaborately. “You know, you hear things when you’re …”
“Dead?” I whispered.
“Yeah.” He examined his fingernails.
“What’s it like?” I asked.
“Being dead? It’s not so bad,” he said.
“I mean … heaven. What’s heaven like? Do you get to meet all the saints?”
He snorted. “Naw. Haven’t met any yet.”
I was puzzled. This was not jibing with what the nuns had told me for the last eight years. An idea struck me. “Are you in, you know, purgatory?” I wondered if it was rude to ask, sort of like mentioning someone’s deformity that you’re not supposed to notice because it isn’t polite.
“No, no. It doesn’t really work that way.”
“What do you mean?” I was stunned.
He seemed to lose interest all of a sudden. “Listen, Raquel, I don’t have much time. I have to be getting back. I just came to tell you something important.”
He looked at me to make sure he had my full attention. Like I could concentrate on anything else.
He pointed his finger at me. “You’re going to have to make a decision soon, and it will affect the rest of your life.”
I nodded importantly. At last, something I could understand. “I know. I have to choose a confirmation name. I want to take Frederika. After you, you know?” I looked at the floor.
“Aw, kid. Don’t do this. I’m not—I wasn’t that important, really. I mean, I’m flattered as hell that you think so much of me, but I’m not worth it. Really.”
My eyes welled up. “I think you are.” I couldn’t speak above a whisper, and I couldn’t look at him.
“No, no, come on. Hey. I wish I could give you a tissue, but I don’t have any on me. Can you wipe your eyes on your sleeve and look at me? There you go. I hate to see anyone cry. Especially over me. I don’t deserve it, believe me.”
Now that I stopped sniffling, I got angry. “I think you do. You gave us all hope. You came from Washington Heights, and you made it. Everyone who has a TV saw that a Puerto Rican could be an important person.”
“Most people thought I was Mexican because of the character I played on Chico and the Man,” he said quietly. “And look at the kind of work Chico did on the show.”
I thought I understood. It wouldn’t be fitting for someone who would one day become a saint to brag. He must be practicing up by being modest with me. But I knew what he had done for me and countless others in el barrio. He was our symbol of possibilities.
I had another question. “Why’d you have to die so soon?”
There was no way to communicate to him the emptiness he left in my heart and soul when he abandoned me and all his other fans. Why couldn’t he have waited until I was older and could handle his death better?
“Every life lasts exactly as long as it’s supposed to,” he said gently. “I was here just the right amount of time.”
I hung my head and mumbled, “I wish you could have been here longer.”
“No, come on. Anyway, I’m here now because I have something important to tell you. You listening? Okay, here it is: You’re supposed to join the NYPD.”
I didn’t understand. “I’m only fourteen.”
“Yeah, well, this is a little ahead