“My mom taught us exactly what Anne Bradstreet wanted to teach her kids,” Jane said, clearing her throat. “What was good, and what was ill, What would save life, and what would kill. Thus gone, amongst you I may live, And dead, yet speak and counsel give. Farewell, my birds, farewell, adieu, I happy am, if well with you.”
That was it. I couldn’t hold it back. I started crying. And believe me, I wasn’t the only one. I hugged Jane tight as she returned to the pew.
After the ceremony, the girls surprised me with a picnic lunch in Riverside Park. I looked out over the Hudson, remembering seeing Maeve as a glowing angel in the water. If that was just a hallucination, so be it. Bring them on.
But a part of me, the best part, didn’t think so.
I would see her again one day. Before, I had only hoped it was true, but now I knew it was.
I watched Eddie and Brian tossing a football. The doctor had told me my ankle wouldn’t be ready to walk on for another couple of weeks, but what did doctors know? I dropped my crutches, hobbled out to join them, and intercepted a pass. Chrissy and Shawna leaped up immediately, and I let them tackle me. That’s when the rest of my crew piled on. Even Seamus, who actually stripped the ball from my hands before merrily landing on my chest.
I closed my eyes as Meyer’s ugly words filled my ears.
Is this all life is worth? This is what gets you out of bed in the morning?
You better believe it, you son of a bitch, I thought. And wherever you are, I hope you’re still burning.
Chapter 98
When we got back to our building, there was a commotion at the entrance – protesters of some sort, circling in front of a News 4 camera, and other media people with microphones.
One of the picketers was holding up a sign that said KILLER COP.
What? There couldn’t actually be a group of people who were angry that Meyer was dead!
But wait a second. This was New York City we were talking about. Of course, there could be.
Then, on another of the signs, I saw a picture of a young black man. Beneath it, big bold letters read: KENNETH ROBINSON WAS MURDERED. DOWN WITH THE NYPD!
I was stunned. These people were protesting the drug gang hit man’s death up in Harlem, from what seemed like ten years ago.
Before I could shut my unhinged jaw, my kids went running into the crowd. My God, what were the little maniacs doing? I watched helplessly as they squirreled through the line of picketers to the guy holding the shoulder cam. Then, taking turns, they just let loose.
“My dad’s a hero!”
“He’s the best person in the world!”
“My dad’s great. You sure ain’t!”
Eddie stayed frozen for a few seconds.
Then he shouted, “Ah, up yours with a hockey stick!”
The reporters thronged around me, hollering questions. I kept my cool and just shook my head. With the heroic assistance of my doorman, Ralph, I managed to wrangle my nutty gang inside the building.
“Guys, you can’t do or say things like that,” I told them, but Seamus, ignoring me, whooped and delivered high fives to everyone.
Ralph hurried over as we got to the elevator. “Mr. Bennett, please,” he said anxiously. “The press say they want one statement from you. Then they go.” It was clear that he really wanted them away from his building.
“Okay, Ralph, I’ll take care of it,” I said.
When I got back to the front door, the media people thrust an aluminum bouquet of microphones under my chin. I cleared my throat loudly.
“I do have a statement to make after all,” I said. “I agree with my kids one hundred and fifty percent. Good- bye, everyone. And before I forget, up yours – each and every one of you – with a hockey stick.”
