EagleTribune.com, North Andover, MA

Merrimack River tragedy: Five years later

Families still cope with loss of children

Published: December 16, 2007

By Zach Church

LAWRENCE — Carrying on with life is a simple concept: Make it through a day without major catastrophes. Then make it through the next one.

But in practice, moving forward requires more. Family. Work. Hope.

Many of the relatives and friends who lost boys in the Merrimack River five years ago are still in Lawrence and still working, day-to-day, to make a life for themselves. They are absent a son, brother, cousin or friend, but they are still here.

Here are their stories:

Mickey Mouse curtains and a cousin gone

Juan Mejia is 15 years old. He has Mickey Mouse curtains.

But Juan won’t be embarrassed by that. It’s not that he likes Disney characters, necessarily. But the curtains, which hang closed in his small, sparse bedroom in Haverhill, belonged to his cousin.

And his cousin, Victor Baez, is someone Juan has no intention of forgetting. Since the time 9-year-old Victor drowned, Juan has kept his baseball mitt and some of his clothes. Today, they sit in the third drawer down on his dresser, along with photos of the cousins together. It is a drawer reserved specifically for Victor.

“I bring my friends over and they say, ‘Why do you have Mickey Mouse curtains?’ “ Juan admits. But the flak stops after he explains. Even if it didn’t, he wouldn’t take them down. The curtains, which haven’t been washed, will stay up for “ever,” Juan said.

“It feels weird,” Juan says about his cousin’s death, “because if he was here, everything would be different, but he’s not here and it’s not the same.”

Jennifer Gomez, 15, another cousin of Victor’s, also thinks often of her cousin. She, too, has had to defend his memory against naysayers. She can remember being younger — in fourth grade — and being told by classmates that her cousin was “stupid” to go out on the ice to save his friend, William Rodriguez.

Her response: “It’s something they don’t know because they weren’t there, so they should mind their business.”

Nobody says that anymore though, Jennifer said. Classmates have grown out of that cruelty. Nobody talks much about what happened that day. Jennifer has class at Lawrence High School with Francis Spraus, one of the boys who survived the drowning. She spoke to him about it once, but he could only get so much out. They haven’t talked about it since.

Sitting on his bed, Juan sheds tears for just a moment while talking about Victor. Jennifer, seated next to him, wells up too. Crowded in the doorway to the bedroom are Victor’s mother, aunt, sister and a cavalcade of younger cousins. The family is so huge that Juan’s mother, Alicia Franco, jokes they would need to rent a function hall to hold a proper Christmas.

Both Juan and Jennifer were close with Victor. Jennifer recalls being with him almost constantly. Juan slept over at Victor’s many weekends. As Sunday approached, Victor would want to switch around and spend a few nights at Juan’s.

Sharing the handful of photos he keeps in his dresser drawer, Juan explains one that harkens back to that time when the cousins went everywhere together.

“That was a long time ago,” he said, showing a photo of him and Victor playfully perched atop a street corner mailbox in Roxbury. “That was before.”

Without their son, Constants still work for a better life

The American dream, almost by definition, requires struggle and heartbreak. There is no easy road there. Getting to America is just step one of the plan.

That the Constant family, even after the drowning death of their 8-year-old son Mackendy, still pushes for the dream, says something about their resilience.

Jean Constant, Mackendy’s father, elected not to speak for this story. It is too hard, he said, to recall his son’s life out loud. Six months after Mackendy’s death, the family had already cleared the home of his photos, they told The Eagle-Tribune in 2003. The reminder was just too weighty on a family struggling to push ahead.

And push ahead they have. Jean Constant has reinvested himself in education. His son Walson is a student at Central Catholic High School.

These achievements in education are not surprising for a family that arrived in Lawrence fresh from the political instability of Haiti, community leader and Haitian immigrant Jude Charles said.

“I’m proud of the Haitian people first,” Charles said. “And I’m proud of my friend. Even with the death of a son, he pushes the big one to go to school. (And) even though his son is dead, still he (Jean Constant) is going to school. Education is top for Haiti.”

In a city of immigrants, the Haitians are a small community, though Charles points out that Lawrence boasts two Haitian churches. But still, the connection was intimate enough that Haitians pulled together in 2002 to support the Constant family, who still live in the same North Lawrence home as five years ago.

Even before Mackendy’s death, Charles and his sister, Arnelle Morales, were in touch with the Constants, helping them make their way in the United States. Morales remembers picking Mackendy up from school one day as a favor to his parents. She confirmed that the small, wide-eyed child, dressed in shirt and tie for his passport photo, was as chatty as he looked.

Mackendy was “charming and very outgoing,” Morales said.

“He wouldn’t stop talking,” she recalled. “He just won me over.”

The Constants for five years now have had to live without that chatty son in their lives. Yet they move forward, continue to push for that dream. Morales attributes that to a trait she sees in all Haitians. Their home country was the first in Latin America to declare independence. That was 203 years ago.

“Haitian people are accustomed to challenge,” Morales said. “We’re used to that. We’re used to challenge. Sometimes you have to grab what you have left and run with it.”

The death of Mackendy is a challenge that will never be completely overcome for the family. When Charles calls on the phone, still he can hear sadness in the voice on the other end of the line. Still, he knows, the family struggles forward.

“I believe it takes time for them to reach out (to) the American dream,” Charles said. “You expect, for example, to see the children growing up and in school, but one of them is dead. That’s not easy. For each, the American dream is not easy.”

A large family misses one

There is not a lot of space in Eufemio and Maria Rodriguez’s bedroom, yet they’ve found a spot to keep their son just feet from where they lay their heads at night.

The couple, parents of seven and grandparents of seven, keep William Rodriguez’s ashes situated amongst a large photo, crosses and prayer candles, a constant reminder that their youngest son — though dead — is still with them, still in their home.

William, 11, was the first onto the ice Dec. 14, 2002. When he fell through, his friends went to save him.

The Rodriguez home, in a relatively new duplex in North Lawrence, is not small itself. Spacious and tastefully decorated, it spreads through two floors. On a weekday evening last month, there were six family members in the house — William’s parents, brother, a cousin and nephews he never knew.

But even with such a large, close family, missing one is missing a lot.

“We don’t really celebrate Christmas anymore,” Eufemio Rodriguez Jr., 22, said. “We do, but not like we used to.”

Eufemio and Maria Rodriguez both said talking about their son is still hard. They keep photos in their home, but only the one in their bedroom is prominent.

Still, the couple’s blanket, open willingness to talk about their son betrays the gentle, unconditional love of a large Catholic family.

“It’s been five years, but it feels like it just happened, because that pain can never go away,” Eufemio Rodriguez said, speaking in Spanish.

“He’s gone, but he’s not forgotten,” William’s mother said. “Every time we talk about how many kids we have, we say ‘seven’ still. He’s always present in our hearts.”

For Eufemio Rodriguez Jr., who was just 17 when his brother died, the tragedy bestowed a new outlook on life.

“Things are different right now,” he said. “I don’t see things the way I did before. You never know when life will get taken from you.”



Pain of loss doesn’t fade for mothers

By Yadira Betances and J.J.Huggins

Editor’s note: It was five years ago that seven young friends, lured by the deception of ice on the Merrimack River, were swallowed by its freezing depths. Of the seven boys, four drowned — William Rodriguez, 9; Mackendy Constant, 8; Victor Baez, 9; and Christopher Casado, 7. Those who survived are Christopher’s brother Ivan, now 14, Francis Spraus, 14, and Jaycob Morales, 16.

Today is the final installment of The Eagle-Tribune series that looked at the lives of the three survivors and the lives of those who still grieve for the young men they lost. Today, we focus on the mothers of three of the boys who died.



LAWRENCE — They kneel before the graves, and together bring two fingers to their lips, then run them over the headstones, making the sign of the cross.

For the next hour or so, Thelma Gomez and Jacqueline Casado stay to talk, pray or simply be in the presence of their sons, Victor and Christopher, who are laid to rest side by side at St. Mary-Immaculate Conception Cemetery.

The boys were among four who drowned in the Merrimack River five years ago. Since then, the women have made it a weekly ritual to go to the cemetery to offer each other moral and spiritual support.

“At first, I didn’t want to come,” Casado admitted. “But when I’m with her, I feel better.”

Gomez said she also leans on Casado for strength when visiting her son’s grave.

“Every time I thought about coming, I got sick,” Gomez said. “But I felt guilty about leaving him alone.”

On the fifth anniversary of the worst day of their lives, Gomez and Jacqueline Casado know they share a unique bond, a heartache only they can understand.

In addition to the strength they draw from each other, what helped after the accident, the mothers said, were the people who reached out to them with their hearts. It was the same for Maria Rodriguez who lost her son William in the river that day.

“There were a lot of arms there to comfort me,” said Maria Rodriguez. “I felt I could unburden myself and share my pain with them.”

Rodriguez and her husband, Eufemio, were touched by the hundreds of letters and videos sent by strangers from across the country who had gone through similar tragedies.

“They truly understood the pain we were going through and that gave us strength to go on,” Maria Rodriguez said.

For other mothers, it’s

too much pain to share

While Gomez and Casado have formed a special bond since the tragedy, Rodriguez and Ysabel Morales both said it’s too painful for them to see the mothers of the other victims.

Morales’ son Jaycob Morales survived the tragedy. She said he is still having a difficult time dealing with it.

“Christopher (Casado) and Jaycob were very, very close, and even though they were close, I try to avoid his mother because I don’t want to talk about it,” Morales said. “I’ll never forget that day. I just try to get over it.”

Rodriguez understands how Morales feels.

“Sometimes I just want to run far, far away,” Rodriguez said. “Other times I want to render my heart to take away this horrible pain I feel.”

She said the pain is more acute now than it was five years ago.

“It’s hard to explain, but it feels like the first day. The pain is always there, and is sharper now because you see the reality,” Rodriguez said.

“We were in shock and sedated then, but now we see the reality,” Eufemio Rodriguez said. “Then, we couldn’t believe it. We didn’t think it was real. Now, we know it is not a dream.”

Maria Rodriguez said she has found strength in her husband and their children, Yadira, 26, Karina, 24, Eufemio Jr., 22, Suley, 21, Jason, 18, and Christopher, 17, and their seven grandchildren.

William would have turned 16 this past Aug. 21. Four months after he died, a grandson was born to the Rodriguezes, whom they named William. “They fill my heart with joy,” Maria Rodriguez said of her grandchildren.

The family of the fourth victim, Mackendy Constant, did not want to speak about the tragedy.

What they hold onto

Rodriguez has created a makeshift altar in a corner of her bedroom. William’s ashes in an urn are surrounded by meaningful items such as a glass of holy water, candles, angel figurines and prayer cards of Our Lady of Altagracia, the patroness of the Dominican Republic. Under the table is a small trunk filled with letters the family received after the accident, her son’s favorite pillow, balloons, a Scooby Doo movie, Matchbox cars, and a blue Elmo doll.

There is also a drawing his niece Yulianis Hernandez made on a white paper plate of SpongeBob SquarePants. It reads, “William, you are the most important boy in our family. We all love you. Amen.”

There are tons of photographs, including several taken during the calling hours showing Eufemio and Maria Rodriguez lovingly holding their son in their last goodbye. Maria Rodriguez said she did not look at the pictures until moving to Monmouth Street several months ago.

She has William’s wallet with the dollar bill someone paid him for the candy bar he was selling to raise money for school.

Casado, too, keeps a heap of memories of her son in a fireproof lockbox — photographs, sympathy cards and letters sent from across the country, an ultrasound image of Christopher in the womb, school portraits, baby hand prints and a Thanksgiving poem he copied for school less than a month before the accident.

She also has a makeshift altar decorated with an angel figurine, a snow globe, a candle and a blue rosary. A basket full of stuffed animals that people brought after Christopher died sits under a table next to the television set.

Tears stream down her cheeks as she looks at the photographs.

‘No words to explain

what you are when you

lose a child’

The mothers of the other victims say it’s difficult to have control of their emotions.

“People wonder why I’ve not gotten over losing my son,” Rodriguez said. “Unless you live through this, no one understands. No one can fill the emptiness he left. The pain is embedded under the skin and all you do is learn to live with it.”

William is a name remembered fondly daily at the Rodriguez home, though the details of his death are never spoken.

“It’s hard for me to fathom. He wasn’t sick. I saw him walk out of that door and never saw him again,” Maria Rodriguez said.

Even Yulianis Hernandez, who was only 3 when her uncle died, remembers him. She recalls laughing hysterically as he threw her over his shoulders or swung her under his legs.

“I miss him because I love him,” said Yulianis, a second-grader at Wetherbee School. “I pray and hope he would come back because I miss him.”

Eufemio Rodriguez said he will remember William for his endless jokes and for playing Spanish ballads for his parents.

Eufemio Rodriguez was at the hospital when his son took his last breath and said he finds comfort listening to “Last Kiss” by Wayne Cochran, which describes a similar incident. Though the pain still lingers, he has adapted to the reality of not having his son.

“It was meant to be,” he said with a sigh. “It was his destiny and only God knows why.”

For Gomez, the memories are bittersweet.

She cannot bear to look at Victor’s school photo, where he pursed his lips together to form a closed-mouth smile. Gomez said it doesn’t look like her son, who enjoyed making funny faces for the camera.

“For me, it has a message,” Gomez said. “It’s like he was thinking, ‘This is my last picture.’ ”

She keeps only two photographs of her son hanging on the walls of her Salem Street apartment. One was taken when he was 7 or 8 months old, lying on his stomach and dressed in rainbow-colored overalls and a backward cap. In the other photograph, Victor is a 1-year-old, clad in a multicolored shirt and dark pants. He is standing, resting his hand on a wooden horse. He is smiling.

“The big ones, I cannot look at them. It’s too painful,” she said.

It is so difficult for her to look at her son’s pictures, she tucks them behind personal papers in her wallet.

Under the photographs is a dark wooden table, which Gomez has turned into a shrine to her late son, decorated with keepsakes from his short life. They include gifts from family members, like a teddy bear, meant to comfort the grieving mother. She framed the white socks he wore the day he died.

Gomez joyfully remembered her last Mother’s Day with Victor, when he asked for money.

“He said, ‘Gimmee money,’” she recalled. “I said, ‘Why do you need money?’”

She ended up giving him what he wanted, and he went to the grocery store and bought her a red rose.

Standing at the cemetery in front of her son’s grave, Casado talked about the difficulty of understanding why her son and the three other boys died that day. Her son Ivan was also at the river that day and was able to escape to call for help.

“When your parents die, you are an orphan,” Casado said. “When your husband dies, you are a widow, but there are no words to explain what you are when you lose a child.”

Photos