Her Sister's Tattoo

by Ellen Meeropol

  It was after midnight when the doorbell rang. Who would visit so late?

  Maggie stood in the dark hallway, holding an overstuffed garbage bag and a sleeping baby. She pushed past him into the apartment.

  “It’s your turn, Daddy.” Maggie dropped the bag onto the floor and continued into the living room.

  “What happened? Where’s Rosa?”

  “Don’t ask. Better that you don’t know anything tonight. If anyone questions you, just say that you answered the doorbell and found the baby there. Alone. Okay?”

  “Is she all right?”

  “I hope so.” Maggie sat on the sofa, turning the baby to face Allen. “Don’t you want to meet your daughter?”

  Emma slept, clutching a grubby stuffed animal against her neck and sucking her ring and middle fingers.

  “Aren’t they supposed to suck their thumbs?”

  “They find comfort however they can.” Maggie looked at him. “Just like the rest of us.”

  This wasn’t how he had imagined meeting his kid. He had pictured Rosa calling him, summoning him to a motel on the outskirts of some dusty Midwestern town, where they could be a family for a weekend or a month or a lifetime, despite the practical concerns of arrest warrants and FBI surveillance and the need to make a living. He squatted and reached for Emma’s other hand, sleep-limp on the couch.

  Emma closed her fingers around his thumb, opened her eyes, and blinked twice. She stared at him for a long moment. Then she wailed.

  Allen pulled his hand away and looked at Maggie. “Do something.”

  “You’re her father. Pick her up.”

  He couldn’t figure out where to put his hands, how to hold her. Emma screamed louder, arching her back and throwing her head away from his grasp. He caught her awkwardly and cradled her head, damp with fury and tears, in his hand. He looked at Maggie. “Help me.”

  “Walk with her. Talk to her, softly. Doesn’t matter what you say. Tell her who you are, tell her stories, tell her legal nonsense. Walk and talk.”

  Allen started down the hallway, trying to imitate the peculiar bouncing gait he remembered Esther and Jake using when Molly was fussy. Emma’s crying sounded angry now. Who was he fooling? He couldn’t do this. He had zero experience with babies. His kid was smart. No way could an imposter father fool her. She hurled her head back again, looked at him, and howled louder.

  “Please, Maggie. I can’t do this.”

  Maggie walked next to him, her arms around father and child. She spoke into Emma’s ear. “Hey, sweet Emma. This furry-faced guy is your papa. He’s going to take good care of you until your mama comes back. It’s okay. I promise.” Maggie accompanied her words with drumbeat pats on Emma’s back, a lubdub of reassurance.

  Emma’s cries slowed to whimpers, and she stuck her fingers back into her mouth. Allen felt limp with relief. But this was crazy. There was no room in his life for this. He had work to do, important work, defending the voiceless. How could he be a lawyer and take care of a sixteen-month-old girl?

  How could he not? This was Rosa’s baby. His daughter. He felt split open and frozen solid at the same time.

  Allen whispered into Emma’s other ear, mimicking the cadence of Maggie’s words. “I promise, too,” he said. “I’m going to take very good care of you.”

  As soon as I learn how, he added to himself.

  Maggie turned back to the living room. “My shift starts in an hour. I’ll be back in the morning to give you a crash course in toddler care. For tonight, everything you need is here.” Maggie pointed to the garbage bag. “Diapers, wipes, clothes. And Didi.” Maggie tucked the stuffed armadillo next to Emma’s face. “Whatever you do, don’t forget Didi.”

  Allen spent the rest of the night watching Emma. She slept on the sofa; he sat next to her on the floor, protecting her from falling off. Twice she woke up, took stock of her surroundings, and screamed. Twice he walked and talked to her. He tried to arrange her over his shoulder like Maggie had. He told her about his cases; they would put most people to sleep, but not Emma. The second time she cried so hard she vomited over his shoulder and down the back of his sweater. He wanted to drop her. He wanted to cry. He wanted Maggie to come back. No, he wanted Rosa to be here, to comfort their daughter and make it all right. He wanted Rosa to comfort him. He closed his eyes, swayed in the dark hallway, and spoke to his daughter.

  “Give me a break here, kiddo. I’m lost. I have no fucking idea what to do with you. I’ve never changed a diaper in my life. Never fed a baby. Cut me some slack, okay?”

  Finally Emma slept and he put her down on the sofa. Even with her face smeared with mucus and vomit, she was beautiful. Even relaxed into dreams, she was a mystery. He searched her face for clues about what had happened to Rosa that night, to bring Emma here. Must be something very bad. He rested his head on the couch cushion, inches from Emma’s foot.

  When he awoke again, it was just turning light. His back ached. Something smelled bad. He groaned, rotated his stiff neck, and turned to Emma. Her eyes were open and staring at him. He returned her gaze, afraid to move. His heart galloped. How could a grown man, a smart man, often called arrogant or cocky or worse by people who didn’t like him much, be so intimidated by a little girl? Pre-verbal. Twenty-five pounds max.

  Emma opened her mouth and started fussing. It sounded different, as if she was trying to say something. As if she wanted something. Maybe her toy, that grubby thing Maggie said was so important. “This what you need, kiddo?” he asked, dancing the armadillo in front of her.

  “Didi.” She grabbed it from him with both hands and closed her eyes.

  That wasn’t so hard. Maybe he could do this. He stretched, then went to make coffee.

  The phone rang just after sunrise. Allen lunged for it on the first ring.

  “Yeah?”

  “Hi, Allen. Grenwich here.”

  Tom Grenwich was the morning paper’s crime beat reporter. It had to be about Rosa. About whatever Maggie didn’t want to tell him the night before. Allen stretched the phone cord so he could check on Emma sleeping in the living room. “Morning, Tom. What’s up?”

  “Rosa. An ambulance brought her into an ER in Ann Arbor around 1:00 a.m. She was in labor. Having a baby.”

  “A baby?” How could that be?

  “Or trying to, but she hemorrhaged. Something tore loose inside.” Grenwich spoke quickly, too fast for Allen to catch the jagged words, the shards of sentences. “A doc in the ER recognized Rosa from the newspaper and called the cops. She was busted.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “They saved her. Lost the baby.”

  “Where is she?” How could there be another baby?

  “They transferred her to Detroit City General. Under heavy guard. As soon as she can be moved, they’ll take her downtown.”

  “Thanks, man. I appreciate the call.”

  “No problem. Just one question, Allen?”

  Uh oh. “What’s that?”

  “No one seems to know how Rosa got to the hospital, who called the ambulance. She was alone and unconscious. Any ideas? Off the record, of course.”

  “Not a clue. I haven’t seen her since she went under.” That much was certainly true.

  When Emma woke up, Allen managed to change her diaper and fill her bottle with milk from his fridge. “Do you need it warmed up?” he asked her.

  She grabbed the bottle and drank.

  “Guess not.” This kid knew what she wanted. Just like her mama.

  When Maggie returned, Allen and Emma were sitting on the kitchen floor, tossing utensils into a constellation of pots and pans. Maggie taught him to change diapers and bathe the squirming, slippery child in the kitchen sink. She explained what foods to feed her. They found a crib and rocking chair at Goodwill, and a woman in the building to babysit while Allen worked.

  “Okay,” Maggie said. “You’re ready to be a daddy and I’m ready to sleep.”

  “Wait,” Allen begged. “I don’t know anything about babies.
Couldn’t you . . . you know.” He stopped, already ashamed of himself.

  Maggie stood still for a moment. Allen recognized something like longing flicker across her face, then vanish.

  “Don’t even think it.” She walked to the front door. “It won’t be long before the cops or social services figure out Rosa has a kid. They’ll see Emma as a way to make Rosa cooperate. Emma will need your protection. And, if there’s a custody battle for this kid, who’s likely to have clout? The biological father who’s a lawyer, even if he’s black? Or a dyke friend who’s a nurse working rotating shifts? What do you think, Counselor?”

  He nodded and closed the door behind her. Emma was starting to drift off, so he sat with her in the new rocking chair. He sang folk songs, then Loon Lake songs. They were all embedded with images of Rosa: Rosa as a teenager, Rosa in custody, Rosa bleeding, Rosa pregnant again. She had always insisted that monogamy was part of the system they were fighting, people owning other people, restricting their freedom. That one-and-only stuff is fine for Mama and Pop, she used to say. Allen went along with her; it was easier than arguing. Now, he felt like a fool. Why had he kept himself alone for her all these months? She obviously hadn’t done the same. And now here he was, stuck with her baby.

  Allen buried his nose in the soft curls of Emma’s hair, sniffed the tangy fragrance of her scalp.

  No. Their baby.

  CHAPTER 21

  Rosa

  Rosa wasn’t worried about facing Allen. He wouldn’t yell or rant, wouldn’t blame or guilt her. He didn’t need to. In the three days since her arrest in the Emergency Room, she’d done nothing but reproach herself.

  Allen stood silhouetted in the visiting room doorway at the city jail. Behind him, the June sunlight blazed in the courtyard. It transformed his Afro and full beard into a soft explosion, melting away the excuses she had rehearsed. When she stood to greet him, the room spun. She grabbed the table edge. Blood loss, she told herself. The hospital wanted to keep her another day, but the DA said she could recuperate in jail. The guard closed the door behind Allen, and they were alone. She opened her arms.

  “Rosa,” he whispered.

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “Shush. It’s okay.”

  How could it be okay? She had screwed up big time and he had to pick up the pieces. Not that Emma was a burden, but Allen didn’t exactly choose fatherhood. Esther used to say that Allen would want a kid in a second if Rosa agreed, that he turned into instant mush whenever he saw Molly. Back then, Rosa hadn’t paid much attention to Esther’s claims or Allen’s wishes. Now it was important. She loosened her embrace, leaned back so she could see his face.

  “How are you doing with Emma?”

  Allen grinned. “I’m learning. She’s a great kid.” He paused. “How are you doing without her?”

  Rosa rested her face on his shoulder. She had promised herself not to lose control. She had to stay strong to face the new trial, to fight the new charges. The new lies.

  “I miss her terribly.” The waves of dizziness came back, or maybe this was sorrow.

  “Listen, Rosa. I’m so sorry about what happened in the hospital.” He paused. “Tell me about the baby.”

  Rosa burrowed her face deeper into the cave of his beard. “Later. Not now.” She let herself rest there for another few moments, then pushed away. “Let’s talk about my defense. I want a better lawyer this time. Not Dwayne.”

  A pained expression flickered across Allen’s face. Disappointment, maybe, or sadness. Didn’t he want to fight anymore?

  The crash of broken glass burst from the corridor outside the visiting room. Shouting followed, then heavy thuds moving from left to right. When the last echo faded, Allen let his arms drop to his side and sat down at the wooden table. Rosa looked at the dark hollows under his eyes, at his untrimmed beard. She wanted to take his left hand, run her finger along the hard writing callus on the index finger. She imagined him touching her breast. She squeezed her eyes closed and sat down across the table from him.

  “You know about the new charges, right?” Allen rubbed his hand over his beard. “The Lansing bombing?”

  “That’s bullshit. I never bombed anything.”

  “I know that, but they claim to have witnesses. It’s a whole new ball game.”

  “Their witnesses are lying. I’ve been out of state, except two days in March to visit Mama in the hospital.” Her mind wandered from the stew of lies and charges, truths and deceptions. Mama would be worried, too, and probably really angry. No use dwelling on that. She focused on Allen’s face. “How can they pin a bombing on me?”

  “Can you prove where you were on February 12?”

  “Even if I could remember, if I gave you names of witnesses, that would get the people who helped me underground in trouble, right?”

  “Maybe. But these charges, this trial, they’re different.”

  “DA Turner must be salivating.” Rosa grinned. “He lost his election, and now he gets another chance to nail Red Rosa. Maybe this time it will propel him into Congress.”

  Allen’s sour look was fleeting, but she noticed it. He disliked the nickname, one the local newspaper coined when she went underground. “Get serious here. We’re talking real prison time. Ten years, fifteen maybe.”

  “I am serious.”

  Allen looked away.

  “What?”

  “It is possible Turner is involved in more than just prosecuting this case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Allen waved his hand in front of his face. “Forget I said that. They’re just rumors and rumors won’t help us here.” “Tell me the rumors.”

  “I’ll explain later. First, tell me how you’re doing.”

  “Tell me how we can win this case.” Rosa pushed back from the table, scraping the chair on the floor. “Who’s the best criminal defense attorney in town? Can we get Goodman? We have to fight. The war is still going strong.”

  “Maybe that’s not the point. Not the most critical issue right now. What about you? What about Emma?”

  Rosa stood up, wobbled, and grabbed the table. A strong wave of dizziness and dread battered her, then dragged her down. What was the point? Putting up a good fight? Even if you knew you couldn’t win? What was that Brecht poem Pop used to recite, about continuing to struggle even when you knew it was futile? About how—if nothing else—you could really put the screws to the rulers. Esther had never liked the poem. Stop being so melodramatic and self-important, she’d say.

  And what about Esther? Had anyone heard from her? Mama wouldn’t say a word, of course, but maybe Allen had heard something. The air in the small room thickened and pulsed, a cloud of heavy regret. She fell forward onto her hands, fingers gripping the tabletop.

  “What’s wrong?” Allen was steadying her, guiding her back into the chair. “You’re so pale.”

  “I’ll be all right. Just help me fight this, Allen. Get Goodman, someone top notch. Hit the books, the law library. You’re good at this.”

  “We’re going to lose. You know that?”

  “Maybe. But we’ll remind citizens that they don’t have to go along with genocide.”

  “Could you please drop the fucking polemic? It’s different now. We have to think about Emma.”

  Rosa couldn’t hold it in any longer. The sorrow cloud enveloped her. It stung her eyes and torched her throat. She let the tears come.

  On a rainy October morning four months later, Rosa was escorted into the courtroom. She tried to look confident despite the uniformed guard at each elbow. It was a new trial, but loud echoes from the past ricocheted off the wood panel walls. A different courtroom, but it was the mirror image of the first, with the same light wood benches, the same deep red drapes. She rubbed her finger along the curved grain of the oak table, tracing the spiral eddy. Only two years had passed, but Rosa’s limbs felt twenty years heavier as she was escorted to a seat at the defense table.

  Time had warped and stretched and folded in on itself
. She could barely remember the nightmare last June. Bleeding and almost dying. Losing her little boy. Losing Emma, too, in a way. The memories were ghosts—broken images, dizzying strobe lights, flashes of thundering pain and sirens. The nurse at the hospital said people usually didn’t get those memories back. Not enough blood to the brain. At least she was home now, in Detroit. Even though Pop was gone. Mama was slowly getting her strength back after being so sick; she and Maggie were helping with Emma. Allen came to visit every day. Sitting in the windowless jail conference room, he filled in the missing hours bit by bit.

  Allen never talked about Esther, except once to mention that she and Jake had moved east. And that she was staying with Mama during the trial. Mama wouldn’t say anything. “You told me never to mention her name to you,” Mama said, pursing her lips and shaking her head at Rosa’s questions. “I know better than to get between you girls.”

  Rosa scratched at a dark splotch on the oak table with her fingernail. It looked like tar. Probably a petrified drop of coffee from the pot in the prisoners’ waiting room. Allen reached over and covered her scraping fingers, quieting them. He couldn’t calm her brain, though, couldn’t soften the waves of panic when she thought about the people determined to send her to prison.

  “Don’t give up,” Allen said the day before Esther was scheduled to testify. “You will have to serve time, but I think we can keep it short. Especially if you show some remorse.”

  “No remorse,” she insisted. She didn’t feel sorry, not about her reaction to the brutality of the cops, not about trying to make a difference. Mostly she felt angry that the war was still going strong. Furious that Turner was trying to frame her for a bombing she didn’t do. She felt pride, too, that she had to be brought in the back door of the court building because of the warring picket lines out front. Off-duty police officers carried signs: Thirty years for Red Rosa. Anti-war demonstrators chanted, “One injured cop; two million dead Vietnamese civilians.”