Her Sister's Tattoo

by Ellen Meeropol

  She did try harder to hold her tongue in court, saving her indictments of the war for the moments of maximal effect. She had not yet been removed from the courtroom and exiled to the little room for unruly defendants.

  The bailiff called the next witness.

  “Esther Green.” Rosa watched from the defense table as her sister was sworn in. Allen said she was subpoenaed as an unfriendly witness for the prosecution this time. Maybe she had a change of heart? Esther looked thin. Her voice quivered slightly as she described the injured protester. Why did she go into all that detail about the way the blood bubbled from his scalp wound? What difference did it make if someone bled on a white T- shirt, obliterating the peace sign? Who cared if the tear gas was so thick it turned a sparkling summer afternoon into a hazy green dusk? Esther was thinking like a painter, not an activist. But Esther had always been easily distracted. That’s why she never won the olive game.

  “What were you thinking about, Mrs. Green? What did you hope to accomplish?” DA Turner leaned close to Esther, resting his elbow on the edge of the witness box.

  Rosa frowned. She hated it when the bad guys acted sympathetic. Hopefully it wouldn’t fool Esther. Rosa leaned forward also, to not miss a word of her sister’s testimony. Esther was staring toward the back of the courtroom.

  “Mrs. Green, please answer the question.”

  “I’m sorry?” Esther looked at Turner.

  “Why did you do it? What did you and Rosa hope to achieve?”

  “We wanted to end the war,” Esther said.

  Rosa cringed. It sounded so lame. Why didn’t Esther show some spunk?

  “You wanted to end the war in Vietnam, so you threw rocks at mounted police trying to enforce the city ordinance requiring permits for street rallies?” The DA looked at the jury and raised his open palms in an I-don’t-get-it gesture.

  “Apples,” Esther said.

  “Yes. Apples.” The DA sighed loud enough to reach the back of the courtroom. “Mrs. Green, your sister Rosa is a committed activist, a self-proclaimed revolutionary leader. Have you ever been afraid of her?”

  “No.”

  “But you usually followed her lead?”

  “I admired her. But I can think for myself.”

  “On August 17, wasn’t it Rosa Levin who suggested throwing apples at the horses and officers?”

  Esther sat motionless, like a heron stalking a fish in shallow water. What did she want? Rosa wondered. What was she thinking?

  The DA’s voice was insistent. “If you had been alone on Grand River Avenue that day, Mrs. Green, would you have thrown the apples?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not.”

  “One last question, Mrs. Green.” Turner leaned even closer. “If your sister Rosa asked you to do something risky, like jump off a bridge, would you do it? Even though you knew it was dangerous?”

  “Objection.” Goodman was on his feet. “Irrelevant.”

  “I’m trying to establish the defendant’s character, Your Honor. Mrs. Green’s relationship to her sister is crucially relevant to these proceedings.”

  “Objection overruled.”

  Thirty feet separated the sisters—from defense table to witness box—but Rosa could see right into Esther’s brain. Jump off a bridge, Esther was thinking. How about jumping off a fire escape? How about a late summer day when they were little girls, just old enough to be trusted outside in the backyard without an adult? That day came back so clearly. Heat shimmering on the street. How bored Rosa was. She beat Esther in the olive game, was tired of playing cat’s cradle—that was for babies—and was pissed off that she had to stay in the yard with her little sister. Where did the idea come from? I double dare you, Esther, to climb the fire escape ladder to the second floor and jump. Rosa knew how much it would hurt to land on the hard-packed dirt, their scraggly lawn of weeds crowned with spent dandelions. Esther climbed up and kneeled balanced on the edge of the fire escape railing.

  Rosa had watched Esther climb, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth. Then Esther jumped. In the long moment of her falling, Rosa wanted her sister to fly. Would she die? Or be paralyzed, like the boy in her second grade class who was harnessed into a wheelchair and drooled into a bib like a baby, even though he could spell with a communication board and was plenty smart?

  DA Turner leaned closer. “Answer the question, Mrs. Green. Would you jump off a bridge if your sister told you to?”

  All these years, Esther had never tattled. Waiting for the ambulance, Rosa had raised her index finger to her lips and whispered, “Sister secret. Don’t rat.” And Esther didn’t, not even in the hospital when the morphine made her eyes look funny, when their parents asked her over and over why she did something so stupid. Esther insisted she was clumsy and lost her balance.

  Please. Rosa stared at Esther. Don’t rat.

  Esther turned then, to finally look at Rosa. Her eyes held a question. Rosa heard it as clearly as if Esther had shouted across the courtroom. Will you forgive me? Esther wanted to know. Give me a sign we’re okay, her eyes implored. If you forgive me, I’ll lie for you. All Rosa had to do was nod or smile, and Esther wouldn’t talk.

  For an instant, Rosa was tempted. But that would be giving in, wouldn’t it? Going back on everything she’d said and done. And Rosa wouldn’t—couldn’t—betray her principles. And anyway, maybe she just imagined the meaning of Esther’s glance.

  “Mrs. Green.” The judge’s voice was sharp. “Answer the question.”

  “I’m sorry, Your Honor,” Esther replied, then turned to the jury. “The answer is yes. At that time in my life I would have jumped off a bridge for my sister.”

  CHAPTER 22

  Allen

  “Dada!”

  Allen groaned quietly and rubbed both hands over the roughness of his beard, although honestly he loved this nocturnal ritual. He picked Emma up from the crib in the darkened bedroom. She didn’t need a nighttime bottle anymore but often woke at about midnight for a cuddle, just as Maggie had predicted.

  With one hand, he dumped the ragged stack of files and books from the seat of the rocking chair and retrieved the corduroy pillow hanging by one tie. He switched on the lavender nightlight made from a sea urchin shell, another offering from Maggie.

  “It’s okay, little woman,” he murmured, settling into the rocker with Emma sprawled over his chest and shoulder. Her blanket sleeper was twisted around one leg, and Allen straightened it without disturbing his daughter. After four months, he felt pretty competent at this father stuff. He could feed her and dress her and get her to the babysitter in the morning. He could comfort her and read her favorite books in the right order at bedtime. His right foot kept the motion of the rocker while his left hand rubbed Emma’s back, fingering the perfect row of bumps along her spine through the fabric. Even in the muted light, Emma’s skin was a rich mix of her parents’ hues, her brown curls untamed and fierce like her mother’s.

  He didn’t mind the interruption. There was no way he could sleep, not with Rosa’s sentencing the next morning. This time around, the prosecution had been unstoppable. There was the original testimony from the cop and the neurosurgeon, plus the damning evidence of Rosa skipping town and disappearing. There was Esther’s bizarre but somehow damning admission about jumping off a bridge if her sister told her to. And then there were the false charges, the bombing of a military research facility in Lansing. Three agents from the Lansing FBI office testified that Rosa was at the scene. No physical evidence, just their say-so, but they didn’t budge on cross-examination. The vague rumors that Turner was crooked, that he was somehow involved with their testimony, were unconfirmed and inadmissible. And Rosa had no alibi for the night the building blew up. She refused to utter a single word about her time underground, unwilling to endanger the people who helped her. Nobody had been surprised when the jury found her guilty on all counts.

  Emma fidgeted on Allen’s chest, half-woke with a whimper, and then quieted. Allen felt the warmth spread thr
ough his flannel shirt to his skin. He shifted Emma in his arms and unfastened the diagonal zipper on the blanket sleeper. Damn. Forgot the rubber pants again. He repositioned her damp weight over his heart.

  Maybe he should have tried harder to persuade Rosa to plea bargain. What if he had dug deeper during those late nights at the law library, with Emma sleeping on a blanket under the table? Why hadn’t he been able to unearth an obscure precedent, imagine a brilliant defense, anything to help Goodman save Rosa? Why hadn’t he been smarter?

  Allen tried to rub the sting from his eyes. He knew it would have taken a miracle to change the outcome. Even the best team of defense lawyers in the country couldn’t beat the case DA Turner and his federal buddies manufactured against Rosa. No one could have gotten a different verdict given the way the cards were stacked. Not now, with the Charles Manson trial making headlines in Los Angeles, and Turner referencing Manson in his closing statement.

  His Rosa was going to prison.

  He buried his nose in the warm crevasse of Emma’s neck and inhaled the lingering scent of baby shampoo mixed with the tangy fragrance all her own. Eau de Emma, he liked to call it, wondering if Rosa had taken as much pleasure in the aroma of their daughter’s skin as he did.

  His face burned to remember how during Rosa’s first trial, before he had any clue what he was talking about, he had minimized the power of Esther’s attachment to her baby, had seen it as a mere excuse, an impediment that interfered with her commitment to activism. That was before Emma. He could probably never admit it to Rosa, but snuggling his daughter on his chest, he understood Esther’s decision. That didn’t mean he agreed with it or would make the same decision, but he got it.

  Stop thinking like that, he scolded himself. What’s the big deal about going to prison? Doing time is a real possibility for anyone who wants to change the world. Kids survive. Emma has her father. She’ll see her mother every week, even if it has to be in a prison visiting room. Allen knew that drill. He’d visited his dad at Angola Prison every Sunday for three plus years. His dad was innocent of breaking and entering, but he did organize his union and he was good at it, so a trumped-up charge and railroaded conviction must have seemed like the simplest way to stop him. Allen always felt a little embarrassed that the only jail he knew from inside was in Mississippi, and that was just overnight to throw a scare into the northern college kids doing voter registration on spring break.

  Allen stood up carefully and managed to change Emma’s diaper and put her, still sleeping, back into her crib. Trying to relax his shoulders, he rolled his head 360 degrees like Rosa taught him years ago at camp. The taut muscles screamed on the first circle, whimpered on the second, and finally gave up and stretched a little on the third. Rosa always said he was too wound up, too tense. Look who’s talking. That woman was coiled so tight that even he got nervous when the spring inside her threatened to let loose.

  He looked down at their daughter. “Your mama’s going to prison,” he whispered.

  But what was he supposed to do with the feelings that crept into his head in the dark, when he cuddled Emma before putting her to bed? What about the despair, when he thought about Rosa locked away for the next decade? Or the jealousy, when he imagined Rosa with another guy, conceiving that dead infant boy? And how could he keep himself steadfast for the movement, when he picked Emma up at the babysitter’s apartment after work and delight cracked the girl’s face and his own heart, and he’d do anything for her?

  CHAPTER 23

  Esther

  Esther settled Oliver in the wicker bassinet next to her rocking chair, watching his mouth continue to suck off the breast: pucker and relax, pucker and relax. The little guy was mellow, nursing and napping with admirable regularity for six days old. Had Molly ever been so easy?

  With a fluttery snore, Mama shifted her position on the cushioned bay window seat. Esther eased herself up from the rocking chair, grunting at the tug on her episiotomy stitches, and tucked the quilt back around Mama’s shoulders. Her finger stroked the starburst pattern, then jerked away from the peak of Mama’s collarbone, sharp through the thin cardigan.

  “You’re still too skinny,” she whispered.

  “I heard that.” Mama opened one eye. “Let me nap. I’m exhausted.”

  “Fine.” Esther picked up the mug of cold tea and started toward the kitchen. “But you do need to gain weight.”

  “Rosa’s even thinner,” Mama said, her voice slipping back into doze.

  Esther turned back. “Have you seen her?”

  “Of course. And it’s time for you girls to stop your nonsense. Talk to each other. If not for your sake, think about your children. Molly and Oliver should know their family.”

  “I thought you refused to play mediator?”

  “It’s crazy to get between you two.” Mama shook her head. “But enough already. It’s way past time you girls make things right.”

  “Rosa will never forgive me.” Esther sat down, still holding the mug.

  “It goes both ways,” Mama said. “Do you forgive her?”

  “For what?”

  “Well, for one thing, for daring you to jump off the fire escape, breaking your leg.”

  “You knew about that?”

  Mama made her How stupid do you think I am face and then closed her eyes.

  Esther touched her shoulder. “Mama? You knew?”

  Mama didn’t answer. And when she didn’t want to talk, nothing could make her. Her doctor said nothing was wrong, but Mama still wasn’t her old self. Jake said it was depression, the cumulative effect of two trials, Pop’s death, and Rosa going to prison. But after three years she should be back to normal. Mama had insisted on coming from Detroit to help with the new baby. That was a laugh—it was more like Esther having three children to take care of. Mama needed a cup of tea or half a banana more often than Oliver wanted to nurse.

  Esther set the mug in the sink, then leaned against the doorjamb between the kitchen and the living room, looking out the oversized bay window. After an early April snowfall, the meadow was weeks behind the usual greening. A marsh hawk skimmed above the field, then swooped low, harassed by a pair of crows.

  She had twenty minutes max before Jake would bring Molly home from art class. Esther knew she should nap. Jake reminded her every morning before heading to the hospital: Every time the baby sleeps, the mother should sleep too. Esther glanced at Mama and Oliver, both asleep, then shuffled to the upright desk in the alcove off the kitchen. She ripped a page from the notebook tucked into one of the desk slots, picked off each small ragged torn edge, and started to write.

  Dear Rosa,

  I’m not sure why I’m writing you this letter, except that Mama let slip just now that she had seen you. Thinking about it logically, it makes perfect sense that she would visit you in prison. But I had never considered the possibility and it surprised me. Normally she refuses to talk about you at all, claiming she’d have to be crazy to get between the two of us. I guess she has a point there.

  I wrote you a letter once before, right after you went underground. I never mailed it, but I still think about you every day. Now that I know where you are, I could probably actually send this one, if I thought you would read it, which I don’t. Maybe I’m writing this as much for me as for you, but believe it or not, I still miss you enormously.

  Don’t get the wrong impression. I’m not pathetic without you. I’m building a good life here with Jake and Molly and Oliver, without anything or anyone left over from Michigan. Has Mama told you about Oliver? Molly has a brother. Your daughter—Emma is such a pretty name—has another cousin. That’s why Mama is here, helping me—can you see me roll my eyes on that last sentence? Molly is five, already reading by herself. She’s a solemn little girl, as if all the pain of our family settled in her chest like pleurisy—does anyone get that anymore? Oliver is only six days old, so maybe it’s hard to tell, but he was born smiling and hasn’t stopped. Jake says he’s too young to smile, and Mama insists
it’s gas, but I’m his mother and I know. He’s too young to distinguish any family resemblance, but he does have the bushiest eyebrows I’ve ever seen on an infant. Like Uncle Max.

  I’m sorry about your baby boy, the one you lost. When I read about your arrest in the newspaper, I felt so sad for you, and for Allen and Emma. I felt sad for me, too, that I couldn’t tell you that in person, with a sister hug.

  Which reminds me, who does Emma look like? I wish I had a picture.

  Esther put down her pen and rummaged in the top drawer for the photograph she had found buried in a box of Molly’s outgrown baby clothes. It was from camp. She and Rosa stood in front of the Peace Monument, backlit, with their faces in shadow and the sunlight igniting their hair. Their wild curls morphed into the cloud of metal cranes winging into the sky.

  Jake is happy here. He finished his residency and joined a group practice with a patient mix of middle-class kids and Medicaid. His special interest is children with cerebral palsy, and he’s been working with a neurosurgeon on a new treatment. He loves the work. And you’d never believe it, but he has become a fanatic bird-watcher. Jake, who used to say that except for all that nature, camp was perfect. Now he gets orgasmic finding a nuthatch at the suet log. He put a picture window in the living room, one in the kitchen, even one in front of the tub in the upstairs bathroom. All three have southern exposures with views across the field to the mountain. The kitchen table looks out at the bird feeders and we eat side by side, with Jake’s running commentary: Here come the grackles. Now, why did the female cardinal fly off? Gee, haven’t seen the bluebirds today.

  I’m content too. Mostly. I’ve been taking classes at the state college for my art teaching certification. Those studio classes in Ann Arbor didn’t count for much toward this degree and it’s taking me a long time. It’s not the kind of dream I once had for myself, but I guess I’m not going to be an avant-garde political artist. You’re probably not going to be an intrepid Amazon Basin explorer or save the world from American corporate greed either. Don’t bother commenting; I can well imagine what you think of my career choice. But I like it, even though life will be even busier trying to juggle classes with a baby.