The Murderer’s Daughters

by Randy Susan Meyers

  “Enough. Every week it’s the same story,” Grandma said. “They won’t let me take you in. And by the way, your new friend Susannah might look like a Breck girl, but she’s still a crazy hippie.”

  Grandma had been calling anyone she didn’t approve of a hippie for as long as I could remember. Anyway, Grandma might not appreciate Susannah, but I thought she was practically the nicest person I’d ever met. I’d met her at prison, where she visited her husband every week, and she didn’t once ask me about Daddy’s reason for being there. That’s how nice she was.

  I wondered what Mama would have thought of Susannah, who never wore makeup. Mama had worn apple red Snow White lipstick, and she’d drawn perfect black lines around her eyes. A plain Jane, Mama would have called Susannah. I remembered Mama using that expression a lot. Lulu says I’ve imagined all my memories, but she’s wrong. I remember being little.

  Most mothers who didn’t wear lipstick looked sick, but Susannah without makeup seemed just right, like a character in a Little House on the Prairie book. Susannah gave me advice about life while we waited for visiting hours in the prison to start, especially when Grandma went to the bathroom and Susannah and I were alone.

  “You could take an eye test,” I said, as Susannah had suggested. “We take them at school. I could memorize it and teach you, and then you’d pass the test. Then we could come and live with you.”

  Grandma laughed. “Sweetheart, I can’t take care of myself, much less you and Lulu. Any day now, I’ll have to go to a home. Between my sugar and my eyes, I can’t even walk without my cane anymore. Promise me you’ll come visit me when I’m in a home.”

  I almost hit bone digging my fingernails into the palms of my hands, a trick Lulu had taught me to keep from crying. How would we ever get out of Duffy-Parkman if Grandma went to a home?

  “If Lulu and I moved in with you, we’d take care of you, and you’d never have to go to a home.”

  “Take my advice, Merry.” My grandmother gave another of her bottomless sighs. “Don’t get old.”

  We entered Woolworth’s, where the saleswomen were setting up their registers and straightening the long counters. The candy counter clerk, who wore a gold kitten pin with diamond eyes like always, gave us a smile as sweet as jelly beans. I loved that she really seemed to look forward to seeing us week after week. Every Saturday, Grandma bought me a bag of candy.

  I reached out for a multicolored candy necklace, my hand hovering over the pastel disks strung on rubbery string, pleading silently for Grandma’s approval.

  “Fine. Pick out your chozzerai. I don’t pay the dentist bills. Get something Lulu would want, also.” Grandma laced her bony fingers and sniffed at the candy she’d called garbage. “You know, I understand more than both of you think.”

  “Maybe Lulu will come with us next time,” I lied. Lulu had vowed she’d never see Daddy again, and anytime I tried to change her mind she’d remind me that he killed our mother, practically spitting in my face as she said it. How can you even look at him? How can you stand to breathe the same air? Look what he did to you.

  Then she’d run her hand along my scar. What’s wrong with you, anyway? Why do you go?

  Because Grandma wants me to.

  Because he needs me.

  Because what will he do if I don’t, Lulu?

  I didn’t know how to tell her that I was scared that if I didn’t go and keep him happy, things could get even worse. Lulu didn’t seem to worry about stuff like that.

  Grandma shook her head and bent to the candy bins. “Is this the kind Daddy likes?” She pointed to the mound of sugarcoated gumdrops. I smelled the mothballs in which she packed her sweaters. Cherry scents of the Smith Brothers cough drops she constantly sucked puffed around us, mixed with the tang of the Dippity-Do goo she used to set her thinning hair into tight waves.

  On the Saturdays we didn’t visit Daddy, I smelled like Dippity-Do when I went back to Duffy-Parkman. On those Saturdays, Grandma set me on the bathtub lip and combed the pink, jellylike liquid through my hair while I tried not to squirm. Then she rolled my hair into spongy pink rollers. I’d go back to Duffy-Parkman with hanging sausage curls, the butt of all the girls’ jokes, since everyone was trying so hard to get their hair straight, straight, straight, but I could never hurt Grandma’s feelings. Anyway, feeling Grandma’s fingers fussing through my hair made the jokes worth it.

  “Circus peanuts are his favorite.” I ran my fingers along the wooden bins, looking for the orange marshmallow candies Daddy liked. “I wish we could bring him some.”

  “Never mind the peanuts. He’ll buy candy from the canteen. I have to put money in. I think he needs Right Guard—he wrote me. But he writes too small.” Grandma handed me a folded paper. “Here. Read.”

  I unfolded the cheap white stationery, hating the blurry blue stamp informing the world that this paper came from the Richmond County Prison. Because of that stamp, I folded Daddy’s letters into the tiniest of squares and hid them inside a toothbrush holder to keep them from Enid and scaly-faced Reetha. My enemies. They called me Prison Girl.

  Enid and Reetha were the ickiest girls at Duffy, with twisted teeth, burn marks, and scabs from I didn’t know what. They tortured me. My few friends and I were the cute ones. We stuck together in the upside-down world of Duffy-Parkman, where ugly reigned.

  I unfolded the paper and read my father’s words in a whisper.

  Ma, here’s what I need. Toothpaste. Candy. Deodorant. Put as much as you can afford in my account, but don’t leave yourself short! Books—Ian Fleming or Len Deighton if you find any I don’t already have. Whatever you find is good, Ma. Thanks. I sure hope you and my little Sugar Pop can come next Saturday. Are your legs okay? Have you gone to the doctor to get pills for the pain? Maybe if you went to Florida for a week or two, the heat would help. The ocean water would be good for your arthritis, right? Love, Joey

  “Florida. Hah!” Grandma snorted. Then she smiled. “Joey has a good heart.”

  “Did you get the books?” I asked.

  “I went in and out of every store in Brooklyn.”

  “Did they have them?” I snuck a finger to my scar; Grandma swatted my hand away from my chest.

  “I got them, I got them. Don’t be such a worrywart!” Grandma leaned on my shoulder as she straightened up from inspecting a candy bin. “Let’s go or we’ll be late.”

  A cool wind blew across the crowded Staten Island Ferry deck. The water was choppy, and I hoped I wouldn’t get sick. Every time we rode the ferry, Grandma called it the cheapest date in town.

  “See, just like I say, for a nickel, they get a place to kiss.” Grandma pointed her chin toward a couple kissing. “Cheaper than a movie and a restaurant, huh? The cheapest date in town. Though maybe he should save up for a barber to take care of all that hoo-ha hippie hair.”

  I stared at the man and woman in question. His hair fell down his back in thick, curly ropes. He wrapped his delicate-looking companion’s black velvet cape tighter as he hugged her.

  “Why did people start being hippies?” I asked Grandma. Lulu says I couldn’t remember because I was too little, but I know Mama talked about maybe she missed her chance. If she hadn’t married Daddy, she’d said, she could be free also. She’d have gone to Woodstock. I knew this was true, even if Lulu didn’t think I understood anything.

  “To be able to do whatever they want and not have to pay attention to what anyone thinks.” Grandma sniffed as she said this, as though she feared I’d run off and become a hippie. Well, if I did, then maybe I wouldn’t care when people called me Prison Girl. I’d swirl my cape around and make them disappear.

  The ferry reached the dock. The scraping and squealing noises it made as it parked forced my shoulders around my ears. Now we’d take a long cab ride, with Grandma watching the clicking cab fare numbers every second. Grandma refused to take the bus. “I’m not riding with that dreck going to the prison,” she’d say each time, as though we were better than the rest of the sa
d people we saw every other Saturday.

  Once we were safely sealed into the cab, I leaned my forehead on the dirty window and watched Staten Island silently roll by. These visits were the only times I rode in a car. Single-family homes lined the street; small, skinny trees dotted the square patches of lawn. More sun shone on Staten Island than on Brooklyn. I was positive.

  As we got closer to the prison, the neighborhood changed. Ranch houses became big, crumbling homes, trailers, and then stores. Diners and shoe stores butted up to sad-looking buildings with signs announcing LAWYER/ABOGADO. The world became grayer.

  Richmond County Prison loomed like Dracula’s castle. Each visit I expected the wide wooden door to fall open like a drawbridge. Wire wrapped the building like a spider’s web. The cab stopped outside the fence by the main entrance, the barbed enclosure keeping us a long distance from the door.

  Grandma counted the fare out carefully, peering at the meter as though fearing the bill might rise even as she gathered her quarters. I got out first, offering my hand to help her from the cab. I held her cane. She grunted and rubbed her back before taking it. She stumbled a bit as she closed the cab door. I gasped, picturing her tumbling into the street.

  “Are you okay?” I asked. A frantic breathlessness grabbed me. If anything happened to Grandma, what would I do all alone on Staten Island? If anything happened to Grandma or Lulu, I’d be alone in the world.

  Grandma held up a hand and waved at me. “Don’t worry. Today’s not the day I’m dying.”

  “Grandma, please don’t talk like that.”

  “Fine. I promise I won’t die when we’re together. Okay?”

  Could Grandma read my mind? Did she know that I went from worrying about her dying in front of me, to crying as silently as I could in my bed at Duffy, imagining her dying alone, her corpse rotting away through the week until Saturday, when I came with my key and opened the apartment?

  Please, God, let it be one of the Saturdays when Lulu is with me, not a visiting-Daddy Saturday.

  Grandma brushed dust off her dotted navy dress and stood straight. “Come. Your father’s waiting.”

  We walked through the gates holding hands. Once again, I patted my jumper pockets, checking for the hundredth time that I didn’t have any forbidden items. Grandma kept a list of rules on top of her coffee table. I’d memorized them the way my teacher said to remember history dates: Say it in your head, say it aloud, and repeat it five times.

  Rule: Children under eighteen must have a birth certificate. A parent or legal guardian must accompany children.

  Prison was the reason Grandma Zelda had ended up as our legal guardian, even before Mimi Rubee died. Mimi Rubee wouldn’t take me to visit Daddy, but after I begged and begged, she finally agreed to let Grandma Zelda take me, making Grandma the guardian, even though Aunt Cilla screamed at her for it. Now there was no way for me to stop. Grandma expected it, and Daddy, well, I didn’t know what Daddy would do if he didn’t see me anymore.

  Rule: No hats, food, jackets, drinks, gum, or candy. No provocative clothing. Nothing in your pockets.

  The skinny lockers where we had to place everything smelled like dirty coats and rotten food, probably stuff people tried to smuggle past the guards.

  Rule: You may embrace the inmate briefly at the beginning and end of each visit.

  I dreaded and waited for those hugs.

  Rule: Inmates may receive, in total, five small soft-covered books, except for those deemed inappropriate by the Officer in Charge.

  As we walked down the long, dingy hall toward the check-in place, I prayed for Officer McNulty to be the officer in charge. He’d smile and barely glance at whatever books we’d bring. The worst one, Officer Rogers, always threw away at least one book a visit for being what he called racy. When I asked Grandma what racy meant, she shook her head and said, “None of your beeswax.” Susannah said it meant sex. I knew about sex. Nothing was secret at Duffy.

  Rule: Inmates may receive, in total, five family photos. No portrait photos may be larger than 4 × 6.

  I had two dollars saved toward a camera from the quarters Grandma sometimes slipped me. Lulu, knowing about my plan to give Daddy pictures, warned me not to ever take her picture. Not to give to him, she’d say.

  Grandma touched my jumper pockets. “Empty?”

  I nodded and followed Grandma down the hall. Women, children, and a few men lined up in front of the guards. I stretched up on my toes to check the guard on duty. McNulty! Still, even with him in charge, little bubbles of dread filled my throat. I clenched and unclenched my fists. I didn’t see Susannah.

  A pale, mushy woman stood in front of me, her scalp showing through thin red hair. Behind Grandma, a short woman wearing giant silver hoop earrings muttered “damn” every other second. Her Afro looked even bigger than her head.

  “Think they’ll let Angela Davis through with those cockamamie earrings?” Grandma whispered, tilting her head back.

  “Shush.” I wasn’t sure who Angela Davis was, but I didn’t think Grandma meant it as a compliment. I tried not to peek to see if the woman had heard. My stomach growled. I wished I’d eaten more candy on the ferry.

  When we got to the front of the line, Officer McNulty smiled at me. He was tall and straight, like the soldiers guarding the palace in England. “Back again?”

  I grinned back big and lifted my arm, waiting for him to pat me. He did it fast, not like some of the others. I hated them.

  “Your dad’s waiting impatiently.” Officer McNulty’s kind face made it seem as if he really wanted me to have a good visit. I tried to think of things to say which would make me sound good.

  “You have a nice day, Officer,” I said. Afro-Hair-Woman smacked her teeth as though sending me a message.

  Officer McNulty squeezed my shoulder. “You’re a good girl, Merry. Go see your daddy.”

  5

  Merry

  Grandma and I stepped into the visiting room. Beige tiles were dotted with spots that I imagined impossible to scrub out in a million years. Probably blood and bits of brain left from prison fights.

  Metal tables with rubber edges and attached benches lined the room. Visitors and families sat across from each other, men always seated facing away from the windows. Weak sunlight washed over the backs of their denim shirts. We sat as far apart from anyone as possible, pretending we were anywhere but here.

  My father sat at the end of the room in his usual spot. I barely remembered before-prison-Daddy anymore, the Daddy who’d lived with us and then the Daddy who Mama threw out. That Daddy was bloated, and had dirt under his fingernails and thick hair falling in his eyes. Prison-Daddy had muscles and a crew cut and looked handsome as the pictures from when he first married Mama, the photographs on top of Grandma’s dresser. I’d tried to show Lulu, but she’d pushed the pictures away just like anything about Daddy.

  I studied the photographs every time I visited Grandma, tracing the lines of Mama’s beautiful face, the veil like a magic cloud around her head. In black and white, Mama’s lipstick appeared dark as blood.

  My stomach lurched when I saw Daddy, followed by a hollow hunger.

  “Baby girl!” he said. We embraced briefly, as allowed by the guards, me trying to tug away the moment we touched. I hated when Daddy held on for even one second longer than the rules permitted, certain a guard would yell at me or, worse, at Daddy. I’d seen a prisoner dragged away for yelling at his so-fat-it-hung-over-her-pants wife. Everything on the man had seemed shriveled, but his fat wife had shrunk away as though he were Charles Atlas. The guard had come over with his heavy brown stick and just banged him right across the shoulders and hauled him off.

  “Oh, my God, look,” Grandma had said. “He klopped him right across the back!” I was afraid to ask Daddy if he ever got klopped, but I’d thought about the brown stick ever since.

  Daddy inspected me just as he did each visit. “How do you grow so much in two weeks?”

  “Not from the garbage they feed her
at that place,” Grandma said.

  “At least she gets a good meal from you once a week, huh, Ma?”

  “Oh, please.” Grandma slapped the air with a dismissive hand. “I can barely see the pots anymore, let alone cook.”

  I slid closer to Grandma and placed my hand over hers. Her skin felt like paper you’d kept for a long time, paper you’d folded and unfolded until it became limp and cottony. Daddy’s earliest letters were like that now, those I kept at Grandma’s house.

  “So how’s school?” he asked.

  I shrugged. “Okay.”

  He wrinkled his face. “Just okay? Is someone bothering you?”

  “No. Everything’s fine.”

  “I better see some good grades on your report card, miss. Getting-into-college grades. You don’t want to end up like your old man, do you?”

  I stared across the table at him, puzzled. College would have kept him out of prison? Did he know something about me? Did he know that sometimes I hated people so much it burned? Like Reetha. How did I know I wouldn’t kill someone? Maybe Aunt Cilla was right; it could be in my blood. That was probably why she never wanted us in her house. Maybe I’d go to prison one day.

  “Don’t be a fool, Joey.” Grandma shook her head. “You sound crazy when you talk like that.”

  Grandma hated my father saying anything about why they’d locked him up. She wouldn’t talk to me about it either. No one would, except Lulu, and she only talked about how much she hated Daddy and how seeing him was so stupid.

  “What do you want from me, Ma?” Daddy asked. “How many fascinating topics do you think I can come up with in here? Should I talk about how the Black Power guys want to kill the guards?”

  “Shush,” Grandma said. “They could be listening!”

  I looked around to see if anyone had heard him.

  “Should I talk about how I’m becoming an old man in here?”