“Stop. You’re only thirty-one. You’re a young man. You’ll get parole. You’ll be out before you know it.”
Would we live with him if he got out? Would Lulu let us?
“Who’s talking crazy now?” Daddy asked. “I’ll be a hundred before they let me out. I got life. You think they’ll let me go with ten years? Twenty years?”
“You’ll get parole hearings.” Grandma twisted a white handkerchief with black diamonds around the edges. I peeked to see if the guards had noticed. Prison families never looked at other families; we kept our fights low and quiet, leaking out a little at a time.
Daddy shook his head and pressed his lips together as though blaming Grandma for something.
“All the girls made pumpkin pies last night,” I lied. “For fall.”
“At that place?” Grandma didn’t look like she believed me one bit.
“Yes.” I stared right at her. “We carved pumpkins and cooked the insides down to make pies.” I’d read that in a book, about how long pumpkin took to cook, and about the stringy, raw stuff inside.
“That sounds good,” Daddy said. “Too bad you couldn’t bring me a piece, huh?”
“Yeah, too bad.” I avoided looking at Grandma.
“Boy, it’s been a long time since I had pumpkin pie. Did you put a lot of cinnamon in? And ginger? I always liked spicy pie.”
“It tasted exactly like cinnamon hots,” I said.
Grandma pinched my thigh under the table. Enough, her sharp fingers said.
Daddy leaned back, putting his muscular arms behind his head. A dreamy expression came over him. “Pumpkin pie. What I wouldn’t give.”
“Right,” Grandma said. “And if wishes were horses, beggars would fly. So, what about that program you wrote about to me?”
“The optical program?” he asked.
“So it’s true? You might be able to learn a trade at least?”
“Ma, I had a job before.”
Before meant when Mama was alive. Lulu said it also—except she’d say, Don’t talk about before. I don’t care. I tapped the top of my scar before I could stop myself.
“A widget-wadget job, that’s what you had. Shussh. I’m talking about a trade, a profession,” Grandma said.
“Making brass fittings for ships isn’t exactly widgets, Ma. It’s probably that job, the fact that I had to work to tolerance, that’s made them consider putting me on the list.”
“What’s tolerance?” I asked.
“Ask your grandmother, who’s so smart, she knows everything.”
“Stop with the feeling sorry for yourself. Sorry I insulted you. Answer your daughter.”
Daddy rolled back his shoulders. “Tolerance means working to exact measurements; having anything off, even a tiny bit, can ruin what you’re building.”
“So you can build things in here?” What he did inside the prison bewildered me. Every time I tried to ask, he’d change the subject by saying, Never mind this place; I’d rather talk about you.
“A program’s starting here, an optical shop, where they’ll make lenses. I want to get in, so when I get out I can get a job.”
“When are you getting out, Daddy?” He never wanted to talk about that, usually saying, Only time will tell, which told me nothing.
“Maybe in twenty or thirty years I can get parole for good behavior.”
Twenty or thirty years! I’d be almost twenty-nine or thirty-nine by then. My father would be an old man. He’d be fifty-one or sixty-one. Could he even work?
How could I keep him cheery all those years? Grandma had said that my job was to keep Daddy cheery. “God knows your mother never did it.” Grandma shook her head when she said this. “She made him the opposite of cheery. That’s why what happened, happened. Believe me. She drove him to it with all her hoo-ha with the hair and the nails and then the men. I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,” Grandma would say, “but your mother considered herself some kind of beauty queen. She thought she didn’t have to do the same work as the rest of the world.”
I didn’t understand what Grandma Zelda meant. Daddy killed Mama because she was a beauty queen?
Lulu said Daddy did it because Mama dated bad men. Mimi Rubee said the booze and pills made Daddy do it. Aunt Cilla said Daddy killed Mama because of him being an animal. I didn’t know what to believe.
Anyway, what about me? That’s what I wanted to know. Why did Daddy stab me? No one ever talked about that, except once, when out of nowhere Daddy said, “I’m sorry, Merry. I know you probably don’t remember what happened. You were so little. But I’m sorry.”
Grandma got up. “Time for the torture.” Grandma always said that when she left for the bathroom, because she had to wait for a guard to take her down a long, long hall that she said was like a walk of shame. They patted her when she went, and then again when she came out, as though she’d maybe found a gun in the toilet. I never drank water before visits. I didn’t ever want to have to pee at the prison.
The air got heavier when Grandma left, as though she fanned it around with her constant chatter and kept us from the extreme edges that made up our lives.
“So, how’s Lulu?” Daddy asked. “Still a bookworm?”
I nodded. “Daddy . . .” I trailed off, unable to say the words drumming in my head like mechanical monkeys. Why’d you stab me, why’d you stab me, why’d you stab me, Daddy?
“What’s wrong, baby girl?” His eyes got all swimmy with love and concern behind his glasses. “You sure everything’s okay at school? Anyone bothering you?”
I shook my head. “School is fine.”
“So what is it, cookie?”
Like Grandma, I blinked and blinked.
“Uh-oh. Here come the banana splits,” he said.
Daddy used to say that whenever I cried. Before. Then he’d take out his handkerchief, wipe my eyes and say, Let’s mop it up, honey. I’d forgotten. I’d never cried here.
Grandma would be back soon. The question pressed harder against my throat.
“Cat got your tongue?” Daddy smiled and tipped his head down, looking all wise and kind, as though we were in an episode of The Brady Bunch.
“Why’d you stab me, Daddy?” I whispered. Words rushed out like throw-up. “Why’d you try to kill me?” Daddy backed away as though my soft words were little knives. Now I was the stabber.
“You remember?” His voice sounded thin, like it came from high up in his throat.
Daddy pushing me away from the kitchen. Mama lying on the floor. Lie down, Merry. Lie down on Mama and Daddy’s bed. Be a good girl.
“I remember some stuff.”
Daddy holding the knife all covered in Mama’s blood. This will only hurt for a second, baby. No, Daddy, it hurt for a long time.
“I couldn’t do it.” He shook his head. “I started to, but I couldn’t. It didn’t go very deep.”
I opened my hand wide and covered the cotton shirt hiding my scar, as if Daddy might see through the fabric. I knew every bump of the ridge. It was purple-pink and straight. It was on my left side and the length of the memo pad in which I wrote my school assignments.
“Why did you want to hurt me?” Answer my question, Daddy.
“Oh, baby girl. Booze had me dead-drunk mixed with stupid. Jealousy screwed me up bad. You’re too young to understand.” He put his head in his hands. I wanted to rip them away, pound his stupid dead-drunk jealous head.
“That’s why you did it to me?” I whispered, wondering how anyone ever drank.
“I didn’t want to leave you.” Daddy crossed his arms as though he were hugging himself. “I didn’t want to leave you all alone.”
“What about Lulu? Didn’t you care about her?”
“Booze knocked the sense from my head,” Daddy said. “And I was scared, baby.”
“But you were going to leave Lulu all alone? Afraid?” I felt the walls of the room closing in on me.
“Lulu could always take care of herself. You, you’re more like me.”
I’m not like you. I’m not.
“Oh, Jesus, Merry. I love you so much. All I have left in the world is you and Grandma. No one else cares if I live or die.” Daddy took off his glasses and wiped his eyes with his knuckles. Now the guards would come. Now Grandma would be sad.
“I can’t stand the thought of you in that place,” Daddy said. “Damn Cilla and Hal putting you there. Damn cowards. Cilla, who expected anything from her? But Hal? I thought he was a stand-up guy. If I had just one minute alone with that guy, I swear.”
“I’m okay, Daddy. Everything’s fine.” I had to calm him down. Make him happy. Or maybe he’d hurt Aunt Cilla and Uncle Hal, even from in here.
“You shouldn’t be there.” He buried his head in his hands. It looked like maybe he swatted a tear away with his thumb. I couldn’t stand it if he cried. He didn’t have a handkerchief or tissues, or anything. Prisoners couldn’t bring anything into the visiting room. I wondered if Daddy could carry things around when he left his cell. Maybe they kept him locked up every minute. Did he ever get to watch TV? Did he have to shower and go to the bathroom in front of people?
Grandma and I visiting him was probably the most important thing in the world for my father, and I was ruining it.
“It’s okay, Daddy,” I repeated. “I’m all right.”
My father’s face got hopeful as the puppies in the pet store window on Flatbush Avenue.
“Oh, I forgot to tell you.” Under the table, I twisted the skin on my arms. “After the pumpkin pie, we made pancakes.” I clasped my hands in my lap and gave him a big, happy smile. “With real maple syrup. We celebrated autumn. It was fun, Daddy. Really, really fun.”
6
Merry
I raced up the steps of Duffy-Parkman, skidded down the hall, and then flew into my dormitory room. Olive was propped up on one elbow, lying on her cot and staring at the wall. I counted myself lucky it was Olive. She never bothered anyone, she just read, and read and read as though she was holding her breath until her parents came back, which they never would, since they’d died in a car crash. Olive didn’t have a single family-person in the world, unless you counted an ancient aunt locked up in an old-person place.
All the Duffy dorms were the same, three cots lined up on one wall, three on the other. A tiny night table separated each bed. My lucky break was having an end bed so I could lean against the wall.
Seeing me, Olive retrieved her library book from where she’d hidden it behind her pillow. Only Lulu read more than Olive, but Lulu didn’t have to pretend she didn’t. Lulu scared most of the girls, except for the super-tough ones, like Kelli.
I stripped off my jumper and white blouse. After hesitating, I peeled off my sweaty kneesocks, too, which were disgusting from an entire day wearing the plasticky Mary Jane shoes Grandma had bought me back in September. I reached for my last clean socks, knowing they were the only ones left before laundry day, which wasn’t for two more days. I’d have to wear them again tomorrow and Monday, but I wanted something clean right now. I sniffed my two pairs of pants to find the cleanest ones.
Lulu yelled at me for not planning things better, but sometimes I needed something that felt good so much, I couldn’t stop myself.
I peeked over at Olive, who held Trixie Belden and the Mystery of the Missing Heiress about an inch from her nose. “Hey, Olive, want to come hang out with us?”
Us was Janine, Crystal, and me. Janine, whose parents took her home every few months until they started drinking again, looked like a miniature Diana Ross. She had huge eyes and was superskinny-beautiful. Crystal’s blond hair made me crazy jealous. It went down past her waist, and the counselors at Duffy liked to brush it and braid and twist it into fancy styles. Crystal’s parents died in a fire.
We’d been together for over two years. When we were Bluebirds, the youngest and littlest, the floor mothers and counselors picked us to sit on their laps during TV hour. Now that we were Redbirds, nobody cuddled us much anymore, but we passed out the popcorn, and sometimes we leaned against a counselor during Saturday-night TV time.
“I think I’ll just read,” Olive said.
“Okay,” I said. I didn’t have to watch out for anyone teasing Olive. No group claimed her, but no one teased her either.
I looked both ways and ran to the art room. Mrs. Parker-Peckerhead only allowed us to hang out in three places besides our dorms. One was the game room, an old classroom with holes where desks had been unbolted. None of the games had all the pieces. Second was the lounge, which had a television and a radio. Everyone hung out in the lounge, but that’s where the worst fights happened, too.
Third was the art room, where my friends and I went. An old pickle tub filled with crayons and colored pencils, outdated magazines, and stacks of used paper donated by some company made up our art supplies. We drew princesses and puppies on the backs of insurance reports and order forms.
Janine and Crystal bent over their pictures. Janine traced the outlines of the paper dolls we’d made from magazine ads, making the dolls new outfits. Crystal, the best artist of all the Redbirds, labored over the mountains she’d drawn coming up from behind a castle.
“How’s your grandma?” Janine asked.
“Okay.” I never complained about Grandma; at least I had someone to visit. Janine’s parents only came when they took her home two or three times a year. We always believed Janine was leaving Duffy for good, and cried and hugged until a housemother pulled us apart. Then, when Janine came back two weeks later, Crystal and I pretended it never even happened, just as Crystal and Janine pretended that I didn’t visit my father in prison, and Janine and I pretended we didn’t notice the burn marks covering Crystal’s legs from top to bottom.
“Here, I brought this from the room for you.” Janine handed me the picture I’d started the day before. Part of my puppy series, gold, black, and red ones. Janine and Crystal kept all our drawings and any other special things. Duffy had two Redbird rooms, and they were lucky enough to be in the one without Enid and Reetha.
“We only have about fifteen minutes,” Crystal warned. Crystal obeyed the Duffy rules as if she’d die if she even accidentally broke one.
I began slivering a little silver along the edges of a puppy. Not too much, since gold and silver crayons rarely appeared in the pickle jar, and I knew Crystal needed them for her castles.
The art door opened. We looked up, dreading company.
“Oh, look. Prison Girl’s back.” Reetha flounced in clutching a half-crayoned brown box.
Crystal put a protective arm over her paper. I nudged my puppies over to cover her castles.
“Why don’t you crawl back under your rock?” Janine said.
I sucked in my breath at her words. Reetha did remind me of a slug, all sweaty with a face like the goop around gefilte fish. Jagged pink lines on her forehead showed where her mother had scraped her against a wire fence.
“Why don’t you go eat shit?” Reetha reached over and grabbed the silver and gold crayons.
“Hey, we’re using those,” I said, trying unsuccessfully to snatch them out of her hand.
“Why don’t you have your grandma buy you some?” Reetha put her wormy face up to mine. “Look, Prison Girl! I found some new drawing paper. Maybe I’ll use it to line my box.”
I recognized the paper Reetha held, my father’s handwriting, the blurry Richmond County Correctional stamp.
“Dear Merry,” Reetha read aloud before I could grab the letter. “Grandma wrote me you got an A on your spelling test. Congratulations, Sugar Pop!”
Crystal tore the paper from Reetha, leaving Reetha with a scrap corner of the letter.
“Oh, it’s torn,” Reetha said. “Don’t cry, Sugar Pop! So, how bad was your mother that your father had to kill her? Was she a whore?”
Janine got between us. “How ugly were you that your mother named you Urethra?”
“My name is Reetha.”
I grabbed at the crayons she’d snatched. She s
crewed up her face to bite my hand, but I held on to the waxy tips anyway, tired of losing stuff to her. She clamped down on the tip of my thumb.
“Ow!” I screamed, letting go of the crayons.
“Retard,” Janine said.
“Wino,” Reetha screamed back as she grabbed the violet and red crayons next to Crystal. I hated her. I hated her so much I could have grabbed the scissors from the pickle container and shoved them in her throat.
“Ugly scar-face,” I yelled. “Everyone hates you.”
The next day I woke up with the kind of bad feeling you get when something is wrong, but you don’t know what. It was seven-thirty on Sunday morning, and breakfast was in half an hour. Sunday’s breakfast was the best meal of the entire week. Pancakes, three each.
I ran my finger along my chest. The smell of shampoo from my previous night’s shower hung in the air. I reached up to fluff out my hair from the ponytail in which I’d slept.
My ponytail was gone. A short, bristly stump stuck out from the rubber band.
I tried not to cry, not to show anything, because crying only made things worse at Duffy. I tasted the tears in my throat. I touched my head again, patting the stump where my long ponytail had been.
Reetha smiled from her bed. I dug my nails deep into my palms. Enid sat cross-legged on the floor—probably looking for crumbs to eat, the porky pig.
Everyone in the room stayed silent.
“What’s the matter?” Reetha asked. “Crybaby doesn’t look so cute today?”
Curls from my ponytail lay scattered on my pillow. My hands twitched. I wanted to run to the mirror, but I wouldn’t give Reetha that satisfaction. Instead, I snatched a thick hardcover book, the largest I could find, from Olive’s shelf and ran over to Reetha’s bed. Her pajamas looked like a boy’s, and she smelled like she never washed down there.
I grabbed the book with both hands, lifted it over my head as high as possible, and slammed it down on Reetha’s head.
“Ugly skank.” I hit her again, aiming straight at her forehead scars.
Reetha rolled over and kicked me in the stomach. “Stuck-up Jew-girl.”
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 5