“Stop it,” Olive warned. “Someone’s coming.”
I ran back to my bed and leapt in, clutching Olive’s book in my trembling arms.
Our housemother walked in. “What’s going on?” She inspected us bed by bed. “Merry, what happened to your hair?”
I bit down on my lip. “I cut it,” I said.
I faced the wall, tracing a doggy face on the dirty beige paint with my finger. Circle, circle, circle, tongue. Floppy ears. Everyone was in church. I pulled the stretchy headband Janine had lent me tighter, lower around my ears, pretending no one could notice how ugly I looked. Strings of long hair mixed with short curls sticking out like loose wires. The housemother said I’d have to get a pixie cut, which made you look like a boy. When the weekday housemother for the older girls, the one who took care of haircuts, came tomorrow she’d finish Reetha’s job. I kicked the wall.
As soon as all the girls had left for church, I’d torn up my father’s letters and flushed them down the toilet. My hiding place had turned out to be useless. I walked my feet up and down the wall. Quietly. Because if Mrs. Parker-Peckerhead came in and found me doing it, she’d make me wash the wall down with the brown disinfectant that practically left holes in your hands.
You think people want to see your footprints on the wall, Meredith? Mrs. Peckerhead would say as she handed me the scrub brush stuck in a pail of soapy water. When she made me move my bed from the wall and saw the real mess, she’d really punish me. Look at this, she’d yell. Candy wrappers. Where did you get those from?
I’d be in big trouble for having my own candy stash. We were supposed to give any treats we got to Mrs. Peckerhead for the community box, but I tried to keep all Grandma’s treats, except, of course, I gave half to Lulu. Anything you handed over to Mrs. Peckerhead, you’d never see again, except for horrible things she didn’t want, like the dried apricots one girl got from her grandfather.
The empty room reeked of poison brown disinfectant and talcum powder that smelled like flowered feet. Duffy girls got it from John’s Bargain Store on Flatbush Avenue—those who managed to beg money from relatives if they had them, or steal it from the girls who did, if they didn’t—and sprinkled it under the cheap, scratchy dresses they wore to church.
Lulu walked in as I bicycled my feet in the air with my hands holding up my hips.
“Where are you going?” Lulu asked.
“Ha ha. Very funny.”
Lulu sat next to me. “Are you okay?”
“Reetha will kill you if you sit on her bed,” I said.
“I’m truly scared.” As if to prove her point, Lulu lay down, even daring to put her shoes on the bed. Lulu had become tough since she’d turned thirteen. Grandma called her a juvenile delinquent in training.
“Really, get off,” I begged.
“Okay, okay. Stop being a baby.” She switched to my bed. “So, are you okay?”
She pointed her chin at my head, and I tried not to cry, instead air-bicycling faster and faster.
“I’ll make sure they never do it again,” she said.
“No,” I screamed. “Don’t. It’ll just get worse. I know it. Unless you kill them. Ha ha.” I reached up and felt where hairs popped out of the headband. “Why does she hate me?”
“Because of Daddy,” Lulu said.
“You blame everything on him.”
“How’s Grandma?” Lulu always changed the subject the minute Daddy came up.
“She’s okay.” I banged my feet against the railing on the end of the bed. “Daddy said to say hello.”
“Did I ask?” Lulu turned on her side, facing me, cradling her head in her hand.
I sat up and crossed my legs. “Lulu, do you think Daddy will be alive in twenty or thirty years?”
Lulu frowned. “Why?”
“Because he said maybe he’d get out then—in twenty or thirty years.” I studied my sister’s face.
“He’ll probably be alive. Unless somebody kills him in prison.”
“Don’t say that.” I drew up my knees and put my chin down, tucking in my face. “Don’t you miss having parents, Lu?” I said to a scab on my knee.
“I just don’t think about it.” Lulu poked me with her foot. “Neither should you. Forget it. It’s over. Come on down to the rec room. We’ll play Clue.”
“Do you think I might die here?” I asked.
Lulu grabbed my shoulders and pulled me up. “Why are you asking that?”
“What if someone here kills me?”
That wasn’t what I really meant. What I really meant was, What if I killed someone? Then I really would be Prison Girl.
“I hate it here. I don’t want to grow up here.” I pushed Lulu away and fell back on my bed. “I’d rather be dead than live here.”
7
Lulu
Merry drove me nuts as we walked toward Grandma’s house. Every step I took, she insisted that I move faster. I couldn’t rush enough for her, and she refused to copy my snail pace. I lifted my boots through the slush covering Caton Avenue as though I had bricks glued to my soles; that’s how much I wanted to go to Grandma’s house.
“Come on,” urged Merry. She grabbed my arm. “We have to be there by twelve. For lunch.”
“Quit it.” I pulled away from her. “We’ll get there when we get there.”
Merry frowned from under the floppy hat hiding her pitiful haircut. Three weeks’ growth hadn’t helped her raggedy look, but more than her hair, I worried about her dying talk. She needed to leave Duffy. I could handle the place, but Merry wasn’t tough enough.
“She’s going to be looking out the window!” Merry hopped around me like a baby bird, her need to please Grandma making me insane. “Hurry.”
Grandma usually glued herself to the window, her chair angled so she could swivel her head between focusing on the television screen and watching for us coming up the street. Saturdays were tough TV days for Grandma—no game shows, none of her stories—but she watched anyway. She said TV kept her company while she waited to die. Even when she read the oversize, large-print Reader’s Digest magazines she borrowed from the library, the television stayed on.
As we approached the red brick entrance to Grandma’s apartment building, Merry waved wildly toward Grandma’s window. “She can’t even see you,” I said.
“You don’t know for sure.” Merry yanked open the door, still rushing even though we’d arrived. The worn-out lobby smelled like an old mop. A messy stack of unclaimed mail almost blocked the mailboxes.
“Grandma can barely see.” I tugged at the hem of my short skirt as Merry pressed the doorbell next to Grandma’s name. I’d reprinted “Mrs. Harold Zachariah” last month when the ink on the old slip faded to unreadable. Grandma insisted I write “Mrs.” because she thought being married seemed more respectable. As I’d slipped the fresh paper rectangle into the brass slot, she’d said, “If they know a man wanted you once, they treat you better.”
Grandma went on for hours about old people never getting respect anymore. Just look at these hippies with their hair hanging down to their pupiks, they look like ragamuffins. Do they even stop to say, “Hello, Mrs. Zachariah”?
College kids crammed four, five, and six into the thimble-size one-and two-bedroom apartments in Grandma’s building. She complained they were making the place into a beatnik building. Hippies were old hat to everyone in the world except Grandma, who hated them. When I turned thirteen in July, she’d given me her only real jewelry, a pair of pearl earrings and a pearl necklace, scolding me all the while that a young lady wore something like this, not those crazy fruit seeds the hippie girls had hanging around their necks, and reminding me to give Merry the earrings when she got older.
Naturally, two days later someone at Duffy stole the earrings and the necklace.
Grandma buzzed us in. Merry raced up to the third floor while I forced myself up the scuffed stairs one by one. Odor of cabbage and onions fried in chicken fat mingled with the smells of patchouli and pot. I rec
ognized the pot because girls at Duffy-Parkman snuck into the bathroom at night and smoked it. Then they’d drench everything with White Rain hair spray to cover the odor. I totally expected the bathroom to blow up one day when some girl blasted White Rain while another lit a match.
The patchouli I’d sniffed on the college girls who volunteered to be so-called special friends to the older girls at Duffy-Parkman. Hillary Sachs was my special friend. I didn’t know if they’d assigned me a Jewish special friend on purpose or if it had been a coincidence. Hillary gave me cow-eyed, meaningful looks while we played Scrabble or went on little trips. I hadn’t yet deciphered what she offered in those looks. Last week she’d told me to get ready for something great the next time we met, which would be tomorrow.
When I got all the way upstairs, Grandma stood in the doorway, arms crossed over her bony chest. I still remembered Grandma as soft and round, and my heart folded in on itself when I noticed her clothes hanging so loose they looked like I could stuff in another Grandma.
“So, where were you? I was worried sick.”
“It’s only ten minutes after twelve.” I pointed to the cheap Timex that Grandma wore.
“I worry after two minutes.” As Grandma gave me a rough hug, Merry stuck her tongue out at me.
“For lunch I made hot borscht. Of course, I forgot the sour cream. Your grandmother is now officially an idiot. Proven this week, by the way.”
“By who?” Merry grabbed a hard candy from the bowl Grandma kept filled for us.
“By who? By everyone. Mrs. Edelstein downstairs asked me to take in her mail while she visited her son in New Jersey, and guess who forgot?”
“That’s not a big deal,” I said.
“Believe me, it’s only the tip of the iceberg.” Grandma took her purse from the secretary filling most of the postage stamp hall. “Here, Merry. Go down the street and get Grandma some sour cream. Also, I need a quart of milk and three apples, but not the mealy ones they stick in front. Make sure you take the sour cream and milk from the back also.”
“Lulu should have to go. She doesn’t even come every week, so I end up doing everything,” Merry said. “I want to stay here with you.”
“I’ll go.” I’d happily go. Grandma’s three-room apartment suffocated me. I couldn’t believe my father lived here when he was a teenager. He would have filled the place up. The tiny kitchen had a miniature table covered with an overscrubbed piece of red oilcloth, an ancient fridge, and a stove that looked like it should be in the Brooklyn Museum. A maroon velvet sofa and chair overfilled the living room, but even so, Grandma crammed in wobbly little tables smothered with tea-colored doilies. Grandma cleaned the apartment every hour, but everything still had a thick old-lady smell.
“No. You’ll stay.” Grandma handed the money to Merry. “Remember, take from the back.”
Merry left, and I curled up on the old sofa, trying not to let my face touch the scratchy fabric, picking up the only available reading material, a large-print Reader’s Digest.
“Stop with the bookworm routine. I need to talk to you.” Grandma sat next to me on the couch and pulled the magazine from my hands.
I gave her a closemouthed smile. “What is it?”
“You need to hear a few things.” Grandma grabbed my hand. Despite her fragile appearance, she held me with a powerful grip. “I’m not going to be around forever, Lulu.”
“I hate when you talk like that.”
“Shush. By forever, I mean not very long at all. The doctor says my heart is getting bad, and the sugar makes it worse and worse. And my eyes, I can hardly get around. Forgive me for saying so, tatelah, but dying will be a blessing. Except, who will take care of your father? Who will watch over Merry?”
“I have to go to the bathroom, Grandma.”
“You can hold it a minute. Listen to me—when I’m gone, you watch your sister. Understand?”
“I watch her now.”
“Don’t be fresh.” Grandma squashed my fingers as she gave my hand a painful squeeze.
“Ouch!” I tried to pull away, but Grandma held on with her iron gangster grip.
“You watch her like a hawk, do you hear me?” Grandma still wouldn’t let go of me. “Merry’s your responsibility when I’m gone. I know, I know, you think you do everything already—but believe me, you don’t. When I’m gone, you’ll be all she has. You can take care of yourself, you’ll always be okay, but she’s not tough like you.”
“Okay, fine.” Grandma’s words piled on me. Why did everyone think I could take care of stuff? I hadn’t done it for Mama, had I?
“And remember, your sister will need to see Daddy,” Grandma said. I ignored her, staring down at my knees, and she gave me a tiny smack on the side of my head. “Look at me.”
I looked up. “I said I’d take care of Merry, but how do you expect me to take her to prison? I’m only thirteen, Grandma.”
“What a character you are. When I try to tell you what to do you say you’re not a kid, you’re thirteen. Now suddenly thirteen is a baby?” Grandma shook her knobbed finger in my face, still holding on to my hand with her other hand. “We need to talk about your father.”
I ran my free hand over the worn velvet nap, pushing it one way and then the other. Merry might be my responsibility, but I wasn’t taking him on.
“You haven’t seen your father once,” Grandma said. “Not once. When I die, you go see him. Do you hear? He’ll be all alone in this world except for you and Merry.”
“Wasn’t that his choice?” I squeezed my thigh. Grandma and I never spoke of how Mama died, that my father killed her, that he ran a knife wet with Mama’s blood into Merry’s chest.
“Your father did a terrible thing. It’s not for me to defend. However, he’s my son and he’s your father. When I die, you take care of Merry and you see your father. Do you promise?”
“Just how am I supposed to get there?” I pictured the prison as a fortress with rats jumping from everywhere and moving brown patches of cockroaches covering the walls.
“You’re smart. You’ll figure it out. Call your uncle Hal.”
Was she kidding? Aunt Cilla and Uncle Hal hadn’t come to see us since Mimi Rubee died.
“It will kill me if you don’t promise,” Grandma said.
I shrugged.
Grandma squeezed my hand one more time. “Promise!”
I crossed my fingers. I wound my legs together. I’d never go to Richmond Prison. Never.
“I promise,” I said. “I promise.”
“That’s a good girl.” Grandma unwound her fingers and patted me. “Remember, a promise is sacred. God listens. Disobey a promise and God knows what can happen. But never mind, I know you’ll keep your word.” She tilted her head and gave me an approving smile. “I see your father in your face. It comforts me. I’ll die easier knowing I can count on you.”
The next morning I dressed with particular care. I tried not to get excited as I waited for Hillary to pick me up for our “something great.” So far, we’d gone to the movies, gone to the Brooklyn Museum, where she couldn’t get enough of the costume rooms and I thought I might fall asleep, and stayed here to play Scrabble. Once she’d dragged me around the Brooklyn Botanic Garden, which actually soothed me. I’d like a life as peaceful as the Japanese section there.
I made my cot up as tight as possible, using the hospital corners Mrs. Parker insisted upon, tucking in the wool blanket, working carefully to avoid the iron ribbing on which the mattress rested. They’d given me enough scrapes over the years. I didn’t feel like running to the housemother to beg for Neosporin. However, I would, and did every time my skin broke, because germs loved Duffy-Parkman. No matter how hard Mrs. Parker made us scrub, you’d always find some Duffy girl puking or wiping her snot on a chair. Blood poisoning lived a scratch away here, and before they brought you to a doctor, you had to lose your leg or have a temperature of 105.
I’d debated between being a doctor and being an anthropologist for a long time. As
a doctor, you were always doing the right thing, saving and healing people. Doctors knew what to do no matter what happened. You had to take care of disgusting things, but almost nothing made me sick to my stomach. When Olive was afraid to tell Mrs. Parker she thought she had lice, I checked her. I even got Grandma to buy the stuff to get rid of the bugs, and I took care of Olive secretly in the bathroom, with Merry posted as the lookout. I combed out every single nit.
Anthropologists made sense of people. I read Coming of Age in Samoa when someone threw it in a bag with other donated stuff for Duffy. It made me think that where you live can make all the difference. I’d have liked to be an anthropologist like Margaret Mead, but I didn’t know how I could ever travel that far from Merry.
I beat my flat pillow in an attempt to bring it to life, but the dead feathers had their own dead mind. I dusted and lined up my books in size order, positioning my crayoned “DO NOT BORROW WITHOUT PERMISSION” sign smack in the middle. No one here read much, but stealing was the Duffy sport of choice. Luckily, no one cared enough about books to want mine, except Olive, and although she was spooky, she was a rare spot of Duffy honesty.
I put my brush and comb into my small and only drawer. Leaving my room without neatening my three shelves until they were perfect, with everything lined up and all the fold sides of my clothes facing out, could ruin my day. I had the neatest shitty stuff in Brooklyn.
I checked myself in the mirror through slitted eyes, trying to imagine what the college girls thought of me. Most Duffy girls dressed like whores, but I rummaged through every bag of donated clothes searching for shirts, pants, and skirts as not-Duffy as possible.
When people dropped off old clothes, the housemothers dumped the bags in the middle of the family room, and we’d eye the bulging sacks as if we couldn’t be less interested. The moment someone made the first move, we all pounced.
The toughest and meanest girls wore the best clothes. That’s why Merry looked scruffy. I tried to pull out decent clothes for her, but try looking for two sizes while girls knee you in the chest. I had one advantage, though. While the idiots here searched for hot pants that showed their butts, I fought for Levi’s and oxford shirts.
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 6