Today I wore a blue button-down shirt. I thought my complexion looked almost pretty in that color. Not that anyone cared, but at least I didn’t have pimples. Most Duffy girls’ skin oozed so bad you wanted to close your eyes. Maybe it was our greasy meals, so I tried to eat the best stuff Duffy served. Of course, I couldn’t do that every meal, otherwise I’d have been limited to bread and water. My good skin was probably just luck. Tall and no pimples; these were my big blessings.
Merry burst into the room, her mouth turned down and lonely. Sunday mornings it was as though we were the only people left in the world. “When are you coming back?” she asked.
“I have no idea.”
“Where’s she taking you?”
“I don’t know. It’s a surprise.”
Merry hopped up on my neat bed, folding her legs Indian style. I wanted to chase her off and smooth it down, but she seemed so pathetic. Poor Grandma tried to make Merry’s chopped-off hair look good, twirling it in Dippity-Do for hours, and only succeeded in making her look like a crazy poodle.
“I hate it here.” Merry dug her heels back and forth along my blanket.
“Stop messing up my bed. I know you hate it here. I hate it also.”
“Everyone hates me.”
“No one hates you.”
“Reetha and Enid hate me. They cut up my shirt while I was gone. The one Grandma got me. With the tiny flowers.” Resignation colored Merry’s voice. “Or maybe someone else did it. Someone else who hates me.”
“Grandma will get you another one.”
“I can’t tell her,” Merry said. “It would scare her.”
“I have some money saved. I’ll buy you a new shirt.”
Merry lay on her belly, her cheek against my pillow. “Forget it,” she said in a muffled voice. “It doesn’t even matter. Everything turns ugly here. We’re just going to have an ugly-ugly life.”
Hillary’s something great turned out to be having lunch with her parents. She kept it all a big secret, taking me on the subway, transferring a thousand times, and bouncing around as though we were going to see the president. I tried not to look disappointed. I’d allowed myself to get all excited, imagining all sorts of things: Shopping trips! A Broadway play! Carnegie Hall! Places I’d read and dreamed about, like the top of the Empire State Building and the ice-skating rink in Rockefeller Plaza.
“This is my parents’ place.” Hillary acted casual as she pointed to a pearly white building guarded by a line of dwarf evergreens. The brass door shone as though keeping it bright was someone’s only job. “They’re having us to lunch.”
Hillary’s house seemed out of my imagination. I didn’t know homes like this existed in real life. My shirt, which had seemed fine in the Duffy mirror, now looked worn thin. At least the unusually warm November weather meant I could carry my pea jacket and not have to show off the torn pocket.
I touched my hair, feeling for pieces that might have come loose from where I’d clipped it back. Four stories of faceted windows shot off sparks, black lines separating the panes into diamonds. “Which floor do you live on?”
Hillary laughed. “All of them. This is our house.”
“Wow,” I couldn’t help saying. Over on the left, water sparkled. “What’s that?”
“The East River.” She smiled and tilted her head. “Haven’t you ever been to Manhattan?”
I didn’t know how to tell her I wasn’t sure what Manhattan meant. I thought we were in New York City. “I guess so. Probably.”
“This is Sutton Place.” Hillary took my hand.
Hillary’s parents greeted me as though I were Anne of Green Gables. I had no plans to take the shine off their impression by telling the truth about me. Mr. and Mrs. Sachs wore the clothes I’d use if I designed a mother and father, he in a tweedy brown suit and tie, she in a sun-colored dress that flowed around her like a hug.
They reminded me of Mayor Lindsay and his wife. Hillary’s parents were perfect people with perfect teeth and perfect hair.
In the dining room, a world of glass shimmered. Impressions of white and blue flew at me, all soothing and wonderful. In my world, rooms were dingy beige. I sat at the table, ready to imitate Hillary. She shook out a cloth napkin, so perfectly smooth it looked like our neighbor Teenie might have snuck in and ironed it, and laid it across her lap. I did the same, pressing the cloth to my shaking thighs.
Mrs. Sachs tinkled a silver bell. A maid appeared by my shoulder. “Miss?” she asked.
Mrs. Sachs nodded at me. “Lulu, Mary is asking if you’d like a roll.”
I looked up. Mary held out a fluffy white roll in a silver holder. I cleared my throat, hoping my voice still worked. “Yes, thank you.”
Mary dropped a roll on a small plate next to my dinner plate. Plates filled the table, tiny plates where Mary placed pats of butter, plates for rolls, plates under other plates, on top of which sat bowls. Three forks. Two spoons. Two knives. Ten meals’ worth of silverware waited. What were we supposed to do with it all?
Mr. Sachs smiled at me, nodding with a delight I didn’t understand. “So, how’s my girl doing as your big sister?”
Hillary shook her head. “Daddy, I told you. They call us special friends at Duffy-Parkman.”
“Special friend. Indeed. Sounds rather Well of Loneliness,” Mr. Sachs said.
“Daddy’s a literature professor,” Hillary said, as though that explained her father’s words. “Lulu loves to read, Daddy.”
I nodded, wanting to appear as a book lover. “Hillary’s been a wonderful friend,” I finally squeaked.
“Excellent,” Mr. Sachs said. “We should give her some of your old books, Hil.”
Mary dipped a ladle into a large silver tureen and poured soup into Mrs. Sachs’s bowl, then Hillary’s, then mine. Mr. Sachs was last. No one chose a spoon. At Duffy, the first girl who grabbed food from the platter usually finished before the last girl picked up her fork. Finally, when Mrs. Sachs dipped a large spoon in her soup, everyone followed suit. I ate the soup cautiously, calling upon extra vigilance by imagining a bomb would detonate if I spilled even one drop.
“What sorts of books do you favor?” Mr. Sachs asked.
“I like biographies.” Biographies sounded smart.
“And your recent favorite?”
I froze, unable to remember anything I’d ever read except Are You There God? It’s Me, Margaret, and that sounded as ordinary as dirt. The Sachses watched me, Lulu the lunch star.
“Marie Curie. Her book,” I said.
“Ah. Actually, I think you’d say ‘a book about Marie Curie,’ unless she wrote it herself. Did she?”
“No. That would be an autobiography,” I said. “Right?”
Mr. Sachs smiled as though I’d invented radium. “Yes. That’s correct. I guess the schools in Brooklyn aren’t all that bad, huh, Lulu?”
As I tried to figure out if I should say yes or no, Hillary rescued me. “Stop teasing, Daddy.”
“Indeed. I’m pleased to see how well our tax dollars are being spent.”
Mrs. Sachs tried to pretend otherwise, but I knew she watched me as I ate. I noticed the delicate way she used her spoon as she tipped her bowl away from her and realized I was doing the opposite. I laid down my spoon. I’d had enough soup.
“Lulu. Unusual name.” Mr. Sachs crossed his arms and leaned back. “Where did you get it?”
Hillary looked uncomfortable. She’d never asked me about my background, but from her expression, I figured she knew my story.
“My real name is Louise. Lulu is a nickname.”
“Ah. I call my girl Hil.” He laced his fingers and brought them to his chin. “Did it have meaning? Lulu?”
I shifted in my seat, wishing I knew how to change the subject. “My parents said when I was a baby my eyes reminded them of Little Lulu. Like in the comics.”
I didn’t tell him what Mama really said, how I listened from the hall while she and Teenie drank coffee in the living room. She was the creepiest
baby. So quiet. Her eyes were so damn round and dark. Like black holes. Like Little Lulu.
No one spoke. Maybe they remembered why I was at an orphanage. Mrs. Sachs patted my hand. “You have lovely eyes, dear.”
I let out my breath and smiled larger than normal. I tried to look cute like Merry, cute and endearing. Hillary was an only child. She’d said her mother couldn’t have any children after her. Hillary had told me she’d always wanted a sister.
“I wish you could meet Merry,” I said. “My sister. She’s adorable. Everyone says so.”
“I’m sure she is.” Mrs. Sachs nodded at Mary, which I realized meant bring on the next course. Catching on fast was important.
“Everyone loves Merry,” I said
“Perhaps we’ll meet her sometime.” Rays of goodness and cleanliness beamed from Mrs. Sachs.
I nodded. Merry would charm them as long as she didn’t pull one of her crazies, which hardly happened anymore, maybe once a year, but she wouldn’t dare do it here. Not if I told her how the Sachses could get us out of Duffy.
“Hillary tells us you’re quite a Scrabble player,” Mr. Sachs said. “Can we interest you in a game?”
“I’d be quite interested in that.” I found myself parroting the Sachses’ manner of speaking because I wanted to sound like a Sachs until I became a Sachs.
Unlike the stained tiles and the board marked with scribbles from countless careless girls that I played with at Duffy, the Sachses’ Scrabble set matched everything they owned. The tiles were the color of wine, and the sleek plastic board spun in a circle, cradling each letter in an individual holder.
We sat in the living room, though they called it a sitting room. I wondered if that was just another name, a better name, for a living room, or if it meant a different room. Chairs were everywhere, kept company by little tables. In the corner, four chairs surrounded a high square table, where we sat like a family.
I tried to play better than I ever had in my life. I had little practice, since Duffy girls were more interested in television. Mostly I played by myself, pretending to be two people.
I stared at my letters, knowing a seven-letter word was hiding in this batch if I just uncovered it.
G M R A F N I.
A R M G I N F.
M A R F I N G.
I was taking too long. They’d get annoyed. They were just trying to be nice to me. They couldn’t wait for me to leave. But I’m smart, I wanted to say. Look!
F A R M I N G.
Where could I put it? Sweat gathered on the back of my neck. A grandfather clock ticked in the hall. Mrs. Sachs sat with her hands neatly folded. Hillary’s letters clicked as she switched them around on her tile holder. Mr. Sachs seemed amused watching me. Studying me fondly. Like a daughter. He reminded me of Carson Drew, Nancy Drew’s father. Calm and wise.
Oh. I saw it! I put farming over angle, making mangle and farming at the same time.
“Splendid, Lulu. Simply splendid,” Mr. Sachs said. “Look, she used all her letters. Fifty extra points!”
“And look how she did it. Count it up, dear.” Mrs. Sachs seemed so proud. Hillary was right. This was something great.
I won the game, and I didn’t think my victory came because they tried to make it easier for me. Everyone acted so happy, so pleased. I pictured cozy winter nights with the fireplace blazing. Maybe Mr. Sachs smoked a pipe. Merry could learn how to play Scrabble. She was smart. Everyone loved her. Everyone always loved the cute girls.
I stayed still, wondering what we might do next. I willed Mrs. Sachs to say, Why don’t you stay for dinner, dear? and Mr. Sachs to add, I could drive you back to your place.
“Good game! Time for us to call it a day,” Mr. Sachs said. “We certainly enjoyed meeting you, Lulu.”
Say that. Please say that.
“Before you leave,” Mrs. Sachs said.
Before you leave, let’s make a date for our next visit.
“Go see Mary in the kitchen. I told her to make up a bag of sweaters, some of Hillary’s we’d kept. Lovely sweaters. Ones I couldn’t bear to throw out.” Mrs. Sachs bestowed a radiant smile on me. “Rather than just sending them in a bundle with everything else we give away, I wanted to make sure they got a good home.”
8
Lulu
The Sachses sent me home in a taxi. Mr. Sachs put ten dollars in my hand, much too much. Not that it made a bit of difference to him. He could probably give away a hundred dollars without blinking.
I got back to Duffy at six, not wanting to see anyone. When I went to the basement, planning on hiding in the ancient library that no one used, I found Kelli and her crew smoking in the bathroom.
“Oh, look who’s come home!” Kelli said. “Did Miss College take you to blow frat boys?”
“Shut your mouth, Kelli.”
Kelli blocked my entry to the stall. “Who’s going to make me? You? You going to use your book?” She looked around for appreciation. Goony April grinned so wide her black-rimmed eyes disappeared into her fat cheeks. Maureen gave a closemouthed smirk. Their skeevy little mascot, Reetha, hovered in the background.
“Move, Kelli.”
Kelli flicked a finger at my chest. “You going braless these days? Maybe you’re a women’s libber now, huh?”
My flat chest amused Kelli, inordinately proud as she was of her disgusting, floppy boobs. “Fuck off,” I said, smacking away her flicky finger.
April pointed at me. “I bet she doesn’t have enough to fill an A cup.”
“Do you even have a bra?” Maureen asked. Makeup coated her acne-covered face.
“Do you even have a brain?” I asked.
“Maybe you should ask your father to send you a bra from jail, huh?” April stuck her face close. I gagged from the smell of too much Jean Naté mixed with sour frankfurter breath.
“What’s the story, Murder Girl? Do you have tits?” Kelli leaned back against the stall door. “Why don’t you make her show us, Maureen?”
Reetha got closer. “And then we’ll get your sister.”
“You ever touch my sister again, I’ll kill you, you ugly piece of shit.” I put the promise in my eyes, and Reetha pulled back.
“Go on. No one’s going to hear. Everyone’s upstairs watching TV.” Kelli pushed Maureen closer to me.
Maureen grabbed the neck of my shirt, tugging it hard enough to pull the fabric down to the edge of my white bra, tearing off two buttons. I kicked out, hitting her in the shin.
“Bitch,” Maureen said as I struggled to get loose.
“She’s probably wearing her virgin bra.” April brayed her donkey laugh.
“Yeah, Murder Girl’s definitely a virgin,” Kelli said. “Who’d want a tiny tit like her?”
“Keep pulling, Maureen.” April sounded excited. “Pull it down all the way.”
“Skanky lez.” I aimed my foot higher, but Maureen arched away and grabbed me from the back. April went for my shirt.
“Get the fuck away, Maureen, or I’ll murder you.” I elbowed her hard, connecting with her shoulder, since she was about three inches shorter than I was.
“Shit!” Maureen yelled. “Hold her.”
Kelli took a small, vicious-looking switchblade from her jeans pocket and popped the knife open. She held the tiny killer blade up to my neck, pressing the point into my flesh. “Don’t move.”
“You’re dead,” I grunted, twisting away from the knifepoint, from Maureen’s hands, from Kelli’s wet eyes.
Maureen’s cold, skinny fingers snaked around my arms. Everything looked sharp and clear. The chipped beige paint. The brown pipes. The overflowing trash bucket. The stupid blackboard they’d put up to stop graffiti. Fucking bitch damn hate you hate you hate you all.
The sharp knife tip poked the soft flesh of my throat. I lifted my leg, my foot, and shoved it into her slutty stomach. She fell back. I jumped on Kelli and put my hands around her throat, squeezing, feeling the cords underneath my fingers. I put my knee deep into her chest.
; “Get the fuck off her,” Maureen yelled, kicking me from behind.
April shouted, “Use the knife, Kelli!”
“Get up, Lulu,” Maureen said, “or I’ll fucking kill you.”
Tears streamed from Kelli’s eyes as she gagged.
“Stop it,” April yelled, grabbing at me.
The door slammed open with an echoing thud. Mrs. Cohen, the weekend social worker, walked in. “Lulu, get off Kelli right now.” Mrs. Cohen held me by my shoulder. Kelli lay on the floor coughing. April and Maureen put on their blankest faces.
“Don’t bother hiding the knife, Kelli; I already saw it.” Mrs. Cohen looked at me, seeming to notice my torn shirt.
“She was choking me.” Kelli touched the finger-mark necklace ringing her reddened neck. She struggled into a sitting position.
“Are you okay?” Mrs. Cohen didn’t sound sympathetic.
Kelli only glared.
“We were just fooling around,” April insisted.
Reetha huddled in the corner.
“It looked like plenty of fun.” Mrs. Cohen gave me a steady stare. “Lulu, what happened?”
I shrugged. “Like April said, we were just fooling around.”
Mrs. Cohen loosened her grip on me, then let go. She crossed her arms and shook her head. The other social workers were younger than Mrs. Cohen, who seemed more like one of the rich ladies who dropped off clothes and books.
“You’re all lying. Kelli, Maureen, April, wait for me in the conference room.” Mrs. Cohen glared at them. “You, too, Reetha.”
Conference room was the polite term for a dirty little punishment of a room without windows. There were no pictures, no lamps, and no rug, just a limp-cushioned sofa and three scratched plastic chairs.
Mrs. Cohen waited until they left, then narrowed her eyes at me.
I couldn’t figure out if she was angry or upset.
“Why are you protecting them?” she asked.
“Because I live here.”
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 7