Mrs. Cohen looked apologetically first at Eleanor, then at me. “Hardly everyone.” She squeezed my shoulder and handed me a dish of ice cream topped with a fat, walnut-studded brownie, which I’d throw up if I tried to force it past my closed throat.
“Read this.” Rachel dropped a Dr. Seuss book in my lap. I grabbed the book and carried her to the living room before Mrs. Cohen or Eleanor said any more.
“The sun did not shine. It was too wet to play,” I read. Rachel snuggled in close, slipping a thumb in her rosebud of a mouth.
Across from the couch stood the Cohens’ satiny baby grand piano, which seemed not a baby but enormous. Since it was Monday, when the cleaning lady came, the black top gleamed. Pictures and pictures and more pictures cluttered the top, the gilded frames outlining the Cohens’ lives.
A lone picture of Lulu and me perched on edge of the piano, taken at the home of relatives of Doctor Cohen’s who lived in Long Island. We both wore tiny, flat smiles. I’d clung to Lulu the entire day. Nobody had talked to us except to comment on how beautiful I was—Look at those curls and dimples!—ignoring Lulu as though she were my babysitter.
“So we sat in the house / All that cold, cold, wet day.”
When we first came to live with the Cohens, I hadn’t wanted to be anywhere without Lulu. I’d even waited outside the bathroom for her. The apartment seemed enormous, even though I’d visited before. The prospect of living with a man seemed impossibly strange. My breath had come in short, little bursts as Lulu and I walked around the apartment. Mrs. Cohen had said it was our home now, except we should never go into Doctor Cohen’s study; entering that room was forbidden. A month later, I saw Doctor Cohen bring Rachel in to draw and play with her dolls while he worked.
I bet Daddy wouldn’t keep me out of his study. Lulu said Mama usually let us play in her room, that we used to make her big bed into our circus grounds, propping a broomstick under the covers to create the big top. Lulu only talked about these things late at night when I had a nightmare that made my head hurt so bad I thought I might smash it open just to make the pain stop and I ran into Lulu’s room.
Rachel grew heavy as she slurped on her thumb and settled in deeper. If I lived with Daddy and he had a study, I didn’t think he’d forbid me to enter.
As I read the last line of the book, I saw Rachel had drifted off to sleep. I covered her with the patchwork afghan Mrs. Cohen kept on the couch and tiptoed to my room.
Having a space just for me still surprised me. Where everything at Duffy had been limp and worn, here new, shiny things filled my room. Silky yellow ropes tied back billowing orange curtains. Rainbow pillows covered my bed. The only thing I didn’t like was the framed poster of a tree in winter, stripped bare with dark limbs hanging against a bleak gray background. I found the picture depressing, but the Cohens liked it so much I pretended to like it also.
I noticed two new envelopes on my bed and rushed over. They had to be from my father. No one else mailed me anything. One was for me, and one would be for Lulu. Lulu wouldn’t open Daddy’s letters, so he addressed them to me, then I had the job of trying to get Lulu to listen to what he’d written, a task I usually failed.
I slit open my envelope.
Dear Merry, I miss you like you wouldn’t believe. Like walls miss paint! Like Abbott missed Costello! Like baseballs miss bats! It’s sure been a long sad time since Grandma died and I got to see both you and Lulu.
All Daddy’s letters started with this: how he missed me, and how long it had been since he’d seen me. Last week’s letters had included skies missing stars and soap missing washcloths.
Nothing new here (ha ha!). Well, that’s not true. I got a roommate. Not exactly a good thing in prison. It gets more crowded here every day. I knew that eventually my time would come. At least this guy (his name is Hank) doesn’t seem out to do me dirty.
Sometimes the stuff my father wrote made me wish I were blind.
I finished my optician program. Can you believe it? I really did learn a new trade in here. Grandma would be happy. I make lenses for glasses now. I’m a grinder. I’ll tell you all about it when I see you. And when will that be? I wrote to your new foster parents, but I’m still waiting for a reply. By the way, Cookie, I told them not to think about adopting you. I don’t have any intention of giving up my only family.
Was Daddy mad at me? I thought of him throwing things. Banging things. Hurting the Cohens. Everything tightened, and I tapped my chest until the feeling passed.
Did the Cohens want to adopt Lulu and me? Was that why Daddy had double-underlined? I didn’t dare ask my father when I wrote back, because if the Cohens saw the letters, maybe they’d think I didn’t want them to adopt me. Or that I did.
Merry, keep telling them you want to come. Ask them a lot! I need you soooooo much!
So, how is school? Are you still best friends with Katie? I look forward to meeting her when I get out of here. My lawyer is working on another appeal. He says they should have treated a crime of passion different.
Anyway, remember how much I love you. I miss you like cars miss wheels. Love, Daddy
I dropped the prison paper and tried to figure out how I could visit my father. I couldn’t imagine Mrs. Cohen, wearing her gold bracelets and scarves, going with me into a prison.
I had to hide this letter. I had to get the Cohens to take me to Daddy before he got us all in trouble. What if they realized we were too hard to have around? What if they gave us back before Lulu turned eighteen?
11
Merry
November 1977
“I hope I didn’t take advantage of your sister.” Mrs. Cohen pushed a handful of stuffing into the turkey as I steadied it. “Do you think buying the turkey for me put her out?”
Lulu worked at a supermarket after school, which Mrs. Cohen thought gave Lulu the inside track to the best bird.
“It’s fine.” Even after two years, I avoided directly addressing Mrs. Cohen. I’d turn twelve in December, and I still didn’t know how to handle the problem. Working with her in the kitchen was torture. I tilted my head down and caught her eye each time I needed to ask or answer her. “All the kids at the A & P try to get the best turkey for their parents. Lulu told me.”
I cringed hearing myself say parent but used it anyway, knowing it made Mrs. Cohen happy. I didn’t care about lying, not when my lies made people feel special. That’s why people liked me. Anyway, did Mrs. Cohen actually believe Lulu cared about which turkey we served for Thanksgiving? Not that Lulu would deny any request Mrs. Cohen made, but after she’d go on and on about how annoying Mrs. Cohen was.
“Lulu is so sensitive to breaking rules.” Mrs. Cohen patted the turkey. “I just wanted to have a big enough bird. You’re sure she’s not angry at me?”
Mrs. Cohen mined me for information as though I had some magic bead on my sister. As if. You’d have as much luck breaking into Fort Knox as you would trying to pry something personal from Lulu. Mrs. Cohen was desperate to understand my sister. If I wanted, I could have told her Lulu cared only about applying to colleges outside New York and getting away from the Cohens.
When I’d recently asked Lulu why she hated the Cohens so much, she’d snapped her fingers in my face and said, “Wake up, Merry. We’re just their project. You don’t really believe they think we’re family, do you?” She’d gotten a sort of twisted look on her face, which I almost thought meant she was going to cry. “The only family we have is each other.”
I would have mentioned Daddy, but that would only make Lulu mad.
“She’s not angry,” I assured Mrs. Cohen. “Just tired.”
Lulu had practically thrown the turkey on the table when she came home last night. Mrs. Cohen often fretted about the hours Lulu worked, but Doctor Cohen insisted that as long as Lulu stayed on the honor roll—and for goodness’ sake, Anne, she has the third-highest grades in the school—he approved of her long hours. Working built character. It would help her attain a scholarship.
; Doctor Cohen used words like attain instead of get. My grades, good or bad, never worked him up, even though I was in seventh grade now. He left me to Mrs. Cohen. Most of the time it was Mrs. Cohen and me hanging out alone at home, just the two of us. Lulu was hardly ever around. If she wasn’t working at the supermarket, she was serving food at a homeless shelter or volunteering at a hospital in Harlem. The savior, Eleanor called her, but she didn’t sound like she was complimenting Lulu. That girl has a savior complex, she’d say to Mrs. Cohen, shaking her head and pursing her lips.
“Would you start slicing the potatoes?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
I dropped the now fully stuffed turkey, which weighed a ton, and reached for the cutting board. I rinsed and rerinsed the potatoes the way Mrs. Cohen had taught me, then cut each of them in quarters for boiling and mashing, trying to make all the pieces as equal as possible.
“Is everyone coming?” I smiled to show how excited I was at the prospect of the Cohen family overrunning the apartment.
Mrs. Cohen seemed pleased by my question. “Everyone will be here.”
“Do you want me to shine the good glasses?” I hoped not. We’d been in the kitchen for hours, and spending so much time trapped with her exhausted me.
“What would I do without you?” Mrs. Cohen asked.
I turned my back on her and made a face in the toaster. Then I reached for the glasses.
The roasted turkey looked like an advertisement from the Ladies’ Home Journal. Doctor Cohen placed the silver platter on the dining room table. The table, opened to its fullest extension and covered with a heavy white tablecloth, ironed by the cleaning woman that morning, looked like a televi sion show. Lulu had rolled her eyes when Mrs. Cohen explained how the woman didn’t mind coming in on a holiday because they paid her triple time.
“As though that makes a difference,” Lulu had muttered. “They should give her extra money for slaving for them all year. A day’s salary for not working would be a nice Thanksgiving gesture, wouldn’t it? Instead of tearing her away from her family?”
I’d agreed, but been afraid Mrs. Cohen would hear us and get all upset and hurt. Lulu, who’d wanted so much for the Cohens to take us into their home, seemed to hate them more with each passing year.
“Before we slice the turkey, let us give thanks.” Doctor Cohen placed his hands lightly on each side of the platter, as though presenting it for thought. He looked to either side of the table, the left, where Eleanor sat with her family, then the right, gazing proudly at Saul-the-other-surgeon and his wife and baby.
Mrs. Cohen sunshined her grin around the room. “Who wants to start?”
I was sure they were all waiting for Lulu and me to give thanks for the Cohens taking us in, as though we were puppies rescued from the pound and certain death, who should roll over and expose our bellies for petting.
Last year I’d mumbled something about being grateful for everyone being healthy. Lulu had said we should give thanks that nobody at the table had family who’d died in Vietnam. Mrs. Cohen had nodded as if Lulu had said the wisest thing in the world, though I knew Lulu had been digging at them for being so entitled. All I’d wanted was for Lulu to shut up before the Cohens got mad.
Lulu thought the Cohens were the worst sort of liberals, stuffed with money and pretending to be regular people. Soon after we’d enrolled in our new schools in Manhattan, Lulu became what Doctor Cohen called our in-house protester.
Mrs. Cohen worried when Lulu covered her bedroom walls with slogans like “Boycott Lettuce and Grapes” and “Sisterhood Is Powerful.”
“Not that I don’t sympathize with Lulu’s beliefs,” Mrs. Cohen had told me recently, “and of course women should have equal rights, but I don’t want her becoming obsessed.”
I thought Lulu’s save-the-world act was actually a make-the-Cohens-feel-bad thing. Mrs. Cohen desperately wanted to buy Lulu cute outfits and take her for a good haircut. Instead, Lulu hung frayed overalls on her bony body and let her light brown hair hang longer and longer and longer down her back—tying it up with a blue bandanna when the weather got hot. When Mrs. Cohen told Lulu that the right haircut would complement her simply gorgeous bone structure, Lulu said college applications wouldn’t ask for pictures, but thanks for the idea. Later, when we were alone, Lulu accused Mrs. Cohen of really meaning Lulu was plain as soup and needed help.
“Come on, we’re waiting,” Saul said.
“I’ll start,” his wife, Amy, said.
Doctor Cohen nodded and smiled. Anyone could see Amy was his favorite. “Go ahead, dear.”
“I’m thankful for so much.” Amy looked around the table. “I’m thankful Mom and Dad watch out for everyone.”
Amy smiled meaningfully at Lulu and me. My smile felt like it should be on one of those Day of the Dead dolls that we’d studied at school. Lulu laced her fingers together and leaned her chin on the bridge she’d made.
“In this time of racial strife, countries at war, cultural wars, I’m grateful for this safe haven.” Amy smiled shyly as she turned to Saul, who held their baby. “And, most of all, for my husband and beautiful baby.”
Approving smiles lit up all around the table, except of course for Eleanor. I’d heard her call Amy a simpering suck-up, too good to be true. Eleanor was just too evil to recognize good existed. Amy and Mrs. Cohen were both good, even if I couldn’t stand Amy either. Lulu called them liberal Lady Bountifuls.
Defending Mrs. Cohen had become my job.
Rachel pressed herself against Eleanor’s chest and whispered.
“Rachel has something to say,” Eleanor said.
“What is it, sweetheart?” Mrs. Cohen leaned forward as though she were about to get a million dollars.
“I’m grateful I have a mommy and daddy. And that I don’t have to be fostered.”
I clenched and unclenched the edge of the stiff white tablecloth.
The room became silent. Finally, Doctor Cohen cleared his throat and said, “We’re grateful to be able to provide a home for Lulu and Merry. It gives us great pleasure. Being a father to them adds a new dimension at this time in my life.”
Lulu made see-what-I-mean eyes at me.
“What are you girls grateful for?” Amy asked.
I pressed my lips together, praying for Lulu to talk so they’d leave me alone. I opened my eyes wide at my sister, pleading. Lulu’s shoulders fell in disgust. Fine. She clasped her hands in front of her and gave me a tight little smile indicating, Okay, you asked for it.
“I’m grateful the war is over and that we never had napalm raining down on us. I’m grateful I’m not starving in Ethiopia. I’m grateful I’m not in Appalachia with legs bowed from rickets.” She stopped and smiled. “Oh, and I’m glad I was taken in here. Thank you, Cohen family.”
Doctor Cohen sucked in a deep breath. “While your social conscience is a blessing, Lulu, I hope you someday learn why ethics and principles are best served with respect.”
Lulu made a low rumbling sound.
“Do you have a comment, Lulu?” Doctor Cohen asked.
Mrs. Cohen interrupted. “Paul, please, cut the turkey.”
“Let me explore this a moment, Anne.” Doctor Cohen leaned forward. “Are you uncomfortable with our values, Lulu?”
Why did Mr. Cohen have to embarrass her? Lulu stared at the tablecloth and put her arms under the table, probably spelling words like screw you on her arm. I felt as though my skin would pop from all the hot words running through me.
“I’m certain we have something here for which you could be thankful. Or at the very least, grateful,” Mr. Cohen said. “Is there nothing about our values you can stomach?”
“Paul,” Mrs. Cohen warned.
“Sorry, Anne, I’ve had enough ingratitude. We’ve done everything possible for these girls. Didn’t we take them from that place and from their virtual gutter of a family?”
I jumped up. “Leave Lulu alone. You’re being mean. Why should I be thankful that you won’t let me see my father? Wouldn
’t it be respectful to let me see him? He’s not a gutter. He’s my family. He’s all by himself. Why are you punishing me?”
“Merry.” Lulu reached out. “Don’t.”
I pushed away Lulu’s hand. “Why can’t I say anything? Why do I have to pretend he’s dead? It’s not fair.” I banged my fist on the white tablecloth. Each time I asked to visit Daddy, they shushed me and said Someday, and When the time is right, and once more I knew nobody wanted to talk to me.
“Sweetheart. Calm down. Where is this coming from?” Mrs. Cohen rose.
“I told you. I want to see my father.” I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth. “Please. Please. Please. Let me see my father.”
Amy put an arm over my shoulders and held her hand up to stop Mrs. Cohen from coming over. “Why in the world does she have to pretend that her father is dead?”
12
Merry
February 1978
Going to prison by car felt entirely different from taking the Staten Island Ferry. I missed the kissing couples and the choppy waves and seeing the World Trade Center grow before my eyes. The car ride was boring in comparison, but I was grateful to be going at all, whether by boat, car, or flying in over the prison walls. Mrs. Cohen had worked a hard three months to convince Doctor Cohen to let me visit Daddy. When he finally came around to the idea, he decided he’d be the one to take me.
Did he think the prisoners would attack Mrs. Cohen? Dr. Cohen always said Mrs. Cohen wasn’t strict enough; maybe he thought she’d let me hang out with the prisoners, and I’d learn how to rob banks.
I peeked at Doctor Cohen, his hands steady on the wheel. I’d never been alone with him, not since we’d moved in, over two years ago now. He was a quiet man, but not the kind of quiet that made you feel comfortable. I felt stuck in a car silence where I knew I was boring him the entire time, and no matter how much I tried to think of stuff to talk about, I couldn’t imagine what in my life could interest him.
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 10