I supposed it seemed pathetic, me living next door to my sister and brother-in-law, but it felt safe for Lulu and me, and Drew didn’t seem to mind.
When I’d met Drew, I couldn’t miss how he and Lulu came together like magnetized dolls. Drew’s life didn’t have the drama of Lulu’s, but he’d grown up with elements of craziness. Drew’s father blamed Drew’s mother’s southern roots for her drinking, her affairs, and her overlarge personality. Drew’s mother blamed the state of Nebraska for her husband’s frozen personality. Their ice and heat created a house of storms.
Lulu and Drew both worshiped peace.
When I moved into the new house next week, I’d walk up one short flight of steps to enter my three medium-size rooms. I suspected my apartment had once been the servants’ quarters, but that seemed fair, as Drew’s money had financed the entire deal.
Drew and Lulu entered their much larger apartment off an outsize deck built in the back. The house had modern touches, especially the updated kitchen and master bath, to suit Lulu, while retaining the period details, like the ornate crown molding and ceiling medallions that drove Drew crazy with architectural love. I’d heard enough poetic waxing about the antique amber doorknobs to be satisfied with that particular topic for the rest of my life.
Lulu and Drew had tons of room on their side. They could have kids, and offices, entertainment centers, and even a massage parlor if they so wished. It was all fine with me; three rooms suited me. I had no intention of procreating. Motherhood made you a prisoner. I remember Mrs. Cohen always watching out for her granddaughter, Rachel, practically tying herself to the little girl for fear she’d fall out a window or something. Each time Rachel visited, Mrs. Cohen locked up anything the little girl might swallow, eat, or be smothered by, choke on, or use as poison.
When I babysat Rachel, I didn’t dare blink because that meant I spent a moment blind to her imminent death. I didn’t want children, and though I never said a word, I hoped Lulu and Drew wouldn’t have them either. The three of us would do just fine as our own pack of refugees from family dysfunction living in Cambridge.
My emptying apartment seemed smaller and dirtier the more I packed. Each poster had covered some sordid detail I’d forgotten, such as the hole Quinn had punched in the wall the last time I’d told him to leave, when I’d threatened to call his wife if he ever contacted me again. Like the area where I’d thrown up Manischewitz wine after some half-assed Passover seder Lulu, Drew, and I had attempted; I’d covered the pink blotch on the gray carpet with a hooked rug.
Whitney Houston came on the radio with a song that reminded me too much of Quinn, and I snapped it off, replacing her with a properly bitchy CD from Janet Jackson. Yeah, what have you done for me lately?
My cigarette pack was almost flat. Just one left. One would never get me through the night, and besides, I’d sweated right through the roots of my hair. I needed air-conditioning to go with my cigarette.
I woke up the next morning in Gary’s apartment. Gary, whose last name was lost to me, gave a gurgling snore. Gary had been crushing on me for quite a while. I knew that. His girlfriend, Sheila, a nurse, had been at work the previous night while Gary hung out at the bar shooting pool. I remembered leaning over as he lit my cigarette, showing my breasts along with my scar, not caring, hungry for admiration like a whore for hundred-dollar bills.
We’d gone to his apartment because mine was such a mess. That we’d gone to any apartment at all was the problem. I lifted the bedcover as quietly as possible. My head pounded. I swung one leg, then the other over the mattress. A pilled blanket topped nasty gray-white sheets.
Gary had air-conditioning, however.
Hadn’t I promised myself never to show up at Burke’s on a Saturday?
What had I been thinking? Why hadn’t I bought my cigarettes from the gas station on the corner?
I tiptoed toward the bathroom, crossing the gritty wooden floor of the triple-decker apartment. Nothing new to me. Slept in one of them, slept in all of them.
“Hey, don’t sneak away.”
I turned and offered Gary a sick smile.
“I better go,” I said. “What if Sheila comes?”
“She doesn’t have a key.” He rolled on his side, pulling up the sheet like a girl, maybe to cover his beer belly. “It’s not like we’re engaged or anything.”
Soft blond hair fell over his balding forehead. I’d only seen Gary in a baseball jersey and Red Sox cap, which covered all his vulnerable spots.
My nudity felt like an advertisement. I picked my clothes off the floor and clutched them as best I could to cover my naked breasts and front. “I have to get home and pack.”
“I can help. I’m a terrific packer,” he said with a boy’s smile.
“That’s okay. My place is a wreck.”
Gary swept a hand around his apartment. “This isn’t exactly the Taj Mahal. Let me at least make you breakfast.”
“Coffee. Coffee would be great.” I rushed into the bathroom and pulled on my clothes fast enough to make Superman envious. I covered my index finger with toothpaste and spread it around my teeth and tongue, trying to scrape off the taste of beer and Gary. The mirror reflected clownish black mascara stains under my eyes. I opened Gary’s medicine cabinet, feeling only a little funny about it, wondering what he might have that I could substitute for eye makeup remover. Vaseline? Finally, I found a grungy looking tube of Jergens lotion, which probably belonged to Sheila-without-a-key.
I dabbed some under my eyes and succeeded in smearing the black in larger, oilier circles. My sunglasses were in my car. I would have dived out the bathroom window for them, but we were on the second floor.
When I entered the kitchen, Gary gave me an appreciative look. “You look cute in the morning.”
He walked over and put an arm around my waist. I backed away from his unbrushed breath. Didn’t the man need to pee, for Christ’s sake? “Thanks. Bathroom’s free.”
“Coffee is almost ready. Be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”
I could have cried from the frustration of wanting to be home, wanting to be out of Gary’s apartment and away from Gary’s love-hungry, sex-hungry, romance-hungry eyes eating me up like a roaming Irish bear. I watched the coffee drip down with caffeine-starved eyes. When finally the last bit of liquid spit out of the coffee funnel, I rinsed two cups, one yellow with a long brown crack inside, the other a relatively intact World’s Best Boyfriend mug. Given the lousy options, I chose the crack.
“Ah, it’s done.” Gary picked up his now clean mug and tipped it toward me. “Sorry.”
Not knowing if the apology was for the dirt or the message, I shrugged. “No problem.”
He came over and tugged at the corner of last night’s T-shirt. The wide-open V-neck made it too easy for him to find a shoulder to kiss, though I wore a camisole underneath. I wriggled away. He pulled me back. “You taste good.”
“I have to go.”
“Not yet.” He traced my collarbone with his tongue, then a callused finger. “I want you.”
I let him lead me to a kitchen chair. He tugged his shorts down and sat. He grabbed me and pulled everything below my waist off in a quick, easy motion. He brought me on top of him and grunted. I buried my face in the hollow of his neck and waited for him to come.
Hot water beat at me. I soaped my arms, my feet, scrubbed Gary from between my legs until the Ivory soap stung. I washed my hair twice. I covered myself with talcum powder, Cashmere Bouquet like Grandma used to sprinkle on us. Lulu said that Mama used it also. When the weather was hot, Mama cooled us with alcohol, then the powder, so we wouldn’t sweat while we slept.
I put on the lightest T-shirt I had and slipped into a pair of scrub pants Lulu had given me. I poured myself a third cup of coffee, toasted an English muffin, and spread it thick with butter and slices of cheddar cheese. I grabbed the stack of mail I’d been avoiding and made piles.
To be paid.
To be thrown away.
Da
d’s letter.
When I finished the English muffin, I slit open Dad’s letter and read:
Dear Merry,
How was the wedding of the century? I can’t wait to hear about it. Most of all, I can’t wait to see some pictures. You’ll make sure you bring them, right? Make sure they are the size that I can keep—you know it, right? Otherwise, call and they will tell you.
As though I hadn’t known since childhood exactly what possessions Richmond County permitted.
Once again, I find myself wishing you could convince your sister to come and visit me. I think if I saw her face-to-face, I could explain everything. Do you think she ever reads my letters?
Last time I asked, Lulu told me to mind my own business. Later, probably after she spoke to Drew, she said she read them once in a while, but usually she just shredded them into confetti. “You’d tell me if anything important happens, right?” I suppose she meant if our father got cancer or leprosy. Would she visit him then?
Big news here—they want me to take on a larger role in the optical shop. We’re serving three more facilities now. Your father will be managing the biggest shop in the system.
Facilities. System. They. Our communication was a series of careful codes.
I think this will help next time I’m up for parole, but you know what will make the real difference. Please. Work on your sister. I am getting to be an old man in here.
Not able to resist any longer, I rubbed and rubbed my chest, moving my hand from smooth skin to puckered ridges.
In three years, I’ll be fifty. You should see the old men in here—they look like death warmed over. I don’t want to be like that. I want to hold grandchildren someday. Please. You’re my only hope, Tootsie. Love and Kisses, Daddy
Part 3
19
Lulu
July 2002
I woke before the alarm on Monday morning, my mouth dry from the air conditioner. My older daughter, ten-year-old Cassandra, stood over me, arms on her hips, eyes narrowed, looking angry but not injured. My initial shot of adrenaline backed down, and I readied myself for today’s tale of disparity in the Winterson home. Early on, Cassandra had solidified her role as our family monitor. Daily she decreed what was fair, mean, or righteous. Being a budding actress added to her histrionic family performances. Sometimes I regretted having enrolled her in the drama classes she’d taken to as though she were a young Meryl Streep.
“Ruby gets whatever she wants, just because she’s younger,” Cassandra said, allowing no time for me to adjust to waking. “You and Daddy treat her like a baby, and I don’t get away with anything.”
“What’s wrong?”
“Ruby wanted pancakes and I wanted waffles, and Daddy said he’d flip a coin. But she cried, so of course, the big baby got her choice.”
I knew the story ran deeper, and the prospect of digging it out wearied me. “Get in, sweetheart.” I held up the sheet and blanket.
Cassandra slipped under the sky blue comforter and took a deep breath, readying herself to list off her grievances. My daughter smelled like my expensive soap, which she believed should belong to all of us, especially her.
I didn’t have to be at work until ten, though soon the girls would leave for whatever summer vacation activity Drew had planned for them. Beach today, I thought. Drew worked from home; we’d transformed the attic rooms on the top floor into his studio.
Cassandra snuggled close. My bedroom gave off a clean, cool feel. The white cottage furniture reminded me of Martha’s Vineyard. White shutters on the windows, my collection of porcelain vases, and the translucent bowls on the bookcase and dresser all soothed me. Drew had painted the walls a snowy white and hung the painting he’d done that I loved most, blue irises against a sun so intense it burned from the canvas.
“Daddy always gives in to Ruby,” Cassandra complained.
“I’m sure he’ll make you waffles tomorrow.”
“But I wanted them today. She’s just a crybaby. I don’t think the cut even hurt.”
“What cut?” I sat up.
“It’s nothing, Mom.” Cassandra drew away, shifting to her back and crossing her leg over her bent knee. “It’s stupid that Daddy even let her cut strawberries. Anyway, it wasn’t anything. She just cried and pretended so she could get her pancakes.”
“I’d better check on her.”
Cassandra tugged at my nightgown, trying to pull me back down. “She didn’t even bleed except maybe one little drop. Everyone does everything for Ruby.”
“Enough, Cassandra.” My impatience grew. I needed to see Ruby before taking my shower.
“You’re not being fair,” Cassandra complained. “No one is.”
“What do you want?” I struggled to keep my voice even, knowing I’d already failed, my irritation already spilling over the nice white and blue room.
Motherhood had never been my dream. I’d never thought I’d be very good at the job. See, Drew. This is why you’re the mommy and I go to work. Not that he’d argued with me about our division of labor. Drew had worked hard in his campaign to sell me on motherhood. In the end, his strong want had won me over, though the thought of being a mother had terrified me. It still did; it had turned out to be worse than I’d ever imagined. I hadn’t known how much they’d own me, how every fall they took would raise bumps on me.
“Why can’t you take us to the beach today?” Cassandra asked.
Why are you so hard to please when we give you so much? “Daddy’s taking a friend for each of you, right?” I said. “You don’t need me.”
Maybe we gave them too much.
Cassandra got up on her knees, pleading with me to understand. Her lank brown hair falling over her shoulders reminded me of my own. “Yes, I do need you,” she said. “You never come. You haven’t even seen how good I swim the crawl now.”
“We’ll all go this weekend. I promise.”
“Sure,” Cassandra said. “I bet.”
She sounded as though I broke promises every day. Was that how she viewed me? “And we’ll go to the bookstore and get a new batch of summer books.”
Every way I turned as a mother, I disappointed someone. Ruby and Cassandra were warring nations, always needing different things, never satisfied at the same time. At any moment, I faced disappointment, failure, or terror. At some point, all these were certain to occur, right?
See, Drew? I knew it. Having children ensured enduring life’s worst crap. By hounding and bribing me into pregnancy, Drew had forced me to become a hostage to terror. You give birth, and then worry becomes your lifelong caul.
Had my mother felt that way? Had thoughts of danger threatening Merry and me kept her up at night? Trying to catch memories of Mama felt like trying to hold rain. I didn’t remember sensing her worry, but she was my mother, she must have worried. I gave myself comfort with those thoughts.
Ruby ran through the door. Drew walked behind balancing a mug.
“Did you wake her up?” Ruby asked Cassandra. She turned to her father. “She’s in trouble, right?”
“No, she’s not in trouble,” I said. “Don’t be an instigator.”
“What’s that?” Ruby asked.
“Instigator means someone who starts something, but not in a good way,” I said.
“Someone who acts like a baby,” Cassandra said. “And who cries all the time.”
“You pooped in your pants!” These were eight-year-old Ruby’s final words in most fights.
“Ruby! How many times do we have to tell you not to say that?” Drew said. He placed the coffee in my hand. Ever since Cassandra had had a horrible bout of food poisoning on the way home from the Cape and couldn’t hold out for a bathroom, this had been Ruby’s favorite taunt. “You know Cassandra was sick.”
“You shouldn’t be rude and mean,” I added.
Cassandra stuck her tongue out at Ruby, and then turned accusing eyes on Drew. “I told Mommy you made Ruby her pancakes, even though I won.”
Looking for ways to k
nock out my daughters’ bad traits—Cassandra’s need for hair-splitting fairness and the mantle of victimhood, Ruby’s attempts to push her way to the top—appeared to be a Sisyphean task. My girls had so many wearying qualities. Civilizing them overwhelmed me. How much easier it would be to simply throw them gobs of goodies as though they were rabid dogs. Candy! Toys! Hot dogs! Come get them, girls! Ruff! Love me!
“But I got hurt,” Ruby said. She held up her hand, showing me a Sleeping Beauty bandage on her tiny palm. “See?”
“Cassandra, Ruby did get hurt. We talked about this,” Drew said. “Tomorrow you’ll get waffles.”
Cassandra collapsed in on herself, leaning back against me. I stroked her fine, light hair, wanting to run far from all of them. Cassandra sighed out her loss. She turned to me and took my face in her hands, staring as though I were the blood running through her veins.
“Please stay home with me, Mommy,” Cassandra begged. “Let Ruby stay with Daddy, and you stay with me today. Don’t go to work. Please!”
“Lulu?” Merry’s scream cut through the drama. “Drew? I’m grabbing some coffee, okay?”
“Fine,” I yelled back down.
Drew squeezed Cassandra’s knee. “Come on, honey. You know Mommy has to go to work. Plus, we have to pick up your friends.”
I grabbed Cassandra for a hug around her dejected shoulders before she left. “It will be fine,” I told her.
Fine was my word of the morning. Fine for me not to see Cassandra for a single full day this summer and fine for Merry to pour a cup of coffee. It was fine about four workdays out of five, when Drew’s already brewed coffee usually trumped the prospect of Merry making her own.
I didn’t worry about Merry walking out her front door wearing slippers and pajamas, running around the corner from her apartment to my and Drew’s entrance. The unusual was the usual in Cambridgeport. Walking in nightwear didn’t come close to earning us a place in the neighborhood freaky line, not in the part of Cambridge where Drew, Merry, and I lived.
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 17