In Dorchester tonight, police are looking for the assailant of—
I listened for the name of the murdered and the murderer.
Julius Trager, who was gunned down leaving his Rutherford Street home. The Roxbury Community College graduate recently began training as a veterinary assistant.
I couldn’t think of any of my probationers who dreamed of working with animals. Having such a client might be nice, although if he were in a vet program, it would probably be so he could stage matches of dogs fighting to the death.
Vague jealousy gnawed at me as the smugly pregnant anchorwoman commented on Boston’s ever-rising homicide rate, she picture-perfect, even pregnant; I absently tracing my scar and wearing my brother-in-law’s castoff. Running my fingers along the raised line I knew so well had become so automatic, I couldn’t imagine breaking the habit. Touching it only when alone, that was my victory.
I tapped the middle of my chest, away from the scar, three times. What had the massage therapist said, the one my friend Valerie sent me to last Christmas? That it would clear my chi? Release my chi? Cook my chi?
Was it realistic to expect a chi change when I couldn’t even remember its place or function? Valerie was always trying to right my life, from finding me a man to changing how I related to clients. She was a juvenile probation officer—we worked in the same court but different areas. Her life was as messy as mine, filled with bars and bad boyfriends, but because she didn’t worry aloud, she mythologized hers as being superior.
Perhaps I’d made a mistake getting the box, forcing the past down my sister’s throat. Still, someday Ruby and Cassandra would most likely find out they had an actual, living grandfather rotting in jail. How can you not worry about Judgment Day? I wanted to scream at Lulu.
Poor Drew; I knew why he’d seethed. Drew had been in on Operation Box. Lulu’s rejection hurt him. Drew lived for appreciation, recognition—everything he’d never gotten from his mother or father. Unappreciated or ignored, Drew turned a bit mean.
In truth, my own throat ached from not shouting my deepest truth. Stop leaving me alone with him. My dim-witted hope of someday sharing the burden with Lulu never left, no matter how many times I trudged off by myself to Richmond Prison.
Visiting the evil Aunt Cilla the previous weekend had provided a relief simply for the pleasure of not having to lie about my past for one moment in time. Not that my aunt had asked squat regarding my father; Aunt Cilla hadn’t even whispered his name during the two hours she’d allotted me.
I’d knocked, and then waited on the hot enclosed porch until Aunt Cilla opened the door a crack. Aunt Cilla, seven years my mother’s senior, at sixty-five, looked like a fun-house mirror of how I imagined Mama would appear if a computer morphing program aged her photo image. My washed-out aunt was never pretty like Mama, but she resembled Mama—the cheekbones, the lush mouth—enough to give me the chills.
Aunt Cilla still lived in Brooklyn, though in a house I’d never visited. Times had been good to her and Uncle Hal, disproving any moral theorists claiming the meek shall inherit the earth. Aunt Cilla’s spacious home, when she grudgingly let me in, shone from the ministrations and shopping habits of a house-proud woman.
She showed me into the living room, her lips tightly sealed. I saw Uncle Hal and Cousin Arnie framed in gleaming silver, pictures of all the family events no one invited me to—my cousin’s bar mitzvah, the wedding of a couple I’d never known. My cousin had kept his frail appearance. My aunt still had her mean spirit.
“Here,” she’d said. “It’s wrapped. Do you want to check it?”
“For what?” I’d asked, confused.
She’d shrugged. “I thought maybe you’d want to make sure I didn’t cheat you.”
Cheat me how? By passing off Corning Ware as onyx?
“That’s okay,” I’d answered.
“I assure you, I’m completely trustworthy.”
“Aren’t you curious how I am? How Lulu is? Your great-nieces?”
“Why? No one keeps in touch with me. The first time you call, it’s because you want something.” She’d folded her arms across her chest. “Did you ever think I might wonder how you were?”
“Why didn’t you . . .” I’d paused, trying to imagine what to say.
“I had no idea where you were. You disappeared, your sister and you.” She’d put a hand on top of the box. “I had to go digging in the attic for this. Who knew I still had it? I would have wrapped them all for you, but you only asked for one.”
“I’d like anything you have of my mother’s. I mean, anything you’re not using,” I’d added, seeing her clutch at the neck of her white blouse.
“The few things your mother left are all the memories I have.”
“We don’t have anything, Aunt Cilla. Just the few pictures Grandma Zelda had.”
“Zelda. Ptoi.” Aunt Cilla had made a spitting sound.
I’d pulled back as though she’d smacked me. “That’s my grandmother.”
“She raised a monster.”
Scabs had flown off my festering hate of Aunt Cilla. “She loved us. You abandoned us. Who’s the monster?”
The visit hadn’t gone very well.
The pregnant anchorwoman said good night, and I snapped off the television, grateful for another night without seeing a single one of my probationers starring on TV. By way of a lullaby, I scrunched my pillows into shape and previewed the upcoming day.
Tomorrow morning I’d meet with the newly formed Community for Peace group. Colin, my muscle-gone-fat, ideals-gone-political boss, the chief probation officer, had gotten into the habit of appointing me liaison to any groups he considered soft ones. His expression, the soft ones, always said in a scoffing tone. Colin deemed soft anything with the word strategy: strategies for peace, for less murder, for more jobs, for less police brutality, for more child care in court, what Colin called we-are-the-world groups. When only white people were around, he called them diversity groups, a sneer encasing his words.
I wrapped the comforter tighter and listed the next afternoon’s clients. Jesse Turner, near murderer. Shaundra Ellis, pickpocket. Victor Dennehy, coke dealer and batterer. Oliver Peterson, rapist. In order, they were depressed, easy, asshole, and suck-up scum. Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, and Sleazy.
After work, I had yet another blind date courtesy of Drew. Trying to get me married off seemed to be his hobby. The guy was a doctor who worked in the same place as Lulu but played handball with Drew, and I think was also in his poker group. He was a specialist with an o. Orthopedist? Ophthalmologist? Ornithologist?
The next morning I returned from the community meeting energized from being with people whose pants weren’t hanging off their asses and who didn’t have packs of Marlboros tucked in their T-shirt sleeves.
“How was the meeting?” Colin yelled from his office as I walked by.
I turned and went to his doorway. “Do you really care?”
He swung his squatty legs up on his desk. “Nah. Community for Peace.” He snorted. “Why not just call it what it is: White Liberals of Dorchester Loving the Sounds of Their Own Voices.” Colin laughed; he cracked himself up on a regular basis. His eyes were puffy, as though he never slept, or always drank.
“Surprise, Colin, it was mainly African-American women.”
He swatted a hand toward me. “Big deal. Same bullshit.”
“Right, the bullshit of women not wanting their sons shooting or being shot. I see your point.”
“Don’t give me that crap. What do these saints plan to do besides complain to us as though it’s our fault?” Colin tapped a pencil against his knee. “Maybe they’d do better giving their sons a swat on their asses.”
I sat in the guest chair across from Colin’s desk. “Don’t you get tired of being you?”
Colin smiled wide and generous. “Even Bill Cosby agrees with me.”
“Screw you, and screw Bill Cosby,” I said. “You love using him as a convenient place to hang your racism.”
>
“I’m a racist for thinking parents should control their kids?”
I lifted myself out of the chair, not bothering to answer his tired question. “The women want to meet once a month, and they need someplace safe. I told them they could meet here. Get me money for coffee and donuts.”
Probation world ran on coffee and donuts.
In my office, I dialed the phone as I crammed a brownie in my mouth. Early lunch.
“Was Lulu really mad at me?” I asked when I heard Drew’s voice.
“She was pissed, but it’s not terminal.”
“What’d she do with the box?”
I heard him taking his measured Nebraska breaths.
“Come on, I can take it. Did she slam it? Throw it? Hide it under the bed?”
“She took it to work.”
“Took it to work?” I tried to imagine this, my sister putting the box in her briefcase and carrying it to the car. Why? To hold her stethoscope?
“I think she just wanted it out of the house and didn’t know what else to do. You know Lulu, out of sight, et cetera. Got to go. I have a project I need to finish before the girls come home.”
“Wait,” I said. “Are you still mad at Lulu?”
“I guess maybe that’s none of your business. Do you want to know if I’m still mad at you?”
“What did I do?”
“Talked me into trying once more,” he said.
I picked up yesterday’s coffee, which looked okay enough to drink, and took a sip of the cold, bitter stuff. “It’s not like I held a gun to your head. It’s about your kids, right?”
“No. I think it’s about you two. You just keep convincing me otherwise. Let me know how the date goes. Act nice.”
“What kind of doctor is he? I forgot.”
His sigh was loud enough to cover the midwestern plains. “An ophthalmologist. I told you.”
“I forgot. Sue me.”
I hung up thinking I’d take the damn box back and put it right in the middle of my damn coffee table, forcing my sister to see it every damn time she came up the damn stairs. Then I’d give Drew and Lulu a trip to a therapist for their anniversary. A headache sprouted up, and I popped two Advil, washing them down with the dregs of yesterday’s coffee.
“Ms. Zach?” Jesse poked his head in the door, tapping the oversize gold watch on his scrawny wrist to indicate how on time he was. “Surprised?”
He dropped into the chair in front of my desk. At five nine, wiry thin with square black glasses and a child star grin, Jesse wasn’t a young man you pictured leaving someone beaten half to death. In this case, the victim had slept with Jesse’s girlfriend, and Jesse, smack in the middle of a vodka-aided rage, saw no way out other than obliterating the competition.
“Yo, aren’t you going to give me a big pat on the back?” His eyebrows went up in a gesture of huh, huh, ya love me, huh?
“Yo? Have I entered the realm of homeboy for you?” I asked. “Kudos on being on time.”
“Kudos?”
I picked up his folder, hmming and umming as I read a sheaf of pages. “Looks like you missed an entire week of AA.”
“My moms was sick.”
I frowned over the folder. “Your mother was sick last month.”
“So she’s sick again.”
I picked up the report from his anger management counselor.
“How come you’re not participating in classes?” I asked. “Your reports from DanGerUs No More”—God, I hated that name—“look not so good.”
“Aw, they don’t know nothing.”
“Little participation. Late. Seems uninvested,” I read. “What’s up?”
“I’m supposed to be invested in some assholes making us act out skits? Damn, Ms. Zach, how can I talk to a bunch of white guys pretending to be my boys?”
“It’s called role-playing. It’s meant to help you learn how to gain control over situations.”
“I know that. You think I don’t? Anyway, I have control over the situation, oh, yes I do.” Jesse placed his hand on his hip as though to signify a gun.
“What? Are you trying to intimidate me, Jesse?” I put the folder down and laid my hands flat on the desk. “We’ve put in a lot of time. If you want to throw it all out, just say the word.”
Jesse leaned back and stuck his legs out, pouting now like Ruby or Cassandra. “I hate them. They’re always making us talk stupid shit.”
“What kind of stupid stuff?”
“Our mothers. Our fathers. Come at me correct. You think those people know what the hell they’re doing?”
“Hell?” I asked.
“You think they know what the heck they’re doing?”
He took a pen off my desk and clicked it on and off. I grabbed it from him. “Jesse, you’re ordered to the program—what I do or don’t think about them doesn’t mean anything. What matters is the judge seeing you do what you’re supposed to do. What matters is staying sober. What matters most of all is getting your GED. None of which I see happening, do I?”
Jesse scuffed his untied sneakers on the floor.
“Tie your sneakers. When you come here, you look respectful. New probation rule—sneakers tied at all time. I see you walking anywhere around here with untied sneakers, you’re going in front of Judge Jackson.”
I breathed out my frustration while waiting for my next client. Frigging jerky kid, smart, funny, talented. His written work, the homework DanGerUs No More had sent, showed brilliant raw writing. He could go to college after he finished his GED, and then God knows what.
Most of all, I’d like to thank my probation officer, Ms. Zachariah. Without her, I’d be rotting in jail. This Oscar for best screenplay is as much for her as it is for me.
Finally home, getting ready for my date, I outlined my eyes with thick blue liner. Maybe it wasn’t the most subtle choice, but I felt hot seeing cobalt rimming my dark eyes. I loved looking in the mirror. I could kiss myself when I looked this good.
Women aren’t supposed to do that. We’re supposed to be all oh, I’m too fat and no, really, look, my eyes are much too close together, but my looks were my only reliable source of comfort. I worried I’d already held on to them way past their sell-by date, worrying at my skin, my hair, my profile, poking at them like a kid with a half-shredded teddy bear. I’d end up one of those raddled old women walking around with licorice-colored hair and strawberry blush caked in my wrinkled cheeks.
The bell rang. The ophthalmologist. I picked up the glass of wine I’d balanced on the bathroom sink and finished the last sip. I shrugged a silky tank top over my head, carefully checked the neckline, and then pulled on my jeans. I turned sideways, looking to see if I could still get away without a bra.
Screw it. Why not let the ophthalmologist get a good look?
Between my house and the restaurant he’d chosen, I learned that Michael Epstein, Eye Doc, had an American flag plastered on the bumper of his car, wore what appeared to be a ten-thousand-dollar suit, and probably believed invading anywhere would be justified in the name of protecting America and providing oil for his gas-guzzling Mercedes. Maybe he spoke to Drew’s latent red-state values.
“After you,” he said, holding the door open.
I gave a closemouthed smile, and he led me by the arm into the restaurant. A steak house; it seemed Michael was a Capital Grille man, Chestnut Hill branch—not even Newbury Street. God forbid you didn’t eat your steak in a suburb. If I ever wrote The Dating Habits of American Men, I’d warn women that men who brought you to opulent steak houses on the first date had small penises, voted Republican, or both.
I enjoyed looking across the table and seeing Michael, however. Sometimes I craved a compact, tight body like his, although, being really a male version of mine, it made me slightly suspicious of myself when it turned me on. I preferred to think I liked that it was the opposite of Quinn’s type. Opposite was a good thing; it would keep me from thinking about him. God willing, I’d be less likely to allow him those periodic v
isits, which began with exhilaration and ended with depression. Our last date, less a date than a double screw, had been months ago.
“So,” Michael said, after the waiter had taken our order, “tell me about Merry Zachariah.”
“Quick overview? I like walks on the beach, running with the wolves, and singing soprano at church suppers.”
“That’s funny, since your sister is Jewish.” He looked me straight in the eye, and I noticed his were a kind brown. “Decided against me already?”
“Sorry.” I lifted my shoulders in what I hoped was a cute gesture. I didn’t want him going back and telling Drew and Lulu I’d been a bitch. I could hear my sister now. You don’t even try. “My work makes me too sure of myself.”
“Are you ever wrong?”
“Ask if I’m ever right.” The waiter interrupted with our drinks, a martini for the doctor and wine for me. “Thanks.” I picked up the glass and twirled the delicate stem, watching the burgundy liquid slosh. Then I saw my bitten-to-the-nub fingernails contrasted against the sparkling crystal and folded my fingers inward.
“The wine has nice legs.” Michael nodded at my glass with a chuckle, though I didn’t get the joke.
“Wine legs are funny?”
He took a sip of his martini and let out a long sigh of appreciation. “Ah. Perfect. So dry you could fold it.”
I knew he thought the line clever and had used it before. A dating line. I had my own.
“Legs,” he said. “The supposed mythical indicator of wine quality. You can tell someone is a wannabe when they try to evaluate wine that way, but it’s just physics, the wine’s surface tension and alcohol content. It’s called the Marangoni effect, the fact that alcohol evaporates faster than water, but it’s not about quality because . . .”
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 20