The Murderer’s Daughters

by Randy Susan Meyers

Because I don’t give a fuck.

  “I’m going on and on, right?”

  I lifted my eyebrows.

  He reached across the table and put a hand on my wrist. “Drew didn’t tell me how lovely you are. You and Lulu don’t even look like sisters. Not that your sister isn’t attractive, it’s just, well, you’re so, you’re sure both parents are the same, right? Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”

  He got a stricken look on his face, telling me Drew had told him the sad story of our car-wrecked parents. Poor little orphans. Men hardened just thinking about how they could rescue us.

  “My sister is beautiful.”

  “Oh, she is, she is.”

  Liar, you don’t think that at all.

  “It’s just that you’re so, um, well, you’re a knockout. Lulu’s more PTA pretty.”

  I shook my head. Why did men think they’d impress me by making me a winner of some competition they’d just announced? “Tell me about you,” I said.

  I woke with the Eye Doc’s scent on my skin, a sweetened musk. I turned to the right to see the clock. Three A.M. He snored softly, lying on his back with his arms open to the world. Apparently, he didn’t need to curl up in a fetal ball to sleep.

  I put a soft finger on his shoulder. No response. I pressed in and wiggled back and forth.

  “Mmm?” he mumbled.

  “Michael?”

  “Mmm?”

  “Time to go.”

  He turned his head and looked at me, blinking, maybe trying to discover in whose bed he slept. Ah, yes, Drew Winterson’s easy sister-in-law. The one he’s probably trying to pawn off so she’ll move out. Right. “You want me to leave?”

  “Sort of.”

  “Are you kidding?”

  Sure, I woke you up in the middle of the night to tell you to leave as a joke. “I can’t sleep with someone I don’t know.”

  “But you can have sex with him?” He rolled onto his side, leaning his head in his left hand. He ran a finger down my bare arm and lifted the camisole strap, which had slipped off my shoulder. “I like you.”

  “You don’t even know me.” I sat up, tucking the sheet under my arms.

  He reached out and touched the top of my scar, peeking out from my lacy top. I pulled away.

  “How’d you get the mark?”

  How many ways could you get a scar circling halfway around your breast? A scar that looked like someone had tried to lop your breast off.

  “Knife fight as a kid.”

  “No kidding? Poor baby.”

  “The residential home we stayed in was pretty rough.” Listen, Lulu had said when she invented this story for me, it could have happened. Think of what did happen to us in Duffy-Parkman. Yes, I could easily have gotten into a knife fight at Duffy.

  “Why were you in a residential home?”

  How much had Drew told him? Men didn’t trade secrets between handball volleys. Especially silent Drew. Lulu? Probably not much. They were just co-workers. Doctors. They didn’t share life stories between giving Pap smears and checking for macular degeneration.

  “After our grandmother died, no one was left to care for us.” I had it down to one cold, juiceless sentence.

  “Wow. That must have been awful.” He ran a hand over my hip, drawn hot and ready to my tragedy. If Lulu ever let me give out the real story, I’d have men lined up for blocks.

  “It wasn’t so bad. We only lived at Duffy a few years before we got foster parents. Our foster father was a doctor.”

  “Wow. That was lucky.”

  “Right. We were lucky.”

  He tugged at my hip, trying to draw me to him. “Come here. Let me make you feel lucky again.”

  Despite my misgivings, I followed his command. Once more, then I’d send him home. Michael was one of those great Republican lovers who try to rock you as though they were cowboys.

  No big deal, I told myself. I’d let him make me feel lucky.

  22

  Merry

  September 2002

  I woke up needing a strong cup of morning coffee but lacking the energy to make it. Valerie and I had closed the Parish Lounge the previous night, though I commended myself for rotating a plain Coke for each one spiked with Jim Beam. Bonus points for not bringing home the too handsome, too young, too interested man.

  I walked around the corner from my apartment entrance to Lulu’s, scuffing fallen maple leaves with my slippers and trying to taste autumn’s promise of change. I needed it.

  During the summer, when I’d had five or six dates with Michael Epstein, I’d hoped the Eye Doc might be my passage into a changed life. By Labor Day, I’d pushed him away almost as fast as I’d welcomed him to my bed. Eye Doc didn’t turn out to be the type of man with whom I could carry off the split personality required by my orphan story. He turned out to be too earnest, not someone I liked lying to. Nor did he have whatever magical quality Lulu said I would recognize, something letting me know in an instant that I’d be safe sharing secrets.

  Sometimes it seemed Drew might be the only man alive deserving of that honor, and Lulu had him.

  “Mommy’s still asleep,” Ruby announced as I walked into the kitchen.

  “Did Daddy make coffee?” I bent to kiss her.

  “You smell,” Ruby said. “Didn’t you take a shower?”

  “Not yet,” I said. “Why don’t you pour me a cup of coffee, Miss Bad Manners?”

  “You know I’m not allowed to touch hot stuff,” Ruby said. “You’re testing me. Right?”

  “Right.” Lulu and Drew made rules, and I tested them. I grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

  Drew walked in toweling his hair. “Out of coffee at your house?”

  “Forgot to shop.”

  He handed me a sweating silver pitcher from the refrigerator. I added the heavy cream Drew from Nebraska loved, watching the rich swirls lighten the black, steaming liquid in a way my skim milk never did.

  “It’s a new blend,” Drew said. “How do you like it?”

  Drew had a coffee obsession. I took a small sip, then another. “Great. Perfect.” If I married, my husband would probably have a horrible obsession bringing only shame to both of us, porn or cheese fries.

  Drew shook his head. “You’re a terrible judge. You like everything.”

  “Then why ask me?”

  “Well, not everything. Michael still asks about you.”

  “Give it a rest, Drew.”

  He handed me a saucer for my cup. “He’s a good man, Merry.”

  I plopped down at the table. “Ruby, bring me a bowl, okay?”

  Ruby looked up from the book splayed open in front of her. “I’m reading.”

  “And I need help from my niece because I’m so tired that I have to finish my coffee before I can find the strength to pour my Cheerios. Now be a good girl and get me a bowl.”

  Ruby made some disparaging sound to show what she thought of me, but she got up. “You know, Aunt Merry, I’m sleeping over my friend Jessica’s house on Saturday. Her father is taking us to swim lessons. I won’t be here to wait on you.” She dragged a little white step stool to the counter and reached for a bowl. She was small for her age, as I had been.

  “Good for you.” I yawned and leaned my head back.

  “You’re awfully tired,” Drew said.

  “I read until one in the morning.”

  “Must have been pretty interesting, that book.” Apparently, he had heard me come in last night.

  “Thanks, hon.” I took the bowl from Ruby. “It was,” I answered Drew. I finished the coffee and held my cup out for more, my hand shaky.

  Drew poured me a refill. “I worry how often you read late.”

  I spooned up a small portion of cereal and milk, trying not to show my distaste. My stomach measured right at that delicate balance between throwing up and a manageable nausea. Food sometimes held the worst at bay—I prayed this was one of those times.

  “Morning.” Lulu walked in, yawning and holding The Boston Globe still rolled up
and bound by a red rubber band. “Here’s a surprise, I can’t wake Cassandra up.” She took the mug Drew held out. “Get dressed for school, Ruby.”

  Ruby squeezed Lulu around the waist. “Cassandra didn’t even hug you yet, right?”

  “Come on, you, let’s get dressed.” Drew swung Ruby on his shoulders and gave me a significant look before he left the room. What was he trying to convey? What a significant slut I was? Sorry we can’t all be as pure as Lulu.

  Lulu shook her head. “If Cassandra ends up needing medicine for acne, Ruby will complain, It’s not fair, why can’t I have pimples? Then Cassandra will say, I had them first. She shouldn’t get any.”

  I felt an overwhelming surge of love for my sister, sitting with her feet up on the chair, sloppy-cute in an old white T-shirt and boxer shorts. Her hair fell over her forehead in a manner I missed when she tied it back. Without lipstick, Lulu looked younger than usual, and she always looked young. She complained that, without makeup, she looked anemic, but I thought she looked wholesome and endearing.

  “We never did that, did we?” I said.

  “Did what?”

  “Complained over who got what constantly.” I ate another spoonful of cereal.

  “Who would we complain to? What would we ever fight over? Our three books?”

  I heard the stop sign in Lulu’s voice, but caffeine and food had lifted away my headache and nausea, and the sheer absence of pain gave me an unnatural feeling of well-being. I wanted to milk a moment of sentiment and share some sisterly bonhomie.

  “True, but still, we didn’t,” I insisted. “We didn’t fight over stuff. We always looked out for each other.”

  Lulu took her legs off the chair. “I’m happy when Ruby and Cassandra act feisty. I worship their being brats. We didn’t get five spoiled minutes our entire childhood.”

  “Maybe we did before everything happened. Isn’t that possible?”

  Lulu carried Ruby’s cereal bowl to the sink. “Could we not have a breakfast trip down memory lane?” Her back was to me.

  I put my elbows on the table and held my face in my hands. “Don’t you think we must have had a few good times? Before? Dad says we had some decent stuff. Do you think he makes it all up?”

  Lulu whirled around. “Quit it, okay? We had no good times. Everything about our childhood is depressing. Every single effing thing.”

  “Including me?” I felt the tug of tears and pinched my arm hard.

  “Yes. Including you, when you’re like this.”

  By the time I got to work, I’d put the conversation in perspective and tucked away my hurt feelings. Lulu hated waking up. Morning was the absolute stupidest time to try to talk to her. Anyway, my sister could read the signs of a hangover, and the knowledge made her mean. Lulu probably knew exactly how many drinks I’d had, how close I’d come to sleeping with the inappropriate guy, and even how many tablespoons of Pepto-Bismol I’d swallowed since breakfast.

  I threw my bag on my desk, thankful for having avoided Colin on the way in. He also seemed to sense when I was feeling lousy, then how to dig in and torture me.

  Running through my phone messages, I heard the usual crap from one whining client after another, telling me why they weren’t showing up: Grandmother dead. Uncle dead. Cousin in coma. Car ran over sister. Uncle murdered brother. Over the years, my clients had killed off half the population of Boston to avoid coming to our probation meetings. I thumbed through my schedule as I listened, highlighter in hand.

  “You okay?”

  I looked up. A bleary-eyed Valerie stood in the doorway. “Tell me, did we get especially trashed last night, or are we getting too old to drink?” she asked.

  Valerie hadn’t bothered straightening her hair this morning, just pinned her curls into a halfhearted bun. I envied her ability to flip back and forth between ordinary and beautiful. If she woke up tired, she didn’t give a shit. She only painted and sprayed herself on days she felt ambitious. “You got a problem with me, it’s your problem” was Valerie’s motto.

  What was my motto? It wasn’t “In vino veritas,” because I drank with Valerie at least twice a week, and still, as close to the truth as I ever came was my fake confession to her that I had an uncle in a New York jail. My motto had become “Prevaricate for peace.”

  I held up a finger, telling Valerie to wait a moment, and backed up to hear the last phone message again.

  Michael Epstein calling. Again. Are you willing to give us another chance? Assuming yes, I’d like to invite you to join me in New York City, where I have a conference to attend. We’ll stay at the Waldorf. How about it? Ready to see how the other half lives? Call me. I’ll buy you a fancy New York outfit. Just kidding. Well, not really. I’d love to be the one to spoil you. Again, call me.

  I replayed the message on speaker for Valerie.

  “Should I be insulted?” I asked. “Do you think Drew put him up to it?”

  “Maybe. After seeing you this morning, I bet he made a 911 call to Eye Doc. ‘Take my sister-in-law and I’ll pay you!’ But you should go anyway.”

  I drew a highlighted line through the last canceling client. “Why?”

  “You never gave him enough of a chance. That scuzzy kid you almost took home last night wouldn’t be taking you to the Waldorf.” Valerie reached over and picked up my coffee cup, taking a long slurp.

  “Scuzzy? He was gorgeous.” I grabbed the cup from Valerie. “Look, you put lipstick all over it.”

  “It’s lipstick, not liquid herpes. Gorgeous face, scuzzy soul. Anyway, gorgeous gets you nothing. He was an overage student hanging out in a cheap bar.”

  “We were two overage women hanging out in a cheap bar. What does that make us?”

  “Gruesomely desperate. The doctor was great in bed, right?” Valerie swung her legs up and placed her scuffed loafers on my desk.

  “Jack the Ripper was probably good in bed,” I said. “The worst men always are.”

  “Plenty of crappy men make crappy lovers. Trust me, I know better than you.”

  “You think so?” I shuffled the papers on my desk, moving the must-do pile closer to the phone.

  “You want a match-off for who screwed the greatest number of crappy men?”

  My headache knocked. I rested my forehead on the cool metal desktop. “No. I don’t want that written in my permanent record as the only contest I ever won.”

  Thirty minutes later, Valerie’s stinging honesty echoing, I left a message for Michael accepting his offer. Then I took enough Advil to face Victor Dennehy. He strutted in as though he expected me to lie down, spread my legs, and moan. His pants hung down so low, I glimpsed his pale white lower back.

  “Hey, Mizzz Zachariah. I’m on time, huh?”

  Another one for whom being on time was the zenith of success. Victor gave me a self-satisfied smile, slumped in the chair across from my desk, and splayed his legs.

  “Sit up straight, Victor.”

  “You my probation officer or my manners teacher?”

  “As far as you’re concerned, both. You go for a job interview and sit like that, no one’s hiring you.”

  “No one’s hiring a guy with a record anyway.”

  “Not if he acts like you, he won’t.”

  Victor glared at me, but sat up nevertheless, closing his legs on his prized package. I opened his thick file and looked through the reports. “Looks like you’re still giving them attitude at the batterer program. Plus, you owe them money.”

  “That’s all they care about. Money, money, money. Like it’s their religion or something.” He took a letter opener from my desk, tapping it against the edge. “They should do it for free.”

  I leaned over and took the letter opener from him. My clients were like six-year-olds, the way they grabbed things off my desk. “Would you work with you for free?”

  Same questions, same complaints. Every week I felt more poisoned. By the time Jesse, my last client of the morning, came into my office, I was ready to give him a hard time
simply because I was hungry and tired.

  “You okay, Ms. Zachariah?” Jesse asked as he walked in. “You don’t look so good.”

  I gave a little huff of a laugh. “Thanks a million.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  Tears stung my eyes. I hated that. I hated when any bit of niceness made my body react as though I’d received a million dollars. “I’m fine.” I sat up straight. “Just allergic.”

  “To us?” Jesse swept his hand in a large arc to encompass all the lost men wandering through the halls of justice.

  “Pollen.”

  “No can be,” he said. “Pollen is a summer allergy; the fall is ragweed.”

  “Fine,” I said, picking up his file. “Ragweed then.”

  “You’re not in such a good mood, huh?” He cocked his head to the side. “I’ll bring a smile to your face.”

  “How?”

  He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Look at this.” He handed it to me.

  I opened and read it. “You passed! You got your GED.”

  He smiled big. “Yeah. You were right. It wasn’t so hard. I knew more than I thought.” He rolled back his shoulders, grabbing back his cool after letting it slip for a second.

  “And?”

  “And?” he mimicked. “Yeah. I registered for some classes. And not at Roxbury Community College—I know I have to stay away from what’s his name.”

  I didn’t appreciate Jesse calling the man he’d almost murdered what’s his name, but I’d pick my battles.

  Michael was excited about whisking me away. He didn’t know I’d traveled to New York City about a million times since leaving the Cohens’, visiting my father at least once a month.

  Flying to New York City turned out to be more trouble than renting a car and driving, the way I usually did. Flying now meant you were guilty until proven not quite so guilty. Security agents at Logan Airport were cautious, even suspicious. Did my clients face this every day? If they treated Michael and me as potential terrorists, my tough-looking clients must have had to crawl to planes on their bellies, hands clasped behind their backs.

  “Safety before courtesy these days,” Michael said complacently when I complained.