Our taxi stopped in front of the Waldorf Astoria. I waited as Michael paid the driver, taking note that he gave a decent tip. At least I didn’t have to make cheapness a point against him, along with what now seemed like an ever more Republican attitude. A blue-suited doorman opened the taxi and offered his gloved hand as though I were minor royalty.
I refrained from gasping as we entered the vast lobby. Overwhelmed by the marble, the brass fittings, the frigging shininess of everything, especially measured against my Valerie-borrowed shoes and discount clothes, I snorted instead. “Couldn’t feed too many orphans with the money spent here, could you?”
Michael put an arm around my shoulders. “If it makes you feel better, we can eat in the Bowery. Maybe bring a few bums back to share the room.”
I smiled. “When in Rome.”
“Am I Rome, or is Rome the hotel?” He guided me toward the check-in desk.
Michael seemed smarter than I’d originally judged, which made me uncomfortable. Before I could think of a clever quip, we were in front of the desk clerk. Her makeup was more artful than mine would be on the fanciest of occasions.
“Doctor Epstein, welcome.” She nodded at him; again, with the Waldorf the royalty treatment. “Room 445 is ready.”
Captured light sparkled in the chandeliers.
Watered silk lined the hallway.
Carved plaster ceilings boasted angels and cherubs.
Then I saw the room! Oh, the room. A bed bigger than my living room. More pillows, softer pillows, than I’d ever had—pillows for a princess’s head. The armoire—etched with what, gold?—curved out generously, waiting for any amount of clothes I could offer.
After the bellhop left with Michael’s money tucked into his hand, Michael gave me an old-school movie scene hug. I expected a director to yell “Cut” at any time.
“What first? Drinks? Food? Shopping?” he asked, murmuring in my ear, nuzzling me.
“Yes, yes, and yes, but first, drinks. Definitely drinks.” I didn’t care if it was afternoon. Despite the opulent surroundings, I was in prison town. Blurring the edges was first on my list.
We got back from the bar with reality nicely hazy. I stepped into the shower, already in love with the creamy tiles, dulled silver appointments, the thick terry robe waiting for me. In love with the fancy-pants toiletries, as Grandma Zelda would have said. In a bathroom like this, you could wash away your entire life.
Michael stepped in behind me as I lifted my face to the steaming spray. “Mind?”
I leaned back, feeling his chest hair tickle my back. “Don’t mind.”
“Wash your hair?”
“Please. And thank you.”
I closed my eyes and felt him rub in shampoo. The sweet scent of almonds surrounded us. His fingers dug hard.
“Am I ruining your hair?” he asked. “Is this too rough?”
“It recovers. Rough away.”
Ghosts called as I stepped on the Staten Island Ferry the next afternoon. I hadn’t been on the boat for years, but without a car, ferries and cabs were my only option. Michael had a morning of conference business. I’d told him I’d be shopping for presents for Lulu’s girls, which brought back memories of lying to school friends about the Saturdays when Doctor Cohen took me to see Daddy.
When I sighted the Statue of Liberty, a sharp ache for Grandma twisted through me. Looking at the hole where the World Trade Center had been, I tapped my chest so many times I feared my fellow passengers would think I was suffering a coronary. Things drop away, and you wonder if they ever existed.
When the cab dropped me in front of Richmond’s barbed-wire fence, I already felt drained. Officer McNulty had retired, and I found myself missing him far more than the daughter of a prisoner should miss a guard. Susannah and Coriander were long gone, and fat Annette didn’t visit Pete anymore. My father said Annette lost a hundred pounds. A hundred pounds, can you believe it? That’s like losing you! After the weight loss, Annette divorced Pete. Now Pete had a new wife he’d found online, also fat.
As usual, the sour smell of too many anxious bodies filled the visiting room. My father sat at our table, the old wood a little more nicked with each passing visit, notches marking time. His hair had turned salt-and-pepper gray, but, he’d kept his jailhouse muscles.
He stood. His smile broadened as I got closer.
“Look at you, Sugar Pop! A million bucks. No, wait, I got to adjust for inflation, right? A billion bucks—that’s how gorgeous you look.”
He said some form of this every time, but I still grinned, always starving for the words.
“So, how’s tricks?”
“Good, good. Guess what. I came to New York with a date.” I raised my eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. “A doctor, no less.”
“Your sister’s here?” My father straightened on the bench. “Where is she?”
Oh, sweet Jesus, I could slit my throat. “No. No. Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to get you excited. I really meant a date. He’s an ophthalmologist. An eye doctor. Hey, you’d like that, right?”
He slapped a hand against his forehead. “What’s wrong with me? Of course, if she were here, she’d have come in with you.”
“Sorry, Dad.” I watched him shake off his disappointment. “Anyway, an eye doctor. Not bad, huh?”
“How long you two been together?”
“A few months.” I stretched the relationship to make it sound better.
“And you never told me?”
“I wanted to make sure he’d stick.”
“And?”
I put out my hands to indicate who knows? “Maybe. What do you think?” “You know what I think. No one is good enough for my little girl.”
My father laced his fingers. “But I worry about some guy who takes you to shack up in Manhattan. What does he want from you? I know how guys are, and they don’t buy the cow if you give the milk away. At the end of the day, a guy likes an old-fashioned girl. Otherwise, it’s just a good time to them.”
I sat on my hands to keep them from crawling up my chest.
“Did you bring pictures?” My father rubbed his hands in anticipation.
I reached into my pocket and brought out pictures from Ruby and Cassandra’s first day of school. They wore brand-new Gap outfits and held hands, grinning, as they stood against the living room window.
My father smiled down at the photos. “Jeez, such gorgeous girls. The little one looks like your mother. Like you. And you have new pictures of Lulu?”
I handed over a shot of Lulu and Drew taken when they’d grilled hamburgers on Labor Day.
He shook his head, smiling at the image.
“Lulu doesn’t want you to write any more letters to her. The girls are getting older,” I said in a burst of words.
Years ago, I’d confessed to my father about our deceptions, how we’d killed him off. Since then he and I referred to the deceit in the same sideways manner my family did everything.
“Just what are you girls planning to do when I get out of here?” he asked. “Hide me?”
When he got out.
“Your sentence isn’t over for eight years. We’ll worry about it then,” I said.
“Here’s the good news. I’ve been saving it. My lawyer thinks I have a shot at the next parole hearing.”
How many times had I heard those words? “Right, Dad.”
“You just may be surprised, missy.”
Lulu swore that my relationship with our father had hardened like glue at age five and a half, when he went to jail, with no growth since. I told Lulu one rotation in psychiatry did not a psychiatrist make, but still, her observation popped into my head on a regular basis. Too bad that it made no impact on my behavior.
“I know, I know, you think I’m the boy who cries wolf,” he said. “But this might be my chance. All my good time, it’s adding up. I’ve been the model prisoner, Tootsie.”
I shivered as though the devil had walked over my grave. My father’s dream of getting out w
as our nightmare. “The hearing is in December, right? How soon could you be out?”
My father grinned huge, as though he’d never stabbed me, never killed Mama. “If they vote yes, and the vote could happen soon, I might be out by spring.”
I wouldn’t worry. Lulu said he’d never get out on parole.
“So, tell me more about this doctor,” my father said. “Any chance I’ll finally get a grandchild from you?”
“Michael got a suite at the Waldorf Astoria for us. He has a medical conference. Yesterday, we went to Saks.” I ran my hands along my whisper-thin cashmere sweater. “You like?”
“You always looked good in red.” He studied me without his usual admiring smile. “So, he took you shopping. Who does he think you are? He’s treating you like a high-priced hooker. You’re not some tramp. What kind of jerk is this guy?”
I opened the hotel room door. Michael lay on the bed with an arm behind his head, his shoes off, and a baseball game playing on the flat-screen television built into the armoire.
“Where were you?” he asked. “You had me worried.”
“Sorry.” I sat on a tufted silk chair and kicked my expensive new shoes across the room. The chair drove me crazy, uncomfortable and so tiny I didn’t know whose ass would actually fit on it.
“You okay?” he asked, lifting his head.
I shrugged. “Just tired.”
He pointed the remote at the television, clicked the set off, and came to me. “Poor baby, schlepping through New York City alone all day. Did you take cabs as I told you?”
For which he had given me money. Was he trying to remind me? I stiffened as he placed his thumbs on the knots in my neck and dug in deep. Was he waiting for his payoff?
“You’re so tense. Where did you go?” He looked around the room. “No packages? Are they bringing them up from downstairs?” He reached for his wallet, as though getting ready for another New York tip job.
“Stop quizzing me.” I shrugged him away, shaking off the hand he still had on my neck. “No presents, no packages, no nothing, okay?”
“Whoa! Calm down. I was just curious where you went. Did you go to a museum? The Met has a Renoir exhibit. I meant to tell you.”
He looked so goddamned educated and serious, so clean and ironed. I wanted to drink beer and blast music until he screamed.
“Yeah, Michael. I went on a museum tour. Then I went for a ride on the Staten Island Ferry.” I flopped down on the bed.
His face fell. “I’d planned the ferry for tomorrow morning. Oh, well. We’ll just have to stay in bed a little longer.”
He joined me on the bed, tracing the lines of my body, reaching to unbutton my jacket. “Want a massage?”
A massage, code for “Let’s screw.” Merry, Merry, source of his instant pleasure, right? I pushed his arms off and jumped up. “Would you please stop pawing at me? Jesus, this trip was a mistake.”
He pulled away, his face blank, and turned the game back on. “Tell me when you’re hungry. We can get room service.” He paused and stared at me with an unreadable expression. “Or go out. Or, if you want, if you’re afraid I’ll keep pawing at you, we can just eat separately.”
I crossed my arms. “Whatever.”
23
Lulu
Drew walked into the bedroom, his face concerned and needy. Get in line, I thought. “Lulu, we need to talk.”
I motioned him away and covered my nonphone ear with my hand.
“This is important,” he insisted.
I finished talking to Sophie, hung up, and swung my legs out from under the sleep-warm comforter. “It’s like you’re one of the kids when you interrupt me that way.”
“Did I disturb some holy doctor conversation?”
“Don’t be sarcastic. Sophie just gave me bad news. I need to go in earlier than I thought.” Drew’s attitude should have warned me of looming trouble, but my preoccupation with the test results Sophie had just given me had put my patient front and center. The tests revealed awful news for Audra Connelly, and she was one of my favorites.
Poor Audra; first her eczema had turned out to be Paget’s disease. Then she’d found she had underlying breast cancer, like most Paget’s patients developed. Now the cancer had spread to her lymph nodes. Sophie said Audra wanted, needed to talk to me. Audra trusted Doctor Denton medically, but he overwhelmed her. Doctors such as Denton, caught in their statistics and tests, weren’t capable of managing an older woman’s emotional concerns and needs.
I pulled underwear from my drawer and forced my still-wet hair into a bun.
“Lulu, wait.” Drew grabbed me, taking me from my neatly arranged rows of beige and black bras.
“I have to go.” I tried to pull away, and he spun me around.
“Stop and listen, Lulu,” he barked. I clenched my shoulders and iced up. Drew knew how I hated displays of anger. One of the traits I loved was his unusually long fuse. “We need to meet with Cassandra’s teacher.”
“What’s wrong?” I held my underwear to my chest.
“She’s going through another fear stage. I know, I know that’s common at her age. The teacher agreed, of course, but apparently, she’s free-falling. I would have told you last night, but you were asleep before I came in.”
“I was exhausted.” I dug my fingers into my upper arms, making little Cs with my short nails. “What’s wrong, what’s Cassandra doing?”
“Telling kids stories about how they might be adopted and not know it, or how they should watch out for kidnappers. That someone might be following them.” Drew took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “One mother finally called the school because Cassandra was talking so much about kidnappers murdering children.”
“Oh, God.” I sank down on the bed. “Do you think my sister said something to the girls? She’s been acting crazy since she came back from New York.”
“This isn’t about Merry.” Drew fell beside me. “I think kids pick stuff up by osmosis.”
Osmosis. I thought how Mama forgot to buy us food, leaving our nutrition to Harry’s Coffee Shop or to freezer-burned chicken potpies. By eight, I was throwing them in the oven. I knew Mama had been unhappy with us, with Dad, with our life. She didn’t have to say anything. The potpies spoke for her.
However, we had a good life here.
Drew and I sat stupidly for a moment, staring at our honeymoon photos of milky icebergs floating in white-blue lagoons.
“I bet Merry told her something,” I said. “I just bet. I’ll kill her.”
“This isn’t about Merry,” Drew repeated. “She’d never do that. Not without your permission.”
I laughed. “My permission? Merry thinks everything is community property. I’m surprised she hasn’t taken you as her husband. Made us into Mormons.”
“Christ, Lulu, she loves the girls,” Drew insisted, ignoring my jab. “Why the hell would she do that?” He picked up the shirt and pants he’d thrown on the chair the previous night, after coming home sweaty and exhausted from playing handball with Michael.
“That doesn’t mean she’s smart in how she shows her love.” I headed toward the bathroom.
“This isn’t about Merry and you.” Drew threw down his belt when I said nothing. “Oh, wait. What am I saying? Of course it’s about you and Merry. It’s about your whole damn family.”
“Maybe it’s Cassandra’s drama classes. She never stops acting,” I said. “I have to get to work. We’ll talk about this later.”
“Do you even listen?” Drew asked. “You can’t just ignore the problem and leave.”
“I’m not ignoring anything. Make an appointment with the teacher. I’ll be there. Leave me a message.”
“It’s not just about the teacher meeting. It’s about everything.”
When I didn’t respond, Drew looked like he was counting to ten. I recognized the signs. He touched my shoulder. “It’s time they knew.”
I moved away. “Dead topic. You knew that from the minute we met.”
“You heard what your sister said when she got back from New York. They might release your father. It could be as soon as this spring.”
“My father’s been saying that crap forever. He’s not going anywhere.”
“And if he does?” Drew followed me into the bathroom. “What then, Lulu?”
“Then nothing. He’s still dead to us.”
“He’s not dead to Merry.”
“Fine.” I reached over and turned on the shower. “She can have him.”
Drew stepped in front of me as I tried to push back the shower curtain. “What about the girls? You can’t ignore that he’s their grandfather.”
I pushed past him and got into the tub. “Their grandfather is as gone as my father.” I turned the showerhead to pulsate. “He died along with my mother. Drop it.”
Drew pulled the shower curtain aside. “You can’t wish someone dead. You have to deal with this.” Water soaked into the sleeve of his cotton sweater.
“No. I don’t.” I felt as though I were on the top of a roller coaster about to drop. “If you can’t accept it, then maybe you have to leave.”
“You’d choose me leaving over dealing with your father? Is that what you’re saying?”
God, what had I said? I’d die if Drew ever left me. I stepped out of the shower. “Don’t ever leave. Promise. I’m sorry. I just can’t do it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” I grabbed him. “Please, Drew. Don’t go away.”
“It’s okay, Lu. Shh. It’s okay.” Drew threw a towel around my shoulders. “I’d never leave.”
“I bring so much trouble.”
“It’s all part of being a family. Calm down. Cassandra will be all right; I’ll talk to her teacher. I’ll make the appointment.”
Audra looked pale and too thin. Five pounds less than she’d appeared three weeks before, when she’d already been a wraith. I took her hand and gently squeezed. “How are you?”
“Not so good.”
“I can imagine.”
She shrank into herself. “I know it’s growing and things look bad. I want your help in making decisions.”
The Murderer’s Daughters Page 22