The Murderer's Daughters Part 32

"Is our grandfather in jail forever?" Ca.s.sandra asked.

Drew snapped off the TV. Ruby's thumb sucking echoed in the silence. "No," he said. "Your grandfather won't be in jail forever."

Ca.s.sandra opened her mouth, then closed it, as though not sure what to say. She changed her position from leaning on me to leaning against the sofa arm.

"Why didn't you tell us about him?"

I rested my head against the couch, scratching tiny hearts on Ruby's back. "I wanted to protect you." It was the truest answer I knew.

"From what?" Ca.s.sandra asked. "From him?"

"No. Not from him. He's in jail."

"Then what?" Ca.s.sandra moved to the wooden rocker.

"I didn't want you to know you had such a bad man for a grandfather."

"Is he?" Ruby asked. "Is he a bad man?"

"Of course he is." Ca.s.sandra's huff made her sound awful and old. She sounded like Aunt Cilla had sounded so long ago. "He killed Mommy's mother."

"But didn't you ever miss him, Mommy? Don't you ever want to see him?" Ruby looked at Drew and then sat up so she could stare right into my eyes. "Maybe he wanted to say he was sorry."

Sorry doesn't bring back the dead, Ruby my love. I held the words on my tongue, and then swallowed them down.

I came back from putting the girls to sleep in our bed. Drew and I'd spent an hour upstairs with them, and then he'd stayed after they fell asleep. We'd take turns with them until we all went to bed, together, so they wouldn't wake up alone.

I fell on the couch. It looked as though Merry hadn't moved from the chair where I'd left her. I reached over to the coffee table, picked up her gla.s.s, and took a long sip of brandy.

"How are you?" Merry asked.

"Numb. How are you?"

"Trying to get numb." Merry placed a hand on her stomach. "I still feel like I might throw up."

"Getting drunk won't help." Even as I spoke, I regretted my words. The last thing I wanted to do right now was criticize my sister. "Sorry. I didn't mean that the way it sounded. You must be a wreck. Maybe more than I am."

"Watching might have been worse than being in the middle of it," Merry said.

I nodded. "Watching was bad."

"Are you angry?"

"At you? It wasn't your fault. I never should have suggested you take them to the courthouse. About saying what you said? It worked, right? But still . . ." I let the words trail off, not sure how to go on.

Merry squeezed in next to me and put a hand on my leg. "It hurt me. Saying it. Having the girls hear it-especially like that."

"But they're my girls," I said. "I don't know if you can really ever understand."

"They're my nieces. My family. I love them. Ruby's life was in my hands."

"I'm grateful for what you did. But now they know everything." I finished Merry's brandy. "Were you waiting for an opportunity like this?"

"Lulu." Merry pressed a hand to her forehead. "I wasn't revealing your secrets. I had to save Ruby's life. I knew what I was doing. Don't you ever think maybe sometimes I'm right?"

Merry cut me off when I tried to speak.

"Sometimes someone other than you has an answer." She crossed her legs and took my hand. "Sometimes we need to work together. Decide things together. Seeing what happened today, did you learn anything? Did you learn that hiding doesn't work?"

I wanted to go to bed, lie next to Drew, breathe him in, and breathe me out. "I learned what I already knew."

"What?"

"The world isn't safe for us."

30.

Merry The overheated train to Dorchester stopped and started as it left Park Street Station. I unwound my choking scarf and stuffed the fabric in my pocket. I considered skipping the next step in my commute to the courthouse-the crowded bus-and walking the twenty blocks. Wet wool smells mixed with the overpowering lime cologne worn by the man pressed close to me. I thought I might throw up from the combination and prayed to hold myself together until the crowd thinned out at U Ma.s.s, when I'd travel against the rush-hour tide.

Reading my book was impossible without a seat, so I didn't even try. To occupy my mind, I played little games, memorizing the ads above my head and anagramming the words describing language schools and health careers until I couldn't pretend anymore. The only thing on my mind was how much I didn't want to go back to the courthouse.

I'd been home for a week; we all had. Except for Drew making forays for food and DVDs, we'd not ventured out. The weather had cooperated by providing steady sodden snowflakes. We'd wrapped the girls in blankets on the couch, snuggled close to each other, and lived life movie to movie.

Even Lulu had skipped work, leaving the couch only to take calls from Sophie. I'd spoken to no one, letting voice mail take my calls, letting Colin sort through the messages. I sent Valerie a short e-mail: "Tell everyone thanks for the cards, and let them all know I'm okay."

I wasn't okay.

Day after day, I had held Ruby close and pressed my cheek to her soft hair. Ca.s.sandra and Ruby, after a lifetime of poking for every shred of family history they could unearth, spoke not a word about our father. They'd mentioned nothing of consequence for such a long time that we became frightened. Then, suddenly, Lulu had pressed for sharing and unburdening of the soul.

"Ca.s.sandra," she'd said, "can you guess what my favorite books were when I lived with Mimi Rubee, when I was your age?"

Ca.s.sandra had shrugged. "Not now, I'm reading."

"Ruby," Lulu had tried later, in the middle of a Monopoly game. "Do you want to know the games Aunt Merry and I invented when we lived at Duffy?"

Ruby hadn't even looked up as she grabbed another handful of kettle corn from the bowl. "Can't we just play?"

Lulu and I became partners trying to untangle the mess of deceit while the girls worked to staple all the lies back up. They rejected everything we offered. Having a mysterious imprisoned grandfather who'd murdered a grandmother long a.s.sumed car-crashed was apparently less interesting than reading Harry Potter. Everyone-Drew, the girls' therapist, as well as their pediatrician-a.s.sured Lulu that Ruby and Ca.s.sandra could ingest only teaspoons of the trauma. Lulu wanted to feed them the story whole, wanted them to digest it and move on. And this didn't even touch incorporating Victor into the equation.

Moreover, Dad still waited out there.

"You okay, Ms. Zachariah?" Jesse walked into my office as though the very air was fragile and he had to move carefully to keep the molecules from colliding and causing a catastrophic event.

"Fine, just fine." I leafed through papers on my desk searching for something to distract me from wanting to run away.

"I brought you something."

I looked up, expecting another piece of paper indicating that Jesse had achieved some milestone and needed my celebratory excitement to seal his happiness. He held a thick sheaf of catalogs and offered them to me. Curious, I placed the pile on my desk, reading the t.i.tle of each one in turn: New England School of Law Boston University School of Social Work c.u.mmings School of Veterinary Medicine at Tufts University I shuffled the books top to bottom and back again. "You're considering all these fields, Jesse? Terrific." I feared my voice sounded devoid of terrific. I hoped I wouldn't depress poor Jesse back into a life of crime.

"I got them for you, Ms. Zachariah."

"For me?" I turned over the veterinary school catalog, expecting puppies with giant, begging eyes, and saw students who looked about fifteen wearing white coats.

"You need to get out of here, Ms. Zach." He clapped his hands together and pointed them at me. "Not that you can't handle us-look how you did Victor, who's nothing but a mama-boy p.u.s.s.y. Sorry," he added.

"I appreciate your concern, but this isn't about me. Your probation ends in a few weeks. We have plenty of work to do."

"You're right. My probation's ending. I'll probably be the last client who takes your advice for a long time, huh? Why not quit while you're ahead?" He reached into his pocket and brought out a crumpled sheet of paper. "I had to write this for English cla.s.s. At Bunker Hill. Anyway, the professor said I should show you."

I smoothed out the paper, laid it flat on my desk, and began to read.

MY LIFE-CHANGING EVENT.

This is about my probation officer. It's less than the 500 words we had to do (not by much) but I think it should be okay.

Since I was twelve this is what I've done: Did every drug except crack (cause the crackheads around me look like walking scabs.) Banged every girl I could by telling any story they want. Smacked them if they didn't listen. Forced one to get rid of a baby-because I didn't want to be n.o.body's baby daddy, because I knew I'd be a s.h.i.tty one just like mine. Pulled my mother off the streets, when it looked like she might die. Let her stay there when I couldn't care enough for both of us anymore. Stole pocketbooks, even off old ladies. Dropped out of school. Almost killed a guy.

Since I got arrested and got put on probation (for almost killing that guy) this is what I've done: Gotten a GED, because my PO made it part of my probation. Stayed straight because my PO made me take urines every week. And made me pay for the d.a.m.n tests. Got a job, because my PO made it part of my probation. Read books, because my PO made a reading list part of my probation. Ended up here, in Bunker Hill Community College, because it's part of my probation.

Now my probation is ending and I'm leaving Bunker Hill. It's over. I'm done. Now I'm going to Northeastern. Because my probation officer got me the application. She said I made her proud.

In the beginning, my probation officer wrote this on top of my probation plan: "Many persons have a wrong idea of what const.i.tutes true happiness. It is not attained through self-gratification, but through fidelity to a worthy purpose. Helen Keller"

The b.i.t.c.h of it was that I didn't even know who Helen Keller was, and I was too embarra.s.sed to say so, or to let her know I cared that I didn't know. But I made sure to find out-even though I started learning by watching the movie about her. After that, I read her book. Even though it wasn't on the list. That was the first time in my life I ever read anything that I didn't have to. I found out maybe I like reading.

Maybe the quote was my life-changing event. Maybe it was being arrested. Maybe it was being put in a cell long enough to realize I didn't like sleeping on sour-stinking jailhouse cots. I don't ever want to ride that iron horse again.

I don't know if my probation officer done the quote thing for every guy she has, or if she saw something in me. It didn't matter. What mattered is she made me see something in me. She made me ready to find my worthy purpose. So, I guess meeting Ms. Zachariah and having her as my probation officer was my life-changing event.

I looked up. Jesse met my eyes.

"Ms. Zach, you never seem happy," he said. "I don't think this place is your worthy purpose."

Preparing for Quinn to arrive that evening was an angry mix of beauty ch.o.r.es. I sliced open my right leg while shaving. I stabbed myself in the eye with my eyeliner brush. I tugged on sweater after shirt after sweater looking for something that didn't say, I have absolutely nothing except other people's lives, other people's families, and other people's husbands, so f.u.c.k me right here, then go home. Giving up on men, and most especially giving up Quinn, had once again failed.

The moment he arrived, Quinn asked, "Are you okay?" He held me at arm's length, checking me as though to a.s.sess the damage. "I read the article in the paper. You handled the whole thing like a trouper."

"Is that why you called?" I offered him a beer. "To congratulate me?"

"Don't you believe I could worry about you?"

I didn't want to answer. I just wanted to go to bed, and so we did.

As Quinn pounded into me, it became clearer and clearer that whatever my worthy purpose might be, it wasn't Quinn. My excitement dissipated until Quinn must have felt as though he were s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g sawdust. It sure seemed that way to me. My b.r.e.a.s.t.s squashed under him as he pressed closer. Quinn's method of forcing out an o.r.g.a.s.m, whether I wanted one or not, wasn't working.

Tonight it felt like he banged me out of meanness.

Knowing Quinn's remarkable control, and what he probably saw as dedication to my pleasure, I was aware that, unless I did something, he'd keep at it until I came. We weren't about anything except the s.e.x, so he always wanted to tie that one thing up in sparkling ribbons. I suppose in that way he was loyal.

"Jesus, you fill me up, Quinn," I said, feeling the shudder of excitement in him that my lie brought. I dug my heels into his back and bucked up toward him, drawing him in deeper. I ripped my nails down Quinn's flesh, acting out his whorish fantasies.

Baby, baby, baby.

Oh. Do me.

Quinn wrenched from me a sad o.r.g.a.s.m born of friction and time, and then he came.

Did Quinn worry about me? I wondered as he collapsed on top of me. If I died, would Quinn come to my funeral? Could I go to his? Would I dare?

How could I sleep with a man I wasn't sure would attend my funeral? A man whose funeral I had no right to attend? How did I kiss a man I couldn't see buried? "What am I doing here?" I whispered to his shoulder.

"Please, no, Merry. Not again." He struggled up and rolled off me. "I must have told you a million times, we have what we have. If you don't want it, fine, I'll go. I don't do scenes."

True. Quinn had never done scenes, and he'd never lied to me. He'd been the most constant man in my entire life, the most constant one not locked up, though Quinn might as well have been in jail for how much he shared my life.

And I'd picked exactly this man.

31.

Lulu I inched toward Cabot Hospital at three miles per hour, barely able to see through the snow and afraid of ending up in a ditch. A nor'easter was clobbering Boston. The only joy in my life was that Christmas, when we'd had to pretend we were okay for twenty-four hours, was over.

Thirty minutes into my commute, a red light blessed me by allowing me to release my cramped fingers from clutching the wheel. Normally, in thirty minutes I could have driven to the hospital three times. Dense flakes swirled thicker and faster with each pa.s.sing moment.

The light changed, but the stalled traffic remained unmoving. After sitting trapped in my car for another ten minutes and getting no farther than half a block, I pulled into a near-deserted McDonald's parking lot. I didn't think anybody would bother with my car on a day like this, but just in case, I placed my CABOT MEDICAL DOCTOR ON CALL placard in the rear window and bundled up to walk the final ten blocks to the hospital.

I hoped my electric yellow hat provided enough visibility to stop truckers from mowing me down in the slick, storm-obscured streets. My mother-in-law, a big proponent of "brightening up your face with a little color, honey!" had sent the hat for Christmas. At the time, I didn't imagine ever using it; now I was glad I'd thrown it in the car. I caught a glimpse of myself in the rearview mirror. My face matched the snow, but the hat stood out like a beacon.

A biting wind tugged at my hat as I trudged toward the hospital, my face tucked down. Within moments, the sh.e.l.l of my knee-length down parka turned dark as the coat worked overtime to repel moisture. Fellow travelers wrapped in layers pa.s.sed me, wet, red faces pressed into chins, all looking like overstuffed moles.

The dank smell of snow-soaked clothes rose from me as I entered Cabot's warm lobby. I nodded at the man selling papers, unwound my scarf, and buried my hat in my purse.

"Happy New Year, Doctor Winterson," the paper man said.