The Murderer's Daughters Part 18

Lulu gazed at herself in the mirror. "I should have eloped."

"Mama would like that dress," I said. Satin slipped over Lulu's hips like thick cream. "You have such a great body. Like Mama."

"You're the one who looks like her, not me."

"But you have her body."

"How would you know?"

"I know."

Lulu shook her head. "No. Mama was curvy. Like you. You think that I'm built like her because she was tall, tall compared to you, but you have her shape. You're her in miniature."

Looking in the mirror, I studied the reflected contrast between my dark hair and my sh.e.l.l pink dress. Mrs. Winterson, Drew's mother-Call me Peg, hon-would be horrified by the high neckline, just as she'd been by the scar-hiding dress I'd worn to the rehearsal dinner last night. Next to Peg, I'd looked like a nun. Her tight-fitting yellow silk dress with four-inch heels dyed to match had showed off a set of b.r.e.a.s.t.s she treated like a favorite accessory.

"Honey, look at that beautiful bosom and that tiny little waist." Peg had eyed me up and down with triple-mascaraed eyes. "You have to wear something cut down low, honey."

Drew had intervened before his mother went any further. Drunk as she was, I wouldn't have been surprised if she'd taken out a pair of nail scissors and cut my c.o.c.ktail dress down to the cleavage.

"Mom, between you and Daphne, we'll have enough to go around," Drew had said, lifting his chin toward his sister's overflowing b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Drew!" Daphne had scolded, leaning against her plastered husband.

Peg Winterson had tinkled her deep-cigarette laugh. "Well, don't blame me if you get the heat vapors, Merry. Really, high neck and sleeves in June!"

Lulu must have been thinking my thoughts as she continued looking in the mirror. Cupping her hands under her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and pus.h.i.+ng them up to make small mounds, she asked, "Bosomy enough for Peg, do you think?"

Lulu's light brown hair curled in a loose knot gathered low. She'd suffered the hairdresser's machinations insisted upon by Peg gracefully. "I look like a milkmaid, right?" Lulu asked, touching her unadorned white dress.

"You look ethereal," I said. "You can leave the hootchy-kootchy to Daphne and Peg."

"Grandma." Lulu smacked her lips to set her lipstick. "Remember how she told me not to wear miniskirts?"

"Because you'd look like a hootchy-kootchy dancer," I said. "I wish she were here. How old would Grandma be?"

"I don't know. What's the difference?"

"I'm just curious. Don't you wish Mom were here?"

Lulu crossed her arms over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "She'd show enough cleavage for the entire wedding."

"And look better than anyone in the Heritage Ballroom."

"Anyone in the entire Grove Park Inn," Lulu added.

"Anyone in the state of North Carolina." I turned my head from side to side. "Do you really think I look like her?"

"Don't fish. You know you do."

"Dad says you look like his side of the family."

"Grandma would be eighty-seven, I think," Lulu said. "And Mimi Rubee would be sixty-six, or maybe sixty-five. G.o.d, she was young when Mama was born."

"Dad asked me to give you and Drew a present from him." The moment I said the words, I wanted to wind them back in.

"What? A tin cup?"

"Don't be mean, Lulu. Not today."

"Just don't say his name, okay? Don't give me any presents from him." My sister shook her head. "It's my wedding day. Stand up for me-Drew's drunken relatives are about to eat me alive. I just want it to be perfect, just for today."

"And for tomorrow?"

"Calm. Good. Sweet and nice. Is that too much to expect?"

"No." I took Lulu's hand, her white-gloved-all-the-way-to-the-elbow hand, and we walked out to her marriage.

Lulu and Drew spent their honeymoon in Iceland, where the average June temperature was fifty-four degrees and the record for heat was something like seventy. Drew's summers with his family in North Carolina had given him an allergy to hot weather. While visiting his parents the previous August, he'd broken out in rashes, which he'd ascribed to the weather. Lulu thought he was allergic to his voluble drunk mother, but Lulu kept her counsel, and pa.s.sed the calamine lotion.

Besides, Lulu had said, she liked the idea of going to Iceland. She couldn't go much farther and still be in this world. In Iceland, she could let go of deception. She wouldn't have to remember her made-up past. If they had books to read and Drew could find an occasional poker game in the hotel, they'd always be happy. As long as they had each other.

In a moment of prewedding vulnerability, Lulu had said letting go of our father's name was her best wedding present of all. I knew how she felt-I wished I could take Drew's name. Not that I'd ever break my father's heart like that.

I packed up my apartment during the weeks I waited for Lulu and Drew to return from their honeymoon. I was getting ready to move into the huge, rambling Cambridge house they'd bought before the wedding. We weren't going to live in the same s.p.a.ce, of course; I'd have my own apartment with my own entrance. Long ago, a previous owner had divided the house into two apartments. The Victorian home sat on a big corner lot. My entrance would be on one street, while theirs would be on the other.

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 wors.h.i.+ped 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 doork.n.o.bs 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 ma.s.sage 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-a.s.sed Pa.s.sover 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 b.i.t.c.hy 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 crus.h.i.+ng 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 b.r.e.a.s.t.s along with my scar, not caring, hungry for admiration like a wh.o.r.e 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 Sat.u.r.day?

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 advertis.e.m.e.nt. I picked my clothes off the floor and clutched them as best I could to cover my naked b.r.e.a.s.t.s 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 sc.r.a.pe 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 subst.i.tute 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 sungla.s.ses 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, s.e.x-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-s.h.i.+rt. 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 talc.u.m 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-s.h.i.+rt 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 m.u.f.fin, and spread it thick with b.u.t.ter 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.

Dad's letter.

When I finished the English m.u.f.fin, 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 wis.h.i.+ng 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 Ca.s.sandra, 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, Ca.s.sandra 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 cla.s.ses she'd taken to as though she were a young Meryl Streep.

"Ruby gets whatever she wants, just because she's younger," Ca.s.sandra 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?"