The Murderer's Daughters Part 15

"What is he?"

She shrugged. "An artist."

"You say that as though it's boring."

"He does commercial art. Hallmark cards, maybe. I forget." She waved away my frown. "You'll love the artist. He'll float your boat. Next to Henry, he's a wild man. He actually seems to have a bit of personality. I don't know if you can take it." Marta had long ago pegged me as prissy.

I studied Marta's clothes. Her spiky heels were over three inches high, giving her an edge, and her teal dress hugged her tight in ways no dress of mine ever would. Comparing myself to Marta made me want to race to Saks Fifth Avenue. I threw back the cup of wine, dousing my emotions before they flared up. "I'm getting a refill, want one?"

Marta shook her head. "I'm checking him out." She pointed her gla.s.s in the direction of a rather dumpy man. "Number one in his cla.s.s at Harvard, intern of note, and top surgical resident at Ma.s.s General." She ran her tongue over her upper lip. "Slated for big dollars. He'll be the perfect husband-Jewish, surgeon, and plain enough to wors.h.i.+p me." She brushed her perfect nun fingers over her Virgin Mary face.

"Don't be so sure of the Jewish-men-make-the-best-husbands theory." I couldn't tell her how I'd disproved this hypothesis. Like everyone, Marta knew me as a car crash orphan. "Personally, I think Jewish men invented the line themselves. Self-promotion."

I headed to the wine. Marta headed toward her husband-to-be.

As I drank my second gla.s.s of wine, I concluded that Nebraska emanated a high FQ. The question was how to get rid of his Chatty Cathy companion. The more I studied him, the more I liked his clean, natural look. In a room full of moussed-up men, it was a turn-on to see someone whose hair moved. I wanted to pull off his s.h.i.+rt, lay my head on his broad chest, and rest there for hours.

I drained my gla.s.s, tousled my hair, and headed over to Nebraska. When the redhead's attention drifted, I caught his eye and tried for a Marta-like smile.

"So, what kind of doctor are you?" I felt superior knowing the answers to the questions I asked.

"I'm not a doctor." He had a soothing voice, slow and measured, not New York, not Eastern.

"If you're not a doctor, what brings you here?" I asked by way of greeting.

"I'm hoping to meet a doctor." Behind a pair of wire-rim gla.s.ses, Nebraska's eyes knew more than I'd expected, including kindness.

"Lucky you," I said. "I'm a doctor."

"Lucky me," he said. "And what kind of doctor are you?"

"Right now, a tired, tired one. A finis.h.i.+ng-her-interns.h.i.+p-exhausted one."

"They overwork you, don't they?" His tone had a level of concern I was used to giving, not getting. "Your eyes, though quite beautiful, look like the before picture of a sleeping pill ad. It makes no sense putting folks through the wringer of deprivation to teach them to help sick and vulnerable people. Why ill-equip those who'll care for the neediest?"

"I think the theory has to do with training us to manage well even under the worst of conditions." I put my hand to my throat, wis.h.i.+ng I'd worn something prettier, something sparkly, something Merry would have worn.

"Maybe that's what they say to get long hours of cheap labor." He put a light finger under my chin, tipped it up, and looked into my eyes. Then he swept away my too-long bangs, which, as always, threatened to block my vision. "I see a need for deep sleep, nutritious food, and nonmedical conversation."

"I see someone who can provide at least number three." It was either the wine or his voice; whatever the reason, this man had engendered my first case of flirting.

"I can. And I will. But only if you let me buy you a decent meal."

The next morning I woke up next to Nebraska. How much had I drunk? I staggered out of bed, hoping not to wake him, too hungover to walk on tiptoes.

I made it to the toilet just in time to heave up red wine and the remains of a roast chicken dinner-Nebraska's idea of a decent meal. Revolting. Then I collapsed on the floor. The linoleum looked disgustingly grimy and germy. I kept meaning to clean the apartment, but sleep always won my what-to-do-with-my six-free-hours-a-week conundrum.

Alcohol and I had never been well suited. I pulled a towel from the rod above for a blanket and made myself as small as possible. Between bouts of vomiting, I slept on the cold, dank linoleum, wedged between the toilet and the tub.

I woke to a dog's-eye view of bare male legs covered with golden brown fuzz. Fighting vertigo, I struggled to rise.

Nebraska squatted beside me, wearing boxers. My gorge rose again.

Even sick to my stomach, I wanted to touch him.

"Hey, hey, it's okay," he said when I finished throwing up what little remained in my aching stomach. He held a wet washcloth, and I wondered where in my apartment he'd found a clean one. He took my hands and wiped away the sweaty grime, starting with my fingers. I watched in silent appreciation as he worked the soft, hot cloth over my skin. Afterward, he stood, rinsed the cloth carefully, and ran it gently over my face and the back of my neck.

"Thanks," I said. He had a sure touch. I couldn't remember the previous night, but my body remembered him. It must have been good, because I wanted him so bad.

He handed me my white terry robe, which he'd somehow unearthed from the pile of clothes in my bedroom. "Not that used to drinking or too used to it?"

I started to shake my head, but the motion made me dizzy. My hollowed-out stomach protested any unnecessary movement. My head pounded. "Not." I couldn't eke out more than one word.

"Good," he said. "My mother's a drinker. Not a good quality." He motioned around my tiny bathroom. "As you can see."

Moving my head with as little motion as possible, I saw and cringed at the heaps of dirty towels I'd made into a nest and the mound of toilet paper I'd used to blow my nose and wipe my mouth. If I'd been less nauseated and my headache hadn't grown to nuclear proportions, I'd have felt more shame. Later, I probably would.

"Let's get you out of here. I'm not the doctor, but I don't think this is the most healing environment."

He led me back to bed, where I quickly fell asleep. Fortunately. When I woke, the first thing I saw was Nebraska reading the paper. I was surprised he hadn't taken the opportunity to leave. I would have. He brought me a cup of tea and a plate of Uneeda biscuits. He must have gone to the store for both the tea bags and the crackers, as neither were part of my sad larder.

I was beginning to wonder if Nebraska was real or part of some alcohol-induced dream. A good dream, with men as knights, protectors, and healers.

"Secret family recipe." He placed my battered television tray next to the bed. The bed sagged as he sat. He held out a steaming mug. I took a hesitant sip of the strong sugared tea, unsure of my reaction.

Nebraska handed me a Uneeda, and I nibbled. "Any better?"

"Marginally. Thank G.o.d I don't have to go to the hospital today."

"Your patients should be thanking G.o.d. Imagine the soaring mortality rate if you went."

Nebraska had a sense of humor. Good.

"I don't even know your name," I said. "Did I not ask? Jesus. I slept with a man whose name I can't remember." I brought my knees up and rested the mug between them. "I've never had a one-night stand. Do you believe me?"

"My name is Drew. Short for Andrew. Andrew Winterson. And yes, I believe you." He took my chin between two fingers and tipped it up. "Although I think you'd lie if necessary. I'd like it if you never lied to me, though."

"I've been calling you Nebraska in my head."

"How did you know where I came from?"

"My friend Marta told me. You told her. And she told me."

"You asked about me?"

"I did."

"What else did she say?"

"That you were boring. Marta's attracted to dangerous guys, although she wants to marry a rich, stable guy. I suppose she'll have affairs."

"Good she didn't know that I'm rich. However, she's right. I am boring."

"Are you?"

"Boring?" he asked.

"No. Rich."

"Not really, but my family is more comfortable than most. My father owns a chain of tire stores."

"That's boring."

"True, but it allows my mother to drink without the ladies of the town judging her. Instead, they put her on all the boards. And she gets to spend winters in North Carolina and indulge in Diet Sun Drop and gin."

"I'm not an orphan," I blurted out.

"I didn't say you were."

"I tell everyone that I'm an orphan. That my parents died in a car crash when I was ten. But it's a lie."

"So why do you say it?"

"Because my father killed my mother. He's in prison. I've never told anyone, at least not since a foster family took my sister and me out of the orphanage. I don't want a soul in this world to know."

"Then I won't tell anyone." Drew lifted the covers. "Move over."

"I smell awful," I said, even as I made room for him.

"Not awful. Though not great." When he put an arm around me, I felt it from my shoulders to my thighs and in a spiraling elevator ride to my stomach. "But I'm from Nebraska. We have an awful lot of fort.i.tude."

Drew felt like a rare species. A trustworthy man who gave me the s.h.i.+vers.

Three weeks later, I confessed that I'd revealed the family secret. I sat at my kitchen table, crumpling my napkin as I waited for Merry's reaction. I wished I were with Drew.

"Seriously, how could you tell him just like that?" Merry rummaged in my refrigerator. "Don't you have any orange juice?"

"Be happy that I have any food or drink at all," I said. "It came out naturally; it wasn't even a decision."

I didn't know if Merry could understand how different Drew was from the rest of the world. Saying it sounded hokey, but he'd keep me safe. He'd keep us safe. He could be trusted, even with things like secrets.

He was the sort of man who'd bring you presents you wanted, not ones he thought you should have.

Drew was an honorable man. Maybe I'd never find one again, especially one who, after making me tremble in the dark, held me in the sun.

"So we can stop lying?" Merry bit into an apple that had seen better days.

Could it just be about me and not her? Where was my credit for inviting Merry over the first free moment that I wasn't at work or wrapped in Drew? I wanted to be with Drew every minute. I wanted to drink him, sleep him, and inhabit his body. I wanted to spend the day in his pocket.

"Nothing's changed," I said. "You can't tell anyone. Not until you've met the one." When would that be? At least Merry looked decent today. Her tucked-in white blouse revealed less than her usual torn T-s.h.i.+rt emblazoned with a band's name. Since going to work, she'd calmed down, though I imagined the Freudian horror of working with crime victims slapped her in the face daily.

"Stop inspecting me." Merry took another giant bite of her apple. Merry and I raced through life hungry. We ate fast, often, and a lot. G.o.d save us the day our metabolisms slowed down, and without any genetic material to judge by, who knew when that might be? Merry described our father as getting a little doughy-but honestly, did I want to think that his current physical condition was any portent of my future body?

"Did you really sleep with him the night you met him?" Merry said, grabbing an Oreo from the open sleeve. "Where's Miss Perfect gone?"

"Falling in love is different than falling into someone's bed." I looked at my sister's kohl-rimmed eyes and cherry-popped lips and felt like some crabby old maid lecturing a student.

Merry ignored my nasty words. "What does this miracle man do?"

I smiled. "Art."

"He's an artist? Like a painter?"

"Commercial art. Like greeting cards and stuff. He's planning to ill.u.s.trate children's books."

"He draws kittens for birthday cards?" Merry said. "Hallmark puppies?"

I didn't care what Merry said about him. I let her chatter while I leaned into my memory of being in bed every minute that I wasn't at the hospital. With Drew. Exploring Drew's FQ and mine. They meshed d.a.m.n fine.

After mes.h.i.+ng, we'd watch whatever movie happened to be playing when we flicked on the TV. Themes, reviews, actors, genres-none of it mattered. We never made it to the credits.

For the first time in my life, I lived somewhere other than alone in my head.

I leaned forward and put a hand on my sister's arm. "You're going to like him, Mer," I promised. "He'll be good to us."

She drew back. "Why didn't you talk to me before you just told him? You'd kill me if I did that. Why is it always up to you?"

I didn't want to be honest and tell her I had better judgment. "He's family. I know it. You'll love him."

"I want to meet the right man also, you know, but how am I supposed to when I visit Daddy all the time? It's not easy having to hide going to prison from every man I meet."

"Going there's your choice, not mine," I said.

"Why are you getting mad? Because I don't want to lie about my life anymore either?"

"Telling is the most dangerous thing we can do. I'm looking out for both of us. Someday we'll have children, and they don't need a G.o.dd.a.m.ned murderer for a grandfather."

16.

Merry September 1989 Summer was over, as were the salted-s.e.x ocean weekends spent with Quinn, drinking Bacardi and c.o.kes, hidden away on desolate Maine beaches known only by locals. The rum and the sun had let me push away reality for two months. Push away Quinn's wife. September brought the serious side of life. My job, my so-called relations.h.i.+p, and, of course, my father weighed down on me as I climbed off the bus and faced the courthouse.