The Murderer's Daughters Part 8

Was I supposed to bare my soul in the bas.e.m.e.nt bathroom?

"I'm worried about you, Lulu. You can't afford to lose what you have."

"What do I have?"

Mrs. Cohen ran a hand over my forehead.

"Possibility."

The word hit me more like a demand than a compliment. Her eyes got all soft, as though I was some sort of prize. I saw that she wanted to save me. "I'm worried about my sister," I said. "I'm scared she's going to kill herself."

"Remember," I told Merry a few days later. "You need to be extra-good today. Do that cute thing you do."

"What cute thing?" Merry pulled away when I tucked her s.h.i.+rt in. "Stop it. I'm not a baby. I'll be nine this month."

I rolled my eyes. "Just be yourself."

"Why is Mrs. Cohen taking us out?"

I debated how much to tell her. Everything my sister thought floated to the surface and then she blurted it out. Who knew what she'd repeat. "Because she thinks I'm extra-smart and you're extra-cute."

"Really?" Merry c.o.c.ked her head, proving how extra-cute she could look. Did she know? Did my sister know she could charm the world just by showing her face?

"I got her to take us out." I didn't plan to tell Merry about my sad little conversations with Mrs. Cohen concerning Merry's depression. About how frightened I was that Merry would kill herself. About the fact that some days I couldn't eat because my throat closed up. I'd spread the baloney so thick that I didn't know how the words made it through the layers of lies. "Maybe she can find us a foster home."

"No!" Merry said. "Crystal told me about them. She was in a foster home once. She said it was worse, much worse than here. They made her into a slave." Merry kicked out at me. "I'm not going. You can't make me."

"You're going wherever I say," I said. Before she went crazy, I added, "Mrs. Cohen is taking us for ice cream. At Jahn's."

Merry stopped midscream. Desserts were rare treats for us, and Jahn's practically served ice cream in boats. Grandma had taken us there on Merry's eighth birthday last December.

"What if they send us to two different houses?" Merry said.

For one mean minute, I thought about what life would be like without my sister leaning on me, the end of constant responsibility for her body and soul, but before the idea could settle in, I slapped the thought out of my head.

We were here because I'd let my father into our house. Merry had her scar because I'd opened the door. That's why we were at Duffy. Visions of my mother's body floated up from where I'd buried them. I'd let my father into our house. I'd let him hurt everyone.

"Mrs. Cohen would never let that happen. I'll never let that happen. We'll always be together," I said.

"Promise?"

Merry thought I ruled the world. "I promise, but you have to be perfect today. Perfect. Mrs. Cohen has to really, really like us. She might be the one who can get us out of Duffy before something terrible happens."

"Like what?" Merry looked frightened. Good. If that was what it took.

"Like hurting me or you really bad. Or separating us."

"But you promised," she whispered.

"I know, but you have to help me keep the promise. By making Mrs. Cohen like you. Make her like you a lot."

Jahn's ice cream parlor felt cool and smooth as the ice cream they served. Everything was glossy marble and wood worn to a mirrored finish. Sugar scented the air.

"Does anyone ever get one of those?" Merry pointed at a picture of a giant dish filled with three scoops of ice cream-chocolate, strawberry, and vanilla-topped with bananas and whipped cream.

"Maybe teenage boys," Mrs. Cohen said. "I think a Kitchen Sink would be a little too much for you."

Merry's eyes widened. "I wasn't going to order one, Mrs. Cohen."

"I wasn't implying you would, honey." Mrs. Cohen put an arm around Merry and squeezed. "Get whatever you want."

Merry put her chin up as she grinned at Mrs. Cohen. "Thank you so, so, so much. Are you allowed to take us out like this?"

"We're here, aren't we?" Afraid I'd sounded sour, I quickly smiled, knowing I'd never look as appealing as Merry. "We really appreciate this, Mrs. Cohen."

"No thanks needed," she said. She led us to a table by the window, where Merry and I practically drooled looking over the menu.

The waiter was back soon after we gave our orders. He placed three silver dishes in front of us: a small dish of coffee ice cream for Mrs. Cohen, a vanilla ice creamb.u.t.terscotch sundae for Merry with marshmallow goop instead of whipped cream, and a double scoop of chocolate ice cream with sprinkles for me.

My spoon reflected the mirrors all around us. I dipped into the rich ice cream and ate a tiny bite, wanting it to last forever. Once a month we got spumoni at Duffy. The tiny brick of so-called ice cream, multilayered pink and green, wrapped in waxy paper, tasted like freezer burn and tin.

"Good?" Mrs. Cohen asked.

"Delicious." I rested my spoon in my dish. "Mrs. Cohen, can I ask you a question?"

"Of course, dear, what is it?"

"What's Chanukah? What are Jewish people supposed to do?"

Merry looked up from swirling her sundae into a soupy mess. "Grandma says-"

I kicked her hard. "I know, Merry, I know. Grandma says not to worry about it. That's because she feels sad."

I studied Mrs. Cohen's concerned eyes for her reaction. Instead of wearing her usual shapeless, jumper-type dress, she had on a black and white sweater and black pants. She'd swept her graying brown hair into a French knot and appeared younger and less plump.

"You're not familiar with Chanukah?" Mrs. Cohen asked.

"When they talk about Chanukah in school, I really don't know what it is." I exhaled a long, sad breath. "Grandma doesn't have any money for Christmas or Chanukah presents, or even for our birthdays. We try not to ask her upsetting questions."

My sister looked at me as though I were insane. Keep your mouth shut, Merry, I telegraphed by opening my eyes wide for one bit of a second.

"I think we're almost the only Jewish kids at Duffy. I suppose that shouldn't matter, but I don't have anyone to ask about my heritage." I cleaned the bottom of my spoon with my tongue. "Is that the right word? Heritage? I could look it up when I get back."

"It's the right word, sweetheart." Mrs. Cohen's face softened, and she looked almost teary. "Chanukah is the festival of lights. It marks the victory, more than two thousand years ago, of Jewish people who recaptured their temple. Chanukah, by definition, means dedication. We celebrate by lighting special candles each day at sundown."

"And presents, right?" Merry's voice rose.

"Yes, and presents." Mrs. Cohen smiled and ran her fingers through Merry's curls. "My children loved Chanukah when they were your age. We probably fussed more than we should have in trying to compete with Christmas. Christmas is difficult for Jewish kids."

"We have to wear special Christmas clothes when those women come," Merry said.

I nodded, letting Mrs. Cohen know how tough it was to be a Jewish kid wearing crinoline and singing "Ave Maria" for the rich women who sponsored Duffy's extras, like jigsaw puzzles for the older girls and Colorforms for the little kids. Sometimes we got Prell shampoo so we didn't have to use the brown castile soap to wash our hair. Oh yeah, the rich women changed our lives.

"It's okay, though," I said, laying it on thick, but hopefully not too thick. "We get fruitcake."

"Fruitcake." Mrs. Cohen rolled her eyes. "You girls need to taste potato latkes and rugelah."

"What are latkes?" I asked, kicking Merry again. Don't tell her about Grandma's latkes.

"That's it. You girls are coming to celebrate Chanukah with my family."

9.

Lulu.

1975.

Grandma's funeral felt like being in The Addams Family, except instead of Cousin Itt and Thing, Grandma's friends were the creepy ones. The murderer's daughters. Joey's girls. That's what I heard whispered by the old ladies. Do you remember her son? The murderer? Those are his girls. They'd sneak glances at us, and then lower their voices as though I wouldn't know exactly what they were saying. I wished I had the guts to walk over and tap one of them on the shoulder. Excuse me. Are you talking about me? Joey's daughter? It's not catching, you know. Oh, and I got straight A's on my last report card; thanks for asking. By the way, there isn't a murder gene. I know. I studied biology.

Except I didn't really know.

Grandma had died five months after she tore her death promises from me.

She'd died in her sleep.

Her brother, our uncle Irving, had found her, called the police, and then driven straight over to Duffy to tell us. I could barely handle knowing that Grandma was dead and I wanted Uncle Irving to go away, but he just kept talking, saying all kinds of things I didn't care to know, like how he got to Grandma just in time, just before she went bad.

I hoped people's brains stopped when they died and that they couldn't think. I hoped life after death was a myth. Grandma shouldn't know she'd waited so long for someone to find her that she was practically rotting.

Everyone ignored Merry and me as we sat in the small chapel waiting for the funeral service. We were in the corner of the overheated room. The carpet looked so worn it might as well have been linoleum. Too-bright lighting emphasized the too few people in attendance.

Merry held my hand so tight you'd have thought she breathed right through my fingers.

After endless minutes of watching old people watch us, Uncle Irving came over. He placed a hand behind each of our backs and pressed us toward the little room off to the side where I knew they had the casket.

"Say good-bye to your grandma," he said. "Before they close the box. Jewish people don't have open caskets at the service, so once they get her ready, she's locked in and you'll never see her again."

Merry opened her Tootsie Pop eyes so wide that I thought she might fall down and die of fright. Could nine-year-olds have heart attacks?

"I'll say good-bye for both of us, Uncle Irving." I pointed Merry to one of the dirty ivory-colored chairs lined up against the wall. "Stay there."

Everyone watched as I walked to the casket room. Uncle Irving opened the door, pushed me in, and then he closed the door except for a little crack, leaving me all alone. It was cold and so bright I wanted to shut my eyes for the rest of my life. My arms and legs felt numb.

Nothing will happen, nothing will happen, I chanted. It's okay. I thought of how brave Anne Frank had to be.

Grandma lay on top of s.h.i.+ny white satin lining the coffin. Thick makeup covered her face. Could her closed eyes pop open?

Looking at her so close seemed like stealing secrets. Did people know they were being stared at when they were dead?

"She looks good," Uncle Irving had said as we walked over, as though a.s.suring me. "Pretty."

Was he nuts? She looked like the wax apples and bananas she'd kept in a bowl. Grandma would say they'd made her into a hootchy-kootchy dancer. Imagine schmearing all this on me, she'd say. The only makeup Grandma ever wore was China Rose lipstick. She kept the old tubes, so at the end of the month, while waiting for her check, she could sc.r.a.pe out a sliver of color.

Too broke for beauty, she'd say to us as she poked out the last bit of lipstick. Your grandma is too broke to look pretty.

You always look pretty! Merry would say, hugging Grandma tight. I'd roll my eyes, but Grandma'd seemed pleased. I should have been nicer. Like Merry.

I barely moved my lips as I whispered over the casket, "Uncle Irving is right, Grandma, you look really pretty."

Merry's feet dangled over the deep seat of the funeral limousine. The car smelled of wet carpet and the pinecone-shaped air freshener swinging from the rearview mirror. Merry crossed her ankles in an effort to cover the hole in her pilled black tights. I'd wanted to find decent mourning clothes for her, for both of us, dresses that Grandma wouldn't have called a shandeh un a charpeh, but I couldn't, and what we wore was a shame and a disgrace.

Dingy clouds followed us down the highway. I wanted to rip off Merry's gray dress, which exactly matched the depressing March chill and made her look like a tiny prison matron. Oily-looking stains marked where food had probably dripped from the previous owner's mouth.

"Who'll take care of us now?" Merry whispered.

"Grandma didn't take care of us." I stared out the window, watching the road wind farther and farther out of Brooklyn. "We only saw her every other week."

"I saw her every week," Merry said. "Because I went to visit Daddy with her. You didn't go with her even once."

"Be quiet, Merry." I didn't want Uncle Irving and Cousin Budgie, sitting up front, to hear me, so I covered Merry's ear with my mouth as I warned her, once again, to stop mentioning Daddy's name.

Merry twisted the edge of her skirt, ignoring what I said. "Who's going to take me to see him now?"

"Just shut up about it, okay? Be respectful; it's Grandma's funeral." I wanted to smack her. "Do you want Uncle Irving to think we don't care about her?"

Merry pursed her mouth the way I hated. "Seeing Daddy would have been respectful to Grandma."

I squeezed my own hand until I couldn't anymore, then I pinched her arm.

"Ouch!"

Uncle Irving turned around. "You girls okay?" Mama would've said his black suit looked older and uglier than dirt. When Uncle Irving had come to tell us Grandma was dead, I didn't even remember he was Grandma's brother until he told me. I'd hardly ever seen him or his daughter, Cousin Budgie, who wasn't a cousin age but more of an aunt age.

Cousin Budgie's shoulders tightened, but she kept quiet. When they'd come to pick us up, she'd barely kissed us, just offered her stupid cheek like some sort of fat prize. I didn't want to put my lips on her slimy, makeup-covered skin. Cousin Budgie smelled like the inside of Grandma's pocketbook.

"We're fine, Uncle Irving." I gave my most responsible girl smile.

"Just be careful." He turned back to staring at the trees lining the highway. We were going to a cemetery in Long Island where Uncle Irving said we had a family plot.

"We don't need any trouble from you girls," Cousin Budgie added, not even bothering to look at us. She glanced at the limousine driver as though worried what he thought. I stuck my tongue out at her back, not caring if the driver saw.

Merry and I were the murderer's girls to them. Just like we were to the old ladies at the funeral home.