The Murderer's Daughters (25 page)

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 bitchy 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 crushing 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 breasts along with my scar, not caring, hungry for admiration like a whore 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 Saturday?

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 advertisement. I picked my clothes off the floor and clutched them as best I could to cover my naked breasts 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 scrape 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 substitute 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 sunglasses 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, sex-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-shirt. 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 talcum 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-shirt 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 muffin, and spread it thick with butter 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 muffin, 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 wishing 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

I woke before the alarm on Monday morning, my mouth dry from the air conditioner. My older daughter, ten-year-old Cassandra, 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, Cassandra 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 classes she’d taken to as though she were a young Meryl Streep.

“Ruby gets whatever she wants, just because she’s younger,” Cassandra 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?”

“Ruby wanted pancakes and I wanted waffles, and Daddy said he’d flip a coin. But she cried, so of course, the big baby got her choice.”

I knew the story ran deeper, and the prospect of digging it out wearied me. “Get in, sweetheart.” I held up the sheet and blanket.

Cassandra slipped under the sky blue comforter and took a deep breath, readying herself to list off her grievances. My daughter smelled like my expensive soap, which she believed should belong to all of us, especially her.

I didn’t have to be at work until ten, though soon the girls would leave for whatever summer vacation activity Drew had planned for them.
Beach today,
I thought. Drew worked from home; we’d transformed the attic rooms on the top floor into his studio.

Cassandra snuggled close. My bedroom gave off a clean, cool feel. The white cottage furniture reminded me of Martha’s Vineyard. White shutters on the windows, my collection of porcelain vases, and the translucent bowls on the bookcase and dresser all soothed me. Drew had painted the walls a snowy white and hung the painting he’d done that I loved most, blue irises against a sun so intense it burned from the canvas.

“Daddy always gives in to Ruby,” Cassandra complained.

“I’m sure he’ll make you waffles tomorrow.”

“But I wanted them today. She’s just a crybaby. I don’t think the cut even hurt.”

“What cut?” I sat up.

“It’s nothing, Mom.” Cassandra drew away, shifting to her back and crossing her leg over her bent knee. “It’s stupid that Daddy even let her cut strawberries. Anyway, it wasn’t anything. She just cried and pretended so she could get her pancakes.”

“I’d better check on her.”

Cassandra tugged at my nightgown, trying to pull me back down. “She didn’t even bleed except maybe one little drop. Everyone does everything for Ruby.”

“Enough, Cassandra.” My impatience grew. I needed to see Ruby before taking my shower.