The Murderer's Daughters (31 page)

“Knife fight as a kid.”

“No kidding? Poor baby.”

“The residential home we stayed in was pretty rough.”
Listen,
Lulu had said when she invented this story for me,
it could have happened. Think of what did happen to us in Duffy-Parkman.
Yes, I could easily have gotten into a knife fight at Duffy.

“Why were you in a residential home?”

How much had Drew told him? Men didn’t trade secrets between
handball volleys. Especially silent Drew. Lulu? Probably not much. They were just co-workers. Doctors. They didn’t share life stories between giving Pap smears and checking for macular degeneration.

“After our grandmother died, no one was left to care for us.” I had it down to one cold, juiceless sentence.

“Wow. That must have been awful.” He ran a hand over my hip, drawn hot and ready to my tragedy. If Lulu ever let me give out the real story, I’d have men lined up for blocks.

“It wasn’t so bad. We only lived at Duffy a few years before we got foster parents. Our foster father was a doctor.”

“Wow. That was lucky.”

“Right. We were lucky.”

He tugged at my hip, trying to draw me to him. “Come here. Let me make you feel lucky again.”

Despite my misgivings, I followed his command. Once more, then I’d send him home. Michael was one of those great Republican lovers who try to rock you as though they were cowboys.

No big deal,
I told myself. I’d let him make me feel lucky.

I woke up needing a strong cup of morning coffee but lacking the energy to make it. Valerie and I had closed the Parish Lounge the previous night, though I commended myself for rotating a plain Coke for each one spiked with Jim Beam. Bonus points for not bringing home the too handsome, too young, too interested man.

I walked around the corner from my apartment entrance to Lulu’s, scuffing fallen maple leaves with my slippers and trying to taste autumn’s promise of change. I needed it.

During the summer, when I’d had five or six dates with Michael Epstein, I’d hoped the Eye Doc might be my passage into a changed life. By Labor Day, I’d pushed him away almost as fast as I’d welcomed him to my bed. Eye Doc didn’t turn out to be the type of man with whom I could carry off the split personality required by my orphan story. He turned out to be too earnest, not someone I liked lying to. Nor did he have whatever magical quality Lulu said I would recognize, something letting me know in an instant that I’d be safe sharing secrets.

Sometimes it seemed Drew might be the only man alive deserving of that honor, and Lulu had him.

“Mommy’s still asleep,” Ruby announced as I walked into the kitchen.

“Did Daddy make coffee?” I bent to kiss her.

“You smell,” Ruby said. “Didn’t you take a shower?”

“Not yet,” I said. “Why don’t you pour me a cup of coffee, Miss Bad Manners?”

“You know I’m not allowed to touch hot stuff,” Ruby said. “You’re testing me. Right?”

“Right.” Lulu and Drew made rules, and I tested them. I grabbed a mug from the cabinet.

Drew walked in toweling his hair. “Out of coffee at your house?”

“Forgot to shop.”

He handed me a sweating silver pitcher from the refrigerator. I added the heavy cream Drew from Nebraska loved, watching the rich swirls lighten the black, steaming liquid in a way my skim milk never did.

“It’s a new blend,” Drew said. “How do you like it?”

Drew had a coffee obsession. I took a small sip, then another. “Great. Perfect.” If I married, my husband would probably have a horrible obsession bringing only shame to both of us, porn or cheese fries.

Drew shook his head. “You’re a terrible judge. You like everything.”

“Then why ask me?”

“Well, not everything. Michael still asks about you.”

“Give it a rest, Drew.”

He handed me a saucer for my cup. “He’s a good man, Merry.”

I plopped down at the table. “Ruby, bring me a bowl, okay?”

Ruby looked up from the book splayed open in front of her. “I’m reading.”

“And I need help from my niece because I’m so tired that I have to finish my coffee before I can find the strength to pour my Cheerios. Now be a good girl and get me a bowl.”

Ruby made some disparaging sound to show what she thought of me, but she got up. “You know, Aunt Merry, I’m sleeping over my friend Jessica’s house on Saturday. Her father is taking us to swim lessons. I won’t be here to wait on you.” She dragged a little white step stool to the counter and reached for a bowl. She was small for her age, as I had been.

“Good for you.” I yawned and leaned my head back.

“You’re awfully tired,” Drew said.

“I read until one in the morning.”

“Must have been pretty interesting, that book.” Apparently, he had heard me come in last night.

“Thanks, hon.” I took the bowl from Ruby. “It was,” I answered Drew. I finished the coffee and held my cup out for more, my hand shaky.

Drew poured me a refill. “I worry how often you read late.”

I spooned up a small portion of cereal and milk, trying not to show my distaste. My stomach measured right at that delicate balance between throwing up and a manageable nausea. Food sometimes held the worst at bay—I prayed this was one of those times.

“Morning.” Lulu walked in, yawning and holding
The Boston Globe
still rolled up and bound by a red rubber band. “Here’s a surprise, I can’t wake Cassandra up.” She took the mug Drew held out. “Get dressed for school, Ruby.”

Ruby squeezed Lulu around the waist. “Cassandra didn’t even hug you yet, right?”

“Come on, you, let’s get dressed.” Drew swung Ruby on his shoulders and gave me a significant look before he left the room. What was he trying to convey? What a significant slut I was?
Sorry we can’t all be as pure as Lulu.

Lulu shook her head. “If Cassandra ends up needing medicine for acne, Ruby will complain,
It’s not fair, why can’t I have pimples?
Then Cassandra will say,
I had them first. She shouldn’t get any.
”

I felt an overwhelming surge of love for my sister, sitting with her feet up on the chair, sloppy-cute in an old white T-shirt and boxer shorts. Her hair fell over her forehead in a manner I missed when she tied it back. Without lipstick, Lulu looked younger than usual, and she always looked young. She complained that, without makeup, she looked anemic, but I thought she looked wholesome and endearing.

“We never did that, did we?” I said.

“Did what?”

“Complained over who got what constantly.” I ate another spoonful of cereal.

“Who would we complain to? What would we ever fight over? Our three books?”

I heard the stop sign in Lulu’s voice, but caffeine and food had lifted away my headache and nausea, and the sheer absence of pain gave me an unnatural feeling of well-being. I wanted to milk a moment of sentiment and share some sisterly bonhomie.

“True, but still, we didn’t,” I insisted. “We didn’t fight over stuff. We always looked out for each other.”

Lulu took her legs off the chair. “I’m happy when Ruby and Cassandra act feisty. I worship their being brats. We didn’t get five spoiled minutes our entire childhood.”

“Maybe we did before everything happened. Isn’t that possible?”

Lulu carried Ruby’s cereal bowl to the sink. “Could we not have a breakfast trip down memory lane?” Her back was to me.

I put my elbows on the table and held my face in my hands. “Don’t you think we must have had a few good times? Before? Dad says we had some decent stuff. Do you think he makes it all up?”

Lulu whirled around. “Quit it, okay? We had no good times. Everything about our childhood is depressing. Every single effing thing.”

“Including me?” I felt the tug of tears and pinched my arm hard.

“Yes. Including you, when you’re like this.”

By the time I got to work, I’d put the conversation in perspective and tucked away my hurt feelings. Lulu hated waking up. Morning was the absolute stupidest time to try to talk to her. Anyway, my sister could read the signs of a hangover, and the knowledge made her mean. Lulu probably knew exactly how many drinks I’d had, how close I’d come to sleeping with the inappropriate guy, and even how many tablespoons of Pepto-Bismol I’d swallowed since breakfast.

I threw my bag on my desk, thankful for having avoided Colin on the way in. He also seemed to sense when I was feeling lousy, then how to dig in and torture me.

Running through my phone messages, I heard the usual crap from one
whining client after another, telling me why they weren’t showing up: Grandmother dead. Uncle dead. Cousin in coma. Car ran over sister. Uncle murdered brother. Over the years, my clients had killed off half the population of Boston to avoid coming to our probation meetings. I thumbed through my schedule as I listened, highlighter in hand.

“You okay?”

I looked up. A bleary-eyed Valerie stood in the doorway. “Tell me, did we get especially trashed last night, or are we getting too old to drink?” she asked.

Valerie hadn’t bothered straightening her hair this morning, just pinned her curls into a halfhearted bun. I envied her ability to flip back and forth between ordinary and beautiful. If she woke up tired, she didn’t give a shit. She only painted and sprayed herself on days she felt ambitious. “You got a problem with me, it’s your problem” was Valerie’s motto.

What was my motto? It wasn’t “
In vino veritas,
” because I drank with Valerie at least twice a week, and still, as close to the truth as I ever came was my fake confession to her that I had an uncle in a New York jail. My motto had become “Prevaricate for peace.”

I held up a finger, telling Valerie to wait a moment, and backed up to hear the last phone message again.

Michael Epstein calling. Again. Are you willing to give us another chance? Assuming yes, I’d like to invite you to join me in New York City, where I have a conference to attend. We’ll stay at the Waldorf. How about it? Ready to see how the other half lives? Call me. I’ll buy you a fancy New York outfit. Just kidding. Well, not really. I’d love to be the one to spoil you. Again, call me.

I replayed the message on speaker for Valerie.

“Should I be insulted?” I asked. “Do you think Drew put him up to it?”

“Maybe. After seeing you this morning, I bet he made a 911 call to Eye Doc. ‘Take my sister-in-law and I’ll pay you!’ But you should go anyway.”

I drew a highlighted line through the last canceling client. “Why?”

“You never gave him enough of a chance. That scuzzy kid you almost took home last night wouldn’t be taking you to the Waldorf.” Valerie reached over and picked up my coffee cup, taking a long slurp.

“Scuzzy? He was gorgeous.” I grabbed the cup from Valerie. “Look, you put lipstick all over it.”

“It’s lipstick, not liquid herpes. Gorgeous face, scuzzy soul. Anyway, gorgeous gets you nothing. He was an overage student hanging out in a cheap bar.”

“We were two overage women hanging out in a cheap bar. What does that make us?”

“Gruesomely desperate. The doctor was great in bed, right?” Valerie swung her legs up and placed her scuffed loafers on my desk.

“Jack the Ripper was probably good in bed,” I said. “The worst men always are.”

“Plenty of crappy men make crappy lovers. Trust me, I know better than you.”

“You think so?” I shuffled the papers on my desk, moving the must-do pile closer to the phone.

“You want a match-off for who screwed the greatest number of crappy men?”

My headache knocked. I rested my forehead on the cool metal desktop. “No. I don’t want that written in my permanent record as the only contest I ever won.”