The Murderer's Daughters (11 page)

The sharp knife tip poked the soft flesh of my throat. I lifted my leg, my foot, and shoved it into her slutty stomach. She fell back. I jumped on Kelli and put my hands around her throat, squeezing, feeling the cords underneath my fingers. I put my knee deep into her chest.

“Get the fuck off her,” Maureen yelled, kicking me from behind.

April shouted, “Use the knife, Kelli!”

“Get up, Lulu,” Maureen said, “or I’ll fucking kill you.”

Tears streamed from Kelli’s eyes as she gagged.

“Stop it,” April yelled, grabbing at me.

The door slammed open with an echoing thud. Mrs. Cohen, the weekend social worker, walked in. “Lulu, get off Kelli right now.” Mrs. Cohen held me by my shoulder. Kelli lay on the floor coughing. April and Maureen put on their blankest faces.

“Don’t bother hiding the knife, Kelli; I already saw it.” Mrs. Cohen looked at me, seeming to notice my torn shirt.

“She was choking me.” Kelli touched the finger-mark necklace ringing her reddened neck. She struggled into a sitting position.

“Are you okay?” Mrs. Cohen didn’t sound sympathetic.

Kelli only glared.

“We were just fooling around,” April insisted.

Reetha huddled in the corner.

“It looked like plenty of fun.” Mrs. Cohen gave me a steady stare. “Lulu, what happened?”

I shrugged. “Like April said, we were just fooling around.”

Mrs. Cohen loosened her grip on me, then let go. She crossed her arms and shook her head. The other social workers were younger than Mrs.
Cohen, who seemed more like one of the rich ladies who dropped off clothes and books.

“You’re all lying. Kelli, Maureen, April, wait for me in the conference room.” Mrs. Cohen glared at them. “You, too, Reetha.”

Conference room
was the polite term for a dirty little punishment of a room without windows. There were no pictures, no lamps, and no rug, just a limp-cushioned sofa and three scratched plastic chairs.

Mrs. Cohen waited until they left, then narrowed her eyes at me.

I couldn’t figure out if she was angry or upset.

“Why are you protecting them?” she asked.

“Because I live here.”

“They could have hurt you.”

“I could have hurt them. At least one of them.”

“That bothers me just as much. Maybe more.”

Was I supposed to bare my soul in the basement 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 shirt 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 cocked 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 cream–butterscotch 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.”

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.