The Murderer's Daughters (15 page)

“As though that makes a difference,” Lulu had muttered. “They should give her extra money for slaving for them all year. A day’s salary for not working would be a nice Thanksgiving gesture, wouldn’t it? Instead of tearing her away from her family?”

I’d agreed, but been afraid Mrs. Cohen would hear us and get all upset and hurt. Lulu, who’d wanted so much for the Cohens to take us into their home, seemed to hate them more with each passing year.

“Before we slice the turkey, let us give thanks.” Doctor Cohen placed his hands lightly on each side of the platter, as though presenting it for thought. He looked to either side of the table, the left, where Eleanor sat with her family, then the right, gazing proudly at Saul-the-other-surgeon and his wife and baby.

Mrs. Cohen sunshined her grin around the room. “Who wants to start?”

I was sure they were all waiting for Lulu and me to give thanks for the Cohens taking us in, as though we were puppies rescued from the pound
and certain death, who should roll over and expose our bellies for petting.

Last year I’d mumbled something about being grateful for everyone being healthy. Lulu had said we should give thanks that nobody at the table had family who’d died in Vietnam. Mrs. Cohen had nodded as if Lulu had said the wisest thing in the world, though I knew Lulu had been digging at them for being so entitled. All I’d wanted was for Lulu to shut up before the Cohens got mad.

Lulu thought the Cohens were the worst sort of liberals, stuffed with money and pretending to be regular people. Soon after we’d enrolled in our new schools in Manhattan, Lulu became what Doctor Cohen called
our in-house protester
.

Mrs. Cohen worried when Lulu covered her bedroom walls with slogans like “Boycott Lettuce and Grapes” and “Sisterhood Is Powerful.”

“Not that I don’t sympathize with Lulu’s beliefs,” Mrs. Cohen had told me recently, “and of course women should have equal rights, but I don’t want her becoming obsessed.”

I thought Lulu’s save-the-world act was actually a make-the-Cohens-feel-bad thing. Mrs. Cohen desperately wanted to buy Lulu cute outfits and take her for a good haircut. Instead, Lulu hung frayed overalls on her bony body and let her light brown hair hang longer and longer and longer down her back—tying it up with a blue bandanna when the weather got hot. When Mrs. Cohen told Lulu that
the right haircut would complement her simply gorgeous bone structure,
Lulu said college applications wouldn’t ask for pictures, but thanks for the idea. Later, when we were alone, Lulu accused Mrs. Cohen of really meaning Lulu was plain as soup and needed help.

“Come on, we’re waiting,” Saul said.

“I’ll start,” his wife, Amy, said.

Doctor Cohen nodded and smiled. Anyone could see Amy was his favorite. “Go ahead, dear.”

“I’m thankful for so much.” Amy looked around the table. “I’m thankful Mom and Dad watch out for everyone.”

Amy smiled meaningfully at Lulu and me. My smile felt like it should be on one of those Day of the Dead dolls that we’d studied at school. Lulu laced her fingers together and leaned her chin on the bridge she’d made.

“In this time of racial strife, countries at war, cultural wars, I’m grateful for this safe haven.” Amy smiled shyly as she turned to Saul, who held their baby. “And, most of all, for my husband and beautiful baby.”

Approving smiles lit up all around the table, except of course for Eleanor. I’d heard her call Amy a simpering suck-up, too good to be true. Eleanor was just too evil to recognize good existed. Amy and Mrs. Cohen were both good, even if I couldn’t stand Amy either. Lulu called them liberal Lady Bountifuls.

Defending Mrs. Cohen had become my job.

Rachel pressed herself against Eleanor’s chest and whispered.

“Rachel has something to say,” Eleanor said.

“What is it, sweetheart?” Mrs. Cohen leaned forward as though she were about to get a million dollars.

“I’m grateful I have a mommy and daddy. And that I don’t have to be fostered.”

I clenched and unclenched the edge of the stiff white tablecloth.

The room became silent. Finally, Doctor Cohen cleared his throat and said, “We’re grateful to be able to provide a home for Lulu and Merry. It gives us great pleasure. Being a father to them adds a new dimension at this time in my life.”

Lulu made see-what-I-mean eyes at me.

“What are you girls grateful for?” Amy asked.

I pressed my lips together, praying for Lulu to talk so they’d leave me alone. I opened my eyes wide at my sister, pleading. Lulu’s shoulders fell in disgust.
Fine.
She clasped her hands in front of her and gave me a tight little smile indicating,
Okay, you asked for it.

“I’m grateful the war is over and that we never had napalm raining down on us. I’m grateful I’m not starving in Ethiopia. I’m grateful I’m not in Appalachia with legs bowed from rickets.” She stopped and smiled. “Oh, and I’m glad I was taken in here. Thank you, Cohen family.”

Doctor Cohen sucked in a deep breath. “While your social conscience is a blessing, Lulu, I hope you someday learn why ethics and principles are best served with respect.”

Lulu made a low rumbling sound.

“Do you have a comment, Lulu?” Doctor Cohen asked.

Mrs. Cohen interrupted. “Paul, please, cut the turkey.”

“Let me explore this a moment, Anne.” Doctor Cohen leaned forward. “Are you uncomfortable with our values, Lulu?”

Why did Mr. Cohen have to embarrass her? Lulu stared at the tablecloth and put her arms under the table, probably spelling words like
screw you
on her arm. I felt as though my skin would pop from all the hot words running through me.

“I’m certain we have something here for which you could be thankful. Or at the very least, grateful,” Mr. Cohen said. “Is there nothing about our values you can stomach?”

“Paul,” Mrs. Cohen warned.

“Sorry, Anne, I’ve had enough ingratitude. We’ve done everything possible for these girls. Didn’t we take them from that place and from their virtual gutter of a family?”

I jumped up. “Leave Lulu alone. You’re being mean. Why should I be thankful that you won’t let me see my father? Wouldn’t it be respectful to let me see him? He’s not a gutter. He’s my family. He’s all by himself.
Why are you punishing me?
”

“Merry.” Lulu reached out. “Don’t.”

I pushed away Lulu’s hand. “Why can’t I say anything? Why do I have to pretend he’s dead? It’s not fair.” I banged my fist on the white tablecloth. Each time I asked to visit Daddy, they shushed me and said
Someday,
and
When the time is right,
and once more I knew nobody wanted to talk to me.

“Sweetheart. Calm down. Where is this coming from?” Mrs. Cohen rose.

“I told you. I want to see my father.” I wrapped my arms around myself and rocked back and forth. “Please. Please. Please. Let me see my father.”

Amy put an arm over my shoulders and held her hand up to stop Mrs. Cohen from coming over. “Why in the world does she have to pretend that her father is dead?”

Going to prison by car felt entirely different from taking the Staten Island Ferry. I missed the kissing couples and the choppy waves and seeing the World Trade Center grow before my eyes. The car ride was boring in comparison, but I was grateful to be going at all, whether by boat, car, or flying in over the prison walls. Mrs. Cohen had worked a hard three months to convince Doctor Cohen to let me visit Daddy. When he finally came around to the idea, he decided he’d be the one to take me.

Did he think the prisoners would attack Mrs. Cohen? Dr. Cohen always said Mrs. Cohen wasn’t strict enough; maybe he thought she’d let me hang out with the prisoners, and I’d learn how to rob banks.

I peeked at Doctor Cohen, his hands steady on the wheel. I’d never been alone with him, not since we’d moved in, over two years ago now. He was a quiet man, but not the kind of quiet that made you feel comfortable. I felt stuck in a car silence where I knew I was boring him the entire time,
and no matter how much I tried to think of stuff to talk about, I couldn’t imagine what in my life could interest him.

“Will we see the World Trade Center towers?” I asked. “My grandmother and I always saw it when we took the ferry. They’re six years old now, right?” I asked the question, despite knowing the answer, because Doctor Cohen enjoyed knowing things.

“That’s right. Seven years this July. If it weren’t for the fog, we’d see the Towers at some point.” Doctor Cohen shot me a quick glance, then put his eyes back on the road. “Is engineering an interest of yours? Architecture?”

I couldn’t tell Doctor Cohen that the Towers had become a visible marking of my mother’s death. “My father told me about them being built,” I said. “He read about the celebrations when they opened.” I didn’t mention that was right after my mother died. When they put him in jail.

“Oh, really? Where?”

“In the newspaper. Grandma sent him a subscription.”

“The
Daily News
?”

I knew what Doctor Cohen thought of the
Daily News.
Did Doctor Cohen think my father was stupid?

“No, the
Times,
” I lied. Actually, it had been the
Post.

“Really.” Doctor Cohen nodded a few times. He did that whenever he learned something new, as though he were nodding it into a mental filing cabinet.

“My father’s a big reader. His cell is probably overflowing with books.” I squished my face in embarrassment. Despite the fact that Doctor Cohen was driving me to the prison, I felt weird mentioning anything to do with it.

“Perhaps for Chanukah we can pick out some books for you and Lulu to send him,” Doctor Cohen said, turning for a moment and giving me a kind smile. “Or if he can’t get presents, perhaps we can make a donation to the prison library.”

“That would be nice.” My voice warbled in shame. I hated the entire discussion.

“You know,” said Doctor Cohen, “helping people out of bad situations
is a blessing. I’d be happy to help your father in his quest for learning and growth. Perhaps he and I can become friends.”

Doctor Cohen always tried to rise to the occasion and do the right thing. I tried to picture him and my father as friends. Despite Daddy being the friendliest person in the world, Doctor Cohen would make him uncomfortable. Doctor Cohen made me uncomfortable every day—he was too much the kind of man you never imagined messing up.

“That would be nice,” I repeated. I couldn’t think of one other thing to say, so I leaned on the window and closed my eyes.

It seemed like only moments later I was jarred awake as we pulled up to the prison and parked. I didn’t know a parking lot existed at prison. Doctor Cohen’s Chrysler New Yorker was sleek and black and stuck out from the rusty, faded cars filling the lot.

Going through what Grandma and I had taken to calling the searching party felt humiliating without Grandma’s funny comments.
Look, Merry. Mrs. Feingold’s dyed her hair again. She’s a chemist’s rainbow.
Grandma had worked so hard to make the prison an interesting little world.

Doctor Cohen stuck out standing in the visitors’ waiting line, dressed in his suit and tie, surrounded by the worn-out women, their screeching children, and a smattering of lost-looking men who wore stretchy shirts with bright designs or faded work clothes.

I adjusted my valentine red jumpsuit. It was brand-new, and I hoped my father would think I looked pretty. Mrs. Cohen had bought it for me after Thanksgiving. The red denim had a black zipper running past my waist.

“Oh, Merry! You’re so perfect and tiny, you look like a little doll,” Mrs. Cohen had exclaimed. She’d bought me half of Bloomingdale’s trying to erase Thanksgiving. Then she’d let me get my ears pierced and bought me gold balls, then gold hoops for when my ears healed. Lulu said I looked ridiculous, but I didn’t care. I thought I looked good. Mrs. Cohen said so, too.

I took shallow, little breaths as we moved up to first in line, holding my hands together in front of me to keep from tapping my chest.

“Why, Miss Merry!” Officer McNulty said. “I barely recognized you. You’ve grown into a young lady. We haven’t seen you for quite some time.”