The Murderer's Daughters (46 page)

I stood by my rented car, looking back at Aunt Cilla. She pulled her sweater tighter with one hand as she held open the front door, waiting. I walked to the driver’s side, opened the car door, and inserted the key, feeling Aunt Cilla watching and waiting, maybe expecting me to come back and hug her. Kiss her.

Two sad little girls had once waited and waited for someone to take care of them.

The engine caught, roared, and I drove away.

Driving to Park Slope from Mill Basin took about thirty minutes. Block by block things changed. My aunt’s suburban-looking street turned to the busier Avenue N. When I hit Flatbush Avenue, I saw the Brooklyn of my childhood. The area grew shabbier and darker. Storefronts were crowded with piles of cheap offerings, discount giant bottles of strangely named shampoos, rayon shirts in wild colors, dresses stiff with sizing, made to last until the first washing.

My children would like this—seeing my childhood—but it was too close to my father. I needed more miles between him and here to feel safe.
The girls asked to see their grandfather once in a while. Now, I no longer told lies. I simply said no. Someday perhaps they’d visit him anyway, but while they were under our watch, Drew’s and mine, we’d keep them away from him.

That was my plan. On occasion, Drew broached the subject, and, when he did, I tried to explain myself to him. I listened as he spoke. I forced out words for him as my heart banged away. I loved my husband. I couldn’t afford to love my father. I’d never give up what little peace I’d gained.

As I approached Prospect Park, life spread out, the architecture allowing breathing space around people. The Park Slope streets looked green with trees and new money.

Merry’s street had no driveways. I crammed into a parking spot between a Matrix and a Prius. I reached into my bag and took out my cell, pressing her speed dial number, the first in my phone.

Merry came out and ran across the street.

We hugged and kissed. She seemed as though she’d known for weeks that I’d arrive, rather than the fifteen-minute warning I’d given. She wore lipstick and velvet.

It took us three trips to get the cartons up to her second-floor apartment, both of us sweaty afterward despite the December chill. A pot of chili simmered on the stove, lending warmth and spice to the air. Perfectly glazed challah sat on a brick red earthenware plate.

“Look at the miracle,” I said. “You finally learned to cook.”

“No. Dad did.”

I studied my sister’s face. Was she waiting for a reaction? However, she simply looked Merry. Piquant. Rock-star pretty. She seemed sweet, like she had when she was little. She’d lost her clenched edge.

“Good that he’s finally useful,” I said. I’d never told Merry I’d given him the fifteen thousand. She’d told me about the tuition he paid and the furniture he made, but none of it made me want to see him, not even a little. The only difference was, I finally didn’t care that Merry did. “Let’s see what we have in here.”

I sat on the floor next to the pile of boxes, looking for the one I’d asked Uncle Hal to label especially for me. “Here. This one’s for you. Happy birthday.”

I watched as Merry slit open the tape Uncle Hal had aligned so carefully. After removing a layer of crumpled newspaper, she uncovered a black onyx box inlaid with mother-of-pearl. She looked up, the box clutched in her hands, tears filling her eyes.

“Don’t start crying yet,” I said. “You have more to unwrap.”

“Help me.”

I scooted over and reached into the box, pulling out another newspaper-wrapped object, surprised at the weight I’d forgotten. Under the paper, I stroked the stone, as smooth and cold as it had always been. “I have the one you gave me on my dresser,” I said. “I thought we’d divide the rest of these.”

“Remember how we played with them?” Merry opened another and held the box to her cheek. This one had a vein of intricate silver running in a circle.

“Mama called it playing. Actually, we were cleaning them for her.”

“Still, it was nice.” Merry looked dreamy, remembering things I didn’t think possible. “Especially in the summer, when they felt so good. Remember how we rubbed them up and down our arms and said they were our cooling stones?”

“Afterward we’d be filthy. All that dust.” Little gritty dirt balls had covered our bodies, even between our toes.

“Mama always made us take a bath right after.” Merry stretched her legs, keeping a hand on a box.

“Then she’d wipe our arms and chests with the alcohol.”

“No, she did that before we went to bed,” Merry said.

“No, she did it after our bath, when we’d be all hot from the water.”

“After the bath she’d put on powder.”

I shook my head. “You’re so wrong.”

Merry got up on her knees and dusted off her hands. “Actually, I might be right.”

“Maybe,” I said. “But I doubt it.”

Merry laughed and reached for another cardboard box. “Do you know what’s in here?”

“The rest is all a surprise,” I said. “I told Aunt Cilla we wanted everything of Mama’s; that I was taking her things home. For you and for me. I think we’re ready and I think it’s time.”

Before offering thanks to those who helped with this book, let me say this: I wish this story were science fiction instead of realism. For ten years I worked with men who, like Merry and Lulu’s father, destroyed their families—men who weren’t monsters, but who did monstrous deeds. This book is for their children, the ones who suffer unnoticed, and for all amazing men and women who dedicate their lives to helping these children. You may never know whose life you’ve saved. Thank you Federation of Jewish Philanthropies, Doris Bedell, and Camp Mikan for the gift of childhood.

Thank you Stéphanie Abou, golden agent extraordinaire, who provided everything I needed, including joy, wisdom, and friendship, and thank you Foundry Literary + Media for making me feel cared for and special. Thank you everyone at St. Martin’s Press for being supportive and kind, and for gifting me Hilary Rubin Teeman, the extra-insightful, smart-as-a-whole-college editor, whose judgment I treasure. For the design and production team, and especially for copy editor Susan M. S. Brown, all I
can say is wow! To Steve Snider and the art department, thank you for drawing my imagination. And thank you Sphere Publishing, in the United Kingdom, for welcoming me so thoroughly, especially my brilliant and warm editor, Jo Dickinson.

Merci,
Editions Calmann-Levy in France,
danke
Diana Verlag in Germany,
bedankt
, Uitgeverij Artemis in Holland, and
, Kinneret in Israel; thank you all for taking Merry and Lulu worldwide.

One million hugs to Jenna Blum, my lucky star, wonderful friend and teacher, and to all the beloved council, now and before: Amin Ahmad, Christiane Alsop, Nicole Bernier, Edmond Caldwell, Cecile Corona, Kathy Crowley, Elizabeth de Veer, Stephanie Ebbert Devlin, Elizabeth Gallagher, Chuck Garavak, Leslie Greffenius, Iris Gomez, Javed Jahngir, Ann Killough, Henriette Lazaridis Power, Elizabeth Moore, Necee Regis, Dell Smith, and Becky Tuch. It would be impossible to find a better group of writers and critiquers. May we always keep forming and reforming.

One million kisses to the group: Ginny DeLuca (who read and critiqued every version of this book,) Susan Knight, and Diane Butkus, BFF, you are as much family as friends, and to Nina Lev for listening to me talk about my imaginary friends as we walked the pond year after year.

To the superb writers of The Splinters: RJ Bardsley, Chuck Leddy, Leslie Talbot, Len Sparks, Kate Wilkinson, Jill Rubenstein, and Paul Parcellin, who gave me courage and shared their wisdom.

Thank you Grub Street! What would any of us do without you—fearless leaders and brilliant writers Chris Castellani, Whitney Scharer, Sonya Larson, and Whitney Ochoas. You make a home for us!

And to my family: Becca Wolfson, Sara, Jason, and Nora Hoots, Jill Meyers, Nicole Todini, Jeff, Morris, Jeanne, Bruce and Jean Rand: I hold you all in my heart. And, in memory of my mother, Joyce Cherlin, this book is yours as well as mine.