The Murderer's Daughters (32 page)

Thirty minutes later, Valerie’s stinging honesty echoing, I left a message for Michael accepting his offer. Then I took enough Advil to face Victor Dennehy. He strutted in as though he expected me to lie down, spread my legs, and moan. His pants hung down so low, I glimpsed his pale white lower back.

“Hey,
Mizzz
Zachariah. I’m on time, huh?”

Another one for whom being on time was the zenith of success. Victor gave me a self-satisfied smile, slumped in the chair across from my desk, and splayed his legs.

“Sit up straight, Victor.”

“You my probation officer or my manners teacher?”

“As far as you’re concerned, both. You go for a job interview and sit like that, no one’s hiring you.”

“No one’s hiring a guy with a record anyway.”

“Not if he acts like you, he won’t.”

Victor glared at me, but sat up nevertheless, closing his legs on his prized package. I opened his thick file and looked through the reports. “Looks like you’re still giving them attitude at the batterer program. Plus, you owe them money.”

“That’s all they care about. Money, money, money. Like it’s their religion or something.” He took a letter opener from my desk, tapping it against the edge. “They should do it for free.”

I leaned over and took the letter opener from him. My clients were like six-year-olds, the way they grabbed things off my desk. “Would
you
work with you for free?”

Same questions, same complaints. Every week I felt more poisoned. By the time Jesse, my last client of the morning, came into my office, I was ready to give him a hard time simply because I was hungry and tired.

“You okay, Ms. Zachariah?” Jesse asked as he walked in. “You don’t look so good.”

I gave a little huff of a laugh. “Thanks a million.”

“No, I mean it.”

Tears stung my eyes. I hated that. I hated when any bit of niceness made my body react as though I’d received a million dollars. “I’m fine.” I sat up straight. “Just allergic.”

“To us?” Jesse swept his hand in a large arc to encompass all the lost men wandering through the halls of justice.

“Pollen.”

“No can be,” he said. “Pollen is a summer allergy; the fall is ragweed.”

“Fine,” I said, picking up his file. “Ragweed then.”

“You’re not in such a good mood, huh?” He cocked his head to the side. “I’ll bring a smile to your face.”

“How?”

He reached around to his back pocket and pulled out a folded paper. “Look at this.” He handed it to me.

I opened and read it. “You passed! You got your GED.”

He smiled big. “Yeah. You were right. It wasn’t so hard. I knew more than I thought.” He rolled back his shoulders, grabbing back his cool after letting it slip for a second.

“And?”

“And?” he mimicked. “Yeah. I registered for some classes. And not at Roxbury Community College—I know I have to stay away from what’s his name.”

I didn’t appreciate Jesse calling the man he’d almost murdered what’s his name, but I’d pick my battles.

Michael was excited about whisking me away. He didn’t know I’d traveled to New York City about a million times since leaving the Cohens’, visiting my father at least once a month.

Flying to New York City turned out to be more trouble than renting a car and driving, the way I usually did. Flying now meant you were guilty until proven not quite so guilty. Security agents at Logan Airport were cautious, even suspicious. Did my clients face this every day? If they treated Michael and me as potential terrorists, my tough-looking clients must have had to crawl to planes on their bellies, hands clasped behind their backs.

“Safety before courtesy these days,” Michael said complacently when I complained.

Our taxi stopped in front of the Waldorf Astoria. I waited as Michael paid the driver, taking note that he gave a decent tip. At least I didn’t have to make cheapness a point against him, along with what now seemed like an ever more Republican attitude. A blue-suited doorman opened the taxi and offered his gloved hand as though I were minor royalty.

I refrained from gasping as we entered the vast lobby. Overwhelmed by the marble, the brass fittings, the frigging shininess of everything, especially measured against my Valerie-borrowed shoes and discount clothes, I snorted instead. “Couldn’t feed too many orphans with the money spent here, could you?”

Michael put an arm around my shoulders. “If it makes you feel better, we can eat in the Bowery. Maybe bring a few bums back to share the room.”

I smiled. “When in Rome.”

“Am I Rome, or is Rome the hotel?” He guided me toward the check-in desk.

Michael seemed smarter than I’d originally judged, which made me uncomfortable. Before I could think of a clever quip, we were in front of the desk clerk. Her makeup was more artful than mine would be on the fanciest of occasions.

“Doctor Epstein, welcome.” She nodded at him; again, with the Waldorf the royalty treatment. “Room 445 is ready.”

Captured light sparkled in the chandeliers.

Watered silk lined the hallway.

Carved plaster ceilings boasted angels and cherubs.

Then I saw the room! Oh, the room. A bed bigger than my living room. More pillows, softer pillows, than I’d ever had—pillows for a princess’s head. The armoire—etched with what, gold?—curved out generously, waiting for any amount of clothes I could offer.

After the bellhop left with Michael’s money tucked into his hand, Michael gave me an old-school movie scene hug. I expected a director to yell “Cut” at any time.

“What first? Drinks? Food? Shopping?” he asked, murmuring in my ear, nuzzling me.

“Yes, yes, and yes, but first, drinks. Definitely drinks.” I didn’t care if it was afternoon. Despite the opulent surroundings, I was in prison town. Blurring the edges was first on my list.

We got back from the bar with reality nicely hazy. I stepped into the shower, already in love with the creamy tiles, dulled silver appointments, the thick terry robe waiting for me. In love with the
fancy-pants
toiletries, as Grandma Zelda would have said. In a bathroom like this, you could wash away your entire life.

Michael stepped in behind me as I lifted my face to the steaming spray. “Mind?”

I leaned back, feeling his chest hair tickle my back. “Don’t mind.”

“Wash your hair?”

“Please. And thank you.”

I closed my eyes and felt him rub in shampoo. The sweet scent of almonds surrounded us. His fingers dug hard.

“Am I ruining your hair?” he asked. “Is this too rough?”

“It recovers. Rough away.”

Ghosts called as I stepped on the Staten Island Ferry the next afternoon. I hadn’t been on the boat for years, but without a car, ferries and cabs were my only option. Michael had a morning of conference business. I’d told him I’d be shopping for presents for Lulu’s girls, which brought back memories of lying to school friends about the Saturdays when Doctor Cohen took me to see Daddy.

When I sighted the Statue of Liberty, a sharp ache for Grandma twisted through me. Looking at the hole where the World Trade Center had been, I tapped my chest so many times I feared my fellow passengers would think I was suffering a coronary. Things drop away, and you wonder if they ever existed.

When the cab dropped me in front of Richmond’s barbed-wire fence, I already felt drained. Officer McNulty had retired, and I found myself missing him far more than the daughter of a prisoner should miss a guard. Susannah and Coriander were long gone, and fat Annette didn’t visit Pete anymore. My father said Annette lost a hundred pounds.
A hundred pounds, can you believe it? That’s like losing you!
After the weight loss, Annette divorced Pete. Now Pete had a new wife he’d found online, also fat.

As usual, the sour smell of too many anxious bodies filled the visiting room. My father sat at our table, the old wood a little more nicked with each passing visit, notches marking time. His hair had turned salt-and-pepper gray, but, he’d kept his jailhouse muscles.

He stood. His smile broadened as I got closer.

“Look at you, Sugar Pop! A million bucks. No, wait, I got to adjust for inflation, right? A billion bucks—that’s how gorgeous you look.”

He said some form of this every time, but I still grinned, always starving for the words.

“So, how’s tricks?”

“Good, good. Guess what. I came to New York with a date.” I raised my eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. “A doctor, no less.”

“Your sister’s here?” My father straightened on the bench. “Where is she?”

Oh, sweet Jesus, I could slit my throat.
“No. No. Sorry, Dad. I didn’t mean to get you excited. I really meant a date. He’s an ophthalmologist. An eye doctor. Hey, you’d like that, right?”

He slapped a hand against his forehead. “What’s wrong with me? Of course, if she were here, she’d have come in with you.”

“Sorry, Dad.” I watched him shake off his disappointment. “Anyway, an eye doctor. Not bad, huh?”

“How long you two been together?”

“A few months.” I stretched the relationship to make it sound better.

“And you never told me?”

“I wanted to make sure he’d stick.”

“And?”

I put out my hands to indicate
who knows?
“Maybe. What do you think?” “You know what I think. No one is good enough for my little girl.”

My father laced his fingers. “But I worry about some guy who takes you to shack up in Manhattan. What does he want from you? I know how guys are, and they don’t buy the cow if you give the milk away. At the end of the day, a guy likes an old-fashioned girl. Otherwise, it’s just a good time to them.”

I sat on my hands to keep them from crawling up my chest.

“Did you bring pictures?” My father rubbed his hands in anticipation.

I reached into my pocket and brought out pictures from Ruby and Cassandra’s first day of school. They wore brand-new Gap outfits and held hands, grinning, as they stood against the living room window.

My father smiled down at the photos. “Jeez, such gorgeous girls. The little one looks like your mother. Like you. And you have new pictures of Lulu?”

I handed over a shot of Lulu and Drew taken when they’d grilled hamburgers on Labor Day.

He shook his head, smiling at the image.

“Lulu doesn’t want you to write any more letters to her. The girls are getting older,” I said in a burst of words.

Years ago, I’d confessed to my father about our deceptions, how we’d killed him off. Since then he and I referred to the deceit in the same sideways manner my family did everything.

“Just what are you girls planning to do when I get out of here?” he asked. “Hide me?”

When he got out.

“Your sentence isn’t over for eight years. We’ll worry about it then,” I said.

“Here’s the good news. I’ve been saving it. My lawyer thinks I have a shot at the next parole hearing.”

How many times had I heard those words? “Right, Dad.”

“You just may be surprised, missy.”

Lulu swore that my relationship with our father had hardened like glue at age five and a half, when he went to jail, with no growth since. I told Lulu one rotation in psychiatry did not a psychiatrist make, but still, her observation popped into my head on a regular basis. Too bad that it made no impact on my behavior.