Randy Susan Meyers - The Murderers Daughters

The
Murderers
Daughters

Randy Susan Meyers

St. Martins Press
New York

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this
novel are either products of the authors imagination or are used fictitiously.

THE MURDERERS DAUGHTERS . Copyright 2009 by Randy Susan Meyers.
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. For information, address
St. Martins Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.

www.stmartins.com

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Meyers, Randy Susan.

The murderers daughters / Randy Susan Meyers. 1st ed.

p. cm.

ISBN 978-0-312-57698-1

1. Fathers and daughtersNew York (State)New YorkFiction. 2. Children of uxoricidesNew York (State)New YorkFiction. 3. CriminalsFamily relationshipsNew York (State)New YorkFiction. 4. Abused childrenNew York (State)Fiction. 5. Abusive parentsNew York (State)Fiction. 6. Problem familiesNew York (State)New YorkFiction. 7. Adult children of dysfunctional familiesFamily relationshipsNew York (State)Fiction. 8. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)Fiction. 9. Domestic fiction. I. Title.

PS3613.E9853M48 2010

813'.6dc22

2009033570

First Edition: January 2010

10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

To my husband, Jeff, who made my dreams come true
To my sister, Jill, who is my other half
And to my daughters, Becca and Sara, who own my heart

I wasnt surprised when Mama asked me to save her life. By my first week in kindergarten, I knew she was no macaroni-necklace-wearing kind of mother. Essentially, Mama regarded me as a miniature hand servant:

Grab me a Pepsi, Lulu.

Get the milk for your sisters cereal.

Go to the store and buy me a pack of Winstons.

Then one day she upped the stakes:

Dont let Daddy in the apartment.

The July our family fell apart, my sister was five going on six, and I was turning ten, which in my mothers eyes made me about fifty. Daddy didnt offer much help, even before he left. He had problems of his own. My father wanted things he couldnt have, and he hungered for my mother above all else. Perhaps growing up in the shadow of Coney Island, Brooklyns fantasy world, explained his weakness for Mamas pinup faade, but I never understood how he missed the rest. Her sugary packaging must have kept him from noticing how much she resented any moment that didnt completely belong to her.

Mama and Daddys battles were the heartbeat of our house. Still, until the day my mother kicked him out, my father was the perfect example of hope against knowledge. Hed return from work each night looking for supper, a welcome-home kiss, and a cold beer, while Mama considered his homecoming her signal to rail against life.

How many hours a day do you think I can be alone with them, Joey? Mama had asked just days before he moved out. Shed pointed at my sister, Merry, and me playing Chutes and Ladders on the tiny Formica table stuck in the corner of our undersize kitchen. We were the best-behaved girls in Brooklyn, girls who knew that disobeying Mama brought a quick smack and hours spent staring at our toes.

Alone? Beer fumed off Daddys lips. For Gods sake, you spend half the day yakking with Teenie and the other half painting your nails. You know we got a stove, right? With knobs and everything?

Mamas friend Teenie lived downstairs on the first floor with five sons and an evil husband whose giant head resembled an anvil. Teenies apartment smelled like bleach and freshly ironed cotton. Ironing was Teenies Valium. Her husbands explosions left her so anxious that she begged Mama for our familys wrinkled laundry. Thanks to Teenies husband, we slept on crisp sheets and satin-smooth pillowcases.

I dreamed of deliverance from my so-called family, convinced I was the secret child of our handsome mayor, John V. Lindsay, who seemed so smart, and his sweet and refined wife, who I knew would be the sort of mother whod buy me books instead of Grade B faux Barbie dolls from Woolworths junky toy section. The Lindsay family had put me in this ugly apartment with peeling paint and Grade C parents to test my worth, and I wouldnt disappoint. Even when Mama screamed right in my face, I kept my voice modulated to a tone meant to please Mrs. Lindsay.

Mama sent us to take a nap that afternoon. The little coffin of a bedroom Merry and I shared steamed hot, hot, hot. Our only relief came when Mama wiped our grimy arms and chests with a washcloth shed soaked with alcohol and cold water.

Lying in the afternoon heat, impatient for my birthday to arrive the next day, I prayed that Mama had bought the chemistry set Id been hinting about all month. Last year Id asked for a set of Britannica encyclopedias and received a Tiny Tears doll. I never wanted a doll, and even if I did, who wanted one that peed on you?

I hoped Mamas recently improved mood might help my cause. Since throwing Daddy out, Mama hardly yelled at us anymore. She barely noticed we existed. When I reminded her it was suppertime, shed glance away from her movie magazine and say, Take some money from my purse, and go to Harrys.

Wed walk three blocks to Harrys Coffee Shop and order tuna sandwiches and malteds, vanilla for Merry and chocolate for me. Usually Id finish first, wrapping my legs around the cold chrome pole under the leather stool and twirling impatiently while I waited. Merry sipped at her malted and nibbled itsy-bitsy bites from her sandwich. I yelled at her to hurry, imitating Grandma Zelda, Daddys mother. Move it, Princess Hoo-ha. Who do you think you are, the Queen of England?

Maybe she did. Maybe Merrys secret mother was Queen Elizabeth.

After Daddy moved out, Mama instituted inexplicable new rules. Dont open the door for your father and when you visit him at Grandma Zeldas, dont say a word about me. That old bag is just using you for information. And never tell anyone about my friends.

Men friends visited Mama all the time. I didnt know exactly how to keep from saying anything about them. Not talking about Mama meant being outright rude and disobedient, since seconds after hed kissed us hello, Daddys questions started:

Hows your mother?

Who comes over to the house?

Does she have new clothes? New records? New color hair?

Even a kid could see Daddy was starving for Mama-news.

I felt a little guilty at how relieved I was by Daddys absence. Before he left, when he wasnt demanding or, later, outright begging Mama for attention, hed be staring at her with a big, moony face.

I sometimes wondered why my mother had married Daddy. Because I was too young to do the math and figure out the time between their wedding and my birth, it had never entered my mind that I was the reason, and Mama didnt invite girlie mother-daughter conversation. Mama didnt cotton to anything smacking of introspection. Thats probably why she was so close to Teenie. Teenie didnt dip into the deeper meanings of life. Shed spend hours and hours judging Mamas fingernail polish, glancing away from her ironing long enough to pick the tone most flattering to Mamas pale skin as my mother painted one nail after another.