Her Sister's Tattoo

by Ellen Meeropol

  I’ve started making art again too. Just for myself, not because I think I’m an artist anymore, or ever could be one again.

  So, Rosa, is it rude to complain to you about being too busy, with you being in prison? If so, I’m not sorry. Do you remember what you said to me at the march, before it all happened? I was agonizing about leaving Molly at home and you said it was all about priorities. Your priority was ending the war, and mine was my baby. We both made our choices, sister, and I guess we’re both stuck with the consequences.

  Mama said that you’ve lost weight. Are you okay?

  I’m finally getting used to Massachusetts, to New England. I know we promised each other, you and I, that we’d move to Greenwich Village when we grew up. But let’s face it, that’s not the only broken promise between us.

  Somewhere in the back of her brain, Esther heard the car door slam, but it didn’t register, not really, and she kept writing until she looked up to see Jake standing next to the desk. With a quick intake of breath, she spread her left hand over the notebook page, covering her words. He picked up the photograph leaning against the base of the lamp.

  “You’re writing to her?” Jake’s voice got quiet and precise when he was upset. “And mooning over her picture? I can’t believe it.”

  Esther tried to explain. “With the sun behind us, our faces are in shadow and you can’t tell our hair color is different. We look like twins.”

  “Why on Earth would you want to look like her?”

  Esther closed the notebook and pressed it against her chest. “She’s my sister.”

  “Yeah, and she tried to ruin your life.”

  “That’s not true. She just tried to live hers. And anyway, I want Molly and Oliver to know they have an aunt and a cousin.”

  “That’s self-destructive, sweetheart. That chapter of our lives is over. Besides,” Jake said as he turned away, “you promised.” He put his arms around Molly, who stood alone in the middle of the kitchen. “Let’s check out Mr. Rogers.”

  Did she ever actually promise? And even if she had, how could Jake be right about this, about never telling their kids about Rosa, when it felt so wrong?

  She stashed the notebook in the back of the bottom desk drawer and stared out at the meadow. The old glass was wavy, distorting the view, making the marsh hawk waver in flight. She had caught something, a mouse or a vole, most likely. The crows, three of them now, were dive-bombing her luncheon.

  “Esther?” Mama called from the living room, her voice faltering. “Would you make me a cup of tea?”

  CHAPTER 24

  Rosa

  Rosa barely touched her lunch. She wanted to be first in line at the visiting room door to claim her favorite table. It wobbled unless the folded cardboard was wedged tight under the short leg, but the location in the far corner next to the window was more important than stability. It was sheltered from the bank of vending machines where families congregated. That table was as private as it got in this place.

  She stared at the cement sidewalk leading from the parking lot guard post to the visitor entrance door. It had snowed last week and a crust remained, a bone-white sheen in the thin northern Michigan sunlight. That steel-barred window framed her mental photo album of Emma’s childhood. She was only allowed two photographs in her cell, but in her mind Rosa had a thick and luscious file of images taken on the sidewalk outside: Baby Emma in Allen’s arms, sucking two fingers. Toddler Emma, swinging on the sidewalk between Allen and Maggie. Emma at two and a half, chasing dandelion seeds across the sparse prison yard. Three-year-old Emma last winter, scarlet-faced and screaming, mittens and boots beating on the snow, because Allen had said no time for a snowman, your mommy is waiting.

  “Who’s coming today, Rosa?” Patty called from the next table. Her lisp was always more noticeable on visiting days.

  Rosa tore her gaze from the empty sidewalk. “Emma and Allen. You?”

  Patty shrugged. “My mom said she’d bring the kids if she could. No promises.”

  “Your sister still making trouble?”

  Patty nodded, pointed out the window.

  The first visitors had appeared on the sidewalk inside the guard gate. No Emma yet. Emma usually led the pack of visitors, skipping ahead of Allen. Most days she was the first person to be checked into the visiting room by the guards, the first child to jump into an inmate’s open arms. Running was forbidden, but the guards responded to Emma’s open face and her knock-knock jokes. They rarely yelled at her to slow down.

  There she was now, tugging at Allen’s arm to make him walk faster. Her jacket flapped open in the November wind. Why didn’t Allen make sure it was zipped up? When they got alongside the window, Emma turned and waved with both arms, jumping up and down. Allen waved too, then he took Emma’s hand and led her toward the door. Emma kept waving, walking backwards.

  Rosa swallowed hard and turned to the doorway where her family would appear. First they’d give their names at the main gate to make sure they were on the approved list. Then, a second name check, bag inspection, and interrogation at the inner gate. Finally, the guards at the visiting room door. Mac was on duty, Emma’s favorite. The girl jiggled with impatience while he checked their names off on his clipboard.

  “I’ve got one,” she told Mac. “Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Police.”

  “Police who?”

  “Police let me in. It’s cold out here.” Emma giggled.

  “Good one,” Mac said with a laugh. “My turn. Knock, knock.”

  “Who’s there?”

  “Dewey.”

  “Dewey who?”

  “Dewey have to keep telling these awful knock knock jokes?” Mac grinned at her, nodded to Allen, and passed them both into the visiting room.

  Emma ran from the entrance to the red line painted on the floor. The line barricaded prisoners from the door, from the visitors’ bathrooms, from the vending machines. She launched herself into the air and into Rosa’s arms.

  If Rosa could get through the first hug, she usually did okay. But some days she couldn’t bear the heaviness in her arms, so profoundly missing from her days. On some visits, that weight evoked a half-moan, a small sob, despite her best efforts at self-control. Any little exhalation of joy and loss could be a trigger. Visits could be excruciating in their sweetness. Allen claimed he could tell by the first minutes how difficult it would be. “Be strong for Emma,” he whispered as he hugged Rosa on those precarious Sundays.

  Each visitor was allowed one embrace at the beginning of the visit, and another to say goodbye. That was the rule, although some guards were more lenient with kids. When Mac was on duty, Emma was allowed to snuggle on Rosa’s lap for the whole two hours. King George enforced regulations to the letter. Stan the Man went out of his way to hassle Rosa. One time he cut her visit short for “excessive physical contact,” and his sharp whisper of “commie bitch” pursued her down the hallway to her unit.

  Patty had done time in California prisons and swore things were so lax there that the visiting rooms stank of semen. But in northern Michigan, a prisoner never touched flesh or money. Never crossed the red line. Never used the vending machine. Never peed in the visitor’s bathroom. Never, ever left the line of sight of the guards. Not even Mac. Rosa could live with the rules. But sometimes it was almost more than she could endure to cuddle with Emma, to lean for a moment against Allen’s bulk, shoulders speaking everything that tongues and breasts yearned to say.

  Allen touched her hand briefly under the table. “How’re you doing?”

  “The same. Not too bad. You?”

  “Okay.”

  “Anything new?” Rosa rested her cheek lightly on Emma’s head.

  “Good news today,” Allen said. “Maggie took a job as camp nurse at Loon Lake for the summer. She can bring Emma.”

  Rosa stared at Allen. “They’ll let her do that, even though Emma’s not her kid?”

  “An exception. Because it’s you.
”

  “Play with me, Mama.” Emma put both hands on Rosa’s cheeks, pulling her mother’s face close to her own.

  Rosa blew a raspberry into Emma’s neck, making her laugh. “Cat’s Cradle?”

  “Me first.” Emma pulled a long string from the front pocket of her pink backpack and looped it around her hands. Her stubby fingers fumbled as she constructed the Cradle.

  Rosa’s throat swelled and ached. Emma at camp—that was amazing. She turned to Allen. “But camp pays peanuts. How can Maggie swing it?”

  Emma squirmed sideways on Rosa’s lap, held the Cradle out for her mother. “Your turn.”

  Rosa grasped the two crossed strings between thumbs and pointer fingers, and pulled them apart, under and up through the middle of the Cradle.

  “Soldier’s Bed,” Emma announced. “Why’s it called that?”

  “Because it looks like a cross on a coffin.” Allen turned to Rosa. “Maggie’s been working graveyard shift and saving the differential. I’ll make up the difference in salary. It’s worth every penny. Emma will love it.”

  “I love it. Maggie’s so great. Your turn, Emma.”

  Rosa watched Emma fumble with the narrow crisscrossed string triangles. The next figure was tricky. With a flourish the girl lifted the crossed strings, pulled them up and away from the center, and scooped under the side strings to make the Candles.

  “Maggie says she’ll do this until Emma’s old enough to be a regular camper,” Allen said. “Then she plans to move south to work in an abortion clinic. She says that’s the frontline of women’s health.”

  “Thank her for me. A big hug, okay?” Rosa quickly configured the Manger, then held her hands out to Emma.

  “Yeah. Listen, there’s other news.” Allen lowered his voice to a whisper. “Nothing concrete, but there’ve been rumors about COINTELPRO being involved with your case.”

  “The Feds? Involved how?”

  “Seems that in addition to the Black Panthers, they targeted new left groups in the late sixties,” Allen said.

  “Like us.”

  “Yeah. Like I said, the rumors have been around for a while. But apparently now there’s evidence in some files liberated from the FBI field office in Pennsylvania. And I hear they’re pretty damning.”

  “I can’t do this,” Emma whined. “It’s too hard.” She shook her hands, tangled up in the string, and her bottom lip started to quiver.

  Allen leaned over and unwound the string from Emma’s fingers. He scrunched it into a ball and unzipped her backpack. “It’s okay. Let’s play something else. Magic markers?”

  “Let’s try this again.” Rosa pried open his fist and took the string, then re-made the opening moves and extended the Cradle toward Emma. “You can do it.”

  Emma looked at the string cradle, then at the markers on the table. She leaned back against Rosa’s chest and stuck her fingers in her mouth.

  Rocking forward and back in the metal chair, Rosa buried her face in Emma’s hair, sniffed the spicy scent of her daughter’s scalp.

  “Anyway,” Allen said. “Seems like Hoover’s FBI henchmen did more than spying and disrupting meetings of left-wing groups. There’s evidence they manipulated the justice system to get activists off the street. False charges, perjured testimony, wrongful imprisonment. Sound familiar?”

  “The Lansing bombing?”

  Allen grinned. “Could be. Don’t hold your breath though. This could take years to sort out. Senator Church is talking about a Congressional investigation, with subpoena power.”

  She shouldn’t get her hopes up, Rosa knew that, but it would be hard not to. And damn those bastards. Their trumped-up lies about the Lansing bombing on top of the legitimate charges—well, they weren’t legitimate, but they were her actions—bought her a fifteen-year sentence. And of course she made it worse, running out on her first trial. She’d probably have to serve ten or eleven, maybe more if the parole board was right-wing. Emma would be halfway grown when she got out. Every night she chewed on the hard crust of her decisions.

  The sound of sobbing from Patty’s table drew Rosa’s attention. No kids today. Patty’s weeping overpowered her mother’s consoling tones.

  “I have some news of my own.” Rosa stroked Emma’s hair, wrapped a curl around her finger. “I got assigned a new job. You’ll never guess.”

  “I give up,” Allen said.

  “The prison laundry. Can you believe it?”

  In their old life, eons ago, laundry had been an ongoing battleground. Rosa had first urged Allen to help, then demanded it. She knew he believed in his heart that they should share the chores, but with his long work hours, he rarely found the time to cook or clean. When she did persuade him to go with her to the Laundromat, he would sit on one of the metal chairs lined up along the front window, scribbling notes on a legal pad with the edges curling up in the muggy air. One winter day six months before her arrest, folding blue jeans and T-shirts at the Formica table, Rosa told him that the Laundromat visit was really a Women’s Liberation organizing project. She made up slogans and chanted them until Allen finally put down the yellow pad and helped her fold.

  Allen smiled at her across the visiting room table. “Seize the Tide,” he whispered.

  “Fuck the detergent; become an insurgent,” she answered.

  “Put down the basinet; pick up the bayonet,” they chanted together.

  CHAPTER 25

  Rosa

  Rosa surveyed the prison classroom: scarred wooden desks bolted to the floor. Fourteen women bent over their books and papers, relieved that the reading aloud portion of the class was over. Her students’ reading levels ranged from not-at-all to almost-ready-for-the-GED. She straightened the stack of books on her desk, mulling over the right book assignment for each student. She switched two scrap paper bookmarks labeled with students’ names. Saralynn needed the larger print more than Adina.

  It had taken years of work to make the class happen. Even after the prison warden agreed in principle, Rosa had to swear she wouldn’t talk politics, just basic reading skills. Then the warden had refused to allow inmates to take any books to their cells. That policy took months to reverse. The next hurdle was the prison library, barely adequate for basic reference, and totally unprepared to meet these women’s need for books with grade-school language and adult content. Allen’s office spearheaded a book collection, and his secretary hit the jackpot with a series of comic books written for teenage girls.

  Her students’ attitudes varied too, from belligerent to fearful to simply ashamed, their emotions written in their body language. Lorraine’s feet were contorted, twisted around the metal desk legs. Saralynn’s nose almost touched the brightly-colored page of her comic book, but she refused to wear her glasses. Fitzy hunched over, making herself as small as possible while she chewed on her pencil and looked out the barred window at the winter sky.

  Patty raised her hand and Rosa walked to her front row seat. Patty pointed to the page. “I don’t know this word.”

  “Conscience.”

  Patty frowned and turned the book face down on the desk. “I’m so stupid. I have to look up half the words I read.”

  “You’re anything but stupid, Patty. To Kill a Mockingbird isn’t an easy book. Give yourself a break.”

  Lorraine made a derisive snort, loud in the cement-walled classroom. “What? Teacher’s pet doesn’t know a word?” She untangled her legs from the desk supports and stood to face the class.

  “That’s enough, Lorraine,” Rosa said. “We respect each other in this room.”

  “Do we, Teach? Or do you respect some more than others? And the word is ‘conscience’—how ironic is that? Professor More-Ethical-Than-Anyone-Else has failed in her attempt to rescue the masses from our ignorance and wrong-thinking.”

  Rosa never knew how to handle student attacks. Before prison, she would have immediately struck back, but in this place even she could read the potential for danger in that kind of response. The last time a stude
nt lashed out at her for her politics, she mentioned it to Allen. He recommended ignoring the behavior. Everyone’s stressed and angry, he’d said. It’s not really about you.

  But it was about her. Rosa knew that some of the students resented her and disrespected her politics. They said she brought her conviction on herself like some kind of martyr. And in this place, without her community of friends, it was hard not to wonder sometimes if they were right.

  But how to answer Lorraine? Gently. “If you’d like to talk with me about this in private, I’d be happy to do that.”

  Lorraine sneered and sauntered to the door, leaving her book spread open on the desk.

  Saralynn pointed to the caged clock on the wall. “Time’s up, Teach.”

  “Okay.” Rosa walked back to her desk. “Before you leave, come pick up your book for next week.”

  Twenty minutes later, Rosa slid her tray down the metal table and sat next to Patty. The dining hall was buzzing with arguments about which of the two prisoners caught fighting in the shower room that morning had more reason to be pissed off. Most inmates thought Sister Star was justified, and besides, her arm was broken and in a cast. But no one wanted Crazy Nan angry at them, and she’d be even meaner after two weeks of solitary.

  Patty grimaced. “The stew is particularly tasty tonight.”

  “Another Julia Child recipe?” Rosa poked the turgid gray liquid with her fork. “I see two carrots, half a celery stalk, a sliver of onion, and chunks of unidentifiable dead flesh.” She glanced at Patty. “By the way, your reading aloud was great in class today.”

  Patty looked down. “Thanks,” she mumbled.