Her Sister's Tattoo

by Ellen Meeropol

  “I mean it,” Rosa said. “You’re smart and you learn fast.”

  Patty stirred her stew. “Smart? I barely finished fifth grade. Couldn’t even figure out that the word was ‘conscience.’ That’s pathetic.”

  “From fifth grade to Mockingbird in six weeks, Patty? That’s amazing. You’re my star pupil.”

  Patty didn’t answer. Rosa dipped her spoon into the broth. Over-thickened with flour again. Maybe it filled the belly, but it tasted like paste.

  “You are smart. You can get your GED, maybe even go to college.” Rosa glanced at Patty again. Perhaps she had better back off. Sometimes Patty got so embarrassed by praise that she avoided Rosa for days.

  But today Patty looked pleased. “I love reading. I love class. I only wish it could be every day instead of once a week.”

  “Me too,” Rosa said. “Except I’m not sure I could take Lorraine every day.”

  “She’s a miserable bitch. Just trying to make trouble. Ignore her.” Patty smiled.

  Rosa couldn’t completely forget about Lorraine, but when Patty smiled, she looked so much like Maggie. The way the tip of her tongue peeked out between the top and bottom rows of teeth. “Sometimes you remind me of my best friend at home,” Rosa said.

  “What’s her name?”

  “Maggie. She’s a nurse.”

  “She smart like you?”

  “Much smarter. She moved down to Georgia a couple of years ago to work in a women’s health clinic. There’s only one doctor in the whole state who will do abortions, and he can only give them two days a month. So Maggie plans to go back to school to become a PA and learn to perform abortions.”

  Patty stared into her lap. “I don’t believe in abortion. My kids keep me going.”

  Rosa chewed. Most likely beef, based more on the gristle than the flavor. Even though she and Patty disagreed about most issues, it didn’t tarnish their friendship. Like the war—Patty refused to talk about it, saying that her brother had never been the same since returning from Vietnam. Patty blamed his misery on the anti-war movement.

  “What’s happening with your kids?” Rosa asked.

  “My mom still has them, but my bitch of a sister has filed for custody. Claims she’ll be a better mother. I’ll kill her before I let her have my babies. She’d raise them to look down on me.” Patty dipped her bread into the thick broth, bit off the soppy end. “Mom says she’ll bring the kids this weekend. Tommy’s having trouble with math and Mom says he misses me awful bad.” She bit her lip.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Are Allen and Emma coming?”

  Rosa shook her head. “They’re spending the weekend in New York. Emma has a reunion for her summer camp. Allen is talking about moving to Manhattan.” What would that mean for her stuck in northern Michigan, Rosa wondered, then pushed the thought away. “Maggie said she’d come, though, so I won’t be lonely.”

  Maggie opened her arms and Rosa fell into her friend’s hug. Suddenly it was okay that Emma chose her camp friends over her mom this one time. The girl was almost ten. It was good she had friends and fun things to do. Maggie and Rosa sat close together at Rosa’s favorite table in the back corner of the visiting room.

  “Get up.” Sister Star loomed over their table, flanked by her two buddies, rumored to be the meanest women inside. The plaster cast on Star’s right arm was thick with scrawled signatures and drawings. “I want this table.”

  Rosa hesitated.

  “Didn’t you hear the sister, commie girl?” Wolf-woman took a step toward the table. “Unless you want trouble, you and your butch girlfriend better move now.”

  Maggie stood up, took Rosa’s arm. “We’re leaving.”

  There were no empty tables left, so Rosa and Maggie leaned against the far wall.

  “Hey,” Maggie said. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Hey yourself.” Rosa rubbed the stubble on Maggie’s head. “Those thugs—thugesses?—are right. You look more dyke every time I see you.”

  “Enjoy it while you can,” Maggie said. “I’ll have to grow my hair out for school. I hear Alabama might be even more homophobic than Georgia.”

  “When do you start?”

  “May 1. It’s two full years, including summers.” Maggie leaned down to scoop up a baseball cap that frisbeed across the room, followed by a small boy.

  “Hiya, Tommy.” Rosa took the cap from Maggie and put it on the boy’s head, pulling the visor down over his eyes. Tommy quickly turned it backwards. A tuft of black hair stuck out over the Velcro strap.

  “Thanks, Miz Levin.” He raced back to Patty.

  Rosa waved at Patty. She pointed to Maggie and mouthed her name across the noisy room. Patty waved back and hugged Tommy.

  “It means missing camp this summer,” Maggie said. “But Emma doesn’t need me anymore. She’s totally comfortable there.”

  “Allen said she was so psyched about this reunion that she’s ignoring the fact that he’ll be job hunting.”

  “What about you?” Maggie asked. “Are you ignoring it too?”

  “Kind of. We always dreamed of moving to New York City. But I thought I’d be going too.”

  “It’ll be hard for them to visit so often.”

  “I’m definitely ignoring that part.”

  “That reminds me,” Maggie said, pulling a photo from her pocket. “Emma asked me to give you this. Our team is five and zero and Emma is a pretty good third baseman.”

  In the photo, Emma and Maggie stood arm in arm in front of a scoreboard and wire cage in their matching team uniforms.

  “Thanks.” Rosa took the picture. She couldn’t think of anything clever to say, something appreciative and funny.

  Maggie leaned closer, lowered her voice. “Allen has some news too, that he can’t put in a letter. Has he mentioned the investigation into COINTELPRO violations in Michigan?”

  Rosa nodded. “Years ago. But every time I ask him what’s going on, he changes the subject. What’s the story?”

  “The Church Committee reports included a reference to the federal agents who testified against you. When they were subpoenaed for the state hearings, they admitted they lied.”

  “We knew that,” Rosa said.

  “Now everyone knows it. And there’s more. Seems like DA Turner orchestrated the perjury, along with his pal on the Detroit Red Squad.”

  “Slimy bastard. I’m glad it’s out in the open now, but what good does it do me?”

  Maggie grinned. “You might get out of here sooner.”

  “I wouldn’t argue with that.”

  “One more thing.” Maggie turned her head slightly away.

  “What’s that?” Rosa asked. Why was Maggie uncomfortable?

  “The agents? They testified that the reason they lied about you and the bombing was . . . well, it was because of Allen.”

  “Allen?”

  “Yeah, their target was actually the National Lawyers Guild.”

  “What?”

  “Remember, Allen was chapter president that year. The meetings were held in your apartment.” Maggie put her arm around Rosa’s shoulders. “If you believe those turkeys, they framed you to discredit Allen. They’ve been gunning for the Guild for years, trying to prove they’re commies. It wasn’t personal.”

  Not personal? Her cell felt particularly cold and lonely that evening, with only rumors and suspicions for company. Ignoring the ache in her hips, Rosa paced back and forth, then around in circles. She refused to let herself get hopeful about the possibility of early release. And what did it mean that the Feds had been going after Allen? She was just some kind of collateral damage? Why didn’t Allen come and tell her the COINTELPRO news himself? Well, she could answer that. He felt responsible, guilty that she was paying for his activism.

  She wasn’t going to think about that. Or let herself prematurely mourn Allen and Emma’s possible move to New York. Maybe none of it would happen. Instead she’d think about how good Maggie was, how lucky she was to have a friend like
her. Soon even those thoughts turned sour, as she pictured Maggie and Emma on the mother-daughter softball team. It wasn’t fair that Maggie got to mother her daughter.

  Rosa groaned and collapsed onto the thin mattress. This place was toxic, poisoning everything that was good in her life. Had been good. Things used to be good, when she was little, and her parents knew everything, and Esther looked up to her. Esther had always been quick to see the absurdity in any situation, and Rosa often had to remind her to get serious. Like the story of how Grandma Leah converted the family outhouse into a clandestine print shop and published anti-government pamphlets there. Esther loved that part and would ask Grandma Leah, “Did it stink in there? Wasn’t it convenient, when you had to go?” Rosa loved the story too, even though it ended with Leah beaten and exiled before escaping to America. Even without the drama of her escape, Rosa had always felt a strong connection with her grandmother. Partly it was because Leah so often tempered Mama’s exasperation with her older daughter.

  “No, she’s not stubborn,” Leah would correct Mama’s complaints after observing one of their frequent mother-daughter battles. “Rosa is resolute, independent.” Rosa’s earliest memories were of Mama yanking the knots from her red curls while lamenting that Leah’s flaming snarls were reincarnated in Rosa.

  “Who needs hair like this?” Mama would complain. “It goes with the personality. Heaven help us.” Rosa was never sure if Mama was more upset about the hair or the temperament. She couldn’t help wishing that her Emma had inherited the unruly red curls along with the determination. Of course, some might argue that Leah’s temperament in Rosa’s body had been disastrous. Look where she ended up. Even Lorraine, a total loser serving her third sentence for possession and distribution, saw right through her. Professor More-Ethical-Than-Any-one-Else. Maybe she wasn’t cut out for teaching.

  Rosa leaned back against the damp wall. Maybe she could finally write to Esther. She opened her notebook.

  I’ve been writing you this letter in my head for years. I know I said some awful things to you. I doubt that you’ve forgotten what I wrote after my first trial, more than ten years ago. I know I haven’t.

  Don’t think I’ve forgiven you. No way. What you did was unforgivable. But I think about you a lot. I’m not really sure why I’m writing you. Of course there’s the obvious reason. I will get out of here some day, maybe sooner rather than later. I suppose at some point I have to decide if I want to ever see you again.

  Sometimes I feel like there’s not much left in me. I have arthritis. On days like today it’s pretty crippling. The prison doc tells me it’s an autoimmune disease. That for some reason my body is attacking itself. That’s bull. It’s from living in a damp cell.

  The other thing is that I’m scared. I don’t know what I’ll do outside. For work. For politics. What happens if Allen and Emma move to New York and leave me behind?

  Then there’s you. I don’t know what to do about you . . . I can feel my anger softening. Melting away. But who would I be without my anger? One thing I do know: I’ll never mail this letter.

  Rosa put down the pen and closed her eyes. She remembered the evening she and Esther promised to grow old together. Rosa had been brushing their grandmother’s long hair. It was pewter gray, still thick. Leah kept saying, “Enough, enough, you spoil an old woman,” but she leaned her head back and closed her eyes into slits like a cat, and rocked with the force of the brushing. Rosa told Leah this was payback, for all the times Leah had brushed her hair.

  Esther had leaned close and swished the wispy silver ends of Leah’s hair back and forth against her lips. She made Rosa promise that when they got old, they would both have long gray braids down their backs. They would move to New York City and live in the Village, a couple of blocks apart, each with a succession of passionate lovers who were revolutionaries and artists and they would each have a bunch of love babies. They would see each other every day.

  The corridor lights flickered off and on, off and on. Ten minutes until lights out. The day’s final roll call would soon begin. Rosa closed the notebook and slipped it under the student papers ready to return at the next class. She lay on the thin mattress.

  Really? New York City? Without her?

  CHAPTER 26

  Esther

  At the squeal of the school bus brakes, Esther closed her notebook. She’d find time after dinner to finish her lesson plans. Teaching was more challenging than she expected, especially helping her students to make artistic connections between their academic subjects and the natural world. By the time she opened the front door, Oliver was flying down the driveway, unzipped jacket flapping like the gawky wings of a fledgling, backpack dragging, and gravel spraying behind his sneakers.

  “Stop kicking rocks at me.” Molly trailed behind her brother.

  “Careful,” Esther called to him. “And watch your pack.”

  Oliver hugged the backpack to his chest, making his running gait even more ungainly. Esther knew how much he treasured the steel gray pack, new in September for kindergarten. Like the big kids’; no more Cookie Monster or Flintstones.

  Esther caught the backpack he tossed at her as he darted into the house.

  “I’ve got something so cool to show you, Esther,” Molly said.

  Esther still felt a tingle of joy every time Molly or Oliver called her by her given name. She and Jake had always encouraged it, hoping it would breed respect for each person in the family as an individual, not just a role. Her women’s group back in Detroit had argued the issue for weeks without coming to a conclusion, but it felt right, even though whenever her children were upset or unhappy the names Mommy and Daddy magically reappeared. Esther stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at the front yard. Thanksgiving was still two weeks away, but already the leaves were brown crisps blowing across the front yard. Following her children into the kitchen, she wondered how Rosa’s daughter addressed her mom.

  Oliver teetered on a kitchen chair pulled up to the counter, grabbing peanut butter and graham crackers from the cupboard. Esther helped him climb down, took two glasses from the dish drainer, and poured milk. When she turned back to the table, Oliver was licking peanut butter off his fingers.

  Molly stood at the table holding an origami crane in each hand. “Look what I made today for our unit on Japan. Mrs. Sullivan showed us a movie about Sadako. She was this girl my age who got leukemia from the bomb we dropped on her city.”

  Esther caught her breath. Her head spun and her vision blurred. She managed to put the glasses on the table and sit down without spilling the milk.

  Molly flew the sparkly green crane in front of Esther’s face. “There was a legend that if she folded a thousand origami cranes, she’d get better.”

  “Mommy?” Oliver’s voice sounded far away.

  “But she died before she could finish. It really happened. Mrs. Sullivan said there’s even a book about it. Could we go to the library right now and get the book? Please?”

  Oliver climbed into Esther’s lap and captured her face between his hands, sticky with peanut butter. “Mommy?”

  “I’m okay, sweetie.” Esther turned to Molly. “You surprised me, that’s all. I heard about Sadako when I was your age. At summer camp. There was no book yet, but my counselor told us the story.”

  Oliver sucked peanut butter from his pinkie. “You went to camp?”

  “Can we get the book today?” Molly asked. “I want to do a book report on it. And some origami paper too, okay?”

  Esther leaned back against the hard kitchen chair. Could Molly possibly remember the origami cranes mobile that once hung over her crib, the mobile that somehow got lost in the move to Massachusetts? It made Esther dizzy to think that Molly had inherited Esther’s fascination for Sadako’s story, along with her DNA and artistic talent.

  Oliver’s voice dragged her back to the kitchen. “I want to go to camp.”

  “You’re too young,” Esther said. What about Molly, though? Might be more exciting than
hanging around this backwater every summer. “Maybe you’d like to go to sleep-away camp this summer, Mol?”

  “I’d rather take horseback riding lessons. Rachel’s mom found a place and we could go together.”

  “You know what Jake says. It’s—”

  Oliver finished her sentence, “—too dangerous.”

  “Jake thinks everything’s too dangerous. Rachel’s parents let her ride.” Molly rubbed her fingernail along the crane’s wing fold. “Can we go to the library now? I want to keep this book forever.”

  “Homework first,” Esther said. “Then we’ll think about it.”

  “It’s Friday. I’ve got all weekend for homework.” Molly put her arms around Esther’s neck. “Can we please go now?”

  Late Sunday afternoon, Esther sat at her desk in the alcove off the kitchen. Jake insisted on a late season meal of chicken grilled on the patio, and was trying to convince the charcoal. She reached into the bottom drawer for the red box. She liked to display Rosa’s photo when she wrote, but there wasn’t enough privacy. Mustard scratched at the chair and meowed, so Esther scooped up the yellow cat, unable to jump lap-high anymore. She stroked the silkiness of his abundant belly and opened her notebook to a fresh page. Dear Rosa, she began.

  The strangest thing happened on Friday with Molly. She came home from school with origami cranes. I almost fainted. Her teacher told the class the story of Sadako and taught them how to fold them. Molly made cranes all weekend. She used up the package of origami paper, and kept going—using scraps of wrapping paper, newspaper, even tried to make one out of toilet paper.

  She looks so much like you with that red hair, springy curls with energy to spare. She loves to paint, but insists she’s no good. Of course, who am I to talk? I haven’t made art in years. It’s too mixed up in the arrest and what happened to us afterwards. Still, I felt bad a few weeks ago when Molly quit her painting class.

  The night after Molly made that announcement, Jake and Esther were lying in bed, talking over the day’s dribs and drabs. Esther mentioned Molly’s decision.