All of Us (ARC) Read online

  “You’re not supposed to touch me.”

  “I know, honey, I know. We’ve had some hard times, the

  two of us, and they took you away from your daddy. But you

  were always a good girl.”

  Then why did you punish me, why, why, why, why, why,

  why . . . I have to ask. I can’t ask. I say, “Yes, Daddy, I was always good.” My insides tighten and twist and I feel the

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  burning pain in my belly. I hear my father asking why I make him do this to his little girl. And me with never an answer.

  Daddy steps back. People are looking at us. He takes my

  arm and leads me past a mummy’s coffin, along a corridor

  to an open court, gigantic, with a glass floor and a window

  instead of a ceiling. I stop when he tugs on my arm and look up to find nothing changed. The body I occupy is still a little girl’s body. Daddy has never been taller or stronger. My will is sucked up inside him. He gives. I receive. For all of my life, I never knew otherwise. I find myself wishing I’d grown up,

  knowing I have to grow up, that my girlhood is over, that it’s finally time.

  “I want you to come to me, little girl. Will you do that?”

  I wonder how he knows it’s me. I wonder if he waited and

  waited, never coming close until he was sure. I wonder what

  he’d say if it were Eleni or Martha. What would he say if he ran into Kirk? Now he speaks to me, only me.

  “I will, Daddy. I’ll come to you.”

  “Let me give you this, to help you remember.” He takes a

  folded piece of yellow paper from his shirt pocket and tucks it into the small purse I carry. “Tonight, baby girl. Be on

  time, okay?”

  “Yes, Daddy.”

  “Good, good.” He smiles and nods as his fingers tighten

  on my arm. Harder and harder, until the tears well up.

  “Because you don’t wanna make Daddy have to find you,

  Carolyn. You really don’t.”

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  KIRK

  The first thing I do when I wake up is exchange the

  bikini panties and short nightgown for a pair of boxers

  emblazoned with prancing horses, well-worn jeans, and a

  Harvard University sweatshirt, sleeveless. I feel good, too

  good, and I wonder what went on last night, what adventure

  left the body fully charged. I get the coffee going, then head for the shower. A waste of time as it turns out. The body’s

  been cleaned, scrubbed, and deodorized. The towel on the

  rack is damp, the washcloth draped over the faucet in the tub is still wet.

  Was Eleni off on one of her adventures last night? The

  thought inspires a series of anatomically incorrect images

  and I’m already thinking about where I want to go this

  morning. I walk to the windows, looking for Hank Grand.

  I’m hoping to encounter our dad somewhere along the line.

  If I do, I’ll find an excuse to cut the prick. That’ll force the cops to take action whether they like it or not.

  But there’s no sign of him and I carry a mug of coffee to

  our one comfortable chair, turn on the TV, and jump from

  NY1 to ESPN. I’m a Yankee fan, and I want to catch up.

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  I’m just settling in when a knock at the front door brings

  me to full attention. I glance at the clock: 9:45.

  “Who is it?”

  “Police. Open the door, please.”

  I bring my eye to the peephole and find two men standing

  back about four feet. The short one looks annoyed, the taller one indifferent. Neither looks like Hank Grand.

  “Show me some ID?”

  That draws a scowl as the short one reaches into a back

  pocket. He’s wearing a limp white shirt embellished with

  oval patches of sweat that extend from his armpits to the top of his swelling gut.

  “Detective Greco.” He flips a billfold open to reveal the

  gold badge carried by New York detectives. “Open the door,

  please.”

  I don’t have a choice here and I know it. But I also want to know why they’re here. More contact with the police? After

  Eleni’s escapade? Yeah, that’ll work.

  I slide the chain off the hook, flip the lock and open the

  door. The second cop steps toward me. He’s holding up his

  own badge, his expression soft, almost regretful.

  “Detective Ortega, may we come in? It’s about your

  father.”

  He glides past me without waiting for an answer, his fat

  partner following. Inside, they position themselves about

  five feet apart.

  “You’re Carolyn Grand, right?” the short one asks.

  “Right.”

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  He takes out a little notebook. “You’ve reported seeing

  your father since he was paroled. Twice, I think.” He pauses to look up at me, like I’m supposed to answer some question

  he didn’t ask. As he waits, his partner’s dark eyes crisscross our apartment.

  “And you’re doing what?” I finally ask. “Following up?”

  “In a manner of speaking, yes. Can you tell me when was

  the last time you saw your father?”

  In fact, I don’t know, not for sure. I’ve been absent for the last three days and have no idea what went on. Still, I have to guess, that or explain the whole multi business and admit that Carolyn Grand is psychotic. “A couple of days ago.”

  “Can you tell me under what circumstances?”

  The tall cop slides away, toward our little table, the one

  covered with the memos we’ve been writing each other. I’m

  instantly pissed off, instantly wary. Whatever the fuckers

  want, it’s far from routine.

  “Hey, Detective Ortega, where are you going? I didn’t—”

  Greco touches my arm and I instinctively turn back to

  him. “We’re here about your father, Ms. Grand. I’m sorry

  for your loss, but I have to tell you that your father is dead.”

  “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m telling you that your father is deceased.”

  From the corner of my eye, I watch the second cop,

  Ortega, standing over the table, reading the memos without

  picking them up. I should complain, but I can’t tear myself

  away from Detective Greco.

  “How?” I ask. “How did he die?”

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  “I’m sorry to tell you this, but he was murdered.”

  Now it falls into place, their attitude, Ortega’s wander-

  ing, the bullshit. In order to find us, they must have spoken to Hank Grand’s parole officer. He would have reported the

  encounters and the nature of the crime that put Hank Grand

  in prison for twenty-seven years.

  “You have to leave,” I said.

  “Don’t you want us to find out who killed your father?”

  “Actually, I don’t give a flying fuck. But even if I did, I

  know nothing about my father’s day-to-day life. I don’t know who he saw or what he did. What I do know, on the other

  hand, is that your partner is searching my apartment with-

&nbs
p; out a fucking warrant. So . . .”

  Clear as a bell, I hear Martha’s voice in my ear. Call the

  lawyer, she tells me. The number’s on the fridge.

  As it turns out, I don’t have to. I tell Ortega that I’m about to phone my lawyer, and he returns to his partner’s side.

  Ortega’s wearing a jacket but still looks cooler than Greco, who wipes his forehead with a damp handkerchief.

  “Take my card, Ms. Grand,” Ortega says. “If you can

  think of anything that might help, I’d appreciate a call. My cell number’s on the back.” He hands me his card and smiles.

  “Oh, before we go, one more thing. Please tell us where you

  were between nine o’clock last night and two this morning?

  For the record.”

  I haven’t any idea, not even a memory of a memory. But

  again, I know I have to answer. “Home, detective. Home

  alone.”

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  I let the two cops out, then almost collapse as the

  implications sink in. Another encounter with the cops, the

  cops obviously including us in their list of suspects, our lives already under the scrutiny of the courts. I walk over to our miniscule dining table and start to examine the memos.

  Most of them I’ve seen, all except for an unfolded sheet of

  yellow paper, maybe six inches square. Across the middle, in block letters: 344 huntington street.rm. 307.

  Shit.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  MARTHA

  We’re celebrating, the whole family except for Tina,

  at Coney Island. I’m nominally in charge, but the

  body’s more or less wandering. The voices running through

  its brain might belong to any family on a summer outing

  and the weather’s perfect. The temperature’s in the low

  eighties, the sun in and out of glowing clouds, and there’s a lush breeze coming off the water. As if, Serena whispers, the universe celebrates with us.

  We listen to the chatter of other sightseers as they pass

  by. The swelling clatter of the roller coasters. The screams of the passengers. The distant pounding of the surf. Yeah,

  we’ve been outcasts for all of our life. Only now, for this brief time, we feel as though we actually belong. Just another city dweller—crazy, true, but ya can’t tell—enjoying a summer

  day at the beach.

  Eleni teases me as we go. Indicating this or that young

  woman, suggesting I move on her.

  “Take it from the voice of experience, you approach

  enough girls, one of them will say yes.”

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  “And that would be you, Eleni,” Kirk jumps in. “The one

  they finally got to after everyone else said no.”

  Eleni laughs. “Better late than never.”

  Serena has been mostly quiet, but I can feel her breath in

  my ear. Nobody wants to hear a new-age rant, but I’m glad

  she’s here. Hank Grand’s haunted us for thirty-seven years

  and now his spirit’s burning in hell. We know that his plea, the one Halberstam read to Martha, was pure bullshit. Did

  he hope to lure us in when he wrote it? Or was it meant only for his parole officer? The only thing I’m sure about is that contrition is an emotion Hank Grand never felt. Maybe he

  faked it well enough to fool his parole officer, but a sadist is a sadist and our daddy was addicted to pain. Not his own, of course.

  So, if anyone on this planet has a right to be happy, it’s definitely my psycho family: Victoria, Serena, Eleni, Kirk and

  Tina. We’ve fought battle after battle in what amounts to

  a war for survival. The years of therapy definitely provided insight. But they did not provide the tools we needed to fix the broken parts. We had to find those tools on our own.

  We’re still looking.

  Bottom line, our joys will always be as temporary as

  our individual lives. Better take them while we can because

  there’s a dark side to Hank Grand’s termination. A truck on a one-lane road coming right for us. Dodge right? Dodge left?

  Make a mistake and we’re roadkill.

  Kirk loves crime shows and crime fiction, which he reads

  online. Homicide cops, he was eager to explain, focus on

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  three items when they investigate a murder: means, motive,

  and opportunity. We have a pair of undeniable motives:

  revenge and self-preservation. We had opportunity as well,

  which the cops already know if Ortega read the address

  on the table. As for the means, if any of us knows how our

  father was killed, she or he isn’t ready to admit it. Each of us claims innocence. That proves exactly nothing, of course,

  not even to Serena. But I will say this in our defense. Kirk went through the apartment after the cops left, searching

  for bloodstains. He examined every item of clothing, dirty

  or clean, but found nothing.

  Unfortunately, we can’t bring ourselves to believe that

  innocence will protect us. We can’t because we know the

  court will never end our medical supervision as long as the

  cops suspect us. And if we’re arrested? If we’re charged, even if we’re acquitted, we can look forward to long-term confinement in a mental hospital. The medical board deciding

  our fate doesn’t require proof beyond a reasonable doubt.

  There’s no jury, either, to make the final decision. Only a

  panel of doctors and career bureaucrats assigned to judge

  whether or not we present a danger to ourselves or society

  or their immediate interests. An arrest would pretty much

  conclude the debate. So, we believe, all of us.

  It’s the end of the month and we’re almost broke. I’ve got $20

  in the pocket of my respectable shorts and a MetroCard with

  three rides on it. Enough to get home and to keep our next

  appointment with Halberstam. Kirk and Eleni have their

  hearts set on one of the roller coasters, the Cyclone or the 118

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  Thunderbolt. Unfortunately, both are in Luna Park where

  the most basic admission is $22. So, that’s not happening and we settle for a ride on the Wonder Wheel, a Ferris wheel

  with cars on tracks that slide across the face of the wheel.

  The view from the top across the Brooklyn flatlands is

  stupendous, the sudden shifts sufficiently alarming to coax

  a squeal from Eleni. But it’s over soon enough. We head for

  Nathan’s and its famous hotdogs, detouring to the water’s

  edge for a barefoot walk in the foam. As we go along, I sense our brief escape fading away. Dr. Halberstam’s receptionist

  seals the deal when she calls to tell us our appointment has been moved up. The doctor will see us tomorrow at nine

  o’clock.

  We’re a lot more sober as we eat our hotdogs, as we drink

  our soda. We’re standing at the edge of the boardwalk, look-

  ing out over the sand at the ocean beyond. But it’s not the

  ocean, Victoria corrects. We’re looking at the waters of the lower bay. The Atlantic Ocean begins on the other side of

  the Rockaways.

  Without warning, we begin to squabble. As much as Ser-

&n
bsp; ena’s spiritual diatribes repel me, Victoria’s college-acquired knowledge repels Kirk and Eleni. And they’re not shy about

  letting her know it. Voices swirl about each other for a

  moment, unintelligible, chaotic. I bring my hand to my ears, the gesture as futile as it is stupid. Eleni’s now demanding possession of our body. She claims she’ll treat it to a final celebration a lot more celebratory than riding a Ferris wheel.

  I object. Victoria objects. Don’t we have enough prob-

  lems already? Kirk demands his own turn, claiming he’s

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  been denied his fair share for so long he sometimes forgets

  that he exists. Our voices rise in intensity and the adrenalin begins to flow. I have no authority here, my voice one of

  many, my control an illusion. I know it, they know it. Then, in an instant, I’m gone.

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  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  SERENA

  I flow through New York’s underground bloodstream,

  the arteries, veins, and capillaries that transport the

  city’s basic energy: steam and water and sewage, TV signals

  through cable and fiber optic lines, electricity, telephone, and enough natural gas to cook millions of family dinners.

  Water pours first through twenty-foot tunnels, is stepped

  down from main to main, finally emerges drop by drop

  from a showerhead to run into drains, to collect in pipes,

  rushing faster and faster, to sewage treatment plants or into the rivers. I flow now through an artery that transports

  human energy, a crowded subway train, human on human,

  male and female, old and young, black, white, and brown,

  predator and prey, eyes averted, always in a hurry, carry me forward.

  Humans flow, flow both ways, in and out at every stop,

  I’ve got a seat and can afford to watch, to practice the art of seeing without looking, privacy in public. At the other end

  of the car a tall heavy man hangs on to the pole with both

  hands as he makes his passionate pleading case, as he begs to finally be understood. Alone, shunned, no fellow passenger

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  within ten feet, his appeals fall on deaf ears. And yet he, too, flows.

  A woman boards at Prospect Avenue pushing a double

  stroller, both seats occupied by toddlers barely out of infancy, a third child trailing behind clutches her belt. Very short, less than five feet tall with a long oval face and aquiline nose, the woman forces her way onto the crowded car, other passengers resenting the intrusion, the stroller, the demand for space. The woman’s mouth is set, though her dark eyes are