Bitter Bronx by Jerome Charyn Page B

stubborn as Little Sister.
    â€œThen I guess I’ll have a very long wait. And even if my father has paid Bunny’s upkeep for the rest of her natural life, I’ll dig right into his estate and ask to have that money returned. So you may have a pauper on your hands.”
    The nurses whispered among themselves, and then Bunny appeared. She had broad shoulders, looked like a man. Marla could sense the rage in her. Perhaps Lollie hadn’t made up that tale about Little Sister trying to smother her with a pillow.
    Something was wrong with Bunny’s eyes. They seemed to wander even as they took Marla in. There was a pulse between her eyebrows, like some strange target. Marla wasn’t sure how to introduce herself.
    â€œI’m your sister,” she said.
    â€œI don’t remember you,” Bunny said. Her voice wasn’t tentative. But it didn’t have the lilt of Manhattan. Marla couldn’t trace the accent. Little Sister could have been the soprano of Rhineland Manor and the Bronx Botanical Garden.
    â€œBut Daddy visited you every other week. He must have told you about . . .”
    Marla couldn’t even finish her sentence. Mortimer had told Little Sister nothing about the Silks.
    Bunny smiled. “He called himself Uncle Mort. He took me on excursions . . . and he paid for all my tutors. I couldn’t sit in a classroom with other kids. No school would have me. I destroyed the first classroom I was in. Ripped out every seat. . . . Why the hell are you here?”
    â€œBunny, I found—”
    â€œDon’t call me that,” Little Sister said. Her eyes had a yellow gleam. The smile was gone, replaced by a wolf’s grin. “That’s for my friends. Uncle called me Irene. You know, from that song, ‘Goodnight, Irene.’ He sang it to me all the time, said he’d see me in his dreams.”
    Marla was filled with her own rage, not against Little Sister, but against Mortimer, who hadn’t serenaded her once.
    â€œAnd he cried a lot, said he couldn’t take me with him, because no insurance policy in the whole world could guard against a danger like me.”
    â€œDaddy didn’t say that.”
    â€œYes, he did,” Bunny said, smiling again. The dentists around Rhineland Manor couldn’t have been so perfect—she had missing teeth. And then her accent started to crumble; she sounded like the gang leader of some housing project in the neighborhood. “Listen, girl, I’m not that stupid. I’m in this dump because of you. I’ll rip your tits out, like the sockets on a chair.”
    Two male nurses arrived and led Bunny upstairs to the living quarters, while Marla was summoned to the directress’s office, where a certain Mrs. Mahler was waiting. The directress seemed about fifty. She served Marla coffee in a beautiful cup.
    â€œI suppose I’m a pain in the ass,” Marla said. “An intruder.”
    â€œNot at all,” Mrs. Mahler said. “It happens all the time. A relative hidden away, not entirely for medical reasons. No one’s under lock and key.”
    â€œBut I thought my sister was violent. Didn’t she tear up her own school?”
    â€œShe had a tantrum. But we kept a nurse in the class, you see. And your father chose a better arrangement. He hired a bunch of sophomores from Fordham University. It was quite convenient. Fordham’s ten blocks away. The students liked to come here, and your sister received a fine education.”
    â€œDid my father pick the tutors himself?”
    â€œIndeed. Often he was here every other day.”
    Marla couldn’t hide the shudder that leapt right through her. Every other day. She had to keep herself from asking if Daddy had his own bed at this mansion. She took out her checkbook and began to scribble a check. Mrs. Mahler seemed perplexed.
    â€œWe can’t accept money from you, Mrs. Silk.”
    â€œA few extras,” Marla said.