The Murderer's Daughters by Randy Susan Meyers Page A

any trouble from you girls,” Cousin Budgie added, not even bothering to look at us. She glanced at the limousine driver as though worried what he thought. I stuck my tongue out at her back, not caring if the driver saw.
    Merry and I were the murderer’s girls to them. Just like we were to the old ladies at the funeral home.
    The limousine pulled into the cemetery. There were even fewer people here than at the funeral home. Grandma’s old-lady friends had made a million excuses as to why they weren’t coming.
It’s too cold. My feet are killing me. The worst dampness is in March.
    I hoped Grandma couldn’t look down and see that hardly anyone would watch her get buried. Five counting the rabbi, but he didn’t have much choice. It was his job.
    The limousine slowed beside a greenish iron gate woven with Jewish stars and scrolls. We turned in to the cemetery and bounced slowly down a narrow road lined with headstones, some clustered together, some all alone.
    “You wouldn’t know it,” Uncle Irving said as we drove, “but when we bought the family plot, everyone was closer than a box of crackers.”
    We turned left on Jerusalem Road, driving until the path stopped. The hearse parked, and then we parked. Next, we had to bury Grandma.
    “Put on your gloves,” I ordered Merry. I pulled on my own clumsy wool mittens, shivering as Uncle Irving opened the heavy limousine door and let the cold cemetery air creep in.
    Merry took out her stretchy red and pink striped gloves. They were too small for her, a real bottom-of-the-bag pair of gloves, but they were all she had. We wore ballerina flats Mrs. Cohen had dug up from somewhere. She’d been the one to help us get dressed, coming in special just because we were going to the funeral.
    “Look,” Merry whispered. “Someone else is here.”
    “You don’t have to whisper. We’re allowed to talk.” I spoke loud enough for Cousin Budgie to hear, consumed by hatred of my too-good-for-us, old-lady cousin. Merry pointed at a big car, not as big as our limousine but long and dark blue. A man leaned against the hood, his arms crossed over his chest, while another stood ruler-straight next to him.
    “I think it’s the rabbi.”
    “Isn’t
he
the rabbi?” Merry pointed to a lumpy man wearing a yarmulke and a shawl draped over his suit. He waited by an open hole, watching, nodding, as two men carried Grandma’s casket. They lowered her into the hole using some sort of ropy thing.
    Uncle Irving and Cousin Budgie walked toward the open grave, leaving us by the car, expecting, I supposed, that we’d follow.
    “Should we go with them?” Merry’s voice was soft and worried.
    “I guess.” I fumbled for the pocket pack of tissues given us by Mrs. Cohen.
    I guided Merry slowly and carefully over the winter brown grass. A body might be anywhere. The family plot had few headstones. Emptyspots waited for us. Uncle Irving had said that Merry and I, and our children and husbands, we all had future graves here. Just what I wanted, to be lying for all eternity next to stupid Cousin Budgie. We crept closer to the open grave.
    “Merry? Lulu?”
    I jumped at the voice.
    “Daddy!” Merry dropped my hand and pulled away. She threw herself at our father. His handcuffed wrists prevented him from hugging her back, and Merry ended up slamming into his chest. He twisted into an awkward curve, resting his cheek on her wool hat, an apple red hat that Mrs. Cohen had insisted Merry wear. Even a kid could see it was inappropriate at a funeral, but I wouldn’t argue with Mrs. Cohen.
    “Daddy,” Merry cried. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
    “They didn’t give me time to write you.” He watched me as Merry pressed close to him, staring until I kicked at the frozen ground. “Come here, Lu. Come say hello. It’s been a long time.”
    Yeah. Sure has been a long time since you killed Mama.
    The man with my father, his keeper or guard, whatever you’d call him, stood close