MARILYN didn’t mourn her penniless state. Shuffling from Bellevue to Coen’s to the Crosby Street jail, she narrowed her problems down to the question of logistics: how could she avoid her father on her father’s turf? She sat in Bellevue with her Jewish grandmother, surrounded by bottles and tubes that could draw the wastes out of Sophie and drip vital sugars into her body. Sophie’s bruises had turned yellowish. The coma she was in wasn’t absolute. She would come out of her sleep to frown at the pipes in her nose and signal to Marilyn with her dry tongue. Marilyn couldn’t gauge the extent of Sophie’s recognition. Was Sophie calling for a nurse or mouthing “Kathleen,” the name of Marilyn’s mother? “I’m with you, grandma Sophie. Kathleen’s daughter. Your grandchild Marilyn.” She escaped the stare of interns and orderlies on the prowl. Isaac could be behind the door. He had a whole catalogue of spies to trap her with; men in hospital coats, detectives wearing powder and a false moustache, who would point a finger at Isaac’s skinny daughter and cluck for the Chief.
