Dead Letters(11)

I open my eyes and look at the wreckage. I scan the rubble for any sign of the tractor, which probably would have been in the barn two nights ago. As I suspected, I don’t see it anywhere, and no matter how hot the fire, there should still be something left. Zelda loved that tractor; of course she wouldn’t let it burn. I get up and walk slowly around the perimeter of the burn, letting the flashlight dance over it. A dull, menacing heat still radiates from the ground. Bats swoop in a leathery rush, hunting. I’m looking for a sign, a message from my sister about what happened here. I don’t for a second believe that she’s actually dead. Come out, Zaza. Time to face your sister.





3


Completely irreconcilable with what I’ve consumed, I wake up the next morning feeling surprisingly un-hungover. My bedroom is dazzling in the high summer sun, still way too white. The walls are white, the bedspread is white, the curtains are gauzy and white, and there’s a white sheepskin rug just next to my bed. I chose the color scheme in contradistinction to Zelda’s bohemian-gypsy vibe across the hall; her room is all purples, reds, blues, and golds, fringed shawls, dull lighting. I hear raised voices in the kitchen and grab a cream kimono from my closet. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’m reluctant to do so; I slept in one of my prim nighties from high school.

As I walk down the stairs, I can hear my mother’s shrill voice.

“I don’t care who you think you are, who you say you are, I saw you! I saw you in the cabinets, stealing. You’ve been taking my things while I slept, and I want you out!”

“Calm down, Nadia, it’s me, Marlon.” I hear my father say her pet name in his very best conciliatory tone, though with a small note of panic. My mother is having none of it. Never did.

“Fuck you and your lies. Get out. I’m calling the police.” She sounds scared. I walk into the kitchen, yawning. It is surreal to see both my parents here, surrounded by the walnut cabinets they built together, bickering as though it’s still 2003.

“Morning, Dad, Mom,” I say, heading straight for the coffeemaker.

“Zelda, get this man out of here. He was stealing my jam from the cupboard!”

“It’s Ava, Mom. And that’s my dad, Marlon?”

“Like hell it is. My ex-husband is dead.”

“Not just yet, Nadine,” my dad says with an edge. But his snark is bravado. He looks genuinely harrowed. He glances back and forth between me and Nadine, clearly unsure what to do.

“Zelda, I will count to three!”

“I’m not four years old. And I’m not Zelda. Are you screwing with me again today, Mom?” I study her more closely. She actually looks terrified, and her expression makes me hesitate. I don’t think she’s faking to get a rise out of us.

“I want Zelda!” she wails, and my stomach clenches.

So do I.

Nadine’s going to pieces now, mumbling quietly to herself.

“Zelda…is already outside,” I lie, starting the coffeepot. “Why don’t we just go back upstairs for a bit? I have some medicine for you.” I lead her back toward the stairway. Marlon stands there, almost paralyzed. Nadine’s hands are shaking, and she seems suddenly frail, flimsy. Her shoulders stick out like wings, and she feels somehow light, as though she’s evaporating in front of us. I give her a sedative and put her back in bed. I know this is not a long-term solution; I’ll have to work out a system later. This time, I lock the door.

Downstairs, I pause in front of the bathroom. I hear barely controlled sobs behind the door. My father. I hesitate, tempted to knock but unsure what to say. Instead I go to the kitchen and start breakfast.

When he joins me at the table, he is again smiling and light, determined to put me at ease. I don’t know what to say to him, so I say nothing. We eat some of Betsy’s bread and one of Zelda’s bizarre jams from the cupboard. This one seems to be peach curry. It is not a total failure as a condiment, but it is weird. Marlon doesn’t look good; either he stayed up drinking or he couldn’t fall asleep. Possibly both. We barely speak over breakfast. I can tell he is truly rattled by Nadine’s outburst, and I have no desire to discuss it with him. As I’m putting the dishes in the sink, I clear my throat.

“I think I’m going to drive to the police station in Watkins Glen. I’d like to learn more about the fire,” I say flatly. “See if there’s anything they need from us to investigate the, uh, accident.” I really don’t want him to invite himself along, which he seems to sense. “Do you think you could look after Nadine for a little while? I know that’s not ideal, but…” I trail off. Marlon nods cooperatively, though I imagine he can’t be excited about this. “We’ll have to do something about the funeral. I know you called some people already, and I’ll try to find some of Zelda’s friends. I don’t know if we need to worry about the announcement.”

Marlon is still nodding along as though he knows all this, but I’m sure he hasn’t thought of it. I’m pretty sure he thinks that birthdays and funerals and dishes and housework are all magically arranged by some sort of domestic deity who oversees life’s practical considerations. He always looked confused when there weren’t clean towels in the bathroom or when the kitchen counters grew sticky and fly-infested after someone had spilled honey on the wood. As though he thought something had suddenly begun malfunctioning, rather than just continuing along its natural entropic path, unimpeded by the feminine forces that typically stood in its way.