Dead Letters(13)

“Um, I don’t have a driver’s license”—shit, hope he doesn’t ask how I got here—“and I seem to have left my passport…but I do have a Metro card with my photo and birthday? I live in France,” I explain. He looks uncomfortable. Is he kidding? “I’m obviously Zelda’s twin,” I point out. “If you have a picture, you could compare…”

“Of course, ma’am. I mean, that won’t be necessary. Of course.” He fumbles awkwardly through a heap of papers. “Would you like to hear what I wrote up in the report?”

“That’d be super.” He clears his throat and prepares to read aloud to me. I barely suppress a snort. Really?

“I responded to a phone call from the Antipova residence at just before one A.M. on the night of June 20. Watkins Glen Fire Department had already arrived on the scene, and they were putting out the flames. A Mrs. Betsy Kline had alerted them to the fire from her own residence and then rushed immediately to the Antipova residence, where she discovered that Mrs. Antipova—”

“O’Connor. Ms. O’Connor,” I correct.

“Uh, okay, Mrs. O’Connor was found to be sedated, in her bed, sleeping. Apparently she has some, uh, health issues?” He looks up at me.

“Quite.”

“Well, the FD was eventually successful in putting out the flames, but it came to light that Miss Zelda Antipova was suspected to be in the structure when the fire began, according to Mrs.—O’Connor’s statement.”

“You got Nadine awake? With all those sedatives?” I say, surprised. Zelda always joked that she gave Mom horse tranquilizers and Nadine would barely breathe for ten hours.

“Yes, after some effort. She was, uh…uncooperative at first.”

“I’ll bet. But she said Zelda was in the barn?”

“Yes, but her statements seemed a little, well, unreliable.” He looks embarrassed to be telling me that my mother can’t be trusted, as though it’s news. “Mrs. Kline told us that Miss Antipova typically spent the night in an Airstream trailer about half a mile away, so I went to investigate. No one was there, but I did find a cellphone belonging to the deceased. I mean, Zelda. Miss Antipova.” The cop turns a pretty shade of pink. I can’t believe how young he seems. “The last text messages on June 20 were with someone named Jason. They made plans to meet at the barn at eleven that night. It appears the fire started just before midnight, leading us to believe…”

“That Zelda was there. Jason who?” I ask. I don’t recognize the name.

“It didn’t say on her phone—he was just Jason. We called the number back but got no response, no voicemail activated. We’ve requested registration info from the phone company, but it will take a few days.”

“So is Zelda…officially dead?”

The cop squirms. “No, ma’am, not officially. But I’m not gonna lie—it seems very possible. Right now we’re running her cards, license, and plates, to see if she turns up anywhere. We’ve called in some specialists, and we share a coroner with Montour Falls, so we’ll get him out here. We’re obviously looking for, um…”

“Bones or something,” I finish. Good luck, Sparky. “Anyway, I don’t want to have a funeral without a death certificate. It would be unseemly,” I say, and the poor kid looks stricken. “Thank you, Officer, for answering my questions. You’ll keep me posted?”

He bobs his head at me, clearly relieved that the conversation is over, and I turn to leave.

“Ma’am?” he says tentatively as my hands reach for the door. I face him, one eyebrow raised. “There’s just one other thing that, uh—well, we’re still looking into one more thing.” He swallows. “It’s just that the barn doors were—well, they were chained shut. From the outside.”



April 30, 2016 at 3:12 PM

Dear Pouty, Crabby, Puerile Twin,

And so we finish year two of your stubborn radio silence. Okay, Ava. I get it. I’ll do my time, keep on writing you, wait for you to shake off your huff. Let you have your temper tantrum so that you can save face. It’s fine, I don’t mind; I’ve always been less proud than you. I don’t mind admitting that I MISS YOU and that I’M GOING CRAZY WITHOUT YOU. Do you think that will soften your brittle crustacean shell? Will it weaken your resolve to maintain this transatlantic muteness? I don’t know. You were a soft touch when we were girls, but maybe you’ve toughened up, ensconced yourself in some sort of emotional fortress. I remember you crying pitifully when we saw a homeless man begging in Watkins Glen. He was a raggedy-ass specimen, too tan and wilted, with his cardboard sign entreating us to HELP because HE WAS A VETERAN. As though his life was inherently more valuable because he had the bad luck (or, even worse, the misguided desire) to end up in the military. Oh, but you were moved! You tugged our father’s hand, pleaded with your very best Tender Ava eyes, and he gave you ten dollars to hand to the man. A testament to both our father’s complete inability to deny you anything and his endless profligacy in all things financial. The man chews through cash the same way he devours imported cheese (the two behavior patterns may be related). You gave the old vet the ten bucks along with your tattered spare change. And later, when we went for ice cream and you had no money, I bought you one.