Dead Letters(73)

I laugh to myself now, remembering this episode. No other parent came close to Marlon’s performance; he won, hands down. Zelda and I enjoyed a brief moment of celebrity, refracted off our father. It was the sort of performance that so thoroughly demonstrated what a perfect dad he could be, how incandescently enchanting he was with us kids. And he was, I guess. He just couldn’t really have relationships with adults or teenagers, and he fled before we fully understood that.

—

It takes me all of thirty seconds to figure out what Zelda wants me to do next. She has finally tossed me an easy one, one that has all the clues and hints I need. Nadine is staring around wide-eyed, and when I set the laptop down, she again pushes play on the YouTube clip. I can hear the audio as I head for the closet. Zelda couldn’t possibly have planned for me to watch it on the big screen in this room, but it is a very nice touch.

I slide open the door to Marlon’s walk-in closet, which Nadine has still not really claimed. There’s a pair of Marlon’s boots in the corner, and an old winter coat of his that he never bothered to take to sunny California. Typical of him to decide that because he didn’t immediately need it, he didn’t have to do anything about it. It has hung in this closet for more than ten years. Nadine has hung a few of her own coats on the rack, and there are some old boxes filled with photos and other remnants of our family life. This closet is a mausoleum, the Antipovas pre-divorce. I stand on tippy-toe to reach what Zelda has left me.

My father’s old fishing box is elegant and timeworn. He found it in an antiques store during one of our autumn vacations as we drove through coppery leaves up in the Adirondacks. It has big buckles and a treasure trove of compartments, which Marlon diligently filled with expensive flies and other fishing accessories that I can’t identify. I imagine he can’t either. His fascination with fishing was mercifully brief, and he’d barely finished assembling this elaborate collection of accoutrements before abandoning the hobby. Whenever anyone asked why he gave up fishing, he’d answer with a grin and a wink: “Too dry.”

I flip open the clasps and stare at the rows of flies, wondering if one of them has been left by Zelda. But in the larger compartment, I find an envelope labeled “P (for Policy).” I pull the folded sheets of paper from the envelope and find myself looking at life insurance documents for Zelda, Nadine, and myself. I scan the opaque language. I don’t know what any of these terms mean, and everything is embedded in such bizarre legalese that I can’t tell if we owe them money or if it’s the other way around. But I’m willing to bet that Zelda has done her homework. I remain crouched in the closet for a few moments longer, inhaling the musty scents of old clothes and papers, before standing up and turning off the light. I take the envelope with me.

Nadine is rewatching the Sesame Street clip with a rapt expression, mumbling, “I remember this, I remember this.” I give her a kiss on the cheek and push the laptop closer to her. Let her watch Sesame Street on YouTube all night. I head downstairs to discover that Marlon has returned from the lake. His eyes look bloodshot, and he seems out of breath. He is standing in the kitchen, drinking lemonade directly from the container.

“Hey, Dad. You know anything about life insurance?” I ask.

He looks startled. “Not really, no. Why?”

“Well, we seem to have some.” I slap the envelope down on the kitchen island. “Not sure quite what to make of it.”

“Where did you find this?” he asks, flipping through the pages.

“Mom’s room.”

“Hmm. This is…Look, I’ll have to look into this. I don’t know if this complicates things. The police might want to know about it.”

“Why?”

“Well, these policies are pretty new. Just over a year old. And with Zelda’s…I mean, any time a sizable life insurance policy appears in a murder investigation…” He suddenly laughs. “I have no idea what I’m talking about. I watch too much TV. But it seems to me that this is what they’re talking about when they go looking for motive.”

“Motive? Motive for what?” Opal calls from the living room.

“Nothing, Mom,” Marlon responds. Then he lowers his voice: “Let’s not tell her about this. She’s upset enough.”

I nod, agreeing to the conspiracy. “But if the cops think the insurance policy is motive, it will only implicate me and Mom,” I point out, suddenly a little nervous. Is that what Zelda has in mind?

“True, though it will look much stranger if you don’t disclose it. In any case, I’ll call these people in the morning, see if I can make heads or tails of it. You okay, Little A?”

“I don’t know why everyone keeps asking me that.”

“I just worry, that’s all.”

I wave him away. “I know, I’m sorry. It’s been a long day.”

“It has. How about I tuck Nadine in for you?” he offers.

The ungenerous part of me suggests that he knows I’ve already done it. “She’s fine. Gave her the pills, and she’s in bed with her nighttime baba.”

Marlon smiles wryly. “Well, I’m beat,” he says, yawning grandly. “I’m going to turn in on the couch. Sleep tight, Little A.”

“Night, Dad.”





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