Dead Letters(84)

“Hi, there. I’m Officer Healy—we spoke earlier—and this is my colleague Officer Giles. We’d like to talk to you about your daughter—and sister—” He acknowledges me with a bob of his head and glances at Wyatt.

“This is Zelda’s boyfriend. And mine,” I interject. Wyatt turns very pink, and Marlon jerks his head upright. Even from the corner of my eye I can see his jaw tightening and his neck straining in purplish anger. The cops look very uncomfortable. Officer Giles clears his throat.

“Normally when we’re notifying next of kin—” he begins, and Officer Healy looks at him in alarm.

“So we’re next of kin? Meaning she’s definitely dead?” I say with an inappropriate chortle. Wyatt gives me a look very similar to the one Healy is giving Giles. “A comedy of errors! LOL!” I don’t seem to be able to stop; I reflect that I’ve lost any ability to censor myself, if I ever had that skill. But didn’t I used to be composed? Isn’t there a self, a me, that is articulate and poised? I smooth my striped dress over my hips and rub my lips together, evening my lipstick in an attempt to reassert myself as a reasonable person. Where is my Parisian self, my good self? Evidently, I abandoned her the minute I got off that airplane.

“What my colleague is trying to say,” Healy starts to explain, addressing himself to the men, since I’ve so thoroughly discredited myself, proven myself to be a hysterical female, “is that we’ve had some bad news from the coroner. I hope this isn’t completely unexpected, but we were able to match Zelda’s dental records to the remains of the body we recovered in the fire. As of just one hour ago, the coroner issued a death certificate for Zelda Antipova after completing a full autopsy on the remains. I know this must still be difficult and shocking for you, but we wanted to let you know as soon as possible.”

He’s actually doing a very good job, I think. He sounds professional, practiced. I wouldn’t expect that these guys have many opportunities to use their next-of-kin speech. Maybe he did some Wikipedia research to polish his delivery.

“Do we—do you need me to sign anything?” Marlon asks flatly. It is one of the most definitive assumptions of parental responsibility I have seen him take. A signature. I’m impressed by this as well. Damn, everyone is just terrifically impressive in here.

“We have some papers for you. Unfortunately, we are unable to release the remains into your care at the moment. Dr. Whitcross is ruling the death a potential homicide, and we will need to continue the investigation.”

“Whitcross?” I say, suddenly alert.

“Dr. Whitcross, the coroner,” Giles adds formally, trying to redeem himself.

“The younger or the elder?” I press. Marlon and Wyatt frown at me.

“The son. The younger,” Healy answers. Gales of giggles peal out of me. Of course! Very cute, Zelda. Everything falls into place with a soothing click, puzzle pieces fitting together. “Shock is very common when hearing this news. What you’re experiencing is completely normal,” Healy continues, reassuring me. “We have a grief counselor and a nondenominational chaplain who would love to meet with you and help you work through this.”

“Do you have a pamphlet?” I ask, cackling. He has already started to reach for one when he realizes that I am joking.

“Ava, maybe I should take you home.”

“Are you driving, ma’am? It seems you’re under the influence.”

“I never understood that phrase,” I muse. “Is anyone not under the influence? I mean, of gravity, of their mood, of their basic driving ability?”

“C’mon, Ava. I think it’s time for bed.” Wyatt reaches a hand out to me, and I take it a bit loopily. Home to bed. Yes. That sounds like a good idea.

We drive back to the house silently; I can tell he doesn’t want to ask me what’s going on, is concerned for my state of mind. So am I. As he prepares to pull into the driveway, I balk.

“Nononono. I don’t want to go in. Opal. And Nadine…” My mind recoils at having to face either of them. And I don’t want to be in her room.

“Do you want me to take you to the trailer?”

I consider this. It’s a better option, for sure. But I don’t want to be surrounded by her things, her smells. I want distance. I shake my head.

“Okay,” Wyatt says grimly. “The Darling house it is.” He swings the truck back onto the road and keeps heading up 414. I settle into the seat. It’s been a very long time since I’ve been to the Darlings’. Strangely, I find the prospect comforting. I pull my phone out and send Nico a text, asking for a favor. I’ve nearly figured Zelda out; I just need a few more scraps of information.

It’s late, but it’s not so late that Wyatt’s parents are asleep when we get there. The lights are on in their big bungalow, nuzzled back into the woods, up a long driveway. They don’t have a lake view from their land, but they do have thick groves of conifers and an impression of abiding coziness, tucked back from the road. A nest. They were the sort of people who put solar panels on their roof in the seventies, who have been growing organic vegetables their whole lives. I glance at Wyatt as we park the truck, to see if he looks apprehensive. Neither of us wants a repeat of the unpleasant scene the last time I was here.

Wyatt’s parents had disagreed quite strongly with me on whether Wyatt should follow me to Cornell or accept a scholarship to Northwestern. His parents wanted him to get away from Watkins Glen, to explore. Subtext: Fuck someone less uptight. Possibly with dreadlocks. And a penis. Break some rules. They looked at me and they saw my mother, Cape Cod, the pristine world of white conservative Democrats who spent their lives grimly peering out of their floor-to-ceiling windows and suffocating behind their bourgeois pretensions. They could imagine, as I could, Wyatt proposing to me with some moderately expensive conflict diamond, our organized and efficient wedding on the shores of Seneca Lake. We would make our own decorations, and the bridesmaids would wear matching navy blue dresses, tasteful and flattering. We would have two kids, possibly move to Ithaca. I would drink the way my mother did, and Wyatt would be the sort of man who wore khaki pants and drank beer from cans on the weekend while mowing the lawn with a kid on his lap. We would care deeply about how our living room was decorated, and we would invite Dora and Steve over on Sunday afternoons to play with the kids. Dora would occasionally feel the absurd impulse to wear pearls, although she didn’t own any real ones, a feeling she would repress and wave off with an amused flutter of the hand, but it would somehow return to her when she was sipping port from Waterford glasses at our big dining room table. Steve would refrain from smoking pot on the days he came over to our house, because it would make him feel wiggy to stand on our white carpet while baked out of his mind.