We Are All Such Humans Here

His name was Jack Pelham, and before he spoke with me, he pulled Constance to one side, and all signs pointed to him reading her the riot act. One of those cops who manages to convey authority by posture alone. That he was also offensive-lineman huge didn’t hurt. Tall and wide, especially where she was so short and petite. Then the harangue began: How dare she begin to load up the bodies? Didn’t she know that an investigation needed to be done for any death by misadventure? How long had she been working this job, and did she know her days were numbered? Who did she think she was: Dick Tracy? Whereupon they both laughed in such a way that it was clear they knew one another and had done so for quite some time, and they were used to the inappropriate joke, no matter how lame, in the middle of death.

“Jack,” she said, pointing to me, “this is Fish, son of the two deceased.”

He stuck out a meaty paw. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Officer Pelham. Rough way to start the holidays.”

“Well,” I said, “it’s not like we were planning on exchanging presents. Fruitcake and booze, maybe.”

“Ah.” He looked momentarily uncomfortable but then righted himself. “Look, I apologize for this, but I need to take a walk through the house, see what there is to see. Connie tells me that everything’s okay, that there’s nothing untoward except that your parents decided to check out, but I need to make sure that’s the case.”

“Sure,” I said. “Whatever you need.”

“I’m leaving you now,” Constance said to the officer. “Play nice.”

“Thank you,” I said, still on my best behavior around her for reasons I couldn’t fathom. “Thank you for coming so promptly.”

“Show me,” Pelham said.

So, we walked inside the house, and I directed him to the kitchen and the kitchen table, where my father’s note was still taped and the pill bottles were still part of the juice and opioid still life.

“Okay,” he said and exhaled theatrically. “Cyrano?”

So, I trotted out the long version of the long story, about my olio of names and about the poems, and my father’s misunderstanding. What my father couldn’t understand is that Ellen couldn’t have cared less about the poems and who was responsible for writing them. What she cared about was the fact that I’d been retired without a whimper or my consent, and since I was at least eight years away from collecting the pension that was mine, we’d have to live on the little we’d managed to put by. Three months in, and we were already underwater. The irony was not lost on either of us: as much as we’d used my parents as a cautionary tale of fiscal mismanagement, they were the ones to bail us out when our own well ran dry. Until Ellen had had enough. Of living with less than less. Of trying to forgive me the unforgiveable.

“So, what did you do?” Officer Pelham asked. “What was so unforgiveable?”

“Is that relevant to this?”

“No,” he smiled. “I’m just nosey. Of course, maybe you killed them to accelerate the inheritance. Please tell me I don’t need to have the pill bottles dusted.”

“There’s probably any number of prints on those bottles,” I said, “since they’ve been in the house for years. My parents’, Clarice’s, as well as mine. They were hardly private property. Any little twinge and we try to extinguish it, since that’s the American way.”

“Unforgiveable,” he prompted.

“What’s more unforgiveable than losing your job and not putting up a fight?”