I studied my young self as though reading about a stranger. My parents had been killed in a car wreck on Memorial Day weekend. I’d turned five on May 5 that year, and they died at the end of that month. In September, I started school, armed with a lunch box, my tablet paper, a fat, red Big Bear pencil, and a lot of gritty determination. From my current vantage point, I can see the pain and confusion I hadn’t dared experience back then. Though physically undersized and fearful from day one, I was autonomous, defiant, and as hard as a nut. There was much I admired about the child I had been: the ability to adapt, the resilience, the refusal to conform. These were qualities I still harbored, though perhaps to my detriment. Society values cooperation over independence, obedience over individuality, and niceness above all else.
The next packet contained photos from that same period. In class pictures, I was usually half a head shorter than anyone else in my class. My countenance was dark, my expression solemn and wistful, as if I longed to be gone, which of course I did. While others in the class stared directly at the camera, my attention was inevitably diverted by something taking place on the sidelines. In one photograph, my face was a blur because I’d turned my head to look at someone in the row behind me. Even then, life must have seemed more interesting slightly off-center. What I found unsettling was the fact I hadn’t changed much in the years between.
I probably should have been out somewhere looking for new clients instead of allowing myself to be distracted by the past. What could have happened that would result in Mickey’s belongings being sold at public auction? Not that it was any of my business, but then again, that’s exactly what gave the question its appeal.
I went back to the cardboard box and pulled out an old tape recorder as big as a hardback book. I’d forgotten that old thing, accustomed by now to machines the size of a deck of cards. I could see a tape cassette inside. I pushed the PLAY button. No go. The batteries were probably already dead the day Mickey tossed it in the box with everything else. I opened my desk drawer and took out a fresh pack of C batteries, shoving four, end to end, into the back of the machine. I pushed PLAY again. This time the spindles began to turn and I heard my own voice, some rambling account of the case I was working on at the time. This was like historical data sealed in a cornerstone, meant to be discovered later after everyone was gone.
I turned it off and set the tape machine aside. I reached into the box again. Tucked down along the side, I found ammo for the 9mm Smith & Wesson Mickey’d given me for a wedding present. There was no sign of the gun, but I could remember how thrilled I’d been with the gift. The finish on the barrel had been S & W blue, and the stock was checked walnut with S & W monograms. We’d met in November and married the following August. By then, he’d been a cop for almost sixteen years, while I’d joined the department in May, a mere three months before. I took the gift of a firearm as an indication that he saw me as a colleague, a status he accorded few women in those days. Now I could see there were larger implications. I mean, what kind of guy gives his young bride a semi-automatic on their wedding night? Impulsively, I pulled open my bottom drawer, searching for the old address book where I’d tucked the only forwarding information I’d ever had for him. The phone number had probably been relinquished and reassigned half a dozen times, the address just as long out of date.
I was interrupted by a knock. I hauled my feet off the desk and crossed to the door, peering through the porthole to find my landlord standing on the porch. Henry was wearing long pants for a change, and his expression was distracted as he stared out across the yard. He’d turned eighty-six on Valentine’s Day: tall and lean, a man who never actually seemed to age. He and his siblings, who were respectively eighty-eight, eighty-nine, ninety-five, and ninety-six, came from such vigorous genetic stock that I’m inclined to believe they’ll never actually “pass.” Henry’s handsome in the manner of a fine antique, handcrafted and well constructed, exhibiting a polish that suggests close to nine decades of loving use. Henry has always been loyal, outspoken, kind, and generous. He’s protective of me in ways that feel strange but are welcome, nonetheless. I opened the door. “Hi, Henry. What are you up to? I haven’t seen you for days.”
“Thank goodness you’re home. I have a dental appointment in” he paused to glance at his watch” approximately sixteen and three-quarter minutes, and both my cars are out of commission. My Chevy’s still in the shop after that paint can fell on it, and now I discover the station wagon’s dead. Can you give me a lift? Better yet, if you lend me your car, I can save you the trip. This is going to take a while and I hate to tie you up.” Henry’s five-window butter-yellow 1993 Chevy coupe had suffered some minor damage when several paint cans shuddered off the garage shelf during a cluster of baby earthquakes late in March. Henry’s meticulous about the car, keeping it in pristine condition. His second vehicle, the station wagon, he used whenever his Michigan-based sibs came to town.
“I’ll give you a ride. I don’t mind a bit,” I said. “Let me grab my keys.” I left the door ajar while I snagged my handbag from the counter and fished out the keys from the outer compartment. I picked up my jacket while I was at it and then pulled the door shut behind me and locked it’ We rounded the corner of the building and passed through the gate. I opened the passenger side door and moved around the front of the car. He leaned across the seat and unlocked the door on my side. I slid under the wheel, fired up the ignition, and we were under way.
“Great. This is great. I really appreciate this,” Henry said, his tone completely false.
I glanced over at him, making note of the tension that had tightened his face. “What are you having done? ”
“A crown ‘ack ‘ere,” he said, talking with his finger stuck at the back of his mouth.
“At least it’s not a root canal.”
“I’d have to kill myself first. I was hoping you’d be gone so I could cancel the appointment.”
“No such luck,” I said.
Henry and I share an apprehension about dentists that borders on the comical. While we’re both dutiful about checkups, we agonize over any work that actually has to be done. Both of us are subject to dry mouth, squirmy stomachs, clammy hands, and lots of whining. I reached over and felt his fingers, which were icy and faintly damp.
Henry frowned to himself. “I don’t see why he has to do this. The filling’s fine, really not a problem. It doesn’t even hurt. It’s a little sensitive to heat, and I’ve had to give up anything with ice “The filling’s old?”
“Well, 1984, but there’s nothing wrong with it.”
“Talk about make-work.”
“My point exactly. In those days, dentists knew how to fill a tooth. Now a filling has a limited shelf life, like a carton of milk. It’s planned obsolescence. You’re lucky if it lasts you long enough to pay the bill.” He stuck his finger in his mouth again, turning his face in my direction. “See this? Only fifteen years old and the guy’s already talking about replacing it.”
“You’re kidding! What a scam!”
“Remember when they put fluoride in the city water and everybody thought it was a communist plot? Dentists spread that rumor.”
“Of course they did,” I said, chiming in on cue.
“They saw the handwriting on the wall. No more cavities, no more business.” We went through the same duet every time either one of us had to have something done.
“Now they’ve cooked up that surgery where they cut half your gums away. If they can’t talk you into that, they claim you need braces.”
“What a crock,” I said.
“I don’t know why I can’t have my teeth pulled and get it over with,” he said, his mood becoming morose.
I made the usual skeptical response. “I wouldn’t go that far, Henry. You have beautiful teeth.”
“I’d rather keep ’em in a glass. I can’t stand the drilling. The noise drives me crazy. And the scraping when they scale? I nearly rip the arms off the chair. Sounds like a shovel on a sidewalk, a pickax on concrete, “