by Neal Goldy
No luck came to old detective D.: no one was home. Living by yourself had, he knew now, its consequences, some of which were dangerous like this one. But wait a minute.
He forgot what to say. D. crumpled to the ground, one arm still over the desk. Who knew someone could sleep like that?
Hours later he woke up. Drool was slimed over the desk, probably before he fell off, but it hadn’t reach the paper, thank God. D.’s arm was no longer over the office desk, but instead was lying somehow across the floor. Inspecting it, he noticed hardwood. Hmm, it was some time since he had seen a hardwood floor. Next D. wiped off the drool from his mouth, then cleaned up the desk. No one, not even he, needed to leave it there.
What time was it? He had forgotten that people didn’t exactly have the same time frame as they used to when he was a boy.
D. went deep into the family’s odd business affairs. He started from the top of the family tree to the first family member who lived in America – or closer in the city, which would be better. The man was Donald McDermott, and he moved to the U.S. when he was 7-years-old. Old photos of him painted the image of the young boy. One had been taken near Ellis Island, where they were processed into the country. The boy’s family huddled together (was the weather then below freezing?), all of them smiling at the camera. It struck D. when he saw little Donald as a big-toothed fella with freckles sprinkled over his face, so that when you stood back enough, the smiling Donald boy looked like he had cat’s whiskers. Not to mention his hair, of course. Old detective D. took note of the hair. Different from most boys, he wore it long, and, judging by the many shades of gray, it was of a brown, almost chocolate, hue. Journals and newspapers including old records of immigrants coming into the country made D. conclude that the McDermott origins were from Sweden. If so, then why the surname McDermott?
He figured that one out, too. According to filed papers in courts, the family had changed their name. Any reasons why they did it he couldn’t find. Their original name had been Olander. So Donald Olander was the first boy of his family to enter America. He lived with his mother, father, uncle, and even his grandfather for a time – some sources said ten years, others fifteen – but they all ended the same. Donald’s father hadn’t been doing well in his business as a supervisor in the industry of steel construction. Grandfather Olander persuaded his son to take part in it (probably the same business he had taken part in back in their native country), but he should’ve realized of what his son was capable. D. shook his head as he gathered the information, days and days of piling books and journals and diaries and newspapers and pictures and recorded interview tapes onto the desk. Huh, he thought; sooner or later this desk just might be such a mess that people will think it’s the work of a madman. It was that or someone with schizophrenia, which D. favored as the more plausible answer. Later Donald’s father had betrayed his wife for some other woman of German descent. Like the McDermott’s, the German girl had changed her surname a few months after arriving in America. Was there a problem back then where you were discriminated against by people from your home country? If so it would clear up many things up about the McDermott and German girl’s relationship.
A week later, during which time most people, like the police department, grew in their concern as to the whereabouts of D., the old detective visited the cemetery in Green Square Garden. He thought it funny, but not in a humorous way, to have numerous corpses buried next to growing fruits and vegetables. The man or woman who thought of this idea either came up with the cemetery or the garden to be put next to it; the one responsible for this idiocy must have decided to place a garden after the fact. Most fools would agree.
The day was clouded, the wind crisp in the air. A raunchy smell was somewhere out here, to be sure, but D. felt grateful for the speck of wind going by; it loosened up the dead air, unfolding the rigid arms crossed over in hefty moods. His eyes swayed across rows and rows of people whose stories were hidden before his eyes. They were far too many stories of loss.
Near the end of cemetery, not quite up to the final tombs, there was a tombstone slab falling apart. He crouched to lean in to see more, like eavesdropping on another’s conversation, pricking your ears to integrate all the details. Since the decades it had been here, the slab contained a sour yellow and green coating that looked like glowing limestone. On the tombstone read the name DONALD MCDERMOTT; somewhere else was his father, and it was here that D. found out the father’s name, ERNEST MCDERMOTT. Apparently, the father died after the son did.
*****
Chandler Elementary School buzzed with voices regarding what happened to the McDermott family a few days ago. Most of the kids were messenger bees but the subject was gossip instead of pollen. They neglected Winnie, pressing themselves to the building’s walls rather than walk normally.
“What’s with everyone?” Winnie asked one of her friends, Berkeley. Both of them were sitting on the playground swing set. Berkeley treated the swing differently than Winnie did, he was twisting the chains so hard that they coiled into a French braid of metal. And then he let go, spinning himself silly until he was sickened. Winnie just sat there rocking back and forth. She stared at the gravel below.
“I don’t get it, Win,” said Berkeley. “Everything looks fine to me.”
“That’s because you’re not looking at it!” Winnie protested. “Don’t you see? Everyone’s ignoring me! Is it because of what happened when the policeman came into our house?”
Berkeley shrugged. “How should I know?”
“Of course you may not know, but you could ask! Is it that hard? You know I would do the same thing if I were you.”
“I know . . .” He didn’t sound like he knew, though.
A group of girls, all wearing pink, sprinted onto the swing set. They seemed to want to join in, but then they noticed Winnie. Their tones were hushed, but she knew they talked about her. Who else would they be talking about, Berkeley? Nobody cared about him except her, and that was only because he asked.
“What did the president officer look like?” Berkeley wanted to know.
“For the last time, he’s not a president! Just because his name is Lincoln –”
But Berkeley didn’t care. “So what if he isn’t? I still wanna know!”
“Well, let’s see . . . he was beaten up, I remember that.”
Her friend rolled his eyes. “C’mon, Winnie, you said that already! I wanna know if he’s as cruel and dangerous as they say.”
“I don’t think so. He looked pretty harmless to me.”
“That’s only because you’re a girl,” said Berkeley, “because if you were a boy, maybe he’d show his true colors.”
“I don’t think so,” Winnie said again.
“Fine, if that’s what you suspect. But for me, yeah, I think otherwise.”
“Whatever,” she said, going back to staring at the gravel.
Sirens blared across the street, out of their reach. Even if they wanted to see it like some kids wanted to do from the way they were climbing on the fence, none of them would’ve reached the top to climb over. Winnie heard about a rumor of one particular kid who jumped over the boundaries of the school (she wasn’t sure if she heard it from a teacher or a classmate). As in a prison camp, the kid was caught before he even crossed the street where the police were right now. The teachers from their school weren’t very happy about the kid’s decision, she was told, and he suffered very bad punishment. It made her blood boil thinking of the consequences.
“What are the police doing these days?” Berkeley wondered. “All the time going back and forth with their sirens, wee-woo, wee-woo. It’s annoying!”
Winnie had to admit, Berkeley’s siren noises were pretty convincing.
“I heard that a building caught on fire,” she told her friend. “Don’t you think it’s weird that both the firefighters and the police were on the scene? One time someone’s home was on fire, and I never saw the police there. Something bad must have been happening.”
> “Yeah, yeah, yeah,” said Berkeley. “I just wish they’d shut up. Mom’s complaining ‘bout my grades tanking so low, but it’s not my fault the police are so ear-aching!”
And Berkeley was right. Everywhere – even during pop quizzes and tests – police were cruising, breaking speed limits without getting tickets. Winnie wanted to know what the police people were doing now across the street. Who knew, but maybe Officer Lincoln was there. He might recognize her!
“Children!” called out their teacher, Ms. Bonnie. “Children, get inside right now! Recess is over!”
Winnie’s classmates began piling into the traditional line like machinery in a conveyor belt. Berkeley hopped to his feet but Winnie stopped him. Her arm held him close.
“What?”
“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Just wait and see what happens.”
Ms. Bonnie noticed the two standing there. “Winnie! Berkeley! Recess is over!” Her title was Miss, but her fifty years gave that away. Her eyes lowered to the Magic Lowbrow, as some kids called it. Once children saw the Magic Lowbrow, they obeyed. But neither of them obeyed like the rest, and were kind of rebellious, really.
“Children?” trembled the tweet-tweet voice of Ms. Bonnie. “It’s time to go back inside!”
“We’re not coming!” Winnie shouted in defiance.
Policemen from across the street scrambled out onto the sidewalk. Many of them fired their pistols, some falling to their deaths. Winnie got off the swing set, to go watch. Ms. Bonnie, turning white from the inside out, began running over to where the two children were staring. She didn’t say anything but grabbed them from any harm. Not having children didn’t mean you couldn’t help yourself from protecting young children.
*****
When Donald’s mother left, the world of happiness left. His soul turned gray, shriveled up like the leaves in the autumn, only darker and more meaningless. That metaphor never had been in the information D. found through his isolated research of this period of his life, but it fit the feeling Donald had according to the journals he had kept to express his most personal feelings. Two of these journals D. kept for further research: the one before his mother left and the one after. It frightened him (and he almost fell out of his chair) when he read the cover of the journals. Both of them shared the typeface used in his Impromptu, kept the golden hue, and were leather bound. It became obvious to him that he wasn’t all that special. Other people had bought these journals before him, and surely with more knowledge.
Another week went by, and he had covered the mother’s tracks. She had moved from the city they lived in to the High Lands where she found work as a waitress. The restaurant had been a four star, most reviews aiming for the positive. French chefs owned the restaurant and kept their tradition of French cooking. She hadn’t prospered, however, and lived a hopeless life after she married Noel Lewis. He had been arrested when he abused her, beating her physically and with words. Some of them had been transcribed to his shocking revelation. Lines of what seemed like monologue went like this: “Feel the graceful pain that withholds your inner jumper . . .” Cryptic language, or was it something nobody could make an interpretation of?
Donald’s mother died from a brutal beating from a gang that roamed in the poorer parts of High Lands. Fang Gang, they were called, so when the papers mentioned them, people would know it rhymed--though it served no purpose at all. None of them gave interviews about the rape. According to numerous police departments, the mother had died from severe depression (although the rape and beating after did quite a good deal of damage no doubt). D. didn’t cry from it. Why should he after going through severe things himself? Crying, he thought now, was a pure waste of time. There were more important things to be doing, y’know.
D. had transformed into the beloved Captain Nemo from 20,000 Leagues under the Sea. He went under and farther until it killed him, diving through the uncharted waters previous sailors (or should he say P.I.s) could not reach. And by far these unmapped territories came in stark colors like those beneath the tightening pressure beneath the darkest parts of ocean bodies.
Then D. found two love letters, both handwritten with fountain pens from two men claiming to be her lover, who wanted to live forever and ever while their hearts contained her. Both were written on the same day and month but contradicting themselves so painstakingly that D. wondered if this was a ploy, a kind of setup. He found John Clemens II’s letter from a broken-down post office near the apartment building where Donald’s mother used to live in. Its typeface, he noticed, was lofty and curved like the wispy, almost air-like tongued accent of wealth. Instead of a regular address, Clemens II decided to print his name in bold, large letters, catching the attention of the woman he sought. Clever tricks played by clever men: he thought it well done for a bunch of mediocre amateurs. Stealing the innocent hearts of women, he speculated, was an appalling deed unless you were a tight prude.
At the beginning, D. let himself believe the yarn Clemens II tugged on like bait. He couldn’t even categorize the letter as a form of communication; from the way Clemens II wrote it, it sounded much more than a love letter mustered up. Snatch a copy and hand it to the publishers as figurative poetry and, sure enough, they would gladly accept it. Personification and hyperboles to Donald’s mother sprinkled the pages like fairy dust. Come to think of it, Clemens II acted the role of the master magician.
Through the pages of Impromptu, D. logged the material he collected and analyzed from Clemens II’s letter. According to its contents, Donald’s mother was a waitress at the French restaurant but had quit the position for an accountancy. The proprietor had met the woman during this time and noticed her dress, no matter how shabby it appeared to be. He was once interested in her sister – wait, did she had a sister? Or did she have any siblings at all for that matter? Further research and nothing came up about the mother’s family tree. Probably for privacy, he suspected. But the letter specified her sister as Ramona Trojan. A queer surname to be sure, so D. noted this too. Even though Donald’s mother had been married (and miserably, he added), this man had wanted her heart to be his. How was he supposed to do that, he didn’t know or care. All D. desired to figure out now was how these loosely-based facts – and the sibling, don’t forget that – added up.
Days passed and then Javier entered his life. It was a letter dated the same date, with no year of course, to Donald’s mother. Examining the paper’s wrinkles of cotton soft and easy to rip apart, someone must have left it there for years to pass. Without anybody noticing, D. took the letter from its place and brought it back to the Water Home for further examination. He, too, wrote his letter as neat as he could, but it did not compare to the mighty (and more-than-slightly arrogant) Clemens II. The writer’s voice that spoke through the letter’s words, rattled in uncertainty of its own feelings, like a shivering and shy first timer trying to make the big move. The nervousness D. abided. What stopped him was the line Javier wrote in the second paragraph: “I understand you’re divorced from your husband and that you left your one daughter – your child for God’s sake – in the care of that monster.” Either this man was mentally impaired at not getting the differentiation of gender or old detective D. was getting the wrong information.
They both spoke in honest voices and opinions, and even though D. thought Clemens II a little too snarky, he was wondering who was sending the wrong message?
Who was lying?
Who or what was deeming false cues?
Not even tweezers could pull answers out of the tiny creases. One of these held the liar, for sure, if he searched hard enough, but it was solving a puzzle without any back up preparation. It was like blind men feeling the elephant but never knowing what it was. Well, at least he could see it, unlike the men in that poem he read about one time during his school years.
More background evidence didn’t provide anything new – rather, they made things all the worse. Some speculations from friends spoke about how Donald’s mother had committed s
uicide from struggling too much with the hard-pounding work every day. Another stated that they never heard of Donald McDermott, which didn’t surprise D. since the mother probably had neglected the information when she restarted in a new place. However, what really got him fussing about was the same person never hearing of her son, never hearing of her having children, not one!
“She was married, you know,” said D.
Pauline, the person whom he interviewed, tilted her head like some confused child. “Huh. I never knew that. Who was the man, because I can’t seem to remember?” She was eighty, nearing ninety, when he conducted the interview. Hmm, she claimed she was eighty.
One night, he sat at the same office desk looking through the notes he had produced and through-and-through at the interviews he had, as well as family history, some of it not involving the McDermotts, but Donald’s mysterious mother. She didn’t even sound like a mother anymore, but more of a ghost haunting his pages of research and broken family relationships. And then D. brought out the family photograph in which Donald was now grown into an adult. His father was there, too, but in his senior years. Behind them was the cityscape full of industrialized buildings and the like. Cars the size of erasers raced their way to destinations if you got close enough to see them. But something wasn’t right . . .
D. stared intently into Adult Donald’s eyes. It was still black-and-white, so he had no way of telling his eye color. His face was clear and smooth and he was dressed in the finest business fashion, but Donald did not appear recognizable anymore. He never met him, but that was the magic power of pictures. You could witness an entire lifetime through photos and writing when put together. But back to the subject, D. didn’t understand why Donald was so different, with all his notes and all.