Dead Letters

by Caite Dolan-Leach

  “Just thought you might want to take a look. You’ve been talking about leaving the city so much lately,” Marlon said with a shrug. “A nice getaway, anyway.”

  “It’s beautiful. It’s so nice to breathe the fresh air,” Nadine agreed. “So this place is what, a farm?” She was careful not to appear too interested, but she couldn’t help feeling nervous excitement at the sense of possibility. Some quiet voice that she hadn’t heard for years kept suggesting a new beginning. She didn’t examine this prompt too closely; she would inspect it later, when she was away from Marlon and could think properly, without all the noise and hormonal interference his presence created in her.

  I would interrupt here, derailing Zelda’s artful dialogue. She could perfectly capture our parents’ voices, a born impersonator. But I liked the history of the wine, and of the ground that it came from.

  “I was thinking a vineyard, actually.”

  “What, here? In New York?” Nadine arched her eyebrows skeptically.

  “I know, I know, it seems weird. But there’s this Ukrainian guy who brought some vinifera grapes over from Europe, and they’ve done very well. Some other guys are trying it now, and I don’t know, I have this feeling that the region could get pretty valuable.” Marlon shrugged, sipping his cup of Champagne. “Just a hunch.”

  “A hunch, huh?” Nadine smiled slyly. “I’m not a complete ninny, you know. I figure you’re the kind of guy who likes to financially reinforce his hunches.”

  Marlon glanced at her in surprise. He thought he’d managed to conceal his proclivity for putting his money where his mouth was.

  “I like risk,” he said lightly. “And I’m about to take another.” He drew a deep breath. “The real reason I wanted to bring you here. I’ve been thinking.” He paused to stare at Nadine. “I want to marry you. I want to run away with you and give you babies and spend the rest of our lives naked and drunk.” Without breaking eye contact, he unbuttoned the first three buttons of her shirt, then stopped, his hand poised at the open collar, near her throat. Nadine’s face registered only stillness. She waited long enough that Marlon began to wonder if he hadn’t drastically overplayed his hand. But finally, she covered his hand with her palm and slid both inside her shirt.

  “Fine. But we’ll talk about those babies later.”

  —

  Needless to say, whatever conversations they later had about those babies, nothing stuck. I’ve never known if Zelda and I were accidents; at least we both knew that whatever our status, desirable or planned, we were on equal footing. Either we were both wanted or neither was. Perhaps Nadine had unconsciously hoped for kids and grown careless with her contraceptives. Or maybe Marlon had worked his insidious magic until she relented. Our father said we were wanted, “beginning to end, A to Z,” always with a playful grin. Nadine had said that it was a moot point.

  By the time we were born, the reality of the vineyard’s disappointing prospects was becoming clearer, and our parents were just beginning to swat nastily at each other, like house cats cooped up too long indoors. We often wondered, as I imagine many children do, whether we were the cause of our parents’ eventual rupture. If they had been different people, a better team, things might have gone differently. This was early days for modern Finger Lakes winemaking, and Marlon’s selection was actually prescient; property prices went up over the next decade, and plots of land like ours were hotly coveted by ambitious investors and hotheaded fools alike. But Nadine and Marlon fought each other viciously on every petty decision. Soon, Silenus transformed from a prospector’s fortune to a time-consuming forfeiture while Zelda and I ran feral and barefoot in the fields, gnawing on unripe grapes and making gowns from the sickly vines as our family and its investments tumbled down around us in molting shudders of decay.

  I open my eyes and look at the wreckage. I scan the rubble for any sign of the tractor, which probably would have been in the barn two nights ago. As I suspected, I don’t see it anywhere, and no matter how hot the fire, there should still be something left. Zelda loved that tractor; of course she wouldn’t let it burn. I get up and walk slowly around the perimeter of the burn, letting the flashlight dance over it. A dull, menacing heat still radiates from the ground. Bats swoop in a leathery rush, hunting. I’m looking for a sign, a message from my sister about what happened here. I don’t for a second believe that she’s actually dead. Come out, Zaza. Time to face your sister.

  3

  Completely irreconcilable with what I’ve consumed, I wake up the next morning feeling surprisingly un-hungover. My bedroom is dazzling in the high summer sun, still way too white. The walls are white, the bedspread is white, the curtains are gauzy and white, and there’s a white sheepskin rug just next to my bed. I chose the color scheme in contradistinction to Zelda’s bohemian-gypsy vibe across the hall; her room is all purples, reds, blues, and golds, fringed shawls, dull lighting. I hear raised voices in the kitchen and grab a cream kimono from my closet. I haven’t unpacked yet. I’m reluctant to do so; I slept in one of my prim nighties from high school.

  As I walk down the stairs, I can hear my mother’s shrill voice.

  “I don’t care who you think you are, who you say you are, I saw you! I saw you in the cabinets, stealing. You’ve been taking my things while I slept, and I want you out!”

  “Calm down, Nadia, it’s me, Marlon.” I hear my father say her pet name in his very best conciliatory tone, though with a small note of panic. My mother is having none of it. Never did.

  “Fuck you and your lies. Get out. I’m calling the police.” She sounds scared. I walk into the kitchen, yawning. It is surreal to see both my parents here, surrounded by the walnut cabinets they built together, bickering as though it’s still 2003.

  “Morning, Dad, Mom,” I say, heading straight for the coffeemaker.

  “Zelda, get this man out of here. He was stealing my jam from the cupboard!”

  “It’s Ava, Mom. And that’s my dad, Marlon?”

  “Like hell it is. My ex-husband is dead.”

  “Not just yet, Nadine,” my dad says with an edge. But his snark is bravado. He looks genuinely harrowed. He glances back and forth between me and Nadine, clearly unsure what to do.

  “Zelda, I will count to three!”

  “I’m not four years old. And I’m not Zelda. Are you screwing with me again today, Mom?” I study her more closely. She actually looks terrified, and her expression makes me hesitate. I don’t think she’s faking to get a rise out of us.

  “I want Zelda!” she wails, and my stomach clenches.

  So do I.

  Nadine’s going to pieces now, mumbling quietly to herself.

  “Zelda…is already outside,” I lie, starting the coffeepot. “Why don’t we just go back upstairs for a bit? I have some medicine for you.” I lead her back toward the stairway. Marlon stands there, almost paralyzed. Nadine’s hands are shaking, and she seems suddenly frail, flimsy. Her shoulders stick out like wings, and she feels somehow light, as though she’s evaporating in front of us. I give her a sedative and put her back in bed. I know this is not a long-term solution; I’ll have to work out a system later. This time, I lock the door.

  Downstairs, I pause in front of the bathroom. I hear barely controlled sobs behind the door. My father. I hesitate, tempted to knock but unsure what to say. Instead I go to the kitchen and start breakfast.

  When he joins me at the table, he is again smiling and light, determined to put me at ease. I don’t know what to say to him, so I say nothing. We eat some of Betsy’s bread and one of Zelda’s bizarre jams from the cupboard. This one seems to be peach curry. It is not a total failure as a condiment, but it is weird. Marlon doesn’t look good; either he stayed up drinking or he couldn’t fall asleep. Possibly both. We barely speak over breakfast. I can tell he is truly rattled by Nadine’s outburst, and I have no desire to discuss it with him. As I’m putting the dishes in the sink, I clear my throat.

  “I think I’m going to drive to the police station in
Watkins Glen. I’d like to learn more about the fire,” I say flatly. “See if there’s anything they need from us to investigate the, uh, accident.” I really don’t want him to invite himself along, which he seems to sense. “Do you think you could look after Nadine for a little while? I know that’s not ideal, but…” I trail off. Marlon nods cooperatively, though I imagine he can’t be excited about this. “We’ll have to do something about the funeral. I know you called some people already, and I’ll try to find some of Zelda’s friends. I don’t know if we need to worry about the announcement.”

  Marlon is still nodding along as though he knows all this, but I’m sure he hasn’t thought of it. I’m pretty sure he thinks that birthdays and funerals and dishes and housework are all magically arranged by some sort of domestic deity who oversees life’s practical considerations. He always looked confused when there weren’t clean towels in the bathroom or when the kitchen counters grew sticky and fly-infested after someone had spilled honey on the wood. As though he thought something had suddenly begun malfunctioning, rather than just continuing along its natural entropic path, unimpeded by the feminine forces that typically stood in its way.

  “Listen, I’ll text you a list of what all needs to be done. And Nadine should be quiet for a few hours. Just feed her some of Betsy’s casserole.” I can’t help wrinkling my nose in snobby reluctance at the suggestion. If she weren’t half out of her mind, my mother would never contemplate a tuna casserole, regardless of circumstances. “And give her the meds in her pill dispenser once she’s eaten. And don’t let her start drinking until at least four. Though I should be back by then.” Marlon nods mechanically. “Thanks, Dad. It’s good to see you, even…” I turn to leave the room, scooping the car keys up as I go.

  “Ava?” he asks gently. I stop. “Do you think there’s something a little…off about this?” He looks reluctant to even be suggesting it.

  “I don’t know. Zelda was in a weird place. I…don’t know what to think,” I concede. I’m not about to say that I think Zelda might be holed up somewhere with one of her crazy friends, laughing at all of us and cooing over her escape. I know that would sound crazy to him, like denial. Yet the combination of Zelda’s letters the last few months and the bizarre neatness of all this feels too much like one of my sister’s elaborate plots. But if she is up to something, she wouldn’t want Marlon to know. After he left us cold, she’d want him in the dark. Strange, that I should still be attentive to her wants, that I should give a flying fuck after everything that’s happened, but…what can I say. I’m loyal to my twin, even if I haven’t spoken to her for nearly two years.

  I bob my head at Marlon and walk out the door, carrying one of Zelda’s bags. There are two vehicles in the drive, and I reflect that maybe I should have asked Marlon to borrow his fancy rental, rather than drive my mother’s (now my sister’s) unreliable pickup. Zelda’s bedraggled, antique jalopy, which sits decaying in torpid disrepair, slowly oxidizing in the upstate moisture, was a point of acquisitive pride for my jackdaw sibling. Having long coveted the truck, she had finally prized it from my mother following an eye-exam coup that left Nadine humiliated and without a license; she had no choice but to transfer the title to the gloating Zelda, who made a point of inappropriately revving the engine and briskly ramming the body into the deep culverts that ran alongside the fields, battering the suspension and brutalizing the alignment.

  Watkins Glen is only seven or eight miles from here, though, and Zelda drove the goddamn thing all over the vineyard every day. Besides, I’m home now. I can’t be cruising around in a flashy convertible. That would just be asking to get pulled over. Zelda’s the driver. As an afterthought, I dig around in the glove compartment and pull out her driver’s license. Can’t hurt.

  The drive is relaxing, and I feel better the farther I get from my own nest of crazies. I try very hard not to think about how I’m going to keep it together for the next few weeks. I’m good at repression (as Zelda loves to point out), and this task is surprisingly easy. I find a pack of Zelda’s cigarettes on the tattered seat of the truck and light an American Spirit, the smell of Zelda filling up the small cab. Frankly, there’s no way she can be dead. I would feel it, would know with the cells of my body, which are so entwined with hers.

  Watkins Glen is sleepy, and the truck putters along until I pull up in front of the police station. American flags billow from every storefront and porch, in a show of patriotism that is almost shocking after my time in France. I wonder vaguely if I should have called ahead to the station—I don’t know what the protocol for this is. I’m already regretting the cigarette, which makes me feel nauseous and light-headed. I find gum in the glove compartment (“Because you never know when you’ll have to talk to a cop shit-faced, Little A!”) and get out of the truck. I half-expect to see people I know on the streets; even though I’ve been in town for only twelve hours, it feels weird that I haven’t seen anyone.

  The air-conditioning in the police station is turned up unjustifiably high (very upstate New York), and no one is at the reception desk. I wander around the reception area, exploring before anyone shows up. I like to find the corners of rooms, see what brochures are moldering in the rack on a cluttered side table, peer down empty hallways, locate the bathroom. I’m a snoop. I’m just leafing through a pile of crisis-hotline fliers when a cop wanders in. He seems surprised to see me. I can’t imagine that the Watkins Glen police have much to do: Make sure people are staying on the trails on the gorge hikes, check boat permits, rescue kittens, wait for NASCAR weekend. I wouldn’t think that many citizens are burned alive in their homes in this backwoods municipality.

  “My name’s Ava Antipova,” I say, jauntily sticking out my hand. The cop flinches.

  “I know. You…look like your sister.”

  “Oh, you know—knew Zelda?”

  “Yeah, I, uh, wrote up the report. I was the responding officer, after the fire department. Officer Roberts.”

  “Good. Then you’re the man I need,” I say, smiling brightly. “You may have noticed that my mother is not exactly…with it. I’d really like a more reliable account of what happened, what the report says.”

  “Um, yeah, of course. I’m sorry I have to ask, but do you have ID? I’m only allowed to release details to the family and, well…”

  I nod sympathetically, hunting in my bag. I’m ninety percent sure I don’t have my passport with me, which is my only government-issued ID.

  “Um, I don’t have a driver’s license”—shit, hope he doesn’t ask how I got here—“and I seem to have left my passport…but I do have a Metro card with my photo and birthday? I live in France,” I explain. He looks uncomfortable. Is he kidding? “I’m obviously Zelda’s twin,” I point out. “If you have a picture, you could compare…”

  “Of course, ma’am. I mean, that won’t be necessary. Of course.” He fumbles awkwardly through a heap of papers. “Would you like to hear what I wrote up in the report?”

  “That’d be super.” He clears his throat and prepares to read aloud to me. I barely suppress a snort. Really?

  “I responded to a phone call from the Antipova residence at just before one A.M. on the night of June 20. Watkins Glen Fire Department had already arrived on the scene, and they were putting out the flames. A Mrs. Betsy Kline had alerted them to the fire from her own residence and then rushed immediately to the Antipova residence, where she discovered that Mrs. Antipova—”

  “O’Connor. Ms. O’Connor,” I correct.

  “Uh, okay, Mrs. O’Connor was found to be sedated, in her bed, sleeping. Apparently she has some, uh, health issues?” He looks up at me.

  “Quite.”

  “Well, the FD was eventually successful in putting out the flames, but it came to light that Miss Zelda Antipova was suspected to be in the structure when the fire began, according to Mrs.—O’Connor’s statement.”

  “You got Nadine awake? With all those sedatives?” I say, surprised. Zelda always joked that she gave Mom horse t
ranquilizers and Nadine would barely breathe for ten hours.

  “Yes, after some effort. She was, uh…uncooperative at first.”

  “I’ll bet. But she said Zelda was in the barn?”

  “Yes, but her statements seemed a little, well, unreliable.” He looks embarrassed to be telling me that my mother can’t be trusted, as though it’s news. “Mrs. Kline told us that Miss Antipova typically spent the night in an Airstream trailer about half a mile away, so I went to investigate. No one was there, but I did find a cellphone belonging to the deceased. I mean, Zelda. Miss Antipova.” The cop turns a pretty shade of pink. I can’t believe how young he seems. “The last text messages on June 20 were with someone named Jason. They made plans to meet at the barn at eleven that night. It appears the fire started just before midnight, leading us to believe…”

  “That Zelda was there. Jason who?” I ask. I don’t recognize the name.

  “It didn’t say on her phone—he was just Jason. We called the number back but got no response, no voicemail activated. We’ve requested registration info from the phone company, but it will take a few days.”

  “So is Zelda…officially dead?”

  The cop squirms. “No, ma’am, not officially. But I’m not gonna lie—it seems very possible. Right now we’re running her cards, license, and plates, to see if she turns up anywhere. We’ve called in some specialists, and we share a coroner with Montour Falls, so we’ll get him out here. We’re obviously looking for, um…”