Must’ve been two, three times Molina explained to Lisette where they were taking her—to the Ocean County Hospital—for the I.D. But the words hadn’t come together in a way that was comprehensible.
Eiii-dee. Eiii-dee. Long she would hear these syllables like a gull’s cry lifting into the asphalt-colored clouds above the ocean.
“We will just stay as long you wish. Or, not long at all—it’s up to you. Maybe it will be over in a minute. Or maybe . . .”
Molina spoke to Lisette in this way, that was meant to soothe, but did not make sense. No matter the words, there was a meaning beneath that Lisette could not grasp. Often adults were uncomfortable with Lisette because she gave an impression of smirking but it was just the skin around her left eye, the eye socket that had been shattered and repaired, and a frozen look to that part of her face because the nerve-muscles were dead. Such a freak accident her mother said told her and told her not to—not to run—on the stairs—you know how kids are. And half-pleading with the surgeon though she knew the answer to her question Will the life return to them, ever? The broken nerves?
Not broken but dead. Momma knew!
At the hospital they parked again at the rear of the building. This was the hospital Yvette had brought Lisette to, last fall, to visit one of her casino friends dying of AIDS. But Lisette pretended not to know what the hospital was. Especially Lisette pretended not to know that the basement—you pressed B on the elevator—took you to MORGUE.
Some reason she was being taken here. The roaring in her head was like a wind blowing any clear thought away.
In a lowered voice Molina conferred with the male cop who was grimacing like her father sometimes did—mostly around the mouth. She could go into a dream recalling Daddy—but this wasn’t the place.
Couldn’t hear what the cops were saying. She had no wish to hear. But she wanted to believe that the Hispanic woman was her friend and could be trusted—it was like that with Hispanic women, the mothers of her classmates, mostly they were nice, they were kind. Molina was a kind woman, you could see how she’d be with children and possibly grandchildren. Weird that she was a cop, and carried a gun—packed heat it was said. Molina was not a beautiful woman with thick heavy brows like a man’s but a smooth almost unlined face of some dark-taffy color beginning to thicken at the jawline. This kind of woman who’d be stern and frowning with you then wink, so you laughed, startled.
Molina didn’t wink. Lisette had no reason to laugh.
They were standing just inside the hospital, on the first floor by the elevators. People moved around them, past them. Like blurs in the background of a photograph, or in a film. It seemed urgent now to listen to what Molina was telling her in a soothing/confiding voice as Molina gripped Lisette’s arm again. Did Molina think that Lisette would try to shake her off, and escape? The male cop held himself a little apart, frowning. Lisette’s mother knew some cops—she’d gone out with a cop—she’d said how the life of a cop is so fucking boring except once in a while something happens and happens fast and you could be shot down in that second or two but mostly it was very very boring like dealing blackjack cards to assholes thinking they could win against the house. You never win against the house.
What Molina was saying did not seem to Lisette relevant to the situation but later, Lisette would see that yes, all that the policewoman said was relevant—asking Lisette about Christmas, which was maybe two weeks ago, or three weeks ago, and New Year’s—how much “business” the police had at this time of year; and what had Lisette and her mother done over the holidays, anything special?
Lisette tried to think. Holidays wasn’t a word she or Momma would use.
“Just saw some people. Nothing special.”
“You didn’t see your father?”
No. Didn’t.
“When was the last time you saw him?”
Last time! Lisette tried to think: it was back beyond the face surgery, and the eye surgery. But she’d been out of school.
Maybe in the summer. Like, around July Fourth.
“Not more recently than that?”
Lisette swiped at her eye. Wondering was this some kind of trick like you saw on TV cop shows?
“On New Year’s Eve, did your mother go out?”
Yes. Sure. Momma always went out, New Year’s Eve.
“Do you know who she went out with?”
No. Did not know.
“He didn’t come to the house, to pick her up?”
Lisette tried to think. If whoever it was came to the house for sure Lisette wasn’t going to see him like she hid from Momma’s woman-friends and why—no reason, just wanted to.
Lisette how big you’re getting!
Lisette taller than your mom, eh?
They took the elevator down. Down to MORGUE.
Here the hospital was a different place. Here the air was cooler and smelled—smelled of something like chemicals. There were no visitors here. There were very few hospital staff people here. A female attendant in white pants, white shirt and a cardigan sweater told them that the assistant coroner would be with them soon.
They were seated. Lisette was between the two cops. Feeling weak in the knees, sick—like she’d been arrested, she was in custody and this was a trick to expose her. As casually—for she’d been talking of something else—Molina began to ask Lisette about a motel on the south edge of the city—the Blue Moon Motel on South Atlantic—had Lisette heard of the Blue Moon Motel?—and Lisette said no—she had never heard of the Blue Moon Motel—there were motels all over Atlantic City and some of them sleazy places and she did not think—as Molina seemed to be saying—that her mother had worked at any one of these motels, ever—if it’d been the Blue Moon Motel, she’d have heard of it. Since when was Yvette Mueller working there? She was not. Her mother was not.
Lisette said her mother was not a motel maid or a cocktail waitress but a blackjack dealer and you had to be trained for that.
Lisette said maybe her mother had to fly out to Las Vegas—maybe there was a job for her there.
Lisette said, like one groping for a light switch: “Is Momma in—some kind of trouble?”
A twisty little knot of rage in her heart, against Mommy. Oh she hated that woman!—all this was Momma’s fault.
Molina said they weren’t sure. That was what the I.D. might clear up.
“We need your cooperation, Lisette. We are hoping that you could provide—identification.”
Weird how back at school she’d heard eiii-dee not I.D. Like static was interfering, to confuse her. Like after she’d fallen on the stairs and hit her face and hit her head and she hadn’t been able to walk without leaning against a wall she’d been so dizzy, and she’d forgotten things. Some short-circuit in her brain.
“Can you identify—these? Do these look familiar, Lisette?”
A morgue attendant had brought Molina a box containing items of which two were a woman’s handbag and a woman’s wallet which Molina lifted carefully from the box, with gloved hands.
Lisette stared at the handbag and at the wallet. What were these? Were they supposed to belong to her mother? Lisette wasn’t sure if she had ever seen them before and wondered was this some kind of cop-trick, to see if she was telling the truth.
Lisette shook her head no—but slowly. Staring at the brown-leather handbag with some ornamentation on it, like a brass buckle, and straps; and the black wallet shabby-looking, like something you’d see on a sidewalk or by a Dumpster and not even bother to pick up to see if there’s money inside.
Molina was saying these “items” were “retrieved” from a drainage ditch behind the Blue Moon Motel.
Also behind the drainage ditch was a woman’s body—a “badly damaged” woman’s body for which they had no identification, yet.
Carefully Molina spoke. Her hand lay lightly on Lisette’s arm, which had the effect of restraining Lisette from swiping and poking at her left eye as she’d been doing. It had the effect also of restraining Lisette fr
om squirming in her seat like red ants were stinging inside her clothes.
“The purse has been emptied out and the lining is ripped. In the wallet was a New Jersey driver’s license issued to ‘Yvette Mueller’ but no credit cards or money—no other I.D. There was a slip of paper with a name and a number to be called ‘in case of emergency’ but that number has been disconnected—it belonged to a relative of your mother’s who lives, or lived, in Edison, New Jersey? ‘Iris Pedersen’?”
Lisette shook her head as if all this was too much—just too much for her to absorb. She didn’t recognize the handbag and she didn’t recognize the wallet—she was sure. She resented being asked, for these items were so grungy-looking it was an insult to think that they might belong to her mother.
Close up she saw that Molina’s eyes were beautiful and dark-thick-lashed the way Lisette’s mother tried to make her eyes, with a mascara brush. The skin beneath Molina’s eyes was soft and bruised-looking and on her throat were tiny dark moles. Molina’s lips were the exposed red-fleshy part of her, swollen-looking, moist. It did not seem natural that a woman like Molina who you could see was a mother—her body was a mother’s body for sure, spreading hips and heavy breasts straining at the front of her jacket—and in her earlobes, small gold studs—could be a cop; it did not seem natural that this person was carrying a gun, in a holster attached to a leather belt, and that she could use it, if she wanted to. Anytime she wanted to. Lisette went into a dream thinking, if she struck at Molina, if she kicked, spat, bit, Molina might shoot her.
The male cop, you’d expect to have a gun. You’d expect he would use it.
Daddy had showed them his guns, he’d brought back from Iraq. These were not army-issue but personal guns, a pistol with a carved-wood handle and a heavier handgun, a revolver. He’d won these in a card game, Daddy said.
Maybe it hadn’t been from Iraq he’d brought them. Maybe this was Fort Bragg, where he’d been stationed.
Lisette was saying that, if her mother’s driver’s license had been in that wallet, maybe it was her mother’s wallet—but definitely, she didn’t recognize it.
As for “Iris Pedersen”—“Aunt Iris”—this was her mother’s aunt not hers. Aunt Iris was old enough to be Lisette’s grandmother and Lisette hadn’t seen her in years and did not think that her mother had, either. For all they knew the old lady was dead.
“We tried to contact her and the Edison police tried to contact her. But . . .”
Molina went on to tell Lisette that they had tried to locate her father—“Duane David Mueller”—to make the I.D. for them but he was no longer a resident in Atlantic City or so far as they knew in the State of New Jersey.
An I.D. by someone who knew Yvette Mueller well was necessary to determine if, in fact, the dead woman was Yvette Mueller—or another woman of her approximate age. The condition of the body and the injuries to the face made it difficult to judge, from the driver’s license photo. And from photos on file at the casinos in which Yvette Mueller had worked.
Condition of the body. This was the first Lisette had heard of a body.
Unless Molina had been telling her, this was some of what Molina had been telling her, Lisette hadn’t heard.
Body! She didn’t know anything about any body.
Lisette said, “My father’s in the U.S. Army. My father is a sergeant in the U.S. Army, he used to be stationed at Fort Bragg but now he’s in Iraq,” and Molina said, “No, Lisette. I’m afraid that that has changed. Your father is no longer a sergeant in the U.S. Army, and he is no longer in Iraq.”
Lisette wanted to say That’s bullshit! That is not true.
“The army has no record of ‘Duane Mueller’ at the present time—he’s been AWOL since December twenty-sixth of last year.”
Lisette was so surprised she couldn’t speak. Except for Molina gripping her arm she’d have jumped up and run away.
Her stomach felt sick. Deep in her stomach. Like the bad kind of flu, with diarrhea.
Molina was speaking of other relatives of Yvette Mueller they’d tried to locate, in New Jersey and Maryland, to come to Atlantic City for the I.D.—for they’d hoped to spare Lisette—but these relatives seemed to have moved away, or vanished. None were listed in the phone directory.
Lisette wanted to say with a jeering laugh Yeah. There’s nobody left except Momma and me.
She was shivering so hard, her teeth were chattering. The corduroy jacket wasn’t really for winter—this nasty wet cold. There hadn’t been Momma that morning scolding her Dress warm! For Christ’s sake it’s January.
Another morgue attendant, an Indian-looking man—some kind of doctor—assistant coroner—had come to speak in a lowered voice to the police officers. Quickly Lisette shut her eyes not listening. This was not meant for her to hear and she did not want to hear! Trying to remember where she was exactly, and why—why they’d been asking her . . . Trying to picture the classroom she’d had to leave—she had not wanted to leave—there was Nowicki at the board with her squeaky chalk, and there was J-C slouched in his desk, silk hair falling into his face—and Keisha, who breathed through her mouth when she was excited, or scared—and there was Lisette’s own desk, empty—but now it was later, it was third period and J-C wasn’t in English class with Lisette—but—there was the cafeteria—when the bell rang at 11:45 A.M., it was lunchtime and you lined up outside the doors—bright-lit fluorescent lights and a smell of greasy fried food—french fries . . . Macaroni and cheese, chili on buns . . . Lisette’s mouth flooded with saliva.
Smiling seeing the purple-lipstick kiss on the Kleenex, as J-C would see if when he unfolded it—a surprise!
Actually the lipstick-kiss was kind of pretty, on the Kleenex. She’d blotted her lips with care.
Her mother didn’t want her to wear lipstick but fuck Momma, all the girls her age did.
Last time she’d seen Momma with Daddy, Daddy had been in his soldier’s dress uniform and had looked very handsome. His hair had been cut so short.
Not then but an earlier time when Daddy had returned from Iraq for the first time Lisette’s mother had covered his face in purple-lipstick-kisses. Lisette had been so young she’d thought the lipstick-kisses were some kind of wounds, her daddy was hurt and bleeding and it was a bearded face she hadn’t known too well, she had not recognized at first so it scared her.
The times were confused. There were many times. You could not “see” more than one time though there were many.
There were many Daddys—you could not “see” them all.
There was the time Daddy took Momma to Fort Lauderdale for what they called their second honeymoon. They’d wanted to take Lisette but—it hadn’t worked out—Lisette had to be in school at that time of year, in February.
She’d gone to stay with her mother’s friend Misty who’d worked at Bally’s at that time. But when Momma called from Florida, Lisette refused to come to the phone. They’d planned on ten days in Florida but Lisette’s mother surprised her by returning after just a week saying that was it, that was the end, she’d had to call the police when he’d gotten drunk and beat her, and in a restaurant he’d knocked over a chair he was so angry, that was it for her, no more.
At Thanksgiving, he’d returned. Not to live in Atlantic City but to visit before he was deployed again to Iraq.
Yvette had man friends she met in the casinos. Most of them, Lisette never met. Never wished to meet. One of them was a real estate agent in Monmouth County, Lisette could remember just the first name which was some unusual name like Upton, Upwell . . .
The Indian-looking man was speaking to Lisette but she could not comprehend a word he said. He was very young-looking to be a doctor. He wore a neat white jacket and white pants, crepe-soled shoes. Behind wire-rimmed glasses his eyes were soft-black, somber. His hair was black, but coarse and not silky-fine like J-C’s hair.
He was leading the cops and Lisette into a fluorescent-lit refrigerated room. Firmly Molina had hold of Lisette’s hand—the i
cy fingers.
“We will make it as easy for you as we can, Lisette. All you have to do is squeeze my hand—that will mean yes.”
Yes? Yes what? Desperately Lisette was picturing the school cafeteria—the long table in the corner where the coolest guys sat—J-C and his friends—his “posse”—and sometimes certain girls were invited to sit with them—today maybe J-C would call over to Lisette to sit with them—Lisette! Hey Liz-zette!—because he’d liked the purple-lipstick kiss, and what it promised. Lisette c’mere—this would be so cool . . .
“Take your time, Lisette. I’ll be right beside you.”
*
Then—so quick it was over!
The female body she was meant to I.D. was not anyone she knew let alone not her mother.
This one was not Yvette’s size, and not Yvette’s shape. This one had hair that was darker than Yvette’s hair, and the roots of the hair were brown, and it was all snarled like a cheap wig, and really ugly—and the forehead was so bruised and swollen, and the eyes—you could hardly see the eyes—and the mouth was, like, broken—and swollen, and purple—you could not make sense of the face, almost. It was a face that would need to be straightened out, like with a pliers.
A face like Hallowe’en. A face hardly female.
“No. Not Momma.”
Lisette spoke sharply, decisively. Molina was holding her hand—she was tugging to get free.
This was the morgue: this was a corpse.
This was not a woman but a thing—you could not believe really that it had ever been a woman.
Only just the head and the face were exposed, the rest of the body was covered by a white sheet but you could see the shape of it, the size, and it was not Lisette’s mother—obviously. Older than Momma and something had happened to the body to make it small—smaller. Some sad pathetic broken female-like debris washed up on the shore.
It was lucky, the sheet was drawn up over the chest. The breasts. And the belly, and pubic hair—fatty-raddled thighs of a woman of such an age, you would not want to look at.
Black Dahlia & White Rose: Stories Page 5
