by Al Macy
Rozetti answered the door shirtless. A musty heat flowed from the interior while he stood in the doorway. He was a roly-poly fellow, his stomach hanging out over his sweatpants. His face was round, and he hadn’t shaved.
“Mr. Rozetti?”
“Yeah?”
“I’d like to ask you some questions about what happened yesterday.”
“Who are you?”
“I’m a detective.” She pulled out her private investigator license, which didn’t look much different from a driver’s license.
“I talked to the police yesterday. I told them everything.”
“May I come in?” she asked.
He opened the door, backing away. “Yeah. Have a seat. I’m gonna put a shirt on.”
Louella looked around the small living room. A flat-screen TV dominated one wall, sitting on a board across two milk crates. A mountain bike with a flat tire leaned against shelves formed with cinder blocks and pressed-wood boards.
Rozetti returned in a sweatshirt and sat across from her in a ratty recliner. “You sure don’t look like a detective.”
“I’m investigating the disappearance of Angelo Romero. Can you tell me what happened yesterday?” She offered him a cigarette.
He took it and lit up. “It was really weird. I was about a mile out in the ocean.”
“Where exactly?”
“Straight out from Redwood Point. So, I see something floating, not too far away. I thought maybe it was a dead seal or something. I motor over there, and I got a bad feeling about it. You know? I got closer, and I saw his face. It was Angelo Romero.”
“How did you know?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“How did you know it was Angelo Romero?”
“From his face, of course.”
“So you knew him. You recognized his face.”
“Oh, I see.” Rozetti pulled on his ear. “Well, I’d seen his face on the news, so I put two and two together.”
“The body was floating faceup?”
“Yeah.”
“What happened next?”
“Well,” he said, “my radio wasn’t working, so I couldn’t call the Coast Guard or nothing. I stayed there, thinking. I knew if I went in and called the cops, they’d never find it. Even if I tied a buoy to it. Besides, the thing was barely floating. Kind of amazing that I saw it at all, you know what I mean?”
Louella waited.
“So, I didn’t want to do it, but I figure it’s my civic duty or whatever. I decide to try and pull it into the boat. I get the boat hook out and snag it by some clothing, but that comes apart. I hook it by the mouth, but the cheek breaks.” Rozetti gagged and ran out of the room. Retching noises were followed by the sound of the toilet flushing.
He came back and sat. “Damn. I thought I was done with the puking. Where was I?”
“You had trouble hooking the body.”
“Right. So then, the body flips onto its front, facedown, okay? Then it looks like it’s going to sink. Like, right away. Maybe moving it around let air out or something. I grab for it again, and it was gross, but I got it hooked under the arm.”
He shuddered then continued. “I puked over the side of the boat but hung on. I knew I’d never get it over the gunwale, but I thought maybe I could tie it alongside. Then, the body really starts to sink, and I’m holding the damn thing up with my boat hook. Then I guess the skin ripped or something, because the boat hook comes up, and the body’s gone. I motored in and called the police. After I talked to them, they told me it was probably Romero’s body.”
“Did they say why they thought so?”
“Oh, I forgot. He had a tattoo. On the back of his neck. I told them about that, and they nodded. They must have known about it.”
Louella made a note on her pad. “Can you describe it for me?”
“Yeah. It was real colorful. It wasn’t big. It was a shark with blood around it.”
“What happened then?”
“The police talked to me for a while. They strung up crime scene tape. They put a plastic bag over the tip of the boat hook. Took that away with them. Then they had me come down to the station.”
Louella stood. “Thank you, Mr. Rozetti. Here’s my card. Please call me if you think of anything else.” Louella got to the door and turned. “By the way, what’s your day job? When you’re not crabbing?”
“Oh, I’m kinda unemployed. But sometimes I work out at the call center.”
“Call center?”
“It’s called DialUSA. Out in Blue Lake.” Blue Lake was a small village twenty miles from Redwood Point.
Louella walked to her car. She got in and paged through her notes. There. Romero had some connection with that same call center.
She lit a cigarette and thought for a while then drove away.
* * *
I had some time to think while waiting for the settlement conference for the case of the not-so-artificial insemination. I sat by the fire in my office, sipping coffee. Could Carly and I ever recapture the bond we used to have? I thought back to the two seismic events that had almost destroyed me. The second one shattered my relationship with Carly.
I had met my wife, Raquel, in court. I was a sophomore in college on a field trip for my Law, Society, and Justice course. She was a newly minted court reporter. As soon as I saw her, the entire court proceeding turned into a droning in the background. It wasn’t just her beauty, but her calm competence, recording every word that was said. Perhaps she felt my gaze, because she glanced up at me. We locked eyes but only for a split second. One of my classmates, a cute redhead that I had, until that moment, been pursuing, poked me in the ribs. Was my infatuation so obvious?
A Latin beauty, Raquel had a sultry look that reminded me of Salma Hayek or Penelope Cruz. She was an artist’s study in shades of brown. Light brown skin, dark brown hair, and eyes bordering on black. I’d never been a fan of the messy hair look. Until then.
During a court recess, she headed down the hall, and I ditched my class and followed. I caught up with her, admiring her hair from behind.
“Sorry for that,” I called out. “I was trying not to stare.”
She stopped. Turned. “You were staring? Do I know you?” She had a deep voice with the barest hint of a Mexican accent. Could someone not born to English really become a court reporter?
“I wasn’t really staring.” I was.
She resumed walking. “I didn’t notice. Are you on a high school field trip?”
“Ha ha.” I hoped she was joking, and I fell into step beside her. “No, I was just curious about your hair. How you get it to look like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know. Stylishly messy.”
“Huh. Messy.”
“In a good way,” I said.
“Maybe I just didn’t get a chance to comb it today.”
We pushed through the doors to the outside. She sat down on the bench by the sidewalk and tilted her face to catch the rays of the sun.
I sat beside her. “Yeah. That’s probably it.”
“Shouldn’t you be with the rest of your class?” She pointed. “There’s a playground down the street.”
Her tone had turned flirtatious, and my budding eloquence fled like a scared puppy, leaving behind the awkward teenager that I was. I instantly had a new appreciation for the term “tongue-tied.” Perhaps when we got close, her sexual magnetism degaussed my brain cells.
“No, I—”
She turned to me. “Maybe I’m a busy person. No time for personal hygiene.”
“No, I think … I mean, the rest of you, is, uh …”
“It’s only my hair that says homeless person?”
“No, uh, jeez.” Was I really starting to stammer? Drooling would be next.
“Okay, you got me,” she said.
“What?”
She patted her hair. “There’s a product I use to make it look like this.”
“Oh, really? I see.” I crossed my arm
s. “What’s it called?”
“Uh … Sloppy Locks.”
“Not Bed Hair and Beyond?”
The corners of her lips twitched up into a smile. A small one that suddenly grew. “I know what hair product you use.” She reached up and patted my head, her touch electric. At that point, I still had a full head of curly hair.
“What product would that be?” I asked.
She leaned toward me with a big smile. “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Better!”
Our courtship was a maelstrom of ups and downs due to her Latin temper and my youth. She and Carly became fast friends. We married only a year after the hair product discussion. Our marriage was even more turbulent than our courtship, but we never stopped loving each other.
The last time I saw her we’d had a vicious argument. I don’t remember what it was about. She’d stormed off to a class reunion with her girlfriends from stenography school, slamming the door on the way out. I phoned her to apologize, and when she didn’t answer I figured she was still angry. I texted her that I was sorry but got no response.
The return call I eventually received was not from Raquel but from the California Highway Patrol. She’d been killed in a rollover accident. The other driver was drunk.
Carly, nine months pregnant and ready to burst, helped me most with my grief, sitting with me in silence for hours at a time. Our exceptional bond grew even stronger during the ordeal. She tried to distract me by involving me in the preparations for my soon-to-arrive niece. It didn’t work. That is, not until the day Patricia was born.
Carly insisted that I be there when she gave birth. Some of her friends thought it was weird, but she didn’t care. Angelo happened to be out of town when the time came, so it was just Carly, Nicole, me, the obstetrician, and a nurse in the delivery room.
I’m not one for spiritual thoughts, but the juxtaposition of Raquel leaving the world and Patricia entering it seemed somehow magical. I’m not saying there was any kind of reincarnation involved, but the event seemed outside of the normal, everyday world. I felt an immediate connection with this squally, pinkish-purple bundle. After Carly held her, she handed Patricia to me. Most of the tears shed in the delivery room were mine.
Patricia was deaf. Knowing the possibility of having a deaf child, Angelo had wanted to adopt, but Carly won him over to her way of thinking. She simply didn’t see deafness as a disability.
My niece began babbling in sign language as early as seven months of age—making incoherent hand and arm movements that mimicked ours. I’m proud to say that the first sign she produced herself was for “uncle,” the letter “U” moved in a circle near her forehead. At least that’s what I saw.
She was the darling of the extended family, with spunk and charm that was off the charts. She even made jokes, something that I had been sure was beyond the capability of a toddler. For example, she’d point to something, make the wrong sign, and watch everyone’s reactions. She’d point to the picture of the dog in her book, and sign “cat” or “cereal.” She knew exactly what she was doing.
A cloud appeared on the horizon when the subject of a cochlear implant came up. When I sensed Carly’s resistance, I did my homework and became somewhat of an expert on the topic.
Cochlear implants are, at the same time, an inspired scientific advance and a crude tool. By sliding a tiny electrode array into the snail-like cochlea of the inner ear—it’s about the size of a pea—sound waves can be used to directly stimulate the auditory nerve in the different locations along its length that correspond to different frequencies. Thus, the implant bypasses the defective hair cells in the cochlea.
They are crude because humans have 30,000 fibers in the auditory nerve, whereas the array has only about twenty electrodes. However, using electrical wizardry that I don’t understand, that’s enough for understanding speech—the primary goal. But a CI won’t let someone hear the world the way hearing people do.
Carly didn’t want Patricia to get a CI, and her view was opposed by our entire extended family. I was the designated persuader-in-chief because of our closeness and because arguing was my profession.
“I like the way I am,” Carly said during one of our heated discussions. “Deafness isn’t something that needs to be fixed.”
“So why do you wear contact lenses?” I replied.
“That’s different.”
“How?”
“I need contacts to see traffic signs. I don’t need to hear to interact with my friends, with my culture. ASL is not an inferior language; it’s just different.”
It really came down to the special Deaf culture that Carly loved. Capital D. It was Carly’s tribe, and I suspected Carly was afraid that Patricia wouldn’t learn to sign, that she wouldn’t join the tribe.
I frowned. “What about me? I can hear, but I sign. Pretty well, too.”
“Some kids hate the CIs. They reject using them.” She was just grasping for rationalizations now.
“Okay, if she doesn’t like it, fine. She doesn’t have to use it.”
Carly’s face was flushed. “I don’t want to make the decision for Patricia. She can decide for herself later on.”
“Come on, you know the problem with that.”
CIs work best when implanted early on. The ideal age seems to be around eighteen months. Some adults who get an implant have trouble interpreting the unfamiliar impulses that are sent to their brains. Also, CIs provide what’s called “phonological awareness” that helps kids read. It helps them sound out words.
I hugged my twin sister, wishing I could talk to her with my arms around her.
I released the hug. “The CI won’t make you lose your daughter. You’ll see. She already signs better than any kid her age. She has a wonderful, signing family. I’ll personally guarantee she’s the best signer in Redwood Point. You know she’s going to love you no matter what.”
Carly had eventually relented and gave up the fight against overwhelming resistance. Patricia would get an implant.
* * *
Patricia had had a grand send-off for her surgery, with four grandparents, my immediate family of three, and some of Carly’s friends from the deaf community. She was a year and a half old, and Carly and Angelo had prepared her well, going through picture books about visits to the hospital.
The surgery would take three to four hours, so the entire group headed to the hospital cafeteria for a spirited breakfast. Nicole took on the duties of translator for those who didn’t sign. Back in the waiting room, we all shared the feeling of supporting Patricia and looked forward to waving to her when she woke up. Since the doctors had assured us that the surgery was a “safe and well-tolerated procedure,” our only worry was whether the implantation would be successful.
I looked forward to that moment, three to six weeks after surgery, when the implant would be turned on for the first time. I’d watched many videos of children hearing their first sounds when the device was activated. The payoff was seeing the child suddenly look around when the first tones were transmitted to the device. I was sure that Patricia, being so advanced, would use her sign language skills to communicate how she felt.
I pulled Carly aside and asked, “How are you doing?”
She shrugged. She was handling the situation with good grace, accepting the will of the “village” that was our extended family. I resisted the urge to repeat my arguments. The pros and cons had been hashed over enough.
An hour in, I walked over to the doors to the surgery department. I saw some frantic comings and goings for the OR that held my niece. An icicle of worry invaded my heart.
Soon after that, the head surgeon walked to the waiting room, his head down. He asked to speak privately with Carly and Angelo.
Chapter Four
In my office, Nicole put her hand on my shoulder, startling me out of my agonizing revisitation of those events.
“You okay, Dad?” she asked.
“What? Oh, sorry. Yeah, I’m fine.”
“They just arriv
ed. Horace Scully, Molly Scully, and Molly’s attorney. You’re sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah, just enjoying the fire. Show them in.”
Ursula Pinart, Molly’s lawyer, came in first and gave me a peck on the cheek. A little more than a peck, actually. She was a good friend and a competent attorney. Ursula was a few years older than I, with salt-and-pepper hair pulled back into a tight bun. She looked more like a psychological counselor than a legal one, with a smile that radiated kindness and eyes that twinkled, as if she were about to share a joke.
Molly followed with a bit of a limp and an apologetic grimace. “I’m so sorry, Ursula said it would be okay to bring her.” She had her daughter on her hip, a cute pixie whose pigtails were tied with pink bows.
“You must be Hortense,” I said, leaning down. “How old are you, Hortense?”
She turned away, squeezing her head against her mom’s shoulder, but held up a hand with four fingers awkwardly extended.
“Four years old. What a big girl!” That was how old Patricia would have been. I blinked a few times. Keep it together, Garrett.
“She’s shy, and she’ll be quiet. She’s very well behaved.”
Nicole was behind Horace. “Dad, I’d be happy to watch her—”
I made the sign for “No!” and said out loud, “Why don’t you get some coffees?”
She took the orders, and I got the clients seated around the table in the center of my office. I kept a box of toys by the fireplace.
“Hortense, you’re welcome to play with any of these. This one on the top is a lot of fun.” The centerpiece of my kid zone was a six-sided play cube with a bead maze on the top—colorful wires with beads that could be moved along them. Each side had fun activities such as interlocking plastic gears and an abacus.
Hortense shook her head and gripped her mom tighter.
“Or not. But feel free to play with them if you get bored.” I returned to the table, a heavy antique that matched the men’s club atmosphere.
“Pleased to meet you, Molly. I’m very sorry for your loss.” I shook her hand. She was apparently fighting a battle against her weight, a war the bad guys were winning, but her round face was pleasant and held a warm smile.
