“You stole Charlie’s shoes?”
“I stole Charlie’s correspondence.” I picked up the letters.
“You shouldn’t have taken anything if you knew it wasn’t Dad’s.”
I ran a finger over the address on the envelope. Charlie Parker, Eighteenth Street, San Francisco. I would have recognized that narrow, slanted cursive anywhere. It was my dad’s handwriting. I pulled out the first letter and opened it, my eyes flicking over the contents. The letterhead was from my dad’s mediation firm. It began Dear Mr. Parker—blah, blah, mediation. My shoulders sunk. It was practically a form letter.
“Sabine? Mail theft is an actual crime. Give the box back.”
“They’re letters from Dad,” I said.
“What does it say?”
“Nothing. I guess Dad represented Charlie in a mediation.”
“Then give them back.”
“But why is his stuff in our moving truck?”
“Maybe they picked it up on the way here.”
“Why is he living here?”
“To help.” Blythe was always so logical. I rewrapped the letters, closed the lid, and shoved the shoebox under my bed.
“Don’t get caught putting it back,” she said. I turned to find her watching me. Her eyes flicked under the bed, but instead of calling me out, she gave me a little smile. “If Dad were here, he’d give us all the grit on Charlie.”
“He would have roasted him. That slick hair?”
“Laminated. And the reef tuck? He probably has a diagram for folding shirts.”
I imitated Dad’s Southern lilt. “And his teeth and shoes are shined to a bright ne-on.”
“Yeah.” Blythe smiled a little. All at once her eyes filled with tears. She stared hard, not blinking. Then her tears dissipated and my own eyes filled, as if she had somehow transferred them to me. “I can’t believe he’s gone.”
I shook my head. Me neither. I sat down hard on the new chaise. Just days ago, we’d chosen Dad’s final resting place. His drawer. That’s what they look like: drawers with cheap Little League trophy plaques. At the mausoleum, we’d gone from one alcove to another, through hallways decorated with soothing fountains, ferns, and plaque after plaque. All had awful sayings, such as, “They’re always with you . . . in spirit.” My mom talked the whole time, narrating.
“He wouldn’t want to be across from those cheap American flags. He’d want to be near a window. Under a window.” As if Dad would be there any moment to make the final decision. But as she perused the list of prices, she revised his opinions. “He’d want to be not too far from a window. And not too close to the administration, because it’s noisy.” It was like she was choosing a table in a restaurant.
Blythe had kept silent, stoic. I just kept thinking, Who wants to spend the hereafter in a drawer? I guess I’d imagined someday spreading my parents’ ashes in a field of wildflowers or into crashing ocean waves. Never had I imagined a new-agey building with fake-marble walls.
That building should be banned along with those dumb plaques. The dead weren’t with you in spirit. I didn’t feel my dad’s presence. I could barely feel my own. I felt empty of spirit, any spirit—as if once there had been a whole city inside me, buzzing with life, and someone had come along and blown it up. Boom. Now there were just ashes. And not even a drawer to put them in.
I must have dozed off because I woke to a clang. I jumped and looked outside. The willow tree was coated with the yellow light of dusk, and my mom and Charlie were just beneath it. The sound blared again.
“Is that the doorbell?” Blythe removed her headphones.
“I’ll get it.” I hurried downstairs, thinking of movers.
On the other side of the glass door was a long-limbed old woman in a wide gardening hat. I opened the door. I caught the smell of mice and wondered if we had an infestation, or if that smell was her.
“Has your mother finally arrived?”
“She’s in back,” I said. “Can I help you?”
“I’m Mrs. Bernadette McMichaels, president of the Thornewood Beautification and Historic District Society. Mr. Parker likely mentioned me.” I opened my mouth to say that actually, he had, and that I was to call him immediately. But she didn’t give me the chance. “Beautifying is a life’s work. Once my father passes, I’ll be able to dedicate even more time to Thornewood beautification. This place needs full-time help.”
I peered outside. What was she talking about? Thornewood was beautiful. It was all arching street maples and big white houses and corner pocket parks full of bougainvillea. Our house was the only eyesore.
“You’re Mrs. McMichaels?” Maybe she had something to do with the “plan” Charlie was so excited about. I held the door open for her.
She stepped into the foyer and wrinkled her nose. The space was now filled with boxes and plastic-wrapped furniture, but it didn’t look much better than it had a few hours ago. Maybe worse. Backstepping, Mrs. McMichaels jerked open her tote bag and pulled out a thick envelope. “I have documents for your mother to sign,” she said, her eyes flicking over the room. She shoved the envelope in my hands and pulled out a clipboard. “Can I trust you to give these to her and not leave them between the couch cushions?” With a big, startlingly fake smile, she held out the clipboard and tapped for my signature.
“Uh, sure?” My eyes swam through a sea of fine print. “You work for the city?”
She snorted. Not delicately, either. “I do not work. I volunteer to ensure our taxes are going to the schools, where they should. That’s been my platform for thirty years, and it will be for another thirty.”
I nodded and scribbled my name in what seemed like the right place. “So, what do the schools have to do with the house?”
“Thornewood has high standards.” She snatched the clipboard and shoved it back in her tote. “So, as far as I’m concerned, our town is obliged to restore this house to its former glory.”
I glanced up at the creaking chandelier, then behind me at the mahogany telephone booth. “That would be awesome.”
She stiffened and smiled the tiniest smile. “As you say.” She tipped her hat. I waved as she stomped across the porch boards, afraid she’d fall right through. When she was gone, I closed the door and leaned against it, sighing. I glanced at the envelope in my hands. What could this be about? I listened to the quiet house for a count of three. Then I flipped the envelope open and yanked everything out.
On top was a bound document: “The Thornewood Historic District Neighborhood Preservation Rules and Guidelines for Owners/Renters.” Owners was circled in red ink. I flipped through.