U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Tasha said.

“No big loss. She wus crabby to the end. I’m getting wine now. You sit and I’m bringing right beck.”

“Looks like you’ve made a conquest,” I remarked, as Rosie moved away. I took a seat again on my side of the booth and Tasha slid in across the table from me.

“She’s adorable,” she said.

“That’s one word for it.”

“She speaks English well. How long has she been in this country?”

“Sixty years, give or take.”

We confined ourselves to chitchat until Rosie returned with the wine in a dusty bottle with an actual cork. For me, she’s quick with a screw-top jug and wine so close to vinegar you could use it to clean windows. The wine she poured for Tasha was like drinking elixir from an orchard—soft, subtle, with a fragrance of apples, pears, and honey.

We let Rosie order for us, which she’d have done anyway. It was better to give her permission to be bossy and thus retain a modicum of control. She was otherwise a food dominatrix. The carp with sour cream turned out to be lovely. Maybe I’d have dinner here with Tasha more often.

As is the case every time we meet, I couldn’t help making a secret study of her. She looks not the way I look, but the way I think I look when I’m at my best. We have the same square teeth, the same nose, though mine has suffered a few indignities where hers has survived in its original state. My eyes are hazel where hers are dark brown, but the shape is the same. I could tell she plucked her eyebrows, and I envied her both the skill and the courage. Sometimes I try, usually closing my eyes while doing so in hopes it won’t hurt. Inevitably, I pull out the wrong hair, which makes my brows look patchy and incomplete. Then I have to use eyebrow pencil to fill in the blanks, which gives me the fierce demeanor of a Kabuki.

When we’d finished our meal and Rosie had removed the plates, Tasha reached into her tote and pulled out a bulky manila envelope. I expected her to hand it across the table to me, but she held it against her chest.

“I’ve been sorting and cataloging Grandfather Kinsey’s papers for the historical preservation group that raised the money to move the house. Grand asked me to take charge because his files are so voluminous and so disorganized. She’s never had the patience to tackle them herself. She wants me to put together a chronological account of the house—when it was built, the architect, the plans, and that sort of thing. Grandfather Kinsey kept everything—and I mean everything—so with a bit of digging I’ve been able to come up with summaries of his meetings with the builder, various construction proposals, invoices and receipts documenting the project from beginning to end. In the midst of it, I came across some letters that by rights belong to Grand. I haven’t told her I found them, because there’s no way to predict what she’d do with them. Destroy them, most likely. I thought you should see them first.”

“Well, you’ve got my attention.”

“I hope so,” she said.

I held out my hand and took the envelope. While she watched, I unfolded the clasp, opened the package, and peered in. There were three or four sheets of letterhead stationery and a series of letters bound together with two thick rubber bands, old ones apparently, because both snapped when I tried removing them. I did a finger walk through the envelopes, some of which were addressed to me and some to Virginia Kinsey, my Aunt Gin. The postmarks were assorted dates in the latter half of 1955—the same year my parents were killed—starting in June and extending through the next two calendar years. One had been opened but the rest were still sealed. Across the front of each envelope there was either an emphatic “RETURN TO SENDER!! ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN!” in Aunt Gin’s unmistakable bold printing or equally forceful messages delivered by way of post office rubber stamps with a purple-ink finger pointing accusingly at the return address. You’d think a federal crime had been committed from the savagery expressed.

I knew what I was looking at. In one of my last conversations with Tasha, we’d argued this very point. Her mother, my Aunt Susanna, had said that the day my parents were killed, they were traveling to Lompoc in hopes of a reconciliation with my grandparents. She claimed that after they died, Grand tried for years to establish contact with me and had finally given up. I’d assumed it was all bullshit, Aunt Susanna’s attempt to put a better spin on the tale of my abandonment. Having never spoken to my grandmother, the gist of my quarrel with her was that she’d been content to let me languish, bereft of family solace and support, for the twenty-nine years following my parents’ deaths. Aunt Gin’s parenting, while adequate, had been curiously deficient in matters of warmth and affection. Her remoteness might well have been something she learned at her mother’s knee, but whatever the origin, I was affected. She’d taught me many valuable lessons about life, most of which still serve me, but of comfort, closeness, and nurturing, there was little. The letters were proof Grand had made an effort that Aunt Gin had rebuffed.