I listen politely as she elaborates about will-o-the-wisps, luminescent fogs, and strange men with guns. It makes for a good story, but there are no new details about how Father and Jonathan drowned, or why they’d tip their boat and get trapped underwater late in the evening on a cloudless, moonless night. I assume that description is correct. It’s on the sheriff’s statement in the local paper,The Revenant Rag.
Only this morning, I found a copy with that article in the Revenant library. It’s a semi-serious paper that has somehow survived the rise of the internet. The masthead is a nice sketch of the institute, with a thank-you line beneath for their donations.
We part ways, with Molly wandering back to her house and me to mine. I pause at the front door and lift my head to study the façade with the peeling white paint. I’m reluctant to go inside. It’s both familiar and foreign with Father not here, a skeleton of his past—a disjointed messy skeleton. After my mother died, he grew messier every time I visited. The downstairs hallway is stacked with files and printouts.
I’m sure he wasn’t supposed to bring the institute research home, so what was he printing? Why do that when a computer happily stores a hundred thousand times as much info? I should check them out and read some.
On opening the door and seeing the slumping towers of paper beckoning, daring me to handle them, I’m inclined to give in and burn whatever looks like stuff from the Revenant Institute.
Molly’s talk about strange luminescent creatures lends the house a spookier aspect. The last text Dad sent me, the day before he died, echoes the theme.
You might see a story about me and Revenant. I saw something and it blew up into something crazy. Love you. I will leave you the house here.
Though vague, that was super suspicious considering what happened next, and Molly would agree with me.Leave you the house.Was he thinking he might die?
The cops dismissed the message after checking with the institute administrators and staff. He wasn’t written up as having done anything out of the ordinary. Nobody had any arguments or problems with him. Dad was pretty friendly to everyone. No story has surfaced.
“It’s probably cookie recipes,” I mutter as I negotiate the paper stacks on my way to the stairs leading to the second story.
The milk will be off by morning.
I detour to grab it, a bowl of cereal, spoon, and a bottle of water then realize I have only one more bottle after this. I can’t shower or wash. Though I’ve organized for the power and water to be turned on, it doesn’t happen until tomorrow. If I stay, I have to keep paying. It’s a waste if I don’t stay.
Stay or not? I’m no detective. Do I really believe Dad was murdered because he saw ‘something’? I don’t know, but I suspect it might be the case. It’s a stupid theory, but my heart says something bad went down here. I’m way too tired to think more about this tonight.
I guess I was wrong about not thinking.
Rugged up in a hooded parka, leggings, and boots, I sit on the balcony looking out over the darkening valley, chewing on possibles and cold, over-sweetened muesli and milk. If I stand, I can see the lights winding along Jordan Street below,until Jordan reaches Revenant and merges into the lights outlining the town’s shape. It’s mostly house lights and shop signs down there, plus the small industrial district to the left at the rear.
This used to be home, and the past has left its mark on me. I should leave tomorrow. Should find a real estate agent, organize them to sell the house, then leave. This ache in my chest that drags me down will only power up if I hang around here. The house is steeped in Father’s life and my childhood, but it’s his death that sticks to me like a black, loathsome glue.
Wrong or right about what happened to him, I’m no detective. Could I employ one? I guess I could.
They returned the boat after all the forensics and investigating were done, and it lies on trestles in the back yard. The white shape reminds me of a coffin.
The wind picks up, flips the hood off my head. I don’t bother moving it back into place.
I go forward to squat then sit at the edge of the balcony, wriggling to slip my legs beneath the railing and dangle them over the empty space. Idly, I swing them, thinking of what to do. The railing timbers are cold under my palms where I grip them like a prisoner staring out through the bars of their cell.
I have no job to return to. Bartending work dried up, though if I try, I could find more. Besides, the money from the will is enough to keep me going for years if I want to waste it sitting on my ass and being morose. I wish I didn’t have it.
I really, really wish I did not have it.
Silent tears trail down my face.
Go? Or stay and play detective? I maybe, kinda, want to stay. I need to know why he was killed, if he was. I need this to get on with my own life. Shattered and alone, I lean my forehead into the railing bars.
Are these called bars? I could google it but no. Of all the things to worry about, it’s not railing terminology.
I need a sign. Stay or go. Forget everything my father did, throw away any meaning or worth he had. His life would mean nothing. No. Make that his death would mean nothing. His life, his successes, those remain.
Do I move on like some goddamned useless bug?
“Apologies to the bugs,” I whisper.
I squint at the night sky and wait for a falling star. Even a screaming possum falling from a tree will do at this point.
Something nudges my elbow, and I yelp then decide anything that soft and furry cannot be all that scary. It begins to purr.
