reaches out to Mother. âThe postman just came. I signed for a letter.â
Signing for a letter is not always good, not even here, where every aspect of life is more formal than at home. After Dad died, Mother complained about all the letters she had to sign for. How she had to get dozens of copies of the death certificate. I still have a copy in my room, hidden inside
The History of Language.
The original document was written in Dutch, with a certified English translation attached. I read and reread the English version so many times I memorized it.
It said so little to be so important.
Mother takes the envelope. âThey let you sign for it?â
â
SÃ,
â Martia says. Martia is local, trusted. Iâm sure the postman knows her better than anyone else who stays in
Blauwe Huis,
probably even better than the owner.
A smaller envelope is tucked inside the larger one, like a wedding invitation. It is stamped with a seal, protecting the contents, like one of the medieval parchments written in old Italian that Dad would sometimes translate for a history scholar.
Motherâs fingers slide under the flap and break the seal. She opens it, peeks in, almost as if sheâs seeing if it will bite. She tugs out a page.
âWhat is it?â I ask.
âI canât read it.â Mother turns the paper over, as if she expects a translation on the back. âItâs all in Dutch.â
âMartia can translate,â I say.
Martia shrugs. â
SÃ.
â
Mother doesnât hand the paper over. Instead, she beckons Martia to come read over her shoulder.
Martia mouths the words silently before she starts speaking. âIt is from the lawyer here. Just closing out the files, passing along a copy of the commissionerâs final report on Mr. Waltersâs death, that the incident was wholly accidental.â
Mother shifts in her chair. âWell, this is ridiculous. They concluded all of this last year. Why would the lawyer send out another letter?â
Kammi looks at me. Maybe she thinks I can answer the riddle.
Martia says, âThis is what the lawyer says, just closing the file. Formal.â She shrugs, as if to apologize for the bureaucracy that sends a letter a year after the fact.
âWhy does he have to stir things up again?â Mother takes another swig of her blue drink. âI paid his fees.â
âHeâs not even right,â I say.
âWhat?â Mother asks.
âIt wasnât wholly an accident. Was it?â
Mother blanches. She let down her guard and asked a question she didnât want the answer to. âCyan, please stop. Weâve been over this before.â
Yes, weâve been over it before. Mother says what happened was an accident. The articles published in the local paper after it happened said it was an âincident.â An incident is not the same as an accident. An accident is a mistake. I donât know if what happened was a mistake. No matter what the commissionerâs report says.
Martia steps between Mother and me. âMiss Kammi, please come in, we will have dinner now. You, too, Cyan.â Martia touches Kammi on the shoulder and Kammi follows.
âIâm not really hungry,â she says. She slides her straw bag onto her arm and slips into the house. âThe gelato...â
Martia follows her like a mother hen. I donât move.
Mother snaps her head in my direction. âWhat are you doing? Are you trying to make things hard? After everything thatâs happened, why canât you just be nice?â Mother keeps talking, not waiting forânot wantingâan answer from me.
âYou know all about it, do you?â Motherâs voice turns as icy as the drink sheâs guzzling. âWeâll talk about this later.â With trembling hands she struggles to force the paper back into the envelope. After a moment, she closes it as if it contains some evil spell.
Mother stalks inside
John B. Garvey, Mary Lou Widmer