My Stilled Life: Chaper 2

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   A little over a week after my father's death, I had to put his clutter aside and deal with the authorities.  I'd gotten a call from the L.A. County Morgue saying that they had completed the autopsy and his body was ready to be released. The clerk wanted to know if my father was some kind of big shot, and I told him, “Not to my knowledge. Why?” 

   "Because his autopsy was pushed to the head of the list the minute his remains arrived. Most have to wait at least 6 weeks, but your father got to jump the line.  We were just wondering why.”

    I just told him, ”It’s all news to me. I have no idea and haven’t requested anything from anyone.” 

    I contacted the society, and a few hours later a Family Services Representative called.  According to the voice on the phone, my father had prepaid for his final arrangements that included cremation and the spreading of his ashes at sea. He was entitled to a family service, but he had rejected that. Reading, the representative quoted my father's wishes: "No wake, no prayers to god to look favorably upon my soul, and no eulogy. I wanted to leave this world as quietly as I'd lived in it. The only special request I have is that my ashes be shipped to my son and that he hold them for at least 30 days before their disposal at sea."

   I said, “My father’s wishes are his wishes, and I’m OK with whatever he wanted. As far as a service, there’s no one but me, and it’s something I don’t need.”

   The Neptune representative emailed over a release form that authorized them to collect my father’s remains and do whatever they do. As I signed, I envisioned a sturdy cardboard box arriving on my doorstep in about a week and me wondering what the fuck I was going to do with it.

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   My father’s house is a New England Saltbox, just over a hundred years old. It is the smallest of the three homes that make up the servants’ court for the manor house of the hill. It had been allotted to the maid, while the other two more substantial dwellings were for the housekeeper and the butler. He’d purchased it 25 years ago and somehow through all his financial travails had managed to hold onto it.

   Painted a blueish gray with dark green trim accented with white, it was semi-hidden behind mature trees and landscaping that made it almost storybook like. Unfortunately, with all the estate’s indebtedness, there was very little hope of it coming to me.

   The court had its own private street, which was really a driveway, but L. A. County had decided twenty years ago to make it a street, for arcane reasons that only bureaucrats can fathom. 

   Everything seemed OK when I drove up and parked. There was a light breeze blowing through the leaves of the giant Liquid Amber tree that dominated my father's front yard. I hated parking under it because it allowed the birds that called its branches home the opportunity to bombard my orange Honda Element with their caustic feces, which had dissolved several large spots of paint on my car's hood.

    An uneven stone path led to the home’s shimmering dark green front door. I put the key in, turned it, and swung the door open. A strong current of musky air greeted me and I knew immediately something was wrong. Using as much caution as possible, I made my way into the dark interior, worried that I might encounter an intruder. I pulled a walking stick from a cane stand, hoping that I wouldn’t have to use it, and crept forward. 

   The office was even more of a disaster than I remember. The room’s only window, along with its casing, had been forcefully pried out and lay shattered in the side yard. What else can happen? I’m sure my father was looking down, laughing at my discomfort. 

   Since there wasn't an inventory, I had no way to determine what had been taken, but I could tell by the sheer lack of volume that a lot of stuff was missing. The disarray was staggering.  Stuff was scattered everywhere. Luckily, I had taken a few cigar boxes stuffed with what looked like personal souvenirs to my home last night. They'd contained lots of foreign currency, snapshots of people and places I didn't know, correspondence addressed to strangers, and even a Russian pistol (a stumpy gray automatic with a star engraved in its red grips). On-line, I learned that it was a Makarov 9.5mm used by North Vietnamese officers during the war. It had a few rust spots but still looked like it could perform its deadly function. 

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   The hole in the office wall had to be dealt with, so I found an emergency services company. While I was waiting for them to arrive, I called the Pasadena PD to speak with the officer who was handling my father’s case. I wasn’t sure why, but I wanted to let him know about the break-in and see if there were any developments in the case. When I got through to the traffic sergeant, he told me that the case had been shifted over to the Homicide Division.  Stunned, I let him transfer me.  After the inevitable waiting, I was connected to Detective Matt Van Owen.  

   “Homicide.”

   "Hi, this is Jackson Price. The Traffic Division just transferred me over to you because, as I understand it, you're now in charge of my father's case.”

   "And your father is...?” the tenor voice with anchorman tendencies asked.

   "John Stanley Price," I replied.

   "One minute, please.”

   I heard shuffling in the background and then Van Owen came back on the line.

   “Yes my partner and I now have the case. We got it yesterday.”

   “And you are Detective Van Owen, is that correct?” I asked.

   "Yes," Van Owen intoned.

   "Again, I'm Jackson Price and my father was John Stanley Price. He was the victim of a hit and run last week.  Why are you guys handling the case now? Wasn't it an accident?” I queried.

   Van Owen stated, "L.A.P.D. located a 2011 black Chevy Impala abandoned on a residential street in Highland Park. After questioning, the neighbors reported first noticing the car early Tuesday morning.  When it blocked the street sweepers, an officer was called out to have it ticketed and towed. As the car was hooked-up and hoisted, the traffic officer noticed what she thought might be human remains lodged in the crushed panels. She called her supervisor and he instructed her to have the car towed to the police impound so that the forensics boys could have a look. For some reason your father's case has been given a lot of juice, pushing the forensic team into overdrive. Samples were taken, the tests were expedited. Twenty-four hours later the car was identified as the vehicle that had killed your father.

   “There was no sign of a driver and the car had been professionally wiped down. It was so clean, forensics couldn’t find any trace evidence, not even a partial fingerprint or errant hair. The car had been reported stolen Thursday morning.  So, it begins to look like his death is something more than a mere accident. Your father’s case is being expedited by some very powerful people. Do you know why?”

   Flustered, I said, "My father and I were estranged. I don't know many particulars of his life these days, but I do know that he was not a likable person. He had bad habits and was drowning in credit card debt. Everything he owned was mortgaged up to the hilt.  And, as far as I know, he didn't have a drop of savings or life insurance, so I don't see how his death would benefit anyone. I couldn't say if he had friends or enemies; we just weren't that close. There is one thing, though.  The reason I'd called this morning was to report that his house had been broken into yesterday or last night."

   “Do you know if anything was taken? Did you file a police report?” Van Owen asked.

   “The reason for this call was to report the break-in.  And, no, I don’t have any idea of what  was taken.”

   “Are you at the house now?” Van Owen questioned.

   “Yes.”

   “Wait there, we’re on our way,” Van Owen commanded just before he hung up.

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 I just turned and faced the wall, trying to digest all the crap I was going to have to deal with in the coming months. I felt my age is creeping up on me, gnawing at my spine. Fucking goddamn shit, I was screwed, again.

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  I inspected the plywood patch on the side of the house by giving it a few tugs. I took the workman's clipboard, checked a couple of boxes, and signed on the dotted line. The workman’s truck was leaving when the obligatory white Ford Crown Victoria squeezed passed them and parked in front of the house. The doors swung open and two police-looking guys got out.

   I walked out to meet them. The leaner of the two introduced himself as Van Owen and we shook hands. His partner, who had hands the size of hams, extended one, shook--or should I say crushed--mine, and offhandedly said I could call him Red.

   Unlike Van Owen, detective Red Nordin’s face looked like it had been lived in every day of his life. It was plain that all the hurt that had been done to him and all the hurt he'd done to others was reflected in the lines and scars that defined his features. He was cordial, but I was sure that I wouldn't want to get on his bad side.

   The three of us made our way to the side yard where the ravaged window lay. They asked if the window had been moved.

  I said, "I'm not sure. The board-up guys might have moved it around to get their ladder into position, but I haven't touched it."

   They hoed and hummed a couple of minutes, then relented and I led them inside. I'd turned on a couple of lights and gave them the run of the place, allowing them to inspect the intruder's handy work on their own while I waited in the shade of the Liquid Amber tree.

Some time had passed and I was thinking of other matters when Red popped up, scaring the shit out of me. 

 "Are you sure stuff is missing?" he asked.

  “Yes, that room was overflowing.  At least half of what was there is now not there,” I answered defensively. “My father’s death was so sudden. I hadn’t spoken to him in a couple of years, and that’s why we were meeting that morning. He wanted to talk to me about something, but I have no idea what that was, and now I’m somewhat at a loss. I don’t know what’s missing because I didn’t know what was there in the first place.” 

   Van Owen joined us and said they’d seen enough for now but he’d like me to stop by his office in the next week or so to sign a formal police report and statement.

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   I spent the next two days finding a probate attorney. I wanted to hand off as much of the legal and probate duties as I could. I found a boutique practice in South Pasadena that agreed to handle the matter for three percent of the estate, which was two points below the going rate. After meeting with them, it was clear that I was looking at a year of doing things I wanted no part of. The lawyer said nothing was pressing except for filing the death notices the Federal and State agencies required. Also, I should hire a security service to protect my father's property, and this should be done immediately. I should also make sure that the detectives had filed the police report on the break-in.

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   It was going to be another burning hot day in L. A. County.  Not record high, but close. There was a light rain of ash falling from the Santa Clarita fires, 30 miles to the west.  I was having breakfast on the front patio of my house, trying to keep the ash off my eggs, when an Uber pulled into my driveway. 

   The driver got out and went around to the rear door. A tall sinewy female stepped out into the morning heat. Her dark hair and dress shimmered in the defused light of early morning in fire season. She was wearing a Suez Wong type dress that showed off her model-like physique to great advantage. With gloved hands, she removed her sunglasses and stared at the tableau that lay before her.

   I was at a loss at first, sitting there, un-showered, in my sweats with bread crumbs in my beard. Rapidly, I tried to wash down the last bite of my breakfast with the remains of my lukewarm Diet Coke, almost choking in the process. 

   As the Prius backed down the driveway, she waved and advanced towards me. She had an easy gait, and I marveled at how she could manage the broken walkway in her ultra high heels. 

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   At that moment, I remember that my father had had a fascination--no, make that an obsession--with Terry and the Pirates, a comic strip that used to run in syndication across the country in major papers. The comic strip would be considered way too racist by today's standards, but in its time it was the height of exotic adventure that red-blooded American boys dreamt of. Now, I could swear that the woman who stood before me was the living reincarnation of the Dragon Lady, the preeminent villainess in all of Asia.

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   She broke her silent reserve, "Good morning.  I am looking for Mr. Jackson Ford Price.  Are you, he?

   When I answered that I was, she asked if I was the son of John Stanley Price, and I answered that I was. 

   She half smiled. “I am Mai Le Price and I’ve been told that I am your sister, being that it is believed that we shared the same father.” 

   Unsure what to say, I put my hand forward offering her a formal handshake, which she accepted with unexpected strength. 

   Maneuvering back to my Parisian-style breakfast table, I sat and she ensconced herself onto the wrought iron chair across from me. With expectant eyes and an unhurried grace, she placed the letter I'd sent her about a week ago on the table. "I got your letter and read it with great sadness. It took a couple of days to come to terms with the matter and arrange travel, but I came as fast as I could. And now I am here."

   She continued to look me straight in the face, saying, "Yes, I know this is awkward and in reality, I am a stranger to you. You know nothing of me except for documents you found in our father's papers. I know something of you and that you are not accepting. They say you have a cynical eye, that you are untrusting and need to be shown proof before you will accept the unknown. For that reason, I am hoping to prove myself to you. I have arranged for a DNA test early this afternoon and I ask you to participate. The appointment is at one this afternoon. The lab is only minutes away and you know as well as I do it's better to know one way or another. If we are not family, I will depart and leave you to deal with your grief in your own way." 

   I was feeling put upon.  It was hard to form a response.  But, finally, "Look I wasn't expecting guests this morning. I still need to shower and get dressed. I'll think about the test while I’m getting ready. My place isn't really fit for guests, but I don't want to leave you out here.  Let me get your suitcases and, if you're not too offended by my abode's shabbiness, you can use the guest bathroom to refresh yourself.  And my festively stained sofa is pretty comfortable if you want to rest.  I'll be as fast as I can." 

   I lugged her suitcases up and opened the door for her. I pointed out the way to the bathroom and kitchen.

   “There are fixings for coffee or tea, plus loads of Hostess snacks in the kitchen.” 

   She returned my smile and asked if I’d like a cup of either, but I just shook my head and told her that I only drank soda.  I left her there and climbed the stairs wondering what I should do. 

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   The lab was located on Green St. amongst the elite of Pasadena's money grubbing medical professionals. My wife had died several years ago of a ruptured aneurysm, after spending her last month and a half in intensive care. From her stay there, I had gotten an education into the maze of invisible costs and the rapacity of those who represent themselves as healers--an enlightenment that cost me dearly and had left a corrosive stain on my soul.

   We signed into the office's registry and were handed several permission slips to sign. Basically, these were bureaucratic coercions that would prevent anyone who signed them from seeking redress from a third party. 

   The office was packed with supplicants seeking either validation or vindication, and I wasn't sure I wanted either. After 20 minutes or so, the woman behind the security glass called our name. Since she’d insisted on paying the fees, I let Mai Le handle most of the interactions with the beleaguered receptionist. Once the cash was handed over and our permission slips were collected and reviewed, we were ushered into a small featureless off-white colored room. A dark diminutive technician came in pushing a nearly empty cart she used to conduct the sample collection. I felt better once she'd slipped her nicotine stained fingers into a pair of latex gloves. Once gloved, the technician took the three swabs from our inner checks that the test required, inserted them into glass vials, and moved them back to the cart.

   She smiled. “That’s all we need.  If things run as normal, you should have your answer on Friday morning. Please read this pamphlet. It will give you an overview of the process and should answer any questions you may have.”

   With that, she ushered us out a side door and we were left on the sidewalk looking at each other.

   I offered Mai Le the use of my spare room, but she said that she already had a reservation at the Hilton on Los Robles. 

Semi relieved, I asked, "What about a late lunch?"

   "I'm just plain worn out from all the hassles involved in travel these days. All I want right now is to get into a private room, shut and lock the door, order room service and, once I'm sated, I want to sleep for at least a couple of days, if not longer,” she replied, barely able to muster a weak smile.

   I dropped her and her bags off at the Hilton’s main entrance and, after a brotherly handshake, watched until she and the bellman were inside. I headed home feeling like I’d made a slovenly first impression, but I wasn’t really sure if I cared one way or another. 

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   Thursday night late I got a call from ML, which I found out was what Mai Le preferred to be called. Speaking softly, “If the test is positive, I’ve arranged a private place for us to talk. I have lots of stuff I want to know and have lots of information that will benefit you greatly. Just think of it as a reunion of strangers. And remember that Friday nights’ episode of Supernatural is a rerun, so you have nothing to loose.

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   Noon arrived and I was leaning up against the brick facade of Accredited Testing of North America, LLC, when a Yellow Cab pulled to the curb and ML stepped out. Dressed in a dark maroon business suit, she radiated confidence with just a hint of malevolence. At that moment, I almost hoped we weren't related.

   Inside, the receptionist again seemed to be suffering from some disease, because is seemed to cause her immense pain just to speak with us. It might just have been the buzz of the fluorescent lighting that was driving her crazy, but I prefer to think she was having a Herpes outbreak. ML told her of our appointment and she told us to take a seat, that we'd be called when they were ready. The place was packed again and we couldn't find two seats together, so we had to sit across from each other and stare back and forth.

   Bored, I began conversing with a couple of our lethargic fellow wait-ees. I found that most of them weren't here for DNA testing but, rather, for their scheduled drug test. Another example of how the drug trade keeps Americans working.

   After what seemed like forever, BINGO was called and we were finally ushered into an office that looked lived in. It was a little too grimy even for me. But the elderly gentleman behind the desk adjusted his rimless glasses and smiled a crooked smile, motioning us to sit. He called up something on his computer screen and asked, "Are you Mai Le Price and you Jackson Ford Price?" We both nodded.  Then he asked if he might see some formal ID. ML produced her passport and I pulled out my California Drivers License. Once he was sure who we were, he turned back to his monitor and worked for a couple of minutes, then faced us and continued; " I have the results from your Autosomal DNA test."

   He swung his screen around so that we could see the comparison of DNA markers. Then he continued,

 “As you can see, the tests confirm your relationship. You share the same father.” He hit a key on his keyboard and his printer hummed to life. 

   “I’m printing out our findings for you which give you the test printouts and a written summary. Do you have any questions?”

   ML spoke up asking, “What are the possibilities of a mistake?”

   Annoyed, he looked back at his folder and barked, “I can see that you didn’t read the pamphlet you were given. The Autosomal test compares seven-hundred-thousand markers and actually measures how much DNA you have in common, so I don’t think there can be any mistake.  You are half brother and sister. You two share the same father.  That’s the long and short of it.  Anything else?”

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   Old Town is the commercial hub of Pasadena. It had once been thought of as such an eyesore that the city fathers and several greedy developers wanted to condemn it in favor of office towers.  But, through a decade of court battles, the preservationists prevailed and the area’s buildings were refurbished, shined up and brought back to life. The enclave is now a major attraction for visitors who have the cash to indulge their compulsion to over accessorize and be seen doing it. 

   She led me to a side alley a half block north of Colorado Boulevard and through a nicely carved door that needed painting. She was greeted as a very valued customer and we were led to a private dining room at the back of the restaurant. The owner asked if we'd like tea.  She said yes and I asked for a Coke and directions to the gentleman's convenience. I needed to wash my hands and clear my thoughts.

   The washroom was a sickly green and it mirrored my outlook at the moment. After I voided urine, I washed up, stared into the mirror, and told myself to buck up and get back out there to face whatever there was to face.

  We sat across from each other separated, again, at a table that wobbled. From her Tumi satchel, she brought out several thick folders that looked like they’d been around for a while and silently lay them side by side on the table. 

   From a pocket, she produced a silver dollar coin. "This silver dollar was given to our father by his father and was used to decide most of the major issues of his life. When I flip it, I want you to call it. The outcome will set our agenda.”

   Her blood-red nail flicked it into a high arch.  I called it heads and, as usual, it landed tails.

   “You may start,” she commanded.

   

   “Start what?” I intoned.

   ML just stared at me with a stern schoolmarm expression and I remained impassive.

   “Begin what?” I again questioned with just a touch of anger.

   She stood, “It’s a matter of family history, things that have been foretold, things to be said, and things you need to know for your own safety.”

© 2017 Ronald Gary Dunlap