Clabber

            This is not your typical “Once Upon a Time” story.  Even as a little girl, I never really believed in fairy tales.  My mom died when I was about six, and ever since then, it’s just been me and my dad—and his string of girlfriends (if you can call them that).  At first it was sweet how they’d all try to fit into the role of “Mother” like the two-sizes-too-small tube tops they often wore.  By the time I hit thirteen, I pretty much became just a passenger along for Dad’s wild ride, and none of his girls wanted me around.

            I spent a lot of time out of our shitty apartment getting to know the neighbors and the neighborhood.  By fifteen, I had a reputation for trouble, and last May, on the morning after my 18th birthday, Mrs. Krieger found me stoned and drunk on the stoop to the building.  She drug me by the ear up the three flights to my dingy door, and pounded on it until I finally fished out my key.  When we went in, Dad was face-down in his Cheerios, and had been there long enough that he was stiff and cold.  Mrs. K threw me into a cold shower and called the authorities to retrieve the body.

            I didn’t cry.  I stood in the frigid water and sobered up.  Instead of mourning a father who had already been absent for years, my mind turned to practical matters:  How will I pay for a funeral?  Would it be cheaper to do a cremation?  Does it really matter?  No one would come anyway.

            When the water had finished its rejuvenation, I grabbed my one luxury in this ramshackle life and wrapped myself in its fluffy embrace.  One of the few things I ever remember my mom saying to me came right before she kicked it.  She had taken me to the JC Penney White Sale, and I remember my confusion as to why that included all colors of towels and sheets and other necessities.  She explained the archaic naming convention, then told me, “Roni, life is too short for cheap towels.  Always buy the best towels you can afford, even if you have to scrimp and save for everything else.”  With that phrase lodged in my brain and the money from my first paycheck burning a hole in my pocket, I went straight to Bed, Bath & Beyond to get a good towel.  I chose a plain white 100% Egyptian cotton one, and I’ve never regretted the forty bucks went so quickly.

            As I pulled on a tank top and some shorts in my room, I heard Mrs. K answering the door and talking quietly with the men who had come to start the clean-up.  By the time I joined the party, the coroner was trying to figure out how to get the black plastic zipper bag on a gurney out the door and down the three flights.  A firemen’s carry would have been his best bet, but I’m sure that violated some sort of code of conduct or ethics.

            A heavy man in his mid-fifties approached me with a pen and notepad in his hand.  He wore a tired brown suit which, if it had been paired with the right fedora, would have made him look like he just stepped out of a 1940s era film noir detective story.  He held out his hand, and when I took it, he asked, “Miss Richardson?”

            “Yes?”

            “I’m sorry for your loss, Miss.  I’m Detective Armstrong.”  He paused for a moment before getting to the inevitable, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”  With my nod of assent, he jumped right in, “So, your neighbor, Mrs. Krieger, here, tells me she found you out on the front steps this morning, and when she drug you up here to tell your daddy, he was like that there at the table.  Is that right?”

            “Yeah, he was dead when we got here,” even to my own ears I sounded a little too cold, too distant.

            “So, you weren’t here this morning?”

            “Nope.  Like Mrs. K said, I was on the front steps.”

            “And she was drunk as a skunk and high as a kite!” Mrs. Krieger interjected.

            Detective Armstrong cocked an eyebrow, “That true?”

            “Yes, sir.  Yesterday was my birthday, and my friends went a little overboard.”

            “Hmm.  When was the last time you saw your father, Veronica?”

            “Call me Roni.  I assume you mean before we found him using his cereal bowl for a pillow?  I guess it was about ten o’clock yesterday morning.”

            “So you didn’t come home last night?” the good detective had caught a whiff of a possibly salacious detail.  “Is that usual for you?  Were you with a boyfriend or something?”

            “Or something,” I smiled.  “I left for work yesterday around ten, and then I got off about four.  I went to my friend, Hayley’s house, and we just sat around for a while.  About seven or so, other friends started to show up, and it got a little out of hand.  We partied too much, so I crashed there, then had Hayley’s older brother drop me off this morning when he went to work.  I guess I just passed out on the steps before I got inside.”  The penitential headache for last night’s sins insisted on making its presence known.  “Look, officer—”

            “Detective.”

            “Detective, I hope you’re not implying I had anything to do with this.  Dad and I didn’t get along great, but the truth is, I’ve been pretty much supporting myself for the past four or five years, and it’s not like anything’s going to change that much with him gone.  But he’s still my dad.  I love him.”

            “No, ma’am.  I don’t think you did it.  Coroner said he thought it was probably a stroke or a heart attack.  I just need to make sure I have all the information.  But,” he started to indicate to the other two officers that they should leave, “it seems pretty straightforward.  We’ll leave you to it, then.”  He gave me his card and headed out the door.  Mrs. K just seethed in the corner until she realized I wasn’t going to acknowledge her, and when she left, I locked the door behind her and began to clean the congealed milk out of the cereal bowl.