Watkins Glen is sleepy, and the truck putters along until I pull up in front of the police station. American flags billow from every storefront and porch, in a show of patriotism that is almost shocking after my time in France. I wonder vaguely if I should have called ahead to the station—I don’t know what the protocol for this is. I’m already regretting the cigarette, which makes me feel nauseous and light-headed. I find gum in the glove compartment (“Because you never know when you’ll have to talk to a cop shit-faced, Little A!”) and get out of the truck. I half-expect to see people I know on the streets; even though I’ve been in town for only twelve hours, it feels weird that I haven’t seen anyone.
The air-conditioning in the police station is turned up unjustifiably high (very upstate New York), and no one is at the reception desk. I wander around the reception area, exploring before anyone shows up. I like to find the corners of rooms, see what brochures are moldering in the rack on a cluttered side table, peer down empty hallways, locate the bathroom. I’m a snoop. I’m just leafing through a pile of crisis-hotline fliers when a cop wanders in. He seems surprised to see me. I can’t imagine that the Watkins Glen police have much to do: Make sure people are staying on the trails on the gorge hikes, check boat permits, rescue kittens, wait for NASCAR weekend. I wouldn’t think that many citizens are burned alive in their homes in this backwoods municipality.
“My name’s Ava Antipova,” I say, jauntily sticking out my hand. The cop flinches.
“I know. You…look like your sister.”
“Oh, you know—knew Zelda?”
“Yeah, I, uh, wrote up the report. I was the responding officer, after the fire department. Officer Roberts.”
“Good. Then you’re the man I need,” I say, smiling brightly. “You may have noticed that my mother is not exactly…with it. I’d really like a more reliable account of what happened, what the report says.”
“Um, yeah, of course. I’m sorry I have to ask, but do you have ID? I’m only allowed to release details to the family and, well…”
I nod sympathetically, hunting in my bag. I’m ninety percent sure I don’t have my passport with me, which is my only government-issued ID.
“Um, I don’t have a driver’s license”—shit, hope he doesn’t ask how I got here—“and I seem to have left my passport…but I do have a Metro card with my photo and birthday? I live in France,” I explain. He looks uncomfortable. Is he kidding? “I’m obviously Zelda’s twin,” I point out. “If you have a picture, you could compare…”
“Of course, ma’am. I mean, that won’t be necessary. Of course.” He fumbles awkwardly through a heap of papers. “Would you like to hear what I wrote up in the report?”
“That’d be super.” He clears his throat and prepares to read aloud to me. I barely suppress a snort. Really?
“I responded to a phone call from the Antipova residence at just before one A.M. on the night of June 20. Watkins Glen Fire Department had already arrived on the scene, and they were putting out the flames. A Mrs. Betsy Kline had alerted them to the fire from her own residence and then rushed immediately to the Antipova residence, where she discovered that Mrs. Antipova—”
“O’Connor. Ms. O’Connor,” I correct.
“Uh, okay, Mrs. O’Connor was found to be sedated, in her bed, sleeping. Apparently she has some, uh, health issues?” He looks up at me.
“Quite.”
“Well, the FD was eventually successful in putting out the flames, but it came to light that Miss Zelda Antipova was suspected to be in the structure when the fire began, according to Mrs.—O’Connor’s statement.”
“You got Nadine awake? With all those sedatives?” I say, surprised. Zelda always joked that she gave Mom horse tranquilizers and Nadine would barely breathe for ten hours.
“Yes, after some effort. She was, uh…uncooperative at first.”
“I’ll bet. But she said Zelda was in the barn?”
“Yes, but her statements seemed a little, well, unreliable.” He looks embarrassed to be telling me that my mother can’t be trusted, as though it’s news. “Mrs. Kline told us that Miss Antipova typically spent the night in an Airstream trailer about half a mile away, so I went to investigate. No one was there, but I did find a cellphone belonging to the deceased. I mean, Zelda. Miss Antipova.” The cop turns a pretty shade of pink. I can’t believe how young he seems. “The last text messages on June 20 were with someone named Jason. They made plans to meet at the barn at eleven that night. It appears the fire started just before midnight, leading us to believe…”
“That Zelda was there. Jason who?” I ask. I don’t recognize the name.
“It didn’t say on her phone—he was just Jason. We called the number back but got no response, no voicemail activated. We’ve requested registration info from the phone company, but it will take a few days.”
“So is Zelda…officially dead?”
The cop squirms. “No, ma’am, not officially. But I’m not gonna lie—it seems very possible. Right now we’re running her cards, license, and plates, to see if she turns up anywhere. We’ve called in some specialists, and we share a coroner with Montour Falls, so we’ll get him out here. We’re obviously looking for, um…”
“Bones or something,” I finish. Good luck, Sparky. “Anyway, I don’t want to have a funeral without a death certificate. It would be unseemly,” I say, and the poor kid looks stricken. “Thank you, Officer, for answering my questions. You’ll keep me posted?”
He bobs his head at me, clearly relieved that the conversation is over, and I turn to leave.
“Ma’am?” he says tentatively as my hands reach for the door. I face him, one eyebrow raised. “There’s just one other thing that, uh—well, we’re still looking into one more thing.” He swallows. “It’s just that the barn doors were—well, they were chained shut. From the outside.”
April 30, 2016 at 3:12 PM
Dear Pouty, Crabby, Puerile Twin,