I went around to each room and switched on as many lights as possible. The house did not get sun exposure. Everything inside it died.
In some of the rooms, I pulled open the curtains and a filthy gray light entered. When the light entered, I shut the curtains. Then opened them. Then shut them. Then opened. Then shut. Then opened. Then shut. Then opened. I was finally in a good place, I thought, mentally and emotionally. At one point early in my investigation, I had told myself I needed to inspect my adoptive brother’s bedroom with a magnifying glass. Now every time I approached his bedroom door, something repelled me and pushed me back. I finally realized that my attempt to theorize his suicide was a lapse in judgment, and suddenly it disgusted me. There are six reasons, I said to no one. Of course there were more; there were thousands of reasons to commit suicide, six reasons was shorthand for the abyss. And I realized there was a material reality to his death that I had refused to wrestle with. Was his room a crime scene? I wondered. Did he kill himself in his own room?
If he committed suicide in his room, my adoptive parents would have to sell the house as soon as possible. In no time I exhausted myself as I pictured my adoptive parents putting the house on the market, selling the medieval fortress, which did not come cheaply built. They would put that in the ad, that it did not come cheaply built, and then they would have to show the house to house-hunting strangers, but before that they would have to empty all the knickknacks out of the rooms and pack them into boxes. No, they would have to hire someone to do that type of work, someone cheap, someone foreign with a good work ethic. There’s dignity in work, my adoptive father liked to tell us, when there was an us.
I returned to my adoptive father’s study where I examined what I had written down when I spoke with Thomas. MISSING TOOTH and DOCTORS, my second clue. I couldn’t help but picture him talking with his lips covering his gums and I almost laughed out loud. My near-laughter caused my right temple to pulse and I took out my traveler kit and swallowed a pill for sinus-pressure relief. My adoptive brother always had perfectly shaped, straight white teeth; I was the one burdened with cavities, crooked teeth, loose gums, extra wisdom teeth, teeth growing upside down and to the side, etc. I had never felt at peace with my mouth. And my thoughts returned to the receipt that the balding European man had pointed out to me. Where had I put that?
I tried to picture where I left it when the doorbell rang, disrupting my picturing! I wondered if it would be a deliveryman with my sweater. I was looking forward to wearing the black turtleneck sweater to his funeral. I have always preferred to be in the background, an extra in the movie of my own life, but if people had to look at me at the funeral ceremony, at least I would be wearing a black turtleneck, which would convey a sense of mystery of the abyss. I went into the foyer and before I opened the door, I tried to compose my face, I relaxed my facial muscles so it would look as if I were at peace, I felt my skin loosen, and when everything relaxed into an expression of neutrality, I opened the door. I was astonished to see a person holding not a cardboard box with my sweater, but a basket of flowers and underneath the basket a clipboard. The basket of flowers obscured the person’s face. There was a body and a basket of flowers for a head. Sign here, said the creature, and it handed me a clipboard. I scrawled my name and then it gave me the basket. After it gave me the basket, and I set it down in the foyer, it gave me another. There were three more baskets in a row behind the man. It took me a while to bring all the baskets into the house, and some of the flowers of mourning spilled out onto the floor, peace lilies and palm fronds and baby’s breath. I thanked the now-human, a very short man with the clipboard, and closed the door with my foot. The baskets were in a row near the grandfather clock and I looked at the tiny cards attached to each of the baskets. From the Grants, one said, your neighbors with deepest sympathy. From the Slothers, all of our regrets. I hoped that the hall filled up with even more flowers, which would be a beautiful thing for my adoptive parents, especially my adoptive mother who loved flowers and every living thing. That would be the silver lining of this catastrophe. I gathered up all of the flowers from the baskets and dumped them into the mop bucket to keep them fresh. Pleased with myself for thinking ahead, I went into the kitchen.