Chapter 5 004

"Laura, are you there? This is—it's news about your father, answer the phone quickly." There was a faint sob in the voice. Laura spat in the sink and rushed to the phone. "Mother?" After the mother and daughter finished talking on the phone, Laura hurried out of the house, putting on her coat and pressing the elevator button. Outside, the cold air condenses into snowflakes.She trotted down the hill through an empty street. The house of her childhood was a thick plastered building that clung to the side of a steep street.A police car was parked in front of the house, and Warren's brand new Cadillac dominated the driveway.But it didn't matter, Laura didn't have a car anyway.

As a child, Warren always thought the pieces of broken glass inlaid on the outside of his house were rubies.He told Laura that he would give her half of the income if she would collect with him. "But rubies are supposed to be red," said Laura. "Don't be silly," Warren retorted, "Rubies come in all colors, like LifeSaver mints, that's why they're so precious." Those green pieces of glass were worn out from the fingers.She proudly followed Warren to the little shop around the corner, where the owner, Mr. Lee, offered them two lollipops in exchange for no more breaking glass from the walls.Laura thought the deal was a good deal, but Warren was a little depressed.On the way home, Laura dangled the small empty bucket and sucked on a lollipop, while Warren looked resentful.A few weeks later, she found the lollipop in Warren's room, untouched.Later, when Laura got her new pocket money, Warren tried to convince Laura to buy it for a quarter.

In the wood-paneled living room of Laura's parents sat a police officer with a pistol in his belt and gray eyes.Those knitted cushion covers are still the same.Ruffled, hand-woven tapestry hangs from the back of the chair.The cushion covers and tapestries were handwoven by her mother.On the wood-panelled wall behind the chair was a large, heavy picture frame, framed and paneled by her father.The two oil paintings were bought from the market, and the pictures show Paris in the rain and the Matterhorn in the sun.It didn't matter that they were pictures of Mars, because her parents had never been to Paris and the Matterhorn, and now her father never could.

Laura's mother barely noticed her daughter coming in.Although her body was sitting there, her mind was floating in the air.Warren stood nearby with his hands folded on his stomach, his fat face smoldering with anger.The bulkiness of his figure contrasted sharply with Laura's thinness. Meanwhile, Warren's wife, Estelle, is trying to coax the twin daughters into the dining room so they don't get in the way of conversation, though her efforts seem to be in vain.The two noisy little girls look as indistinguishable as images in a mirror.They giggled, and here and there they issued solemn statements: "Dogs can't dance but they can learn." "Daddy's stupid." "Susie's dog can dance, she told me." Stories and illogical inferences.The sister-in-law greeted Laura and went into another room.

Why did they bring the child? The gray-eyed officer stood up and offered Laura a hand, not for a handshake, but for a business card. "Inspector Brisebois," he said, "serves in the municipal traffic accident department." His business card reads "Constable Matthew Brisebois, TRU (Traffic Incident Unit)".Laura wanted to circle that "misprint" and add the letter "E" (TRUE for "true") to the end.But that's not a typo, it's something far worse. "I deal with traffic fatalities and I'm in charge of this investigation. I feel sorry for your father."

No, you're not upset, without traffic fatalities, you'd be out of a job. "Thank you." "Who the hell would believe that?" Warren turned his head and stared at his sister aggressively. "Daddy's car was in an accident." "Warren," my mother reminded, "watch your words." "Your father looked as if he had hit a piece of thin ice the color of the road," the officer said, "otherwise it would have been impossible not to see it. The car fell over the Ogden Highway bridge westbound on 50th Street. It was an industrial area, and he was driving at high speed, very fast." As if he was escaping from something, Brisebois was about to say this, but asked instead, "Where could he be going at this late hour?"

"Work," answered my mother, "he's a night watchman, and watches the railway yards." "He used to be a teacher," Warren said. "Now I'm retired," my mother said again. "We used to be teachers. He taught handicrafts and I taught housekeeping. After retirement, Henry didn't want to stay at home all day, so he found a job on the night shift." "Does he wear overalls to work?" She nodded. "I'm asking because he wasn't wearing overalls when he got into the accident, he was wearing—" Brisebois paused, looking at his notepad, "sweater, slacks, and loafers. The shoes fell off during the accident." Come down. Did he store his work clothes at work?"

"It's possible," said my mother, sounding light and airy, "what I can't figure out is why he took the Ogden Road, when he usually takes the Blackfoot Path." Brisebois recorded the message, "Does your husband usually wear a seat belt when he drives?" "Yeah, he's always cautious about things like that." Laura's mother was holding a wad of Kleenex like a rosary. "Mrs. Curtis, your husband called a few weeks ago to complain that someone was spying on your house across the street." "Oh, there was that, and it turned out to be a false alarm. Henry was up late that day and saw someone walking under a streetlight across the street. The police came, and it turned out... I think you've read the report."

The police officer nodded, "We did, I just wanted to check if..." Warren stepped forward, his hair standing on end. "Why are you asking these questions? This is shit." "I want to put together what happened and find out why." "Why, I'm telling you why, is because this goddamn city never cleans up the goddamn streets after a goddamn snowfall. That's what causes accidents. Always waiting for the goddamn Chinook winds to replace They do what they are supposed to do. Damn it! There are snowdrifts everywhere and we have to drive on bumpy roads for months at a time. Yeah, since you guys can wait for the so called warm winds to come down the mountains and melt the snow Why pay someone to clear the snow. Still, it's pure fucking bullshit, isn't it?" His voice sounded off in agony, "You know how much property taxes I pay Do you know that?"

"Watch your words, Warren!" "Sir, I understand your grief, but I need..." "I pay a goddamn lot of money and what do I get in return? This city killed my father. I pay taxes every year and they raise them every year like clockwork It's like clockwork. Why is it like this? You want to arrest someone? Just arrest the fucking mayor." Laura finally spoke, but so softly that the officer almost didn't hear, "Did they say what kind of sweater?" Brisebois looked at Laura, "Excuse me, what did you say?" "Did they say what kind of sweater my father was wearing? Is it green? A green sweater."

"Uh..." The police officer flipped through the notepad in his hand, "No, I believe it's blue with a pattern on it." "What kind of pattern?" "I'm not sure, I'm looking at pictures taken at the scene of the accident, the real thing is in the medical examiner's office. Why are you asking this question?" "I'm just... curious. It's okay, it's okay now." Outside, the first warm wind had set off, and it would slide down the distant ridge, over the foot of the mountain, and over the Ogden Highway.The tire-tracked snow began to melt, first to mud and then to water.The traces of the accident scene will slowly fade away, except for a very distinct tire mark left by the car when it skidded on the asphalt.In addition, there are two tire marks on the asphalt road leading to the guardrail beside the bridge, and these marks will remain there for a long, long time. I ask you - who is the big fool now?