The Yellow Hibiscus-Chapter 3 Illumination Book Chapters
I cupped my mouth with my left hand, closed my eyes, and emancipated my tears.
Chapter 3
One hour later, we were on our way to 5001 Morris Park Avenue, the home of my parents.
We alighted from Willoby’s vehicle and headed toward the charred remains of what was left. Pungent charcoal smells filled our nostrils, and we began coughing from the residual fumes of the fire debris. The tidy narrow walkway, leading to the steps of the entrance door, was now strewn with ashy gravelly soot and many boot-prints — the results of firefighters trekking through the charred debris.
Neighbors lined the sidewalk in disbelief, and those who recognized me nodded their heads in recognition as I passed with genuine sadness. They offered heartfelt condolences — their soft words floating above the plume of dark air.
Misty-eyed and with sniffling nosed, I acknowledged their nods with heartfelt gratitude. Passers-by milled around, absorbing the deadly scene. Whispers and speculations about what could have caused the devastating fire touched my ears. Thanking God, and to my delight, all of the homes in the neighborhood were unaffected, though separated only by shrubbery of low perennials.
I waded through water-soaked charcoal, wood, and rubble. Shattered glass heaped around the house’s periphery, of what had once represented the pride of a family’s dream — now left images of haunting ruin, black sooty columns, and fallen beams. Partially vertical walls bore the indelible scars of one of nature’s most feared and angry vices… fire.
Miraculously, in the face of the roaring blaze that took my parent’s life, there was only minor damage to the houses on both sides.
Because the firefighters deliberately hose down both houses to prevent the fire from spreading.
Though they had extinguished the fire, the Police and the Fire Department teams were still there, ferreting for evidence. Riveted to the spot, lost are the future dreams of my parents. I barely heard when Sargent Willoby suggested that I need to go to the morgue.
As he escorted me to the morgue, he prepared me for the gruesome task of identifying their remains. Their fingerprints and dental records were not yet available. So it was up to me.
The morgue was in the basement of Clinton Hospital on 149th Street in the Bronx.
He observed everything from the huge glass window, where Officer Johnson had instructed us to wait. Two men attired in surgical attire examined two charred bodies lying on stretchers that seemed unidentifiable.
He knocked on the steel-framed glass door on which an embossed brass sign read ‘Coroner,’ then entered. They conversed for a while, then he signaled, inviting us in. Willoby eyes lingered on me, revealing a tinge of concern tracing his face.
“I can handle it,” I pretended, steeling my innards as I followed him inside.
“Dr. Erik Huber and Dr. Pedro Colon,” Officer Johnson made the introductions. “The Coroners.”
I nodded.
As we approached the bodies, the smell of formaldehyde became intense. I shook my head in repulsion and cringed as my lids swelled with tears, “I can’t. I am sorry, but these bodies could be of anyone.” I couldn’t even differentiate if they were male or female. All that was discernible to me was that one was slightly larger.
Both doctors casually approached me from opposite directions, carrying a file.
“Female Caucasian, about seventy-eight years old, black, greying dyed hair, light brown eyes, five feet, half of the index finger missing on the right hand,” a voice to my left rattled articulately.
Before time permitted my response, the voice to my right chimed in, “Male Caucasian, about seventy-nine years old, gray hair, grayish-blue eyes, five feet six inches tall. Did he walk with a limp?” he queried.
I rotated halfway to my right, wiped my eyes, and verified, “Yes, my father had a limp.”
“That explains why one of his legs is shorter than the other,” he said, referring to his file peering over his thin-rimmed spectacles that were firmly seated on the bridge of his nose.
“No,” I denied in futility. “It could be anyone.”
Now all eyes were trailing me.
“That’s all conjecture. There are eight million people in this City!” I challenged, heading for the door.
As I approached the exit, a voice hauntingly reminded, “But how many of them lived at 5001 Morris Park Avenue, had sweet and sour pot roast, sauerkraut with chunks of corned beef, black bread or German bread and . . .”
“It could be anyone!” I defiantly shouted as I faced the exit. My tears refused to stop.
“How?” I wept in anguish, facing them, “How come their bodies are like that? Both hands are at their sides. Burned victims’ hands are always up protecting their faces from the flames.”
“You are right,” Dr. Huber agreed, his gaze on Officer Johnson, who cast his eyes on Willoby.
He nodded his head in agreement.
Dr. Huber continued, “Twenty years on the job and there is only one explanation for this . . .”
“Ahem,” someone cleared their throat.
I followed his eyes to Officer Johnson. He leveled him with a look, and thus the ‘look trading’ I’d observed earlier continued.
I wondered what they were trying to conceal as I struggled to suppress the storm raging within me.
Officer Johnson came over to me and politely explained, “Miss Shade, I know words cannot begin to express your feelings at this time, and I know there is nothing anyone of us can say that will ease your pain or bring your parents back. But we are investigating the fire and your parents’ death, and it’s standard procedure to wait until our investigation is complete.”
He assessed me with genuine concern and rambled on.
“Right now, we need you to identify these bodies. I know it is difficult for you to make an identification, but based on the Coroner’s report, can you safely say that those two bodies over there aren’t your parents?”
I cupped my mouth with my left hand, closed my eyes, and emancipated my tears. Silence permeated the air for a while as I searched within for all the strength I could muster to identify the charred remains of my parents. Someone handed me a tissue, and I wiped my eyes and nose and tearfully confirmed, “If the Coroner’s report is correct, yes, they are my parents.”
“Are you sure?” Dr. Huber asked, still standing to my right.
“Yes,” I said, slowly turning to face him. “I had dinner with my parents on Monday night. We had all the things you mentioned. Sauerkraut with corned beef chunks is my favorite. My Mom never liked it with corned beef, but she prepared it just for me. And yes, she had half of her index finger missing on her right hand.”
“I am sorry for your loss,” Dr. Huber’s eyes sadden as he touched me on my right elbow. He then walked over to his desk, took a folder from the drawer, came back towards me, and said, “You’ll have to sign these.”
I took the papers. The top sheets were for the identification of Simon and Helen Shade. Two for each of them. The rest were for the legalities that would give the City permission to release their bodies to my choice of a funeral home, which would undertake the professional duties at my expense after the Coroners had completed their investigation. I had to claim their bodies. I signed everything.
“Miss Shade,” Dr. Colon said. “The hospital offers grief counseling. There’s a support group that meets every Thursday from 4–6 P.M, and it’s free,” he offered me a card. The caring look on his face made the moment slightly bearable.
“Thank you,” I said, slipping the card in my bag.
We went to the 49th Precinct on Eastchester Road between Pelham Gardens and Morris Park in the Bronx, where his office was located.
A Peggy Bundy from ‘Married with Children’ look-alike met us at the entrance. Waddling towards us in a tiger-striped spandex full-body jumpsuit and red hair to boot. She leaned into Willoby’s right ear, and I heard her say, “It’s in the desk drawer.”
He thanked her, and we headed to his office.
Inside his office was a catastrophe zone. Untidy with greasy brown paper bags all over his desk and on the floor, it smelled even worse than it looked. Empty soda cans spilling out of the white paper bags left sticky spots on his desk. He swooped them up and placed them in a heap in the left corner of the room, seemingly embarrassed.
“Sit down,” he beckoned.
I did, after ensuring that the chair was clean.
He sat facing me, his gaze on the folder he’d yanked from the right drawer of his desk, and proceeded to open it.
“Here,” he handed me a black and white photograph of two people. “Have you seen these people before?”
“No,” I responded, staring at two eccentrics decked out in clothes, not even Whoppi Goldberg would be caught dead wearing.
“Okay, then what about these?”
“Oh yes.” It was a color photograph of my parents when they were younger, much, much younger than I could remember. “Wait a minute,” I said, scrutinizing both pictures. “Where did you get these?” They were both pictures of my parents!
“Try these,” he said, almost tauntingly, handing me another black and white photograph; it seems worn, obscure, and ravaged by time. I pulled it close to my eyes. It paradoxically appeared to have been taken recently because the paper on which it was printed smelled new. Four people were posing, three soldiers and my Mom. One of the soldiers had his hand around her waist, and it wasn’t my Dad. He was positioned on the other side, beside an older soldier.
“My Dad was in the army?” I quizzed, searching his intriguing eyes. “But Mom never mentioned anything about dad being a soldier,” I thought out loud. “And my father never talks about his life in the army. My best friend Joni’s grandfather fought in WWII, and he had lots of military stories. My father never mentioned anything.”
“Oh yea,” he sneered, jeering me. “He was in the army alright, but it wasn’t ours.”
“What army was he in?” I asked, surprised, examining the pictures closer.
“Try Hitler’s!” he revealed with enough venom to make me quiver.
I rose in resentment, clutching my pocketbook, throwing the photographs on his desk. I headed for the door, halfway I turned, and angrily in defense, demanded, “don’t you have a morsel of compassion? Don’t you think I have been through enough? My sanity means nothing to you?”
“I’ll tell you what means something to me. The safety of this country!” he thundered — his venom matching my own.
“What has the death of two innocent people have to do with national security?”
“I am not finished,” he alerted me. “The last time we spoke, you said your parents had no family here and that they both came here when they were young,” he recalled.
“I don’t remember saying anything like that,” I spewed in rage. The unfortunate experience had turned my memory into mash potatoes.
“Well, I do,” he fired back, getting up and taking another file from the cabinet behind him. He opened it, peered at me through half-opened lids, and said, “They came to America from Brazil in 1946, and their real names are Charles and Olga Stangl. Their father was….”
“Wa . . . wait a minute! What do you mean their father?”
“Let me finish,” he gesticulated.
I catapulted up and yelled, “I don’t know where you get your garbage from, but I hope the Sanitation Department can find space for it!”
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