dad turns to me as I say the name, but not for long. He turns back to the coffin and starts circling it, trying to figure out how to get it open.
“You didn’t look him up?” I ask.
“Of course I looked him up. Deer farts, remember? So according to this, Mitchell Siegel is just a normal 1930s average Joe. Lived in Cleveland for years . . . ran a tailor shop . . . had a nice family.”
“Why’d he get killed?”
“No one knows. Death certificate says two men came in and stole some clothes.”
“He was killed for clothes?”
“It was the Depression—I have no idea. Like I said, the case is unsolved. Just a bullet in this guy from this gun. Just like your dad.”
“Yeah,” I say as my father grips the lid at the top corner of the coffin and tries to lift it open. It doesn’t budge. He tries the bottom corner. Same thing. I went to my first funeral when I was nine years old. With our clientele, Roosevelt and I went to lots more. Even I know coffins are locked with a key.
“Oh, and in case you needed even more news of the odd: This guy Mitchell? He’s the father of Jerry Siegel.”
“Am I supposed to know that name?”
“Jerry Siegel. The writer who created Superman.”
“Like
Clark Kent
Superman? As in ‘faster than a speeding bullet’?”
“Apparently his dad wasn’t. Bullet hit Mitchell square in the chest,” Benny says. “Kinda kooky, though, huh? The gun that shoots your dad is the same one that shot the dad of Superman’s creator?” He lowers his voice, doing a bad Vincent Price. “
Two mysteries, nearly eighty years apart.
You not hearing that
Twilight Zone
music?”
“Yeah, that’s very—” Across from me, my dad reaches into his pocket, pulls out what looks like a small L-wrench, and slides it into a small hole at the upper half of the casket. Is that—? Son of a bitch. He’s got a key.
“Benny, I gotta go,” I say, and slap my phone shut.
I rush toward my dad, whose back is still to me. Outside, the multiple sirens in the distance go suddenly silent, which is even worse. “Where’d you get that?” I shout.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Lloyd, I’m talking to you! Where’d you get that key!?”
Still no response.
There’s a loud
thunk
as he twists the metal key. The bolt in the coffin slides and unlocks.
When my dad first saw the coffin, he was definitely scared. But the way his hands crawl like tarantulas across the side—as fast as they’re moving—now he’s excited. Digging his fingers into the lip of the casket, he lets out the smallest of grunts.
With that, the coffin opens.
22
H old on . . . I’m booting up now,” Special Agent Naomi Molina said, reaching down to turn on her home computer while working hard not to spill her oatmeal across her keyboard. It was harder than it looked. But like any Jewban (Jewish mom, Cuban dad), finding balance was everything for her.
It started when Naomi was eleven years old, which was when she discovered her first calling, sports (over Dad’s screaming, “Cuban girls should only wear dresses!”). Taller than all the prepubescent boys, young Naomi was an all-star catcher two years in a row.
“Jeez, Nomi, whatcha on, a Speak and Spell there?” Scotty teased through the phone, laughing his snorty laugh.
“Scotty . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up,” Naomi said through a mouthful of oatmeal as she flipped through the files she’d been faxed this morning. She had known something was wrong when Timothy didn’t report in last night. She’d been working with him at ICE for nearly two years now. Timothy always reported in.
When Naomi was sixteen and fully hugging her wild side, she started working at her dad’s repo shop, translating insurance documents from Spanish to English. And when her father died a few years later, that’s when she found her second calling.
“What kinda oatmeal?” Scotty asked. “No . . . lemme guess: cinnamon, brown sugar.”
Naomi stayed silent and swallowed another spoonful,
“You didn’t look him up?” I ask.
“Of course I looked him up. Deer farts, remember? So according to this, Mitchell Siegel is just a normal 1930s average Joe. Lived in Cleveland for years . . . ran a tailor shop . . . had a nice family.”
“Why’d he get killed?”
“No one knows. Death certificate says two men came in and stole some clothes.”
“He was killed for clothes?”
“It was the Depression—I have no idea. Like I said, the case is unsolved. Just a bullet in this guy from this gun. Just like your dad.”
“Yeah,” I say as my father grips the lid at the top corner of the coffin and tries to lift it open. It doesn’t budge. He tries the bottom corner. Same thing. I went to my first funeral when I was nine years old. With our clientele, Roosevelt and I went to lots more. Even I know coffins are locked with a key.
“Oh, and in case you needed even more news of the odd: This guy Mitchell? He’s the father of Jerry Siegel.”
“Am I supposed to know that name?”
“Jerry Siegel. The writer who created Superman.”
“Like
Clark Kent
Superman? As in ‘faster than a speeding bullet’?”
“Apparently his dad wasn’t. Bullet hit Mitchell square in the chest,” Benny says. “Kinda kooky, though, huh? The gun that shoots your dad is the same one that shot the dad of Superman’s creator?” He lowers his voice, doing a bad Vincent Price. “
Two mysteries, nearly eighty years apart.
You not hearing that
Twilight Zone
music?”
“Yeah, that’s very—” Across from me, my dad reaches into his pocket, pulls out what looks like a small L-wrench, and slides it into a small hole at the upper half of the casket. Is that—? Son of a bitch. He’s got a key.
“Benny, I gotta go,” I say, and slap my phone shut.
I rush toward my dad, whose back is still to me. Outside, the multiple sirens in the distance go suddenly silent, which is even worse. “Where’d you get that?” I shout.
He doesn’t turn around.
“Lloyd, I’m talking to you! Where’d you get that key!?”
Still no response.
There’s a loud
thunk
as he twists the metal key. The bolt in the coffin slides and unlocks.
When my dad first saw the coffin, he was definitely scared. But the way his hands crawl like tarantulas across the side—as fast as they’re moving—now he’s excited. Digging his fingers into the lip of the casket, he lets out the smallest of grunts.
With that, the coffin opens.
22
H old on . . . I’m booting up now,” Special Agent Naomi Molina said, reaching down to turn on her home computer while working hard not to spill her oatmeal across her keyboard. It was harder than it looked. But like any Jewban (Jewish mom, Cuban dad), finding balance was everything for her.
It started when Naomi was eleven years old, which was when she discovered her first calling, sports (over Dad’s screaming, “Cuban girls should only wear dresses!”). Taller than all the prepubescent boys, young Naomi was an all-star catcher two years in a row.
“Jeez, Nomi, whatcha on, a Speak and Spell there?” Scotty teased through the phone, laughing his snorty laugh.
“Scotty . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Shut up,” Naomi said through a mouthful of oatmeal as she flipped through the files she’d been faxed this morning. She had known something was wrong when Timothy didn’t report in last night. She’d been working with him at ICE for nearly two years now. Timothy always reported in.
When Naomi was sixteen and fully hugging her wild side, she started working at her dad’s repo shop, translating insurance documents from Spanish to English. And when her father died a few years later, that’s when she found her second calling.
“What kinda oatmeal?” Scotty asked. “No . . . lemme guess: cinnamon, brown sugar.”
Naomi stayed silent and swallowed another spoonful,
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