G Is for Gumshoe

"You don't look like you've slept much."
    She sank onto the couch, refusing to let go of my hands. She clutched at me like a drunk, sloppy with excess, grief perfuming her breath like alcohol. "I sat down here most of the night so I wouldn't disturb Clyde. I don't know what to do. I've been trying to fill out Mother's death certificate and I discover I don't know the first thing about her. I can't remember anything. It's inconceivable to me. So shameful somehow. My own mother…" She was beginning to weep again.
    "Hey, it's okay. This is something I can help you with." I held a hand up, palm toward her. "Just sit. Relax. Is the form in there?"
    She seemed to collect herself. She nodded mutely, eyes fixed on me with gratitude as I moved into the adjacent room. I gathered up a pen and the eight-by-eight-inch square form from the desk and returned to the couch, wondering how Clyde endured her dependency. Whatever compassion I felt was being overshadowed by the sense that I was shouldering a nearly impossible burden.

20
    "Treat this like a final exam," I said. "We'll do the easy questions first and then tackle the tough ones. Let's start with 'Name of Decedent.' Did she have a middle name?"
    Irene shook her head. "Not that I ever heard."
    I wrote in "Agnes… NMI… Grey."
    Irene and I sat with our heads bent together, meticulously filling in the meager information she had. This took a little over one minute and covered race (Caucasian), sex (female), military service (none), Social Security number (none), marital status (widowed), occupation (retired), and several subheadings under "Usual Residence." What distressed Irene was that she didn't know the year of her mother's birth and she didn't have a clue about where Agnes was born or the names of her parents, facts she felt anyone with an ounce of caring should have at her fingertips.
    "Quit beating yourself, for God's sake," I said. "Let's work backward and see how fat we get. Maybe you know more than you mink. For instance, everybody's been saying she was eighty-three, right?"
    Irene nodded with uncertainty, probably wishing the form had a few multiple-choice questions. I could tell she was still agitated at the notion of her own ignorance.
    "Irene, you cannot flunk this test," I said. "I mean, what are they going to do, refuse to bury her?" I hated to be flip, but I thought it might snap her out of the self-pity.
    She said, "I just don't want to get it wrong. It's important to do it right. It's the least I can do."
    "I can understand that, but the world will not end if you leave one slot blank. We know she was a U.S. citizen so let's put that down… The rest of the information we can pick up from your birth certificate. That would tell us your parents' place of birth and their ages the year you were born. Can you lay your hands on it?"
    She nodded, blowing her nose on a handkerchief, which she then tucked in her robe pocket. "I to almost sure it's in the file cabinet in there," she said. She indicated the solarium, which she'd set up as a home office. "There's a folder in the top drawer labeled 'Vital Documents.' "
    "Don't get up. You stay here. I'll find it."
    I went into the next room and pulled open one of the file drawers. "Vital Documents" was a thick manila folder right in the front. I brought the entire file back and let Irene sort through the contents. She extracted a birth certificate, which she handed to me. I glanced at it briefly, then squinted more closely. "This is a photocopy. What happened to the original?"
    "I have no idea. That's the only one I ever had."
    "What about when you applied for a passport? You must have had a certified copy then."
    "I don't have a passport. I never needed one."
    I stared at her, amazed. "I thought I was the only person without a passport," I remarked.
    She seemed faintly defensive. "I don't like to travel. I was always afraid of getting ill and not having proper medical help available. If Clyde had to travel overseas on business, he went by himself. Is that a problem?" My guess was that she and Clyde had argued about her position more than once.
    "No, no. This will do, but it strikes me as odd. How'd you come by this one?"
    She closed her mouth and her cheeks flooded with pink, like a sudden restoration to good health. At first, I thought she wouldn't answer me, but finally she pursed her lips. "Mother gave it to me when I was in high school. One of the more humiliating moments in my life with her. We were writing our