U Is for Undertow

walk through the envelopes, some of which were addressed to me and some to Virginia Kinsey, my Aunt Gin. The postmarks were assorted dates in the latter half of 1955—the same year my parents were killed—starting in June and extending through the next two calendar years. One had been opened but the rest were still sealed. Across the front of each envelope there was either an emphatic “RETURN TO SENDER!! ADDRESSEE UNKNOWN!” in Aunt Gin’s unmistakable bold printing or equally forceful messages delivered by way of post office rubber stamps with a purple-ink finger pointing accusingly at the return address. You’d think a federal crime had been committed from the savagery expressed.
    I knew what I was looking at. In one of my last conversations with Tasha, we’d argued this very point. Her mother, my Aunt Susanna, had said that the day my parents were killed, they were traveling to Lompoc in hopes of a reconciliation with my grandparents. She claimed that after they died, Grand tried for years to establish contact with me and had finally given up. I’d assumed it was all bullshit, Aunt Susanna’s attempt to put a better spin on the tale of my abandonment. Having never spoken to my grandmother, the gist of my quarrel with her was that she’d been content to let me languish, bereft of family solace and support, for the twenty-nine years following my parents’ deaths. Aunt Gin’s parenting, while adequate, had been curiously deficient in matters of warmth and affection. Her remoteness might well have been something she learned at her mother’s knee, but whatever the origin, I was affected. She’d taught me many valuable lessons about life, most of which still serve me, but of comfort, closeness, and nurturing, there was little. The letters were proof Grand had made an effort that Aunt Gin had rebuffed.
    I found myself without a word to say. I might have mustered a weak protest, but what would have been the point? I’d been wrong in my assumption. Grand wasn’t to be faulted for neglect. Aunt Gin had refused her letters, thus cutting off communication. I cleared my throat. “I appreciate this.”
    “Go ahead and open them if you want.”
    “I’d prefer to be alone if it’s all the same to you. Unless the letters turn out to be too personal or too painful, I’ll be happy to make copies and get them back to you.”
    “Take your time.”
    “Will you tell Grand you found them?”
    “I don’t know yet. If you return the letters, I won’t have much choice. The minute Grand sees the seals are broken, she’ll know the secret’s out, whatever it may be.”
    “And if I don’t return them?”
    “Let’s put it this way, she’s never going to ask. She might not even realize they were sitting in the files. Actually, there’s something else that may prove more important.”
    I stared, unable to imagine what could trump the ace she’d laid on the table the moment before.
    She took the envelope from my hand and pulled out a thin sheaf of letterhead stationery. She offered me the pages, which I read through rapidly. They were invoices submitted to Grand by a private investigator named Hale Brandenberg, with an office address in Lompoc. The information was sketchy—no reports attached—but a cursory look at his charges suggested he’d been in her employ for more than a year. He’d billed her four thousand bucks and change, not a trivial amount given his rates, which were low by today’s standards.
    Tasha said, “Grandfather Kinsey was still living when this was done, so she either browbeat him into paying for it or she did this behind his back. In any case, the work was done.”
    “I don’t see any reference to what he was hired to do.”
    “It’s possible the invoices became separated from his reports or maybe the reports were destroyed. Grand hates to lose and she hates being thwarted, so nothing of this was leaked to the rest of us. I believed Mom when she said Grand tried to make contact, but I was startled to see the proof. I have trouble believing she’d go so far as to hire an investigator, but there it is. I’m guessing when all those letters came flying back, Hale Brandenberg was the next logical step.”
    I said, “Well.”
    I thought she was on the verge of taking my hand, but she made no move. Instead, she watched me with a sympathy I chose to ignore. She said, “Look. I know this is hard for you. Once you’ve read the letters, you might end up feeling the same alienation, but