and wave, perpetually. I gave my companions a nod as we headed back to university parking. Maybe with my Dad in the car, I’d venture out to the Brooklyn Ikea for a major shopping spree, but for now I was satisfied with my strategic purchases. By the time I had lugged everything inside, cleaned up and changed clothes, my phone was reminding me to head to Grand Central.
It’s easy to spot my father in a crowd, because he’s almost always the tallest person. And with a full head of bright orange hair that refuses to be tamed, he is doubly hard to miss. When he stands alone, one might liken him to a stork or other extremely long-legged bird; he is very short-waisted, so his legs seem disproportionately long for his body. Naturally, this body is terribly thin, gaunt almost, and white, pale to the point of translucence in winter, with remnants of boyhood freckling across his nose and cheeks that sprout and flourish given the slightest exposure to the sun. He is, in a word, the epitome of gawky. There’s even, on most days, a cowlick…along with large, stick-out-like-jug-handle ears. Honestly, I love him to death, but thank God that I inherited only my brains and not my looks from my father’s gene pool.
On this day, probably because of the serious shit his only child had stepped into, Father came up the escalator wearing an actual tweed cap. I did a double take. He had on a trench coat as well, so he looked like a normally-proportioned, quite handsome, but very tall man.
“Dad,” I called, rushing to grab him by the waist. “I’m so glad you’re here.”
He patted my back softly. “No worries, Cassie, all under control, now it is. You’ll be well advised.”
I grinned and linked arms with his. “I feel better already,” I said. “But Uncle Phil? Really? This isn’t a traffic ticket in Passaic, you know.”
We both chuckled and walked through the crowds heading into the evening air. “A dinner reservation somewhere has been procured?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “ABC Kitchen.”
“A carpet store serving food, that is?” One eyebrow disappeared under the rim of his cap as he studied my face. “In need of home furnishings you are?”
“I am trying to liven up my apartment a bit, but no, it’s a real restaurant and it’s gotten very good reviews. I was lucky to get a table,” I said.
“Room for our friends, there will be as well?” he nodded his head towards the two officers following us up the street.
“I don’t think they have that kind of dinner allowance,” I said. “But we can invite them to join us, if you really want.”
“Not at all,” he said. “Catching up we must do. Doughnuts or whatever it is that officers eat at night they should find.”
“They can always shop while waiting for us,” I agreed.
I know, it’s off-putting, this Yoda-talk of his. He started doing it right after my mother left, which happened to coincide with our immersion in all things Star Wars. It became our private language, and over the years he falls into it whenever we’re alone, usually minus the strange accent. It got us through a very difficult time, and instead of being a reminder of what we lost, it’s a reminder of the bond that we forged when we had to figure out how to go it alone.
Along with the meal, and a description of the events of the previous few days, the evening with my father provided me with something I’d been missing for a while, a sense of calm and purpose. This was the only person in the world who knew who I really was, and with whom I could be myself, and that was a comfort beyond the need for love and reassurance—as well as his offer to cover any legal expenses.
“Do you really think I’m going to need a lawyer?” I asked, wiping my mouth with a linen napkin.
“Necessity it may be, in this case a wise decision, I think,” he said. “Distasteful and unpleasant, and contrary to idealism on the other hand, hiring ‘Uncle Phil’ to play hardball on your behalf should be the path taken by both tortoise and hare in this case.”
“Do I know this person, or do I want to know why this is going to be distasteful?” I asked. “I mean, I get why I should be proactive and not wait to be charged. But is he some kind of New Jersey crook-lawyer?”
“No, but close you are. Of the ‘outlaw’ family he is, in a manner of speaking. Relatively, that is.”
“No,” I said. “You didn’t.”
“Cassie,” he said.
“How could you go to them?”
“In times of need…”
“No, I mean, really—how? Do you have somebody’s phone number that you can just call and ask for a lawyer?” I asked. “Or, are you in touch with…her?”
“Now, Cassie,” he said.
“No, I don’t want to know,” I said. “You called Uncle Phil and that’s it.”
Denial is a wonderful thing, I thought. I just couldn’t bear it if he was in touch with my mother because I needed help.
“Yes, that’s it,” he said. “I called Uncle Phil.”
I nodded. “Okay. Dessert must be had, then,” I announced grandly. “And another glass of wine, if we are entering into the nether-regions of the mother-land.”
He shook his head. “Good thing you chose art history as a field of study, my dear daughter, and not theater,” he said.
After signaling the waiter and placing our order, he leaned closer to me. “The knife, then, can you describe it to me, and slowly? All the gems and the gold? A drawing might you produce?”
“I’ll do that at home, it will be easy. In fact, if I can find one, I’m sure I have a picture of it, or something pretty close to it.”
“No,” he seemed horrified.
I nodded, filling my mouth with a spoonful of chocolate mousse.
“Was it hers?” he asked.
“Could be,” I said. I shrugged. “Could’ve been mine, too. Hard to tell.”
“Oh dear,” he said. “So, we’ll meet with Uncle Phil, definitely. Tomorrow, first thing.”
“There’s no one else we could call?” I asked.
He shook his head, drank some wine, and watched as I washed my mousse down with the remainder of the Cabernet Sauvignon.
“Touch the knife—you did not, did you?” he asked softly.
“I was about to…but I didn’t.” I could hardly look him in the eye.
“Heaven is to be thanked for that,” he said.
“Not really,” I said. “The cops interrupted me leaning over the body. One more second, and that baby would’ve been in my pocket.”
We both sighed, our eyes not meeting.
In the morning, we met “Uncle” Phil at a nondescript diner on 11th Avenue. It
