15.
“INS, MAY I HELP YOU?”
The 800 number was the only viable option. Since eight o’clock this morning, Suzy has kept dialing the local branch, whose computerized operator put her on hold for what seemed like the entire morning only to route the call to the toll-free number. New York City must be one of its busiest chapters. They probably have their hands full, having to answer all the immigrants, whose panicked questions in broken English must get tiresome pretty quickly.
“I’m trying to find out about my status, and that of my parents, who are… both deceased.”
“Are you a U.S. citizen?”
“I think so.”
“Were you born in this country?”
“No, but I’m sure I am a citizen.”
“What’s your file number?”
“I don’t know. But my name is Suzy Park, and my Social Security number is…”
“Miss, I didn’t ask for your Social Security number. Do you have a filing receipt or a certification paper?”
“No.”
“Did you file for citizenship yourself?”
“No, I believe my parents did.”
“Were they citizens?”
“I think so.”
“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”
“I’m almost sure that we are all citizens, I mean, that they were also, until they passed away.”
“Miss, I can only help you if you are certain of the situation.”
What did she expect? It is the INS, after all. The iron gate of America, and the gatekeeper is on the other end, not sure if he wants to let her in.
“Look, if I were certain, I wouldn’t be calling you in the first place. My parents are both dead. They can’t tell me a thing. They never showed me any certification papers. I just want to know when they might have filed for citizenship and under which circumstances. You tell me, am I a U.S. citizen or not?”
Then the silence at the other end. For a second, Suzy is afraid that he may have hung up. She is half expecting the usual “Let me call the supervisor” move. Instead, the man comes right back on. Obviously, in his line of work, her level of outrage must be almost expected.
“Miss, there’s nothing I can do for you. It sounds to me like you need to apply for G639 papers. Freedom of Information Act. Please hold, while I transfer you.”
With that, she is put on hold again. Several minutes later, when she is put through, it is to a machine telling her to leave an address to which the G639 application can be sent out. The application will take two to three weeks in the mail.
The INS, not the most open organization, not exactly known for efficiency. It was naïve to think that she could just call and find out anything. Not surprising that no one is jumping to her aid. Looking up a citizenship-status file cannot be as urgent as deporting an illegal immigrant. A few weeks to get her hands on a bunch of papers called G639, a few weeks for them to process, and then who knows when they would get back to her with a response? Freedom of Information Act. Freedom, sure, in the most roundabout way. There must be an easier way.
Her first instinct is to call Detective Lester. He should be able to pull up the record in a second. Aren’t they all in league with one another? Would the INS refuse him speedy access when the information might be pertinent to a criminal investigation? If you remember anything, call me. He sounded almost chirpy. The police. It is impossible to guess what they know or how much they pretend. Where has he been for the last five years? Why did he declare her parents’ deaths random? Why has he ignored the case all this time, until now? Korean Killers. Fearsome Four. On second thought, maybe she shouldn’t ask him for help. Why bring him into something that might only be personal?
Grace. Only Grace would know. Grace, the sole evidence of her family.
Without Grace, there remains no trace of her parents. The Woodside brownstone. What did Grace do with all their parents’ things? Whenever Suzy pictures Grace sorting through them, she imagines her amidst a pile of blankets in rainbow colors. They each owned thick winter blankets, which Mom called “mink blankets.” Fake silky furs with complicated flower designs in pink and orange. They were very warm, but Suzy found them too heavy and flashy. Both Suzy and Grace left the blankets behind when they went off to college. That was one thing Mom objected to. Although nothing aroused her reaction much, she seemed hurt when her daughters would not take what she considered to be the family heirlooms. Suzy felt bad when Grace cut her short with, “Please, Mom, it’s not mink and it’s not an heirloom.”
A few months after the funeral, Grace contacted Suzy once through the accountant. It should have been handled by a lawyer, but Korean accountants often extended themselves over all matters, from inheritance rights to tax returns. There was money, he told Suzy over the phone one morning. Not a whole lot, but a good enough sum to see her through for a few years. Suzy refused her share. They had disowned her up until their death. It seemed unthinkable to take their money. “Sleep on it for a while,” the accountant dismissed her refusal. “Heirs often react this way. Inheritance evokes guilt. You think you’re compromising your parents’ death. Especially when their death isn’t natural. But believe me, you’ll change your mind in a few months.” The accountant was adamant. When Suzy said no for the third time, he barked, “That won’t bring them back, you know.”
What is his name? She had not thought to write it down. During those few months after the funeral, nothing quite stuck with her. It is still a wonder how she managed from day to day. Getting up each morning. Finding a place to live. Finding something to do. Finding ground to stand on. You’ll regret it, the accountant warned. But he was wrong. She could not have taken her parents’ money. It did not belong to her, although it might not have belonged to them either.
You’re so fucking stupid, Suzy, you wouldn’t care what kind of money it is as long as it puts food before you.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to look up the accountant. The guy might know something. He had done paperwork for her parents for a few years. Not for long, he insisted. He made a point of emphasizing “few years,” which, for an accountant-client relationship, was not a long period. Later, it occurred to her that he might not have wanted to be associated with her parents’ death. At their only meeting, she found him abrasive. But no one seemed to be on her side then. Everyone appeared unsympathetic, unfeeling, including Suzy herself, who remained living while her parents were shot down in a remote corner of the Bronx.
Suzy is about to grab the Yellow Pages when it dawns on her that most Korean accountants would not be advertised in it. What would be the point? No American clients come to them anyway. She would do better with the Korean Business Directory or Korean newspapers, neither of which she has in her apartment. His office had been located in Koreatown, above a restaurant that specialized in bone-marrow soup, 32nd Street in midtown Manhattan. A part of the city she rarely visits. The pervading smell of kimchi along the street. The posters on windows displaying jubilant Korean movie stars. Bright neon signs in Korean letters. Too close to home, although her home had never been that festive. Suzy had been to his office once to sign papers. It was a simple procedure. It took five minutes, and all her claims to her parents were over. Afterward, she sat before a bowl of oxtail soup and wept.