The Knock
A hard knock on the door makes a higher pitched sound than a battering ram. I am able to differentiate the detectives behind the door by the shape of their hand. Detective Jones contacts the metal with his knuckles, making a softer sound. Detective Red catapults his whole arm, commanding our attention with a slow dull pound. Today's disparate attempt is unfamiliar. This knock is strangely polite. The thud on the door is loud enough to hear, but not annoying enough to ignore. The dissipating sound of a conscience neighbor. But our neighbors are rude. No hard breathing or wandering flip flops on the concrete. Just patient silence.
I lean around the living room corner to spy on the unwanted guest. The usual speech is marked by a slight accent. His clean cut suit says television cop, not the plain clothes of a local detective. Before my grandmother closes the door, he maneuvers his long fingers around the door to present his business card. The outdated practice has yet to sway my grandmother's hardened face.
I shuffle in my ankle high boots to the bay window, where I am exposed by the light uncovered by curtain. I lift the collar of my father's biker jacket to sniff the beard wax and motor oil embedded in the leather. The smell ignites the memory of my father ducking his head under the roof of a black police car. My squinting eyes trap water inside my tear ducts. A surge anger escapes the knot in my stomach and a fire bursts out the hood of the detective's car. The detective calmly stops mid stride, and raises his hand to extinguish the flames, before pivoting his head towards my firmly positioned figure inside the bay window. I do not understand. Why did his car burst into flames? How does a man extinguish a fire by raising a hand?