The Record of a Living Man

Ruth arrived at Calloway & Sons with a folder under one arm and a preservation notice in the other hand. She had left her uniform jacket in the car. The badge on her belt looked more conspicuous without it.

“I need Edwin’s statement first,” she said. “Then I need the books connected to his reported death.”

Iris glanced at the notice. “You brought the order before asking for the records.”

“I brought it so you’d know what I’m asking for.” Ruth set it on the counter. “This is a hold. It covers the death file and the funeral home’s records relating to the transfer and cremation. You keep operating. You don’t alter, discard, or move those records.”

The notice had a case number and a deputy’s signature. It did not have a judge’s. Iris read it twice anyway.

Edwin waited in her office, beside the desk where she used to sort invoices. He had changed his shirt since the diner. The old jacket he wore was still too large in the shoulders. When Ruth came in, he stood.

“Sit,” she said. “I need your full name, date of birth, and whatever identification you have.”

He answered each question. Ruth wrote without looking up. Edwin gave her his date of birth, his parents’ names, the address of the house where he had grown up. The questions were ordinary. His answers made them sound strange.

Ruth checked his identification against the details on her form. “You understand this is a supplemental report about your reported death?”

“I understand.”

“And you’re saying you’re Edwin Calloway, the person recorded as deceased.”

“Yes.”

Ruth wrote that down. “When did you first learn the county had recorded you as dead?”

Edwin looked toward Iris. She had stopped beside the file cabinet. She could have answered for him. She knew some dates better than he did, and she knew where every paper was kept. Her hand moved toward the drawer where she had placed his old case file, then dropped.

“Let him answer,” Ruth said, still writing.

Edwin gave the date he had left and the date he learned the record had been completed. Ruth asked where he had been in between. He described it in practical pieces: a rented room, cash work, no fixed address. When she asked why he had stayed away, he said he had believed distance would keep the funeral home out of the archive’s reach.

Ruth paused at the word. “What archive?”

Iris spoke before Edwin could. “That isn’t part of this report.”

Ruth looked at her. “Then we’ll keep it to the death record.”