Free The Altar Girl by Orest Stelmach Page B

appeared to have been perused three or four million times each. My godfather didn’t have a computer, which didn’t surprise me. My mother didn’t have one either, and many of the older generation wanted no part of the latest technology. What did surprise me was the complete absence of business records of any kind. I was about to ask Roxy if she knew who kept his books when I noticed a small pad of paper was elevated an inch off the desk.
    I lifted the pad and found a small notebook bound with burgundy leather. The first few pages contained phone numbers. I scanned the names. They featured the requisite servicers any homeowner would need, such as plumber, electrician, and duct cleaner. Duct cleaner? The others were either friends or business associates, I guessed. Some of the names were in English, but most were in Ukrainian. I recognized some of the latter.
    I heard the toilet flush so I stood up to leave. The rest of the notebook turned out to be a calendar. Various appointments appeared on the pages, most of them self-explanatory. Out of sheer logic, I turned to the date he’d died. While all the other entries in the calendar had been written in a normal font size, this one had been scrawled in blue ink with enormous letters that took up the entire page.
    The entry consisted of two letters: “DP.” The “P” had a little curl at the top. It was impossible to tell which language my godfather had been using because the letters were written in cursive. In printed form, the English letter “D” corresponds to the Ukrainian “Д.” But in cursive form, the “D” looked the same in both languages. The letter “P” was the Ukrainian version of an “R.” Hence, if the note was in English, it was DP. If it was written in Ukrainian, it was DR.
    People maintained calendars to keep track of meetings, which consisted of people and places. Hence, DP was most likely a person or a place. I skimmed through the calendar. Appointments pertaining to the Ukrainian community were noted in Ukrainian, details pertaining to those outside the community were written in English. They appeared evenly split with an average of one or two per week. Each entry contained a person’s name, and some contained a reference to a place, as well.
    An eye doctor’s appointment was noted in English with the address and phone number beside it. As with other appointments in English, the doctor’s name and location were spelled out in English. In cases where the entry had been written in Ukrainian, he wrote the destinations out in longhand—“National Home, Credit Union, Church Hall”—but abbreviated the names of the people with their initials. There were sufficient Ukrainian entries containing Cyrillic letters for me to deduce that he used initials when he had appointments with Ukrainains: “lunch with БШ,” “bingo with ЮТ,” “fix gutter for ЄЖ.” That meant the letters DP were probably someone’s Ukrainian initials, which corresponded to DR in English.
    The rest of the notebook provided no insight into his business. In fact, the calendar appeared to consist of his personal appointments, as though he kept his professional ones somewhere else, if not entirely in his mind.
    I heard Roxy’s footsteps and slipped the notebook into my bag. I’m not one hundred percent sure why I didn’t want to share my discovery with her. Perhaps I wanted to trust her, but couldn’t afford to put my faith in anyone for the time being.
    “You find anything?” she said.
    “Nope,” I said, brushing aside my pangs of guilt. “Do you know who did your uncle’s books?”
    “Some Uke accountant. I’ll get you the name.”
    We walked outside. I shined the light and Roxy closed the door. As I drove away, I noticed that one of the Hondas was still there but the other one was gone. The ignition wasn’t on, however, and there didn’t appear to be anyone inside.
    Roxy tried to talk me into staying the night with her but I refused. I told her I was