Searching for Rose

by Dana Becker

  The reason she was penniless when she’d first arrived that day at Carmen’s bakery was that she’d just quit a job in Fishtown, in North Philly, for fear of running into her (most recent) abusive ex. And because of that fear, she’d lost a shot at work. There were just too many traps set for her around town.

  And jobs didn’t come easy. She couldn’t seem to hold down work. Inevitably her boss would reveal himself—it was almost always some man—to be a jerk, or worse. Eventually April would tell him so and she’d be out of a job. Now that she was working at the bakery, she had some cash flow but, if history were any guide, it would be temporary.

  And what kind of support system did she really have? If Joseph suffered from too much family, April had the opposite problem: barely any. April’s father died when she was twelve. Her mother was a broken-down alcoholic, who spent her days inserting coins into slot machines in Atlantic City. Her mother lived with an abusive boyfriend who, more than once, had aggressively tried to kiss April. The final straw had come when her mother had found Rose’s checkbook and forged a check to herself from it. Neither sister trusted their mother and they avoided contact with her. The sudden recent disappearance of her sister was not only a painful and unsettling development, but also a major blow to April’s social world. She simply didn’t have much else.

  Well, she had Carmen now. And, it seemed, things were going well on that front. But she was just waiting for the other shoe to drop, waiting for Carmen to lose patience with her, get angry at her, ask her to leave the bakery. She was doing everything in her power to make it work, but she knew the patterns of her life; somehow everything got fouled up in the end. She would survive, yes, but she would lose everything in the process.

  And then there was Joseph. He was supposed to be the easy part of her day. But the more she told herself that, the more it seemed like a line. Was he really a part of her life? What did he even know about her? And if he ever were to know, would he talk to her anymore? April’s constant thoughts about Joseph were beginning to become yet another problem. It seemed that the only way out of thinking about Joseph was to spend more time with him. But that, of course, just sounded like another trap.

  The situation with Rose was so bad that April could barely even get her mind around it anymore. She’d been checking in with Sergeant Connors every few days. Then it became every week. Then even less frequently. She couldn’t take the constant bad news, the blank looks of the cops. She hated lying to them by withholding everything she knew about Ricky, and she feared that these lies would catch up with her.

  Ricky had never contacted her after she’d barged into his shop that day. She contemplated going back—but had put it off. At first, it was a calculated move. She wanted to see how he’d respond to her note. Then, after his silence, she realized she’d lost her confidence. She began to suspect that a second visit would be, at best, unproductive. And at worse, dangerous. So she’d waited. And when nothing happened, when there was no news of any kind, she began to panic, to lose sleep.

  Then something clicked in her. Her panic was replaced by something even more powerful: denial. Admitting that this was happening had simply become too dangerous. Of all the bad things that had beset April in her life, the disappearance of literally the only person she trusted and loved was something she lacked the language to describe. It was something beyond fear or anxiety or even extreme sadness. It was something that, if she looked at it honestly, would force her to question her own existence, her identity. What happened to a person when the one constant in their life, the thing that sustained them, was suddenly gone, vanished, as if it never existed? What happened, April believed, was that you also ceased to exist. For the sake of her sanity, out of some primal instinct for basic survival, she simply couldn’t think about it. Not anymore.

  She found her brain telling her, She’ll probably call any minute, she’ll show up, she’s fine. It was just impossible to imagine that something had just impossible to imagine that something had really happened to Rose. This kind of thing didn’t really happen. This wasn’t some movie.

  There were moments of hard clarity, when April realized that being passive, allowing denial to set in, was reckless. Her new sobriety gave her these moments of clarity, and so she grew to despise her sobriety. But as long as she was sober, her brain could do the math. Every day and week that passed, every minute really, meant worse odds of finding Rose. Time was not on her side. But just as quickly as April had these thoughts, she let them go. There were professional detectives on the case. What could she really do anyway? How did endlessly worrying really help?

  When April returned from her walk, Reading Market was mostly quiet. She walked past the Amish diner and, in her peripheral vision, she noticed Joseph at the register. She saw that he was looking at her, but she ignored him and walked on. Without a word, she arrived back in the bakery, slipped into her apron and rubber gloves, grabbed her trusty dough scraper, and picked up where she’d left off: cutting sharp triangles out of a giant slab of raspberry-dotted dough, shaping and smoothing them with the side of the dough scraper, weighing the triangles to ensure uniformity of size (1.5 ounces each), and setting each on a tray, ready to be baked into tomorrow’s scones. When she got going, it felt like a comforting and increasingly familiar rhythm, and she could work placidly like that for hours.

  * * *

  Whitey sat at his desk, looking at his dead cell phone. He’d mostly stopped picking up the phone. He would give it some use every day, for a few minutes, so as not to raise any suspicions, not tip off anyone who might be listening. But in reality, he now kept the phone only for emergencies. Ever since he’d had that little scare: when he began to suspect that he might have an enemy inside the FBI, in addition to the well-placed friends he’d cultivated.

  He’d been warned by his guys that the phone was now too dangerous to use for anything related to business. Well, actually, one of his guys said it was too dangerous (“How you ever gonna really know who’s watching?”) and another had said it was fine. (“If the cops can secure their devices, so can we.”) Whitey went with the cautious advice. And not only that, he put the other guy, the one who’d told him to keep using the phone, on notice. Why was that guy telling him to risk it? Was he trying to get Whitey in trouble? Was that guy a snitch? Whitey decided to keep an eye on him. Eventually he would test him. And if he failed the test, the guy would have to be gotten rid of.

  Whitey was sick of this game. Sick of cat and mouse. He was just a businessman. He helped people. The people who worked for him loved him. He gave back to the community, far more than most people. Many regarded him as a kind of legend. He should have been celebrated by the public. Instead he was treated like a criminal. At this point in his life, he had given up on being appreciated. He just wanted to be left alone.

  He was happier without his phone. It was a relief. He liked getting his messages in person. Liked to look into the eyes of the person who was talking to him, liked to size up the person, to detect what they weren’t telling him. You couldn’t do that by text. And Whitey was good at it.

  There was a knock. Whitey’s hand slowly and calmly went to his gun, as was his practice.

  “Yeah,” he shouted.

  One of his guys peeked in from behind the door.

  “Uh . . . sir,” he said. The word sir sounded clumsy in his mouth, and Whitey winced a bit.

  “Come in all the way,” Whitey said, with an edge of annoyance. “Let me see you.”

  How many times did Whitey have to instruct his men how to enter a room with him? How many times did he have to repeat himself? Whitey looked at his man. He was fidgety and distracted. But then again, the guy was always like that. Whitey understood his world. He understood that if you wanted helpers who were capable of violence it was unlikely that they’d also be well-mannered and of even temperament. That was just the sad reality of it. And, anyway, when one of his men was too cultivated, that worried him even more.

  “What is it?” Whitey said.r />
  “Uh, that guy Ricky’s here to see you,” he said. “Says he has a meeting with you.”

  “About?” Whitey said, wearily.

  “Some girl, I guess,” the guy said. “Says he needs a favor.”

  Whitey closed his eyes and sighed.

  “Send him in.”

  Chapter Four

  Carmen was beginning to trust April with more tasks around the bakery. Even though she was still having some trouble arriving on time, April was a hard worker, and smart. When she tried, she could even be friendly with customers and a good saleswoman. She had come up with some clever marketing ideas (“On your birthday come into Metropolitan Bakery for a FREE brownie with a candle on top!”), and had created a large and devoted Instagram following for the bakery. Carmen was watching April carefully, and was continually impressed by her. It wasn’t long before she entrusted April with the keys to close up shop.

  On Tuesdays and Thursdays, April would close, then head straight to her NA meeting, where she received a hero’s welcome for showing up with two bagfuls of delicious treats, leftovers from her day at Metropolitan Bakery.

  On one of these Thursdays, just as April was tying up the last garbage bag and getting ready to run to her meeting, she felt someone looking at her. She turned around.

  “How do you know where I work?” she said.

  “You’re not the only one who snoops around,” Ricky said, leaning against the door that separated the kitchen from the front counter, blocking April in.

  He was dressed in cargo jeans, a tan work jacket, roofer’s boots, and a Phillies cap. It was as if he hadn’t changed his clothes since the last time she’d seen him, more than six months earlier.

  “So you got my message.”

  “Yeah,” he said, crossing his arms. “Didn’t like your tone, though.”

  “Did I hurt your feelings?” April said.

  She quickly glanced at the knife rack that hung next to the big oven. Ricky’s eyes followed hers there. He grinned slyly.

  “I don’t know where Rose is,” he said.

  April just stared at him.

  “I’m sure she’s fine,” he said. “You know how she is.”

  April continued staring.

  “I don’t know where she is, April,” he said. “Why would I?”

  “Why would you . . . Seriously? How about this: Why would I trust you? ’Cause I think we both know why I don’t. So why don’t you stop pretending?”

  “That tone, again,” Ricky said. “Very rude. Can’t we just talk?”

  “My sister is missing. And you seem supercalm about it. Doesn’t exactly make me trust you.”

  “I don’t need you to trust me.”

  “Why are you here, Ricky?”

  “You said you wanted to talk.”

  “Where is my sister?”

  “No idea.”

  “That’s funny; you always seem so full of ideas.”

  “I got nothing to do with this.”

  “With what, Ricky? What do you got nothing to do with?”

  “Have you talked to the cops?”

  “Why do you care, since you got nothing to do with it?”

  Ricky stiffened. April quickly decided to change her tack.

  “I haven’t talked to anyone,” she lied. “But I’m gonna find my sister. And if I need the cops to help me, then yeah, I’m gonna talk to them. Give me one reason I shouldn’t.”

  “Since when did you get so hard?” he said, with a laugh.

  “When was the last time you saw Rose?”

  “Nice place here. Can I have a cookie?”

  “When was the last time you saw my sister?”

  “Not sure, maybe a month ago.”

  “Ricky, think about it for real: what day was it, what time was it? What did she tell you? Say what you know.”

  Ricky stretched, revealing a gun tucked into his belt. He noticed April notice it.

  “Oh, you like this bad boy?” he said, pulling the gun out. “A Glock 19. Great piece of hardware.” He took aim at the oven. He seemed freer, more friendly even, with a gun in his hand. April jumped at the opportunity.

  “When did you last see Rose?” she said. “Tell me the date and time.”

  Ricky rolled his eyes.

  “It was at the shop, after dark,” he said. “Must have been a Monday or Tuesday. ’Cause those are the only days I go in now. She came by to pick some stuff up. It was right before her birthday, because I remember she got pissy with me about that.”

  “What was the last thing she said to you?”

  “The last thing?” Ricky said. He seemed to be genuinely trying to remember. “I think it was basically G’bye, never wanna see your dumb face again.”

  “And did she tell you where she was going?”

  “Nope.”

  “How was she traveling?”

  “Car.”

  “She doesn’t have a car.”

  “I think someone was waiting for her outside the shop.”

  “Who? Did you see the car?”

  “No idea who, and didn’t see the car.”

  “That was the last time you spoke?”

  “Yeah. After that I didn’t hear from her. We weren’t talking much by then anyway.”

  “Did you try to talk to her?”

  “Yeah, I sent her a text or two.”

  “Can I see?”

  “See what?”

  “The texts. Show them to me.”

  “How about no?”

  “Show me. Unless you’re hiding something.”

  “I’m done here.”

  Ricky glanced around quickly, and he looked up to see if there was a camera in the space—there was not. When he suddenly noticed that he was still holding the Glock, he laughed to himself, as though delighted by his good fortune. Without saying another word, he used the butt of the pistol to smash an oversized glass container, full of whole wheat flour, one of four antique jars that Carmen used to hold supplies. Then he methodically shattered the remaining three containers, smiling with satisfaction as the cracks widened and immediately gave way to four rushing cascades of flour. April wanted to cry out, but she held back, with great effort, not wanting to give him any further satisfaction. For a moment, they both watched quietly as a giant pile of broken glass and flour rose suddenly on the floor.

  When he was done, Ricky lifted his gun and pointed it directly at April’s face. She held her breath. He stared at her with vacant dead eyes.

  “Don’t tell the cops anything stupid, April,” he said, wearily. “Just don’t get mixed up in this, okay? I know you’re stressed about Rose. But don’t be stupid. And don’t show up at Nick’s again.”

  * * *

  April missed the NA meeting that night. But it wasn’t for lack of effort. After Ricky left, she’d immediately locked up the bakery and run to the bus. She left the giant mess Ricky had made, planning to return to the bakery after the meeting to clean up. She didn’t want Carmen to walk into that disaster scene first thing in the morning.

  She’d waited for fifteen minutes at the bus stop, until she decided to splurge and take an Uber, only to realize she’d left her phone at the bakery. By the time she arrived at the church across town, the NA meeting was over. In order to avoid a penalty from the court, she would have to get an excuse letter from her boss. But what would April tell Carmen?

  When April arrived back at Reading Terminal Market that night, at almost 11:00 P.M., the front door to the market was locked. And her key to the bakery didn’t open that lock. There was nothing to be done about it. April would not be able to clean the mess before Carmen arrived the next morning. And when Carmen did show up, she would find a scene of destruction. She would find four large expensive antique containers, which she loved, and an entire day’s worth of flour, ruined. She would find the mess on the floor, as though April had carelessly left it there without dealing with it. April would have a lot of explaining to do.

  April would be there first thing in the morning,
to tell Carmen what had happened. But that explanation, of course, wouldn’t calm Carmen’s nerves. On the contrary. April would have to admit that the damage was inflicted intentionally by Rose’s vindictive ex, the kind of guy who could and possibly did harm Rose.

  And when Carmen asked, So how does this gangster know you work at my bakery?

  April would have to say, No idea.

  And why did he smash everything up?

  April would say, Because he was upset about the questions I asked about Rose’s disappearance. And he didn’t like that I’m talking to the cops.

  There was no way to spin this story, no way to make it sound less threatening than it was. Well, maybe one way: April could omit the detail about the gun.

  Carmen would be understandably angry. Even if she tried to forgive, she would feel betrayed and violated and just plain terrified. She would certainly demand even more contact with the police. But what would April, the sole witness, actually say in this police report? Would she explain why Ricky was there? There was no way around it. If she was going to file a report about Ricky’s damage, she might incur the wrath of Ricky; and if they didn’t report it, well, that would make Carmen feel unprotected and anxious. The trust that April had won from Carmen had vanished in an instant.

  And still, despite all of these complications, all of the upset and anger that would descend on her tomorrow morning, April had other things on her mind. As she waited for the bus to take her back to her apartment in South Philly, she felt almost delirious with excitement. She had a bunch of new clues about her sister’s disappearance. Ricky hadn’t stopped by to make a social call—he was nervous. And his nerves incriminated him. April was on the right trail. She was certain of it.

  When she finally arrived home that night, she ran to her kitchen table and, without even bothering to take off her coat, sat down and began scribbling all the details of what had happened that night, leaving nothing out. Anything could be a clue.