by Joseph Souza
Mr. Shady paws at my pant leg for a walk. I tap him away with my foot, signaling that there’ll be no walk this morning for being such a bad doggy. He’s not my pet, anyway. Yes, I was the one who wanted a dog when we moved to Maine. Then for some strange reason Mr. Shady became attached to Clay. The little ingrate. I’m the one who walks and feeds him every day. Clay comes home late at night, and it doesn’t matter how many biscuits or scraps I’ve slipped the dog throughout the day, he inevitably runs up and cuddles in Clay’s lap. At night, he sleeps on the mattress, curled behind Clay’s knees. Of course, he’s nice to me when it’s just the two of us here alone. He has no choice but to be nice to me. I suppose he tolerates me more than anything else. Maybe he thinks he’s doing me a favor by allowing me to walk him around the neighborhood.
Mr. Shady barks and I nudge him away with my foot. But he refuses to give up.
“Go away, Mr. Shady. I’m not taking you for a walk this morning.”
He lowers his ears, sticks his tail between his hind legs, and scampers off into the living room. Usually, I’d care about his hurt feelings, but right now I don’t give a darn.
I turn on the radio and hear more news about the missing girl. Mycah Jones was three and a half months pregnant the night she was taken. Three members of the lacrosse team were brought into the station for questioning and then released. They were in town that evening and drinking late into the night at a frat bar. One of the players was seen staggering around the center of town near the time of the crime, a lacrosse stick in hand. The players claimed they’d just come from a scrimmage and didn’t have time to lock up their gear.
The news finishes and a song comes on by the Barenaked Ladies. I’m intrigued by this new development and want to know more. It keeps my mind occupied. I want to know what happened to this poor girl. I want to know more about Clarissa and her hopes and dreams. It occurs to me that if I want to know more, I’ll need to take it upon myself to find out. Dig around and be proactive. The facts won’t jump up out of thin air and magically appear to me. I’m certainly not afraid to be assertive when the situation calls for it, to go after the things in life I need.
I’ve waited in this empty house long enough. It’s been over thirty minutes since Clarissa departed. I head out the front door, glancing furtively around to make sure no one sees me. Then again, I’m the only person in this neighborhood. I scamper up the porch and brashly open their front door. All is quiet, so I make my way upstairs. There’ll be no wine drinking today. No ogling her furniture or art collection. I know exactly what I need to do and where to find it.
Her pink diary is exactly where she left it. I pull it out and then run my hand along the smooth bottom of the drawer, lifting out her satiny undergarments. There are some coins and what I imagine to be earrings. Then I feel it. A small metallic object with a jagged edge. I pull it out and realize, to my delight, that it’s the key to her diary. This makes me so happy. It’s as if I’d located a clue to an unsolved murder mystery.
I plop down on the bed and consider the morality of what I’m about to do. Oddly, it doesn’t feel like an invasion of privacy. It feels quaintly spiritual, a way of connecting with another human being on a deeper level. We all have secrets. I have mine. She has hers. Having secrets is a trait that all humans share. Therefore, there can be no “real” secrets if we all have them.
I insert the key into the lock, hear the mechanism pop, and open the book. There are ten pages dated and filled with entries. She’s written something for each day. I imagine there must be dozens of other diaries stored in this house, detailing her life journey. But I’m not interested in them right now. I’m only concerned about the one in hand.
I read the first page, slightly disappointed by the pedestrian content. I expected something more profound and insightful. Not exactly Jane Smiley, but something with a bit more literary flair. She seems far more creative than this trite rehashing of the day’s events. Kids, work, daily chores. Nothing heartfelt or emotional. But then I read page four and nearly fall off the bed. It hits me so hard that I must close my eyelids and calm myself down. I slowly open my eyes and reread the passage.
Tuesday, October 6
I woke up early as usual, the kids screaming and Russell in an exuberant mood, kissing me all over and apologizing for his shitty behavior last night. I shoved him away from me and served the children their breakfast, which consisted of a crappy bowl of cookie cereal drowned in milk. Then I did my best to ignore Russell until he left for work. Doesn’t he know that his cheerful demeanor only pisses me off even more? WTF? He thinks he can make things right by acting all nice and romantic after humiliating me last night. The hell with him. Does he really think he can put his hands on me like that, and that I won’t be angry come morning? Hell no, I’m not letting that happen again. I keep telling him that I won’t stand for it anymore, and that I’ll leave, but then he pulls out his ace card and that shuts me up.
I feel trapped. I feel so lonely and objectified, like one of those Southern slaves servicing their master, only this master is black like me. If people only knew the truth about him and my marriage, then this delusional cruise ship we call the Happy Gaines Family would start to take on water and sink. The children don’t deserve this. They don’t know yet how to swim.
I skip a few more diary pages, my heart racing, and come to this.
Thursday, October 8
Is that why he had to go off at night and screw that little tramp? Because she did the nasty stuff that I refuse to do? Did she think she was better than me? Did she really think I didn’t know that she was seducing her professor? Yeah, girl, I was on to you. And Russell knows I won’t leave him. Because if I ever do, he’ll expose me. But now I can expose him as well. Expose him as a lying, cheating son of a bitch who preys on his female students.
But seriously, who will give a damn that an intelligent, progressive black man like Russell Gaines cheats on his wife? It’s a badge of honor these days to mess around. MLK, JFK, and Jesse Jackson did it, and they’re icons. Bill Clinton, the first black president, screwed anything that moved. It’s not fair that society glorifies these philanderers.
But what I’ve done is unforgivable in Russell’s eyes. Bad, bad, bad for me if people find out. I’m sure I’ll never live it down. But what other choice did I have at the time? It’s who I am. It’s been living deep inside me ever since I was a little girl.
I can barely control myself. What has she done? What is her secret? There’s only a few pages left in the diary and I need to know. It’s like some riveting best seller that I can’t put down. Jane Smiley on steroids. Why won’t Clarissa name names? Be more specific about who her husband slept with and how he’s degrading her.
After a few more pages of trivial content, I turn to the last page, praying that there’ll be something juicy and revealing.
Tuesday, October 13
It happened again last night. Twice in one month. The last time he struck me that hard was over a year ago. I can’t take it anymore. I just can’t. But I know I must. For the sake of the children I must stay strong.
I feel like killing myself and ending all the pain. But then I stepped onto the deck yesterday morning and saw all those magnificent birds and it reminded me that there’s more to life than simply pain and suffering. A greater force is watching over me and I must surrender to it. God is real and good. Let’s see how things play out. I will look for signs from God. Like those birds.
Oddly, I glanced over and saw that my neighbor was waving to me. Had she been watching me the entire time? It sort of creeped me out. I waved to her to be nice, trying not to look so worried. Maybe God sent her to this neighborhood to help me. I’m so lonely it hurts, and she seems like such a nice person, with a lovely family. She’s pretty too. She almost looks like one of those delicate birds. I feel terrible for not being more friendly to her, but considering the circumstances I’m in, it’s probably best she not be around Russell. Maybe one day I can open up to her about my proble
ms. No, that’s unlikely to happen. I can’t risk it. I just can’t risk losing everything.
The detectives are swarming around campus, asking about Mycah. They’ll find the truth about her soon enough. She’s not the martyr everyone is making her out to be. There’s a side of that girl that will soon be made public, and it will come as a big surprise to people.
I so badly need help. God, please help me!!! I’m afraid and feel all alone. I miss Atlanta and all my friends. If there was only someone I could trust, a close friend I could open up to and explain the injustice being done. How that woman ruined my life and turned my husband against me.
That is the last page. How could she stop there? I flip through the remaining pages to see if maybe she scrawled something else, but all the pages are empty.
I stick the diary back in the drawer exactly where I found it. The key too. I run downstairs and check the patio door and realize that it’s unlocked. I sneak out into the yard because it’s easier to keep out of sight back there. Mr. Shady’s mess greets my nose as I sprint over and slip inside the house. I’m intrigued by her entries. I need to know more about the connection between Clarissa and the missing girl, and what her husband has done to deserve such vitriol.
I collapse on the sofa and realize that my hands are shaking. What strikes me most is that Clarissa needs a friend as much as I do. So why is she pushing me away? I must convey to her, in the subtlest manner, that she can confide in me, and that I would never violate her trust. Russell’s abusive behavior needs to stop. Should I report him to the police? I want to be a good friend, but at what point do I put our friendship aside and report a crime?
She must have a reason to keep this quiet, and this is something I know about. Russell is holding something over her, and if she speaks up, he will take the kids and deny her visitation rights. But what has she done to deserve this?
My cell phone rings, transporting me back to the dull existence that is my life. I look at the caller ID and see that it’s from the twins’ school. I don’t want to speak to the staff there. I don’t want to know what odd thing Zack has done this time. It seems he’s in the guidance counselor’s office every two weeks. But to ignore it would make matters worse.
“Hello?”
“Mrs. Daniels? This is Susan, the principal at Woodrow Wilson Elementary. I think you better come down here.”
“What happened?”
“It’s Zack.”
“What has he done this time?”
“I think you better come over so we can discuss it.”
“Okay, I’ll be right there.”
CLAY
Wednesday, October 14, 11:59 a.m.
DETECTIVE ARMSTRONG PULLS UP NEXT TO THE BREWERY WHILE I’m inventorying my supply of grains. He’s already questioned me once, although briefly, about what happened the night Mycah Jones disappeared. I told him everything I care to share. That it was busy at the brewery that night, standing room only in the tasting room. Part of me thinks I should come right out and tell him the truth about our affair. But if Leah finds out what happened, our marriage will be over. She’ll take the kids and move back to Seattle, and I’d lose the brewery and everything I worked for.
I look over and see Ben sanitizing the brew kettles. The plan is to brew another fresh batch this afternoon. This one will be a winter beer infused with vanilla beans, cinnamon sticks, and extracts from hazelnuts, raspberry, and cranberry. The finish will be chocolaty and robust, and I expect it to be a big hit when it premieres next month.
There’s a knock at the garage door. Ben walks into the tasting room and lets Armstrong inside. I remember our last interview the morning after the girl went missing. We sat in a nearby coffee shop and I answered all his perfunctory questions. Ben walks the detective through the tasting room and into the heart of the brewery. I shake the man’s hand and lead him away from the kettle.
A sheen of sweat begins to form over my forehead from scrubbing tanks all morning. I’m prepared to admit the truth if he forces the issue. The guilt is killing me, and in many ways it would be a relief to get this off my chest. Maybe Leah will forgive me and we can grow closer because of it. Or maybe not. It’s a chance I’d rather not take.
Armstrong gazes around at all the shiny equipment. I pick up a scrubber brush and grip it in my gloved hand. At my feet is a bucket filled with hot water and bleach. Ben, a young man of few words, resumes sanitizing the kettles and fermenters. He’s gotten so much better at the job these last few months. I’ve even given him a raise, despite ruining a fifty-gallon batch of my prized Czech pilsner.
“Sorry to bother you again, Mr. Daniels.”
“No problem.” He’s a small and compact man with close-cropped black hair. “Armstrong, right?”
“You have a good memory.” He glances around the brewery. “Quite a setup you have.”
“It’s an electric brewing system. State of the art. Beer practically makes itself.”
“Excuse my ignorance, but I know nothing about brewing. My brother-in-law once roped me into brewing a pale ale with him, but I made a mess of it.”
“You should give it another shot. It’s cheap, fun, and you get to make the kind of beer you like.”
“I’m afraid I’m not much of a beer drinker to begin with,” he says. “So what’s the biggest difference between your system and the old style?”
I wonder if he’s merely making small talk, but I feel obliged to answer. As much as I love talking about beer and the craft of brewing, I have no desire to go into details with a relative novice. I’m nervous about being questioned and way behind schedule. Any minute now one of the local farmers will be showing up to haul away our spent grains so they can feed it to their hogs.
“The electric system regulates the mash temperature more accurately than with a flame. This allows me to brew a more consistent product each and every time.” I laugh. “I hope I’m not boring you with the details, Detective. It’s a much more complicated process than that, but that’s the gist of it.”
“Makes me wish I liked beer.” He peers into the stainless steel brew kettle.
“I can’t believe you’re a cop and you don’t like beer.”
“Afraid not. It might come as a surprise, but I don’t like donuts either.”
“They might need to send you back to the police academy.”
He laughs. “I suppose you could say I’m a bit of a health nut.”
“You’re not one of those vegans, are you?”
“No, I’m not that fanatical.”
“The problem is you haven’t had a really good craft beer yet. I’ll make a convert of you soon enough.”
“Perhaps.” He takes out his notebook. “I’m more of a wine drinker.”
“Come to the tasting room some night and I’ll set you up with a sampler tray. You might be pleasantly surprised.”
“I might take you up on that offer. Of course, I can’t accept gifts.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be paying through the nose for my beer.”
Armstrong smiles and I get the distinct impression that he’s one of those guys who will never like beer. “I have a few more questions to ask you about the night Mycah Jones went missing.”
“I told you everything when we met for coffee.”
“Bear with me for just a few minutes. I’m merely trying to connect some dots.”
“I’ll help you in any way I can.” My stomach churns as if my innards are being twisted into saltwater taffy.
“You said the tasting room was crowded the night she went missing and that Mycah Jones and her boyfriend were sitting by the fireplace.” He points his pen toward the gas insert.
“Yes, we were very busy that night. Customers were lined up everywhere.”
“Business that good?”
“That night it was.”
“Had you seen them in here before?”
“A few times.”
“Did you notice anything unusual that night?”
“Nah. I was too bus
y running between the brewery and the tasting room. Bree was pouring that night.”
“You didn’t overhear any arguments or see any unusual behavior?”
“Far from it. Everyone seemed to be in a really good mood. Honestly, Detective, we never have any problems in here.”
“No one was drinking too much or acting crazy?”
“This isn’t a dive bar that serves five-dollar pitchers of Natty Lite. I charge six dollars for the cheapest glass of beer. My clientele are connoisseurs and decidedly upscale. We ID everyone who comes through the door, regardless of how old they look. Keeping prices high is a good way to keep out the riffraff.”
“And yet Mycah Jones and her boyfriend were here that night, and both of them are students at Chadwick College.”
“I don’t discriminate against race or college students. Everyone of legal age is welcome here.”
“Did you know her?”
“Only to say hello sometimes when she came in. I remember her because they put her picture up on the TV.”
“I ran a check on her credit card. It seems that the victim visited your pub quite often. The night she disappeared, she charged over thirty dollars to her Visa.”
“Okay.”
He pauses to look at his notes. “Did you know that she was an outspoken activist for Black Lives Matter? It’s probably why she had so many detractors on campus.”
“College kids, right? They’re all protesting something or another these days.”
