by Joseph Souza
“The administrators at Chadwick tried to keep it all hush-hush, but we’ve learned quite a bit recently, including the fact that she was fourteen weeks pregnant.”
“Yeah, I heard something about that on the radio, but I’ve been way too busy to keep up on it.”
“She was attending Chadwick on a full scholarship.”
I hear something calculating and rehearsed in his tone. Is he implying something? Does he suspect that I’m withholding information? Or that I was the one who impregnated her?
“They paid their tab and left without incident, Detective. What more can I tell you?”
“Her car was parked in the back lot the next morning.”
“Maybe they drank too much and decided to walk back to campus. Considering that Chadwick is less than a mile down the road, I’m assuming they made a sensible decision.”
“A sensible decision that possibly cost her her life.”
“Sensible in that she knew better than to drink and drive.”
He studies his notes again. “Did you talk to them that evening?”
“We chatted briefly. They wanted to buy me a beer, but I rarely drink when I’m working.” My nose grows an inch.
“What did you talk about?”
“I probably asked how they liked the beer.”
“How long have you been in town, Mr. Daniels?”
“The brewery opened in June. I spent most of the winter and spring getting it ready to open, commuting back to Seattle once a month to see my wife and kids. They stayed on the West Coast until our house was built in Deerfield Estates.”
“That’s the unfinished development on the outskirts of town. I heard the contractor just up and left,” he says.
“One and the same.”
“So you were here most of the summer?”
“Like I said, since last winter.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, Mr. Daniels, why did you move to Dearborn?”
I stop scrubbing and glare at him. Like my personal life is any of his goddamn business. “Seattle is a very expensive place to live and we couldn’t afford to move out of our tiny bungalow and into something bigger. The twins were getting older and needed more space, and my son was diagnosed with a mild case of Asperger’s.”
“Sorry to hear that.”
“No need. He’s an extremely smart kid, but there were certain educational functions that weren’t being met in his old school. We researched Maine and discovered that the educational system here in Dearborn was one of the best in the state.”
“Yes, it’s a fine school system.”
“I figured I could open a brewery in town and do it much cheaper than I could in Seattle. The Portland beer scene is exploding and there’s lots of demand. So that’s how we ended up here.”
“Interesting.”
“Is there anything else?” I say, gesturing with the scrubber. “I’ve got a lot of work to do here.”
“I suppose I have all the information I need for the moment,” he says, closing his notebook. “Oh, one more thing while I’m here. I asked your pourer and she said you left the tasting room for about an hour that night. Would you mind telling me where you were?”
“I was wheelbarrowing the spent grain outside and loading it into the bins. One of the farmers was planning on picking it up in the morning, and I hate leaving it exposed and attracting all the mice and rats.”
“And that took how long?”
“Roughly an hour, but I’m not entirely sure. Whatever it took to get the job done.”
Armstrong thanks me and leaves. I resume scrubbing the inside of the tank with renewed frustration. I hate lying. More bleach. More scrubbing. I move from tank to tank, the muscles in my arms aching, the sweat pouring down my face. I need a break. No, I need a beer.
* * *
Mycah returned to the brewery a week after we first met. I’d be lying if I said I had stopped thinking about her. Often at night, tired and sore, and after sampling too much of my product that day, I would lie in my cheap hotel bed and think about her. What an exotic creature. So utterly and completely different than Leah. There was something about her that intrigued me. Never in my life had I dated a black girl (nor did I hold out any hope that this situation would change). When you’re tired, lonely, and frightened about your financial future, you tend to focus on things outside your comfort zone. For some odd reason, my mind wouldn’t let go of her. Of course, I never expected to see her again. I never expected her to walk into my unfinished brewery late at night while I was soldering copper pipes.
I’d left the door unlocked, as I always did. She sauntered in with a leather bag tossed haphazardly over her shoulder. At first I was confused. I had to remove my welding helmet in order to see better. But then I caught sight of her in the full light and my heart beat a little faster. She looked beautiful in the most slapdash way. She wore a tweed baseball cap with her raven hair tied up in pigtails. The look was both hot and sophisticated and gave me a whole new perspective on her. She was carrying a white bag from a nearby burger joint that was wildly popular with the college kids. The bag was saturated with grease.
“You’ve returned,” I said.
“I was in town and saw your light on. You do know that it’s just past eleven.”
“I tend to lose track of time when I’m working.”
“You must be starving to death,” she said, standing over me and giving me a great view of her legs. I rose to my full height. In high heels, Mycah was only a few inches shorter than me.
“Come here to tease me?”
She laughed. “Don’t flatter yourself, brewmeister. I come bearing a late night cheeseburger.”
My face blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Relax.” She held out the bag. “Bet you’re starving after making beer all day.”
“Haven’t eaten since noon.” I reached into the greasy bag, past the fries and packets of ketchup, and pulled out a warm, pillowy burger wrapped in yellow wax.
“Not yet.” She put her hand on my chest to stop me and I felt the rhythmic beat of my heart like a Harley Sportster bombing down the road. “I’ll trade you for it.”
“What would you like to trade?”
“How about one of those delicious beers you brew?”
“A beer for a burger? You strike a hard bargain.” I unwrapped the wax paper. “I have plenty of beer. The question is, do you have enough burgers?”
“A double bacon cheeseburger and a large fries isn’t enough?”
“My beer’s worth way more than that.”
“The pleasure of my company must count for something.”
“I guess you have me there.”
I led her into the tasting room. She sat at one of the wooden tables while I poured two mason jars of Rustic Barn Red, a beautiful burgundy-colored ale brewed using five different malts, three hops, and a specially cultured yeast. I poured thick heads, and when I brought them over, Mycah had already spread the burger out over the yellow wax paper. The aroma emanating from the burger tantalized me. In the middle of the table she’d dumped out the shoestring fries and covered them with a large dollop of ketchup and chipotle mayo.
“Here you go, madam,” I said, setting the jar down in front of her.
“Thank you, good sir.” She took a sip, leaving a mustache of foam over her upper lip.
“Where’s your burger?”
“Not hungry.”
“Then what brings you here tonight?” I asked.
“I went out with a few friends for drinks, saw your lights on, and thought I’d swing by and say hello.”
“I think you’re using me for my beer.”
“Is that what you think?” She laughed, and it was a beautiful laugh that echoed throughout the empty tasting room. “You can read me like a book, Clay Daniels. Where else in this crappy little college town can I get a beer as good as this?”
“Nowhere.”
“Exactly. Besides, you think I’d come here to use you for
your body?”
The forwardness of her words shocked me, and I experienced a sensation of unease mixed with pleasure. I’d never met anyone quite like this brash young woman. I downed half my beer, kept my mouth shut, and then wolfed down the burger and fries.
“You have foam all over your lip,” she said.
I went to backhand it off, but she grabbed my hand and cleaned it off with a napkin. Then she did something that caught me off guard. She leaned over the table and kissed me, lingering for quite some time. It was one of the most sensual kisses I’d ever experienced. When she sat back down, I knew I’d crossed a dangerous line. It shocked me. Had I been giving her mixed signals? Although I knew better, I was too weak to resist her advances. Many things pair nicely with beer, but keeping one’s sexual desire in check is not one of them.
I remember thinking at the time that a woman like her might never come my way again. And it wasn’t like I had a vibrant, healthy sex life with Leah. Mycah had taken hold of me with that one kiss and gripped me in her sexy tentacles. I knew that I would need to steer clear of her if I wanted to remain happily married. It would be futile to resist her temptations.
And now to think that she’s gone.
LEAH
Wednesday, October 14, 12:07 p.m.
I DON’T WANT TO BE HERE, SITTING IN THIS PRINCIPAL’S OFFICE WITH the stained ceiling tiles, menacing laptop computer, and reams of student files. Fields and pastures beckon out the window and all I want to do is run barefoot through them. My mind is roaming, scheming, improvising like a jazz pianist. All I can think about is Clarissa and that missing girl. I’ve formulated a plan to learn more about Mycah Jones. Now all I have to do is go through with it.
I wish I could work up some effort to care about Zack and his various issues. But I just can’t. I know that’s cruel to say, but he’s been chipping away at my maternal instincts ever since Clay moved us to Maine. It’s like a flesh-eating bacteria working its way to the bone, inching closer to the marrow where all empathy lives.
Without warning, the principal enters the office, with Zack by her side. Susan is a stern-looking woman, almost masculine in her demeanor. Her hair is close-cropped and spiky. I suspect she’s a lesbian but have no proof, nor do I really care. Despite my unease with her authoritarian nature, I do like her. She projects strength and confidence. She’s not one to be trifled with, and her students seem to like and respect her.
“Hi, hon,” I say to Zack, but he fails to respond or look up at me. I turn my attention to Susan. “What seems to be the problem?”
“Zack and his classmates were required to do a report on a book of their choosing.” She gazes down at Zack, and I can’t tell if her expression is one of sympathy or disgust. “Zack chose to do his on Mein Kampf.”
“Hitler’s autobiography?” I’m momentarily embarrassed by this. “But why?”
Zack looks up and shrugs. “You wouldn’t understand.”
“Try me.” I want to shake some sense into him.
“I wanted to know why he killed all those people.”
“In all my years as a teacher, and now as a principal, I’ve never had a student choose this book for their report.”
“It’s a historical document,” Zack says.
“The contents of that book are offensive and highly divisive.” She turns to me. “Zack is an intelligent and curious boy, but I think this is something we need to keep our eye on.”
“Of course.” I feel shell shocked. What if word gets out that my son’s a Nazi sympathizer?
“I’m afraid that he doesn’t quite understand the devastating effect the book had on the world.”
“It’s a historical document,” Zack complains. “That’s the point of the assignment—I do understand.”
“Zack,” I say, “that book was the blueprint that led to millions of Jews being killed. Just being seen with it makes you look bad.”
“It’s only words.”
“Words are important,” I say.
“A lot of Germans loved Hitler.”
“I’m not going to discuss this with you, Zack. I think it best you choose another book to do your report on,” Susan says.
“Censorship is destructive to free thought,” Zack says as if he’s quoting from memory.
“I had no idea he was reading such trash. I promise that it won’t happen again,” I say.
“You’re stifling my intellectual growth,” Zack complains.
“We’re trying to teach you to become a critical thinker,” Susan points out.
“Sounds like brainwashing to me,” Zack says.
“Someday you’ll understand,” Susan says.
“I’m smart enough to know the difference between right and wrong,” Zack says, resting his chin on his fist.
“We’ll have the final say on that.”
“Fascism,” Zack says. “Guilt by association.”
“Does anyone else know about this?” I ask.
“Just his teacher and myself, unless he’s been speaking to other students about it.”
“I don’t speak to those morons.”
“Is he being punished?” I ask.
“I thought it best we have this discussion and leave it at that. I merely wanted to keep you abreast of the situation.”
“Hitler also believed in censorship,” Zack says.
“This discussion is over.”
“Is he free to go back to class?” I ask.
“As long as he understands the rules.”
“Dictatorship.”
“Go back to class, Zack,” I say. “And be good.”
He leaves the room without even a good-bye. I’m so embarrassed that I can’t wait to escape this office. After a few parting words with Susan, I exit the building and run to my car.
* * *
I find the proper font and then print out a photograph of myself. Once it’s arranged in the form of a press badge, I take it to one of the stationery stores and have it laminated. Add a string to it, hang it from my neck, and just like that I’m a news reporter from the Tacoma Tribune.
I drive to the campus. I can hardly believe what I’m about to do. Me, of all people, trying to pass myself off as a reporter. But this is nothing new; I’ve acted boldly before. Being assertive empowers me and gives me a sense of purpose. If I want to change my life, then I must be the one to make it happen.
I make my way down to the campus and park along one of the lovely side streets. I adore this section of town with its tree-lined streets and cute bungalows. Before leaving the car, I gather my hair up in a bun and put on a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Glancing in the rearview mirror, I notice that they make me look more sophisticated. Like an intellectual. I put on a felt fedora and then walk toward campus.
It’s chilly outside. I’m glad I wore my gray, double-breasted peacoat. The campus looks completely different during the day. A few students meander along the narrow paths, eyes glued to their cell phones as they pass. Above us the bright foliage contrasts brilliantly against the rich hues of the brick buildings. Chadwick is such a beautiful college. It resembles the stereotypical New England campus of my favorite novels and films. It makes me wish I’d gone here as an undergraduate.
Without warning, the quad fills with students like a desert riverbed after a torrential downpour. They scurry along the paths that zigzag throughout campus, lugging backpacks and staring down at their phones as if it’s the Pied Piper leading them astray. I pass a stone church with an impressive steeple and spend a few seconds admiring its majesty. There’s a bronze statue of Ebenezer Chadwick up ahead. On the plaque it says that he was from a prominent landholding family and at one time was an officer in the militia. I glance around, wondering what building Clarissa works in. Maybe I should try to find her and ask her out to lunch. But it’s not likely she’d accept on such short notice.
The mob begins to dwindle down as students head to their next class. A large clock chimes, striking the hour. Across campus I see what looks to be an adminis
trative building. A few students sit on the granite steps, texting, reading, electronic buds stuffed in their ears. I look for the easiest prey, the one who will provide me the most information with the least resistance.
I approach a harmless-looking student who looks like he’s barely out of high school. I tell him that I’m a reporter from Tacoma working on a story about the missing girl. I ask where the lacrosse players live and he informs me that the upperclassmen live in a series of frat houses just off campus. Who knew frat houses still thrived in this day and age? Their mere existence reminds me of the days when sexist attitudes and white male privilege prevailed. I see a frat house and I automatically think Animal House. John Belushi wearing a toga and smashing a guitar.
I walk across campus, far to the south, leaving the quaint buildings and athletic fields behind. I arrive on a street with impressive white houses, some with faux pillars and balconies. There are Greek letters over the entryways. Some have porches with easy chairs. Students walk up and down stairs and toward campus. I ask someone where the lacrosse players live, and when they ask why I want to know, I show them my fake press credentials. They point me to the Alpha Delta Phi house, directly across the street.
My body is racing with nervous energy as I make my way up the steps. It’s a beautiful white house with four massive pillars and an expansive porch with three alternating balconies overhead. The door opens and three young men wearing backpacks sprint down the stairs before I can ask them anything. I stand awkwardly at the door, my hand gripping the brass knocker. Summoning up the courage, I knock three times and wait. It takes almost a minute before someone answers—a ridiculously tall Adonis with long, flowing, blond hair. I assume he’s a lacrosse player. He stares down at me as if I’m lost.
“Can I help you?” he asks.
“I’m a reporter working on the Mycah Jones story.”
He looks around nervously. “We’re not interested.” He starts to close the door.
“I’m not here to vilify you. I only want to find out what happened to her.”
“Look, I’m really sorry she went missing, lady, but this is total bullshit, putting the blame on us.”
“I’m sure you’re right. I’m not here to blame you.”
