by Dana Becker
April marched toward the shop. She reminded herself to be watchful for any clues. The first one came the moment she pushed the door open. The body language of the two men sitting in the shop sent a clear message: guilt. Guilty of what, April didn’t know. But these guys were undeniably hiding something. One of the men, sitting at a dingy desk, tensed up; the other, who was sitting on the desk, jumped off as though he were about to spring into action. Instead, he folded his arms over his large chest. He was a massive man. She immediately recognized him. Something in his face told her that he, too, recognized her.
“Yeah?” he said.
To which the other man, the one seated at the desk, added, “Whadayou? Lost?”
“No,” April said.
“Well, we do repairs. You got a rig needs work?”
“Nope,” April said.
The men exchanged a look.
“Have we met?” the desk guy said.
He squinted and leaned forward to get a better look at April in the dim light of the window-less shop. April stood in front of the door, within arm’s reach of it. Just in case she needed to flee.
Now the standing man uncrossed his arms and wagged a finger insistently at April.
“Yeah, yeah,” he said. “I know you! We met at the boss’s. At a party. You’re Rose’s friend, right?”
“Sister,” April said.
“Right!” he replied, and, turning to the other man, added, “Rose is the boss’s chick.”
“Ex,” April interjected.
Both men gave April a look.
“Well,” the desk guy said, “boss ain’t in.”
“My sister is missing,” April said.
“We don’t know nothing about that,” the desk man said.
April’s eyes narrowed, and the other man quickly added, “Sorry to hear that.”
“Yeah,” April said. “I agree. It’s kind of a shame that my sister suddenly disappeared into thin air.”
April was feeling strangely confident. Her instincts were telling her that these guys knew something about Rose’s disappearance. She knew what this meant: that, by coming here, she was putting herself into greater danger. And yet . . . she was doing something. She was taking the initiative.
Without being conscious of it, she began to walk away from the safety of the door, her escape hatch, and drifted toward the men. April realized what was happening when she noticed the standing man gesture to the desk man, who opened a drawer and slipped his hand inside it. He didn’t take anything out; he just sat there, with his hand in the drawer, his eyes glued to April.
“Like he said, boss isn’t here,” said the standing man, holding his hand up, making the stop gesture to April.
April stopped.
“Can I wait here for him?”
“No,” the standing man said. “He’s out of town. Not coming back ’til next week.”
“When? I’ll come back.”
“I got a better idea. How about you leave him a message? Boss wants to talk to you, he’ll call you.”
“But I . . .”
“Hey,” said the man, pointing to a notepad on the desk. “Just leave a message, and then move on. We got work to do here.”
* * *
The cold air in the parking lot of Nick’s Repair was spiked with diesel gas and burned rubber—but it smelled sweet to April. She was so relieved to be out of the shop, away from those men. She felt that she’d bested them in battle. She’d achieved what she’d set out to do: to probe Nick’s Repair for clues. The men were nervous and defensive—this was a clue. They acted as though they didn’t know Rose was missing—but they also didn’t seem surprised. It was very easy to imagine that Ricky would have at least mentioned her disappearance to them. So why were they lying? What were they covering up? And, also, where was Ricky? Was he really “out of town”? The whole situation reeked.
She’d also achieved her second goal: to communicate a message to Ricky, with whom she hadn’t spoken in probably half a year. Ricky was one of the last people who’d seen Rose before her disappearance. One way or the other, he was critical to April’s search. Before she’d run out of the shop, April had scrawled out her phone number and a message:
Ricky—I haven’t seen Rose in weeks. I need your help. Call me as soon as you read this. Ricky, I’m looking for Rose on my own. But if you don’t help me, I’m coming back here next time with friends.
—April
It was a bold message. A threat. And it wasn’t just about what she’d said in the note. It was about the larger message she’d sent just by walking into enemy territory, speaking confidently, and walking out with her head held high. It was about making her demands, without wavering, even as one of the men appeared to hold a gun under the table. April’s message that day was clear enough: she was not afraid. Nor was she going to be intimidated. She was on a mission to find Rose and would not be deterred.
April rushed to the station and arrived just in time for the last bus back to Philly. She collapsed into her bus seat, by a window, near the back. For a minute it seemed she might get lucky and be the one person on the bus with an empty seat next to her. But just as the driver was about to close the door, another person jumped aboard. April’s heart sank.
Oh, great, she thought as she closed her eyes.
Five predictable seconds later, she heard a tired man’s voice asking her if the seat was free.
Perfect, she thought. Some dude. Can’t I catch any sort of break, ever?
Hoping to set a tone of blistering indifference, April shrugged and mumbled, “Yeah, I guess.”
Out of curiosity she opened her eyes a tiny bit, just to see what kind of degenerate she was dealing with. And instantly her entire attitude changed. Standing next to the seat—looking so tall, dark, and handsome that she almost laughed out loud—was the Amish guy from Reading Terminal Market, the one who’d been posting Rose’s “Missing” posters everywhere, the one who’d testified to the police about seeing Rose in the market. He removed his wide-brimmed straw hat and held it to his chest; his strong forearm flexed in the process. All at once, she remembered how striking he’d been when she’d seen him talking to the police.
Now that her eyes were wide open and looking right at him, the Amish guy returned her gaze directly, with a warm, green look that was bold but not brash. Nobody, and certainly no man, had ever looked at her that way. She could feel her body expanding a bit, or lifting. Something, anyway, was pushing her physically in his direction.
“Hi,” she said, realizing that she was smiling much too widely.
He suddenly became slightly shy—or rather, half his face, his mouth, lost its boldness, and tightened up. But his eyes, April noted, didn’t avert their strong gaze.
“Uh, hello,” he said with a deep nod.
Did he just bow at me? she thought. April was trying, and failing, not to giggle.
“I recognize you from Reading Market,” she said. “I see you, like, every day there.”
And when he just continued staring, she quickly added, “Do you recognize me?” She narrowed her eyes.
The Amish man nodded, sat down next to her, placed an adorably tiny piece of luggage under his seat, fixed his hat on top of it, sighed, and ran his big strong hands over his big, strong knees, straightening his pants.
Did he even hear what I just said? April thought.
Finally, after taking another deep breath, he replied, “I do know you. You work at the bakery.” He turned to her. “I see you, too.”
This comment made her smile a bit too obviously, and she could feel herself blushing under his gaze.
“I’ve been meaning to thank you,” she said. “For putting up those signs, for my sister, the missing girl. And for talking to the police like that.”
“Oh,” the man said gravely. “Well. We’re praying for her.”
“Thank you,” April said. “That really means a lot to me.” A wave of emotion suddenly overcame her. These waves came unexpectedly.
J
ust then, she looked down and realized, with horror, that she had the word undies scrawled on the back of her hand. Actually, it was more like UNDIES!! She’d written it there, while waiting for the bus, when she realized that she really needed to launder her underwear and that it couldn’t wait another day. Unfortunately, it was on her left hand, the same hand that now faced Joseph. Had he seen it? Mortified, she quickly pulled her sweatshirt sleeve over her hand, and abruptly said, “I’m April, by the way.”
“Like the month?”
“Exactly like that.”
Omigod, is the Amish guy flirting with me? she thought.
“I’m Joseph.”
“Yes, I know. Isn’t that a guy in the Bible?”
“Yes,” he said with a big smile. “But I’m not him.”
Omigod, the Amish guy is definitely flirting with me! she thought, and immediately put herself on alert to stop smiling for at least a second or two.
They chatted for a bit. She learned about his background. He lived in Western Pennsylvania, in a little town called Sugar Grove. He often stayed with cousins who lived on the other side of the state, closer to Philly, so that he could help them at their farm and with their businesses in town, starting with the Amish-run diner across the way from Carmen’s bakery. The idea was that he would learn how business was done in the big city and develop some know-how and some networks at Philly’s farmers’ markets, restaurants, and supermarkets. In the meantime, he was working in the Amish diner and in construction, saving money and learning the ropes. His dream—that was the word he used, dream—was to learn enough and save enough that eventually he could own a farm and break into the city’s organic markets, especially eggs and dairy.
“Cheese,” he said, simply. “Folks in town eat quite a bit of cheese.”
People in Philly not only ate a lot of cheese, but they were happy to spend a lot of money for it. And they also loved buying Amish products—but there were almost no good Amish cheese lines. Joseph had a brother who’d moved to Wisconsin and done construction for some high-end cheesemakers, helping them build smokehouses, and he had learned a lot about the process. A good line of high-end Amish cheeses was, Joseph believed, an opening in the Philadelphia market.
But the cheese idea, too, was just a means to an even bigger goal: high-end furniture. That was his long-term goal: to design and build beautiful furniture. Joseph had built furniture his whole life. He’d learned the rudiments from his father and uncle—and during his walks around Philly, he’d seen all kinds of beautiful-looking furniture in the city’s expensive boutiques. But what he’d discovered, when he finally mustered up the courage to enter those shops, was that the pieces themselves were not as well constructed as they could be.
“I know I can make better furniture,” he said, and then caught himself. “I mean, not to brag.”
When it was April’s turn to tell her story, she felt self-conscious. She wasn’t expecting to feel so outclassed by this farm boy. She’d thought that all Amish people did was sit around singing hymns and darning socks. What was she supposed to say in response? Hers wasn’t exactly an inspirational story about starting an organic cheese business in order to finance a luxury furniture line. Should she tell him that she was in a court-ordered NA program at the moment, and that she’d started using when she was twelve? Should she tell him how close she was to doing prison time? This Joseph was a strange combination of ambitious and naive—April was neither. But, inspired by him for a moment, she decided to go for it.
“Well,” she said, “my dream is to play in a band.”
April had never told anyone this. She’d hardly ever even admitted it to herself. But, now, there it was, out there. She’d revealed her deepest, most vulnerable self to this total stranger. She glanced over at Joseph, to see what he made of this confession and found him looking at her inquisitively.
“You know . . . to play music. Sing, play guitar. Travel all around. Rock out.”
Joseph turned away from her, and stared ahead, sitting perfectly still, a shadow over his face, lost in thought. April suddenly lost all her confidence.
“I mean, whatever, right?” she added quickly. “I know I’m just working at a bakery right now. But like, one day, I mean. I know it’s hokey.”
Joseph stayed silent for a moment longer than April could tolerate. And she began to reach for her phone, looking for some escape from what was becoming a rather embarrassing interaction. But then Joseph spoke.
“I really like music,” he said.
This comment was one of the most generic things anyone had ever said to April and yet, it made her heart jump.
“Really?” she said, overexcitedly. “What kind?”
“Oh,” Joseph replied, “I don’t know much about it. We don’t listen to it, you know. But we sing in church and I really like that. It’s my favorite time of the week.”
“Something special happens when people sing together,” April said.
Joseph turned and looked at her, as though noticing her for the first time, and said, “That’s true.” Their eyes met for a powerful second; then they both looked away abruptly, and in a way that only confirmed the power of the gaze.
April, trying to dispel the awkwardness, spoke quickly.
“What’s your favorite song?” she asked.
Joseph became quiet and deeply contemplative. April giggled.
“I mean, don’t give it too much thought . . .” she said. She was beginning to become accustomed to, and amused by, his long, serious silences.
April looked at him slyly. He seemed to be struggling with something.
“Well,” he finally said, “I heard this song once,” he began. And then stopped, apparently unsure of himself.
“Tell me about it,” April urged him.
He’d heard the song once, when he was in a Home Depot, accompanying one of his non-Amish employers on a supplies run. The moment Joseph heard the song, he loved it. But because he didn’t own a device that would replay the song, he’d never heard it again. And anyway, he wouldn’t know what song it was, even if he did find himself near a device.
“Really?” April asked. “You never heard the song again.”
“No,” replied Joseph.
“You heard it only once?”
“Yes.”
“And when was that?”
“Oh, about two years ago.”
“Wow,” April said, and then got very quiet, trying to imagine what that was like: to love a song and never hear it again. And to be okay with living with such restrictions.
“What was it, the song? What was it called?”
“I don’t know,” Joseph said.
April could feel herself growing agitated.
“Oh, c’mon! Do you remember any of the words?”
“It was about a woman from Louisiana and a man from Mississippi. Or maybe a man from Louisiana and a woman from Mississippi? I don’t remember. But it was a real fun song.”
April reached for her phone.
“Is it okay if I use the phone for you?” she asked, holding it up.
Joseph laughed.
“Sure,” he said. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
April began typing.
“Got it!”
She showed him search results for an old country song, “Louisiana Woman, Mississippi Man.” There was a link to a video. Joseph held his face far from it, as though he were contemplating a beautiful but dangerous insect. April giggled.
“Wanna hear it? I can play it right now.”
Joseph shifted in his seat.
“Oh,” he said. “I wouldn’t want to put you out.”
“Omigod, don’t be silly!” April said. “Lemme play it for you . . . if that’s, like, okay.”
“It’s okay,” Joseph said.
April clicked on the video. She put the phone close to his ear and she leaned in. For the next two minutes, they listened to Conway Twitty and Loretta Lynn singing a flirty, twangy duet over a sexy slide guitar about how no
thing, not even the big river, can keep a Louisiana woman away from her Mississippi man.
Being so close to him, April could sense just how large and strong his body was. Their heads were only inches apart.
April and Joseph’s eyes met and lingered comfortably for a heart-pounding two seconds. Nothing else in the world existed except that gaze.
And then, a long silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence at all. But the opposite: an intimate stillness, similar, in fact, to the quietness shared by people who have just finished singing a harmony, who sit together listening to the strong but fading chords settling in their ears. It was a pleasant, satisfying, shared stillness. They smiled at each other.
April suddenly became aware of the darkness that surrounded them inside the bus, where all the passengers were now asleep. She became aware of the darkness outside that surrounded the bus as it glided through the midnight cornfields. She let her breath blend into the humming tread of tires against pavement.
The gaze that they had shared had been more than a gaze: it was a very real and physical exchange. An agreement. April had given something of herself to Joseph, and Joseph had given something of himself to April. She wasn’t sure, exactly, what he’d given her. But she felt it, the small heft of it, like the weight of a sleeping thing, resting in her hands. And now, in the silence, she cradled it tightly.
A surge of emotion rose in April, and with it, the ardent hope that he would take her by the hand. Instead, she just looked at his hand, which was gently squeezing the armrest only an inch away from her. It was such a strong hand. And an eloquent one. The thickness of his hand spoke of constructive labor.
He was so quiet, she wondered if he was asleep. But he wasn’t. She could tell because his hand continued to squeeze the armrest, an inch from her—ever so gently, or at least, as gentle as such a strong hand could be. She shifted her leg as many centimeters closer to his hand as she could without touching him. Close enough for the rocking of the bus to bring his hand and her leg into regular intervals of gentle contact.
She closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. As she fell asleep for real, she felt her leg finally lose its ability to resist his hand. It met his touch for a long, warm two seconds. In her last waking thought, April reckoned this contact was one second beyond what might be called an “accidental touch.” He was keeping his hand there on purpose. Finally, Joseph removed his hand from the armrest, and as she fell into slumber, she tried to suppress a smile.