We popped the cork, and shared the bottle right there, Al and I. We sat at the faux-marble table, on the velvet chairs. We talked about Al’s wife, and my mother. Al said I could call him Elvis if I wanted to.
My plan to find the girl in the photograph was simple. I would start looking in Missoula, where Elvis assured me all the young kids lived, and then I would fan out to Arlee and the surrounding towns.
I made copies of the picture at Bitterroot Copies. With the help of an energetic boy named Stan, I blew up Ellie’s laughing face to life size. Step One in Be Your Own Private Dick was: “Visit local watering holes, supermarkets, and Laundromats with your photograph. be aggressive!” I got a cup of coffee at Food for Thought and set out with a folder of photocopies. I felt my mother cheering me on.
By four, however, I was exhausted and dispirited. Nobody had seen Ellie, and it seemed that a missing person in Montana was no occasion for excitement. In fact, in a shop window I saw a T-shirt that read: montana. The last, best place…to hide! The Laundromat workers and supermarket clerks sighed when I pulled out the grainy picture, and directed me to bulletin boards already filled with faces of lost friends, husbands, children, and dogs. I tacked Ellie’s picture up over other, older posters. I wrote my hotel and room number on the bottom of each copy.
I saved the watering holes for last. By nightfall, they were packed with students and drunks. I ordered a Scotch at Al & Vic’s, my first stop. The bartender was a genial man named Lew, and the bar was attached to Fran’s Hi-Way Café, from which I ordered a fish sandwich. Lew had not seen Ellie.
“Sort of looks like a lot of girls,” he noted, lighting a Pall Mall.
I scrutinized the photo. “I guess so,” I said.
“Dark hair, nice smile,” continued Lew. He added, “They all start out that way.” He gestured to a woman who appeared to be asleep in the corner. “She started out that way.”
“She still has dark hair,” I said.
“True,” said Lew. “Haven’t seen her smile in some time, though.”
“What’s her name?” I asked.
“Goes by Lorna.”
I nodded. Yet another worn woman, a redhead, brought my fish sandwich to the bar. I showed her Ellie’s picture, and she brought it close to her face. “Sort of looks like that stripper,” she said.
Good Lord. “What stripper?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even.
“I wouldn’t know no stripper,” said Lew, looking jumpy.
“She comes in for eggs, some mornings,” said the red-haired woman. “Hangs out at Charley B’s. And Mulligan’s, ’course.”
I looked around frantically for a pen. Lew slid a dull pencil over the bar, and I wrote on my napkin, “Charley B’s. Mulligan’s.” The red-haired woman pulled a cigarette from behind her ear and lit it. “She owe you money?”
“No,” I said. “Who’s Charley B?”
“Dead,” said Lew. “Good man, but he had a temper.”
“Charley B’s is his bar,” said the woman. She pointed through the dirty front window. “Right down Higgins,” she said.
“Thank you,” I said. I ate my sandwich quickly. It was terrible: salty and overcooked.
“Charley B,” said Lew, “he liked his rum and Cokes, I’ll tell you that.”
“Shut up, honey,” said the woman, and Lew did.
NINE
BERNARD WAS IN a meeting when the phone call came. They were working on the Skidaway subdivision, and Harold was in the middle of his presentation, pointing to a map projected on the wall.
“Sorry, Bernard?” said Jenny, standing in the open doorway, “It’s Sarah on the phone. She’s at the hospital.” Like wildfire, the smiles ignited across the boardroom.
“Don’t forget the cigars!” called Jim, as Bernard rushed to his office to gather his things. Take one last look around, he told himself: Things will never be the same.
Sarah told him that her water had broken. They were giving her Pitocin, but there was plenty of time. She’d brought her bag, the crossword puzzles, slippers. Her Yankee voice was sparkling and scared on the phone. “It’s happening, Bear,” she said. “I can’t wait to meet the baby.”
“Close your eyes, darlin’,” said Bernard. “I’ll be there when you open them.”
He hit a pothole almost immediately, but he didn’t slow down, veering across three lanes of traffic to make a right on Abercorn. When he finally reached the hospital, the drug had already sent Sarah into a hellish place; she looked up at him wild-eyed and gripped his hand with terrible strength. “Help me,” she said. “Help me, goddamn it!”
The hours melted together; he stayed with her every minute, though the nurses pressed him to leave. He slipped ice chips into her mouth, and helped her count through the contractions the way they had learned in the Lamaze class. (It seemed like a different life already, sitting on blankets in that stuffy room, giggling through pretend labor, watching grainy videotapes.)
Sarah told him she couldn’t do it, couldn’t go on, but she did go on, even when the epidural didn’t take. Bernard held her left knee when it was finally time to push, pinning it back to make room for the baby. Sarah’s knee was freckled like the rest of her, and the skin turned red underneath his grip. We’re having a baby, he kept telling himself. He had touched Sarah’s swelling belly over the months, felt the thudding kicks, had even heard the heartbeat through the doctor’s stethoscope. But it hadn’t been real. He hadn’t believed it, and then there she was.
Her skull, a perfect arc, and she slid out like water, his daughter. She had toes, fingers! They let Bernard cut the cord, and then they took her away, to clean her up and wrap her in a cheap pink blanket.
“Thank God it’s over,” said Sarah, her hair tangled, her face swollen.
Bernard gazed at his wife, touched her forehead, but his love was split now. He loved Sarah, but it was a dull and steady love. He yearned for his daughter to come back into the room, missed her fiercely although they just met. Bernard and Sarah decided to name the baby Agnes—it was Sarah’s mother’s name.
“Darlin’,” said Bernard, anticipating his daughter, warm in his arms. “This is just the beginning,” he said.
TEN
from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER
Dear Johan,
It was lovely to receive your letter today. The confetti spilling out was certainly a surprise! I didn’t know you have confetti in Alaska. Well, truthfully, I never actually thought about whether or not you have confetti in Alaska. I will admit, however, to wondering if you have Bagel Bites. Frances brought Bagel Bites into the library today, and a sweet thought rushed over me, and it was connected to you: I wonder if they have Bagel Bites in Alaska?
I was fascinated by your Personality Plus! Profile. It’s a good thing white is your fave color, isn’t it? What with all the snow, I mean. In Alaska.
No, I don’t think I have read the Hardy Boys books. I didn’t read Nancy Drew either. But I do agree that there are mysteries all around us.
Your nightmare about the raven was very scary indeed. I am not trying to be coy by not filling out Number Eight. I guess I’d just like to know you better before I tell you about some things. A girl must have her secrets, don’t you think?
On a side note, I am so happy that you enjoy writing letters as much as I do. There is something slow and special about written correspondence. I enjoy composing my notes to you, and I love waiting for a response. It makes my whole day more exciting, wondering what the mailman has in store. So thank you.
In terms of the upcoming AlaskaHunks.com Love Match Cruise, I suppose I could think a bit more about it. I haven’t taken too much vacation time, and I don’t think I’ve ever been outside of the Mountain Time Zone. Sometimes I have daydreams about warmer places, maybe my mother told me about them, I don’t know.
I’m sorry I didn’t put a picture in my first letter. I have what Jon Davies calls “dishwater blond” hair (though I prefer “dirty blond” myself); I’m twenty-on
e. This picture was taken last year on the fourth of July, at the Arlee Pow-Wow and Rodeo. Arlee is a town right near here. I’m the one with the hamburger. Believe it or not, this picture was in People Magazine! There was a special section called “summer fun.” I look like I’m having fun, don’t I? I’m not. That was one of my bad days, but enough about that.
So, do you enjoy your work as an Explosives Engineer? I must say, that has a better ring to it than “InterLibrary Loan Clerk.” Don’t get me wrong—I love my job—but I wish I got to blow things up. Do you use dynamite? And another question: do people call you up and say, “Johan, we’d like an explosion over here, pronto.” Also: did you know when you were a little boy that you wanted to be an Explosives Engineer?
I wanted to be an actress. It’s all I talked about when I was little, my father said. I wanted to be famous. But he was against that. He didn’t want to share me with anyone, he said. He loved me so much.
One time, we went to Sears, and it happened to be Portrait Day. While my father was buying a garden hose, I watched kids posing against a gray backdrop, smiling for the camera. They tugged at their clothes. I knew not to even ask my father for a portrait. He didn’t like television either, or newspapers. He was a strange man, I know that now. Maybe he loved me too much. He used to say I was the light of his life.
Anyway, by the time he died there was no real reason to have my picture taken. Last year, we got Photo IDs for the library, but you wouldn’t want my Photo ID, would you? So the magazine picture is all I’ve got. I hope you will still write me back. I’ll be fine if you don’t, of course! But I hope you do.
Yrs.,
Agnes Fowler
ELEVEN
BE YOUR OWN Private Dick had advice for approaching the missing person: play it cool. After a few days of tacking up my posters and waiting by the phone, I decided to follow one lead I had written on a napkin: Charley B’s.
It was awe-inspiringly cold as I walked down Higgins Avenue. I bought a giant down jacket and gloves at the Salvation Army, but even paired with Madeline’s snowpants, they did nothing to cut the wind. My face felt as if it were on fire by the time I reached the dim bar called Charley B’s. I shoved the door open, and a rush of cigarette smoke and heat bathed my body.
There were pictures of weathered men in frames running along the back wall. Opposite, a long bar stretched out. Most of the ratty barstools were occupied. In the back, a pool table was surrounded by wooden tables. A window cut into the wall advertised the Dinosaur Café. I could see a short-order cook moving behind the window, pulling a basket of fries out of hot oil.
The bar was filled with the hilarity of desperate people around the holidays. Plastic holly was pasted on a mirror, and signs read: pabst pitcher $5. It looked as if many had gone for the Pabst deal: except for the gaunt fellows drinking whiskey at the bar, everyone was sharing pitchers of beer.
I scanned the crowd as I tacked up the missing poster: longhaired students of indeterminate sex in caps and sweaters, grizzled men. There were a few college-age girls who had shed the cocoons of their parkas. I looked over them, but nothing clicked. I took a seat at the bar, among the older drinkers, and ordered a beer.
The woman who slid a cardboard coaster before me was about forty, but wore her frizzy hair in a high ponytail, like a cheerleader. “Two-fifty,” she said. Her T-shirt read, “Buy Me a Bud.”
“Thanks.” I gave her a five.
She returned with my change and a full, cold glass. Her teeth were a mess, but there was something winsome in her smile. “Sure is cold,” I said.
“Sorry?”
“It sure is cold, I said. I’ve never been to Montana before.”
“Oh, OK,” said the waitress. “Are you going up to Glacier?”
“No,” I said, “just staying here.” The waitress nodded disinterestedly and turned.
I took a sip of my beer. I had started out my trip so hopefully, feeling as if I were on a mission of some sort. But now I wasn’t sure what to do. I sat at the bar for a while, imagining the lives of the people around me—the boy in the windbreaker, the tattooed girl at his side. What had brought them to a smoky bar in Montana? This felt like a town people came to from somewhere else. In that sense, it reminded me of New Orleans: it was a place you could make into a home if your own home hadn’t worked out.
After a few beers, I returned to my honeymoon suite. I tried to call Winnie, but one of her kids told me she was out. Kit was out, too. I sat and stared at the phone, and then I called Madeline. She picked up after one ring. “Hello? Hello?” She sounded panicked.
“Hey,” I said, “it’s me.”
“Oh,” she said. “It’s late here,” she added.
“I’m sorry.”
“It’s OK,” she said. “Hold on while I bring you into the living room.” I heard some shuffling, and I imagined Madeline settling on her velvet couch. “I can’t sleep anyway,” she said. “I’m sick all the time.”
“That’s awful.”
“You got that right. But I guess it’s worth it. So, any news?”
“Yes,” I said, defensively.
Madeline was silent, and then said, “Well, what?”
I sighed. “I put signs up all over Missoula.”
Madeline laughed, meanly. Then she said, “I’m sorry.”
“I’m doing the best I can,” I said.
“You’re living in a dream world,” said Madeline.
“Let me, then.”
“You called me,” said Madeline.
For another week, I schlepped around town in Madeline’s snowpants. I tacked up posters and ate greasy food, growing fond of the Hot Pepper Jack Burger at a bar called the Missoula Club. (Locals called it the “Mo Club.” I didn’t feel like a local yet.)
After one of these burgers and a lonely evening reading The Joy of Sex, I woke in the middle of the night. As always, the neon Thunderbird sign shone through my window. I had been dreaming about Ellie walking along Esplanade and reaching my house. She picked pebbles off the ground and threw them at my window. But I couldn’t wake up, couldn’t walk onto the balcony and look down at her. I was pinned to my bed, and Ellie waited, just outside my line of vision.
I decided to go have a drink. Something must have pulled me out of dreams, because as soon as I walked into Charley B’s, I saw her.
TWELVE
from the desk of
AGNES FOWLER
Dear Johan,
Well, OK! It’s funny, but right after I sent my last letter, I went for a walk. It’s still very cold here in Missoula. (But you know about cold, I suppose.) So I was all bundled up in my new red coat, walking along Higgins Avenue. And what do you know, but I suddenly noticed a sign I’ve passed one hundred times before. It was a sign in the window of snappy photography studios, and it said: “Have a sexy portrait taken for that special someone. The perfect gift.” And there, underneath the sign, was a photograph of a woman lying on her stomach on a blue divan. Johan, she was nude! My first instinct was to be shocked. I kept walking.
But really, it was cold, so I decided to stop in for a drink at The Bridge. And while I drank my Chardonnay and looked around at all the ruddy students eating pizza, I began to think, well, why not? My father hadn’t wanted me to grow up. He adored me, cherished me like a child, but now he was gone, and why shouldn’t I have a sexy portrait? I am a woman, now.
It was a few more Chardonnays later, but I went home and called snappy photography studios. “This is Snappy,” said the man who answered.
“Hello,” I said, “this is Agnes Fowler.”
“Well,” said Snappy, “what can I do for you, hon?”
Hon! Nobody had ever called me “hon,” as far as I could remember. I have to say I didn’t mind.
“Snappy,” I said, “I have a special someone, and I’d like a sexy portrait.”
“Agnes!” said Snappy, “who’s the lucky guy?”
“You don’t know him,” I said.
“Well, why don’t you com
e in tomorrow at four?” said Snappy. “Bring your favorite dress, and do your hair or whatever.”
“I will,” I said, and I hung up the phone feeling quite jolly about things. I was up late going through my closet. Needless to say, I didn’t have anything to wear for a sexy portrait. I had skirts, blouses, and cardigan sweaters for when it gets chilly in the library. I had two dresses: the one I’d worn to my father’s funeral, and the one I’d bought for the Annual Library Picnic and Hoe-Down. The picnic one had big, green lily pads on it. It was nice, as dresses go, but it was not sexy.
I took the day off. In the morning, I headed to the Bon Marché. The salesgirl was young. Her nametag said Yolanda. (Which sounds like Johan!)
I explained the Sexy Portrait situation to Yolanda, and she got to work. I was embarrassed about my underclothes (I won’t go into detail) but Yolanda was on the mark. She brought me a red strapless dress, a black dress that dipped so low in the back it made me blush, an armful of lacy underwear, and a pair of high heels. I bought it all. And then I hit the makeup counter.
Yolanda told the makeup woman to give me the Star Treatment. Oh, I had a lovely time. It was warm, but not too warm, in the Bon Marché. There were soft rock hits playing softly over the PA system. And there aren’t any windows or clocks, so I didn’t know what time it was as I felt fingers on my face, fingers cool with moisturizer and then foundation. A feathery brush on my cheekbones, a cotton applicator placing eye shadow on my lids. I got mascara and lip-liner and lipstick. Finally, Yolanda held up a mirror.
All I can say is WOW! I looked like a sexpot.
I sashayed over to Olé Hair Salon, doing my best not to get snow on my high heels. A lady shouldn’t betray her beauty secrets, Yolanda told me, but I will reveal that you can do wonders with mousse and a hairdryer. I even had time for a glass of wine before my Sexy Portrait appointment.
Snappy almost dropped his Diet Coke when I walked in the door. “Snappy,” I said, feeling bold from my makeover and the wine, “how are you, honey?” I leaned in, giving him a good sniff of my J. Lo Glow perfume.
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