by Joseph Souza
By the time I made it back to the brewery, I was a wreck. What kind of man would allow a biker to hurt his girlfriend and squeeze his own neck like that? Never had I felt so humiliated in my life. It made me realize how desperately I wanted to return to the good graces of my family. How could I have ever considered leaving them? I was willing to do anything now to win Leah back, even though I’d never really lost her in the first place.
I staggered into the brewery that night, depressed and alone, and poured myself a beer. The investment opportunity was gone and so was my six thousand bucks. I quaffed the first one down in no time and then poured myself another. I knocked back beer after beer until I could barely stand. Someone called during my marathon drinking session, but I didn’t pick up.
The next morning I lifted my aching head off a sack of grain and wondered if it had all been a dream. Then I felt Drifter’s phantom hand around my neck, remembered Mycah pointing the gun at his crotch, and knew instantly that it was no dream.
LEAH
Thursday, October 22, 1:27 p.m.
“WHO ARE YOU?” THE WOMAN ASKS THROUGH THE CRACK IN the door.
I freeze, wondering if it is truly her. The room behind her is dark and I can barely see her face, a face I’d only glimpsed on the evening news and in the newspaper. In them she resembled a glamorous model or famous actress. The girl in front of me, without makeup, looks anything but.
“I asked who you are. What do you want?”
“You’re Mycah Jones.”
“Sorry, but you have the wrong house.”
“No, I’m fairly certain that I don’t.”
“You’re wrong, lady. Now, get the hell out of here before I call the cops.”
“Please do. In fact, I’ll call them if you’d like.” I take out my cell phone.
“No. Wait.” The girl puts her face up to the door and looks around to see if I’m alone. “How did you know I was here?”
“It’s complicated.” I can barely contain my excitement at finding her. “May I come inside and talk to you?”
She closes the door and leaves me standing there, wondering what to do next. A thousand thoughts run through my mind as I debate whether to call the police. Will she escape out the back door? What led her to this godforsaken house in the worst part of this depressing town? I call Clay, but it goes to voice mail. Mycah undoes the bolt lock and the door swings open.
“Come in,” she says, looking around to make sure no one sees her.
I stash my phone away and enter the dark living room. Clothes lie strewn everywhere and a suitcase sits on the floor next to the battered sofa. Greasy blotches soil the green shag carpet. A water stain spreads out over the ceiling and down across the wall. The inside of this house smells of mold and cat dander. A white bathrobe wraps around Mycah’s slim body. Although it’s dark inside, I can clearly see the hint of a bruise on her face. Without the benefit of makeup and a nice outfit, she looks nothing like the glamorous college girl they’ve been showing on TV and in the newspapers. Her look is hard and edgy, like someone with a chronic drug problem, although I can make out her remarkable beauty beneath it.
“Okay, so you’ve found me. What the hell are you going to do about it?”
“May I sit?”
“Be my guest.” She pulls out a cigarette. A glass ashtray sits on the floor and she kicks it back toward the ratty couch. “Mind telling me who you are first?”
“My name is Leah.”
She takes a long drag on her cigarette and seems to study me. “Okay, Leah. So now you know who I am.”
“I certainly do.”
“What are you, a cop or something? How did you even find me here?”
“I’m a housewife with a couple of kids who took an interest in your disappearance.”
Mycah laughs as she sucks smoke into her lungs. “So by your lonesome, you accomplished what the police and all those newspeople couldn’t? You found the missing girl?”
“Yes,” I say, quite proud of myself. “I was worried about you.”
“Why would you give a shit about me? You don’t even know me.”
“We’re all God’s children,” I say. “Do I have to know you to care about your safe return? Or the fact that a hate crime has no place in Dearborn?”
“And you’re simply a bored housewife with nothing else to do than to look for a missing college girl?”
“I guess you could say that.” Is she mocking me?
“Wow. That’s so fucked up it’s actually kinda sweet.”
“If that’s the way you want to see it.”
“You wanted to be a hero. Save the poor black girl from all these backwoods racists.”
I stare at her, wondering why she’s being so mean to me. When did doing something kind become a crime?
“I suppose you’re curious as to why I’m here.” She flicks ash into the tray.
“I wouldn’t have come otherwise.”
“I know, right? Why else come to this shit hole of a town?”
“So why are you here?”
“Why are any of us here? What’s the meaning behind the universe and our existence in it?”
“You know what I mean. Why are you hiding away in this house?”
“Why should I tell you? I don’t know you from that hole in the wall,” she says, pointing at the hole punched in the living room wall.
“Because for starters, your boyfriend was found murdered the other night.”
“You think I don’t know that? I’ve been watching the news every night.” Mycah massages her temples, the cigarette still burning between her fingers, the nails of which are painted with chipped red polish.
“You don’t seem overly concerned about his death.”
“What do you want from me? Crocodile tears?”
“I guess I was expecting more of an emotional reaction.”
“You want me to break down and cry? To prove to you that I’m a good and moral human being? Well, don’t hold your breath on that, sister. You don’t know half the shit I saw growing up in the hood. Niggas being shot and stabbed in broad daylight.”
“But your boyfriend was murdered in cold blood.”
“That’s precious. A privileged white bitch like you telling me how to react to my own boyfriend’s death.” She laughs bitterly. “You white folks have no idea how racist you are even when you think you’re being cool.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—”
“Bullshit. You knew exactly what you meant to imply.”
“I swear to you I didn’t.”
“Then you did it on a subconscious level, by making reference to the stereotypical ‘strong black woman.’ The woman who appears not to grieve and who’s assumed to have developed a decreased sense of loss and suffering. It’s textbook racism and so demeaning to me as an intelligent black woman.”
What is she talking about? “That was not at all my implication.”
“That kind of thinking is so inherent in white people’s sense of entitlement. The notion that a ‘strong black woman’ can recover from trauma much faster than white people because she’s numb to poverty, pain, and violence. It’s bullshit. We feel pain too. Next time check your privilege at the door, lady.”
“Of course you feel pain.”
“Such ignorance.”
“I’m a college-educated woman and I can assure you that I’ve never heard of this stereotype, nor was I in any way trying to offend your sensibilities.”
“Going to college means nothing to me. The biggest racists in this country sit in those ivy halls of whiter learning.”
“I don’t care about any of that,” I say, regretting the words as soon as they come out of my mouth. “I mean to say, I care greatly about race relations in this country and about avoiding negative stereotypes, and I’m terribly sorry if I offended you. But right now I just want to know how you ended up in this house.”
Mycah grinds her cigarette in the ashtray and stares up at me. “Because I’m afraid he’s g
oing to kill me.”
“Who’s going to kill you?”
“Who do you think? The same person who killed Cordell.”
“And who might that be?” I need her to say Russell’s name.
“Listen to me, this whole thing is messed up—and dangerous as hell. You sure you want to get involved?”
I think of my kids and husband. Do I really want to insert myself in a murder case, especially knowing that the killer is still out there and that he might actually live next door to me?
“I’m not so sure.”
“Then go home, lady. Go back to your comfortable life, your exclusive country club, your tea parties and white privilege.”
“No, I do want to get to the bottom of this.”
“You sure about that? Because I’m not going to ask twice.”
“Yes, I’m sure of it.”
“Can I trust you?”
“Of course you can trust me.”
“You need to know my history before you hear what happened the night I went missing. You need to know about the real Mycah Jones.”
“Okay.”
I realize I’ve been waiting a long time to hear Mycah Jones’s side of the story.
CLAY
Thursday, October 22, 1:32 p.m.
I IGNORE LEAH’S CALL, HAVING NO DESIRE TO TALK TO HER. I KNOW she wants to talk about what happened last night, in a roundabout way. “Process” her feelings. She’ll mention for the millionth time how we must listen to one another and work to develop our communication skills. This is the last thing I want to do—communicate with her. Or listen to her talk for the next thirty minutes while there are a million other things I need to do. I’m a black-and-white sort of guy. The what-you-see-is-what-you-get type. I take things literally. I don’t read into words and discover different meanings as if I’m “deconstructing” a James Joyce novel.
Today has already started out bad. And it’s only getting worse. A batch of IPA spoiled when some lactic acid bacteria infiltrated it, and now Ben and I must dump the entire tank down the drain. I try not to go all ape shit on Ben, although I certainly have reason to. Once again it’s his fault the batch spoiled. Damn kid failed to properly sanitize the equipment on the day I left work early. It does no good to bitch about it now, especially when we’re way behind schedule. I can’t afford to have Ben quit because good workers are extremely hard to find in this small town. I already had three walk out on me before I found Ben, and none lasted more than a week. Yes, I’m hard on help. Brewing beer is not the glamorous job people make it out to be. It’s hard work. Cleaning tanks and humping sacks of grain and sweeping floors. Ben, for the most part, has been dependable and loyal. He shows up on time and doesn’t give me shit. He still has a lot of maturing to do, but he’s got loads of potential and a good head. I’ll walk him through every step of the process until it brands into his primitive monkey brain.
The lingering aftertaste of that horrible dinner last night replays in my mind. I still can’t believe that Russell wanted to swap wives. What a sick bastard. Reparations can kiss my ass.
Detective Armstrong is at the door again, knocking, wanting to ask me questions about Mycah. Hasn’t he harassed me enough already? I’ve told him everything he needs to know. Correct that: everything I’m willing to tell him.
I want a beer so bad it’s making me miserable. The pulls call out to me like a bugler playing taps at Camp Lejeune. I yearn for its sudsy goodness, cold and delicious with a slightly bitter aftertaste, to dampen my lips.
I let the pestering cop inside and then reluctantly make my way back to the storage tank where the spoiled beer waits to be drained.
“How’s the beer business?” Armstrong says cheerfully.
“Bitter, at the moment.”
He hesitates for a few seconds before saying, “Oh, a beer joke. Good one.”
“Look, Detective, I don’t have time for idle chitchat today. What do you need?”
“I’m following up on that missing college student and her dead boyfriend.”
“I heard about that. Real shame. Looked like he had a bright future.”
“Star hoops player and accepted to Harvard Law. Worked a few nights as a bartender in a fancy joint down the road. That was in addition to his many social activities on campus. He was quite the political activist.”
“Aren’t most college kids activists?”
“What do you mean by that?”
I wished I hadn’t said that because I want to get this meeting over with as soon as possible.
“It just seems to me that college kids these days are always protesting one thing or another. Wait until these brats get into the real world.”
“I spent most of my free time in college chasing girls.”
“Whatever happened to the good old days? Chasing skirts and drinking beer.” I unscrew the cap under the tank. “Watch your feet, Detective.”
“What are you doing?”
“Skunked batch. It’s all going down the drain.”
“They say dumping beer is enough to make a grown man cry.”
“Trust me, you wouldn’t want to drink any of this gnarly shit.”
He takes out his notebook and stares at it. “We still have no fix on the missing girl, but we’ve discovered some interesting things about Cordell.”
“Oh? Like what?” I look up at him as I unscrew the cap.
“Seems he had quite a few partners.”
“He was a college kid. What do you expect?”
“We searched his Internet history and didn’t find any evidence that he dated women. All his partners were men.”
“But I thought he and Mycah were an item?”
“People get together for different reasons. Take the Clintons, for example.” He stares at his notebook. “Think of any other reason why she called the brewery the night she disappeared?”
“Nope.” I remove the cap and the spoiled beer drains onto the concrete floor and down the drain. Armstrong jumps back, but it’s too late. The beer splashes over his loafers and pant legs.
“There has to be some reason she called here.”
“Maybe she was trying to reach someone inside.”
“Then why wouldn’t she call their cell phone?”
“Maybe they forgot their phone,” I say, watching my profits spiral down the drain. “Or their battery died.”
“Did you talk to Mycah on the phone that night?”
I laugh, trying not to sound bitter—no, trying not to sound guilty. “I told you already, I barely knew the girl. I have no idea why she would call the brewery.”
“You admitted to being here the night she disappeared.”
“Yeah, like I already told you, I was working out back.”
“You said it was busy in the tasting room that night. Can anyone vouch for you?”
I can feel my blood pressure rising as the splashing sound fills the room. I grab a squeegee and begin to direct the noxious stream toward the drain. Suds begin to grow around it, and the overwhelming stench of skunked beer permeates the facility.
“Just my pourer, as I told you before. Ben went home earlier in the day. Is there anything else, Detective?”
“Unless you’ve got something else to tell me.”
“I have nothing else.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“Positive,” I say, not bothering to look up from my squeegeeing.
“Okay then, I’ll see you around town. And sorry about the spoiled batch.”
“Not your fault,” I say, looking over at Ben.
Armstrong lets himself out, and when he’s finally gone, I throw down the squeegee and make my way over to the tasting room. The sound of beer gurgling down the drain screams of Chapter 11. Ben stays in the back, scrubbing one of the kettles with a long brush and a gallon of sanitizing solution. Time for a coffee break. I go behind the bar and grab one of the tulip glasses and fill it with coffee porter. By the time the storage tank finishes draining, I look down and notice that my
glass is empty.
I pour myself another, trying to permanently erase the memory of that troubled girl. Holding the beer up to the light, it appears like a black hole in some strange universe. I study its color and viscosity. The porter sports a thick white head lingering just below the rim, thanks in part to the nitrogen used to carbonate it. It’s one of the best porters I’ve ever made. I break momentarily from my admiration and think of her. My mysterious black hole where nothing good ever escaped.
LEAH
Thursday, October 22, 2:29 p.m.
“I’M NOT REALLY FROM A WEALTHY FAMILY. I GREW UP IN THE Queensbridge, one of the most dangerous housing projects in New York City,” Mycah says. “Ghetto poor, and unless you’ve grown up in that environment, you don’t know about what I’ve had to go through to get this far in life. Trading food stamps for money and drugs. Avoiding the gangs and drive-by shootings. Fortunately, my grandmother pushed me to study and get good grades, and it paid off. I got into one of the best high schools in the city. Then Chadwick gave me a full scholarship to come here.”
“You should be quite proud of your accomplishments.”
“Are you listening to me? Because what I’m telling you has nothing to do with my accomplishments.” She bites her lower lip and bounces her knee in nervous anticipation. “You have no right to judge me.”
“I’m not judging you, nor do I have any intention to do so. I just want to know how you ended up here.”
“It’s complicated, is what I’m trying to say.”
“So it wasn’t a hate crime that caused your disappearance?”
“Every act and every thought in this society is a hate crime. Until we completely overthrow the system and undergo a revolution, hate is the only crime that exists.”
“A hate crime in the traditional sense,” I say. “A racially motivated act of violence.”
Removing the towel wrapped around her head, she swipes her long black hair into a ponytail and then releases it. “It didn’t go down that way.”
“Then how did it go down? Because Cordell claimed that his attacker shouted out a racial slur before he was knocked unconscious.”