Chasing The Case

by Joan Livingston

  Jack, who’s in his sixties, has owned the bar longer than I’ve lived here. Before that, he was a truck driver. He’s considered one of the good guys in Conwell. His sister started cooking when Jack decided to expand food offerings at the Rooster beyond jars of pickled eggs and bags of chips.

  Eleanor didn’t get enough oxygen when she was born, so her brain doesn’t function normally. She grunts “Hi” when she greets people, but that’s about it although once we did have a short conversation about raising goats. She’s got a nice moon-shaped face and a silly giggle, if she ever laughs, which is rare. She doesn’t mind working long hours cooking for her brother. Frankly, I don’t know what else she could do for a job. Before she started at the Rooster, she helped her mother and father on their farm when they were still alive. They raised livestock, like pigs, goats, sheep, and cattle. They supplied eggs at the general store. Until the father got too old, he and Eleanor sold firewood. I hear she’s good with a chain saw. The hard way the Smiths ran their farm makes me think there’s nothing glamorous about working the land.

  Jack and Eleanor live next door to each other only minutes from the Rooster. It’s actually the same house where they grew up. The house has been in the family always, and way back when, it was divided into two apartments.

  Eleanor doesn’t drive, so on the nights the Rooster serves food, which is Thursday through Sunday, Jack asks someone trustworthy to mind the bar while he runs her home. Other times, one of the drinkers will volunteer because they know it guarantees a beer on the house when Jack returns.

  As we wait for Jack to take our order, drinkers stop by the table to say hello and ask how I’m doing. I used to see them all much later on Friday nights. Sam and I aren’t rednecks, but I used to joke we were made honorary ones. He worked alongside so many of them. I wrote stories about them and the things they love to do like truck pulls, raising hogs, and hunting.

  “This is my mother, Maria Ferreira,” I tell them. “She lives with me now.”

  Ma says hello to each one. I don’t expect her to remember any of them although I do give her a reference point for each, like this is Frankie, he works on the highway crew, or this is Will and Lisa, their daughter is best friends with Ruth. You met Charlie when he delivered our firewood. “Remember how I asked him if he was bringing me the self-stacking wood this year?” I say although she doesn’t get the joke.

  She sips a diet soda while she checks out the menu. I have a beer, something on tap that’s fancier than Bud. For years, I didn’t drink alcohol in front of her and Dad. Then one Thanksgiving at their house, Sam and I brought a bottle of wine, and that kind of broke the ice.

  I tell her, “I wouldn’t order the fish and chips. It’s not like fish and chips back home.”

  Ma nods. She knows what I mean. We always go to a place there that gets its fish right off the boat.

  She still does the Catholic thing of no meat on Friday, so I tell her to try the linguine with shrimp. That’s what I’m ordering. Ah, yes, the Catholic thing. Ma was raised a Protestant because of her father, a really long story, but she converted when she married my Dad. I dropped being a Catholic a long time ago, but now I drive her to Sunday Mass at a church in the city on Sundays. I even join her. I go through the motions, saying the responses, but I skip communion because it’s been decades since I went to confession, and heaven knows, I’ve done my share of sinning since. I try to hit the folk Masses. They move faster. Going to Mass is like having meat in kale soup and installing the TV dish. If it makes Ma happy, it’s not asking too much of me.

  Jack takes our order. He’s a big bear of a guy, rather good looking, with dark hair still even though he’s gotta be in his mid-sixties or older, and it’s not dyed. He’d have too much pride for that. He’s got a square jaw and brown eyes that are on the large size. I don’t think he’s ever been married. A steady gal? I don’t think so, but then again I’ve been out of the loop.

  He’s in a rush, but I introduce him to my mother. He warns us our order may take a while.

  “Eleanor’s cranking out the food as fast as she can,” he says. “We’re a little backed up. Busy night.”

  “Busy is good,” I say.

  He grins.

  “You got that right, ma’am.”

  The place is filling fast. I check out who’s here with whom. Over the years, I’ve seen a few romances begin at the Rooster although they don’t typically last very long. It’s the place where separations are formally acknowledged when one half of a couple shows up consistently alone or with a new person. It can get awkward at times.

  People may give up their partners, but they stay true blue to the Rooster. There isn’t another place in town to drink, except at home.

  Dale Collins, Adela’s son, sits at the far end of the bar. He’s in his late thirties, the age his mother was when she disappeared. He keeps his hair to his shoulders in a bona-fide mullet. There’s some gray to it, and he has that haggard look of a smoker and a drinker. He wears the standard country boy issue, a flannel shirt, jeans, and a John Deere cap on the back of his head. He drinks by himself.

  I bend forward because I don’t want to yell and you kind of need to in a bar this noisy. It was almost impossible carrying on a conversation with Sam at the Rooster. I may as well have announced whatever I was going to say to the whole bar, so he could hear.

  “Ma, turn around slowly like you’re gonna look at the jukebox,” I tell her. “Check out the man sitting at the end of the bar near the ladies room. That’s the missing woman’s son.”

  My mother nods then turns. She does a fine job of not making it obvious. She’s back facing me.

  “What’s he do?” she says.

  “Not much, I think. Handyman stuff.”

  Jack’s back with our order.

  “We’ve got a band tonight,” he tells me.

  “We’ll probably be gone by then,” I say.

  “Tomorrow’s our Halloween party.”

  I smile. Sam and I went to a couple of those. We even dressed up. One year, Sam went as Hank Williams and I was Patsy Cline. Not many people bothered with costumes that year, so we felt foolish at first, but we got over it fast. You don’t put on airs at the Rooster.

  “Oh, yeah, ’fraid I won’t be coming,” I say. “Maybe next year.”

  Jack and my mother make small talk. That’s when I notice Dale Collins isn’t alone. A guy has taken the stool beside him. He’s maybe in his sixties or seventies. It’s hard to tell, but he has some serious country miles on him. He and Dale are talking. I don’t recognize him.

  “Who’s that with Dale at the bar?”

  Jack glances over his shoulder. He doesn’t care about being subtle. It’s his bar.

  “That’s his father, Bobby. He was living in Vegas. Just moved back to town, I hear. I don’t think he’s stayin’ with Dale though. I’m kinda surprised to see them together.”

  “He’s really aged.”

  “I suppose. Dirty living will do that to ya,” Jack says. “He split a long time ago, a couple of years after Adela went missing.”

  I smile. I feel I might be pushing the line if I ask more questions.

  “Thanks for the grub. It looks real good.”

  He grins.

  “I’ll tell the cook.”

  We dig in. I don’t believe Jack’s sister, Eleanor, makes the sauce from scratch or adds much to what’s in the jar or can, so I douse it with the bottle of hot sauce on the table to give it some flavor. It’s not Boston North End Italian, but it’s not too bad. My attention keeps drifting toward Dale and his father. They’re talking still. They order another round, Bud for Dale and something dark in a glass for Bobby. People seem to be avoiding the man. I don’t see any slaps on the back or welcome homes from anybody.

  I still haven’t gotten a chance to read everything that’s in the folder I copped from the newsroom. I took care of Sophie the day after the snowstorm. Then Ma and I went into the city to do grocery shopping yesterday. She got her hair cut at the
place I go and complained about how much it cost even though it was my treat. We also stopped by the animal shelter. We got a kitten, all black, my request, although Ma picked her out. She named her Roxanne, which I like. I’ll let her be Ma’s cat.

  My mother leans forward.

  “You keep staring at that guy,” she says.

  “Am I being that obvious?”

  “To me, you are.”

  I lean forward, too.

  “Check this out. Dale has been joined by his long-lost father, Bobby.”

  Ma turns as Bobby Collins gets to his feet. His voice is loud, but he’s too far away for me to understand what he’s saying. Dale yells back. Bobby jabs a finger at his son. One of the guys in the crowd goes over. He blocks my view, but minutes later, when he finally moves, Bobby’s gone and Dale picks at the label on his beer. Bobby’s smart. Like I said, there aren’t many places to drink, so it’s best to be on good terms with Jack, who won’t tolerate fights in his bar.

  “What’s that all about?” Ma asks.

  “Don’t know.”

  After my second beer, I go to the bar to ask for our check. Ma’s doing okay, but I warn her it’s going to get real loud soon. Musicians are carrying instruments and speakers through the back door. I recognize the band. It’s called the Cowlicks, which always brings up a lot of dirty remarks from the guy drinkers, but I guess all the good names have been taken. The Cowlicks are kind of the house band since it plays at the Rooster once a month, at least it did when Sam and I danced here, mostly covers of good old boy standards. Loud covers.

  Behind the bar, Jack looks swamped, but he’s smiling. When I tip forward, I see Eleanor hustling in the tiny kitchen. She wears a matronly apron and covers her hair with a hairnet. I’d say hello, but I don’t want to startle her.

  “Can I get you another beer?” Jack asks me.

  “No, I’m driving. I’d like to pay up.”

  He goes for the stack of tickets.

  “Sure enough.”

  That’s when I notice the small hand-written sign next to the bottom row of liquor bottles that says, “Help wanted.”

  “Is that sign for real?” I ask.

  Jack’s head is down as he figures the tax on our bill and writes the total.

  “Help wanted? Yeah, I need an extra hand behind the bar. Know anybody?”

  “I might be interested.”

  I say the words even before I think them through. I wait for Jack’s answer. He eyes me.

  “Huh? You used to run a newspaper.”

  “Not anymore, and frankly, I’m done with the news biz. Besides, I can’t have a job in the city and leave my mother alone too much. She’s ninety-two.”

  He gives Ma a steady look.

  “Really? Wow,” he says. “You ever tend bar?”

  “Yeah, once. But, Jack, how hard could it be? This isn’t exactly your martini and frozen pina colada crowd. I’m guessing most of your customers drink beer out of a bottle. Mostly Bud or Bud Light, maybe Michelob, if the guy thinks he’s a stud. I know how to use the tap, so a guy doesn’t just get foam in his beer, but it still has a good head. Pouring a shot or booze on the rocks is a no-brainer. I make a good gin and tonic, or vodka and tonic, no sweat. I can mix a margarita. Anything else, I can find in the mix book.”

  He chuckles.

  “I guess that answers my question,” he says. “You’d be great with the customers. And I know you wouldn’t take shit from anyone.” He pauses. “I can only pay a buck above minimum wage, but the tips are good, especially on a night like this.”

  “Okay. What are the hours?”

  “I need help on the weekends, as you can see, and sometimes one or two other nights, so I can have some time off, or around the holidays when we’re super busy. You really sure you wanna do this?”

  I smile. “Let me think about it and get back to you tomorrow. That all right?”

  “Uh-huh. Works for me. Nobody else has expressed interest. Well, one guy did, but he’d drink me broke.”

  “I bet.”

  The parking lot is a lot fuller than when we arrived. The customers try to squeeze their vehicles close together, since the town won’t let them park on the road. It can make for a tight fit, especially in the winter when they arrive on snowmobiles. I swear all the dents in my Subaru are from drunks opening the doors of their pickups and cars at the Rooster.

  “That wasn’t too bad, was it, Ma? I mean the food’s not like you make, but it’s okay.”

  She holds her purse in her lap.

  “It was nice to go out for a change.”

  I back the car carefully to avoid hitting any fool rushing to get inside. The snow melted the other day, but I can feel there’s no turning back to any real warm weather until spring, and even that might take a while. What’s that old joke? There are two seasons in Conwell: winter and the Fourth of July. The first time I heard it, from a local, of course, I laughed. Now I say it to visitors and newcomers to make them laugh.

  The ride home is short, just three miles or so downhill, but I crank up the heat for my mother.

  “I see they’re looking for a bartender at the Rooster,” I tell her. “I’m thinking about it.”

  “Work in a bar? You’re really interested in that?”

  “Unemployment runs out real soon. It’s close to home, and it would only be part-time, two, maybe three nights a week. Would you be okay being home at night if I did that?”

  She nods.

  “I was alone before I moved in with you. Besides, it’s close to home and only a few nights a week.”

  I smile when she says home. I’m glad she feels that way.

  “Besides, I have an ulterior motive,” I say.

  “What’s that?”

  “A bar is a perfect place to get information, you know, about Adela Collins. People tend to talk a lot when they drink a little. You saw what was happening tonight between Dale and his father.”

  “Like I said before, Isabel, be careful. I didn’t like that man’s look. That Bobby fellow.”

  I agree with my mother as I turn into our driveway.

  “Here we are,” I tell her. “Home sweet home.”

  Box of Papers

  I fetch a couple of logs from the cellar to feed the woodstove. I poke the coals with a shovel to get them lively and open the damper. It makes my mother a little nervous I keep a fire going when we’re not home, but I tell her we did it all the time, especially when we didn’t run the furnace. I give her the okay to turn up the heat when I’m not home, which isn’t too often these days.

  But Ma likes the fire. I moved a comfy chair with a footrest near enough, so she can feel the heat coming off the stove. She finds the new kitten, Roxanne, and pulls her onto her lap. The TV is on already with one of her shows.

  I bring the folder, a large notepad, and a pen from my office upstairs to the kitchen table. I open a beer.

  Here’s the first story I wrote.

  Police are investigating the disappearance of Adela Snow Collins, 38, a Conwell native, who was reported missing Tuesday, Sept. 15 by her family when she failed to show up for work at the town’s only store.

  State police, who were called to assist the Conwell Police Department, issued a statement they are treating her disappearance as a missing persons case and at this time, do not suspect any criminal activity.

  Her father, Andrew Snow, said in an interview he became concerned when Collins wasn’t on time because she was always prompt even during bad weather. “She only lives three hundred yards from the store,” he said.

  Snow said he walked to his daughter’s house on Booker Road when she didn’t answer the telephone despite his calling several times. He said he thought maybe she was ill although she seemed fine the day before.

  But Snow said he couldn’t find his daughter or her car in the garage. Her purse was on the kitchen table and her dog was inside the house.

  “That’s when I called the police,” Snow said. “This isn’t like my daughter at all. The
last time I saw her, I was locking up the store. She always tells us where she’s going especially if she’s leaving town, and she didn’t say anything. We’re all so worried for her. Please, if anyone knows anything, call the state police.”

  Customers at the Conwell General Store also expressed concern for Collins, who has worked in the family’s business since she was a teenager. She grew up in Conwell and attended local schools. She has one son, Dale, 10, who was staying overnight at his grandparents’ house, according to police.

  “You couldn’t ask for a sweeter person,” said Thomas Macintyre, who works on the town’s highway crew. “We’ve known each other since we were kids. I hope she’s okay.”

  Franny Goodwin, who was Collins’ first-grade teacher, says she can’t recall anything like the woman’s disappearance happening in the small town.

  “We only have a thousand people living here,” she said. “How can a woman just up and disappear? You tell me.”

  State Police say anyone who may have information about Collins should call the barracks in Vincent.

  That story appeared on the bottom of the front page. Like everybody else, I heard Adela was missing the afternoon before and called the editor to give him a heads-up. I remember him asking, “Missing? She’s only been gone a few hours.”

  “It’s not like she took off shopping or went out for breakfast and didn’t tell anybody,” I told him. “You don’t know the woman like we all do. She’d never not show up for work or take off like that.”

  “Don’t you have to wait twenty-four hours?” he asked.

  “Only on TV,” I told him. “The woman comes from a prominent family in Conwell. They own the only store. People are really worried.”