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“No.” Barbara doesn’t even have to think about it. “J doesn’t have a jealous bone in his body. He’d be happy for me. But he’s been working so hard on this book, I don’t think the words come as easy for him as they sometimes do for me, and I won’t steal any of his spotlight. I love him too much to do that, even a little bit.” She hands the letter back to Marie. “This letter stays here. But I’m glad you did what you did.”
“You are generous,” Olivia says. “Other than in their work, poets rarely are. Marie, what would you think about the three of us splitting a can of Foster’s Lager, if only to celebrate the fact that we’re still friends?”
“I think that’s a wonderful idea,” Marie says, getting up. “But that’s another secret we three have to keep.” She tilts her head to Olivia. “From her doctor.”
She leaves for the kitchen. Barbara says, “You’re the generous one, Olivia. I’m glad to have you for a friend as well as a teacher.”
“Thank you. I must have done something right, because some providence saved the best student for last.”
It’s Barbara’s turn to blush, not with shame but with happiness.
“Tell me what you’re reading,” Olivia says. School is in session.
“You suggested the beats, so that’s who I’m reading. I got an anthology at the college bookstore. Ginsberg, Snyder, Corso, Ed Dorn… I love him… Lawrence Ferlinghetti… is he still alive?”
“Died a month ago. He was older than I am. I want you to read some prose, if you’re game. It may help you. James Dickey to start with. You know his poems, and there’s a famous novel, Deliverance—”
“I saw the movie. Men going down a river in canoes.”
“Yes, but don’t read that one. Read To the White Sea. Lesser known, but I think better. For your purposes. I want you to read at least one Cormac McCarthy novel, All the Pretty Horses or Suttree. Will you do that?”
“All right.” Although she’s reluctant to leave the beats behind, with their mixture of innocence and cynicism. “I’m actually reading prose now. That book you told me about, The Forgotten City, by Jorge Castro. I like it.”
Marie comes back with three glasses and an enormous can of Foster’s on a tray.
“I suppose Jorge finally went to South America,” Olivia says. “He used to talk about going back to his roots, which was bullshit. He spoke Spanish like a native but he was born in Peoria and raised there. I think he was ashamed of that. Did I tell you I saw him shortly before he disappeared? Running. He always ran at night, to the park and back again. Even in the rain, and it was raining that night. I suppose he must have been planning to leave even then. I certainly never saw him again, but I remember because I was writing a poem and it turned out to be a good one.” She sighs. “Freddy Martin—his partner—was devastated. Freddy left shortly after, I think to look for Jorge. The love of his life. Came back broken-hearted and with a monkey on his back. Stayed six months and then left again. The Wicked Witch of the West said it best. What a world, what a world!”
“Enough of sadness,” Marie says, pouring. “Let’s drink to good times and great expectations.”
“Good times only,” Olivia says. “Leave the future out of it. The only person unhappier than a writer whose expectations aren’t fulfilled is one whose dreams come true.”
Barbara laughs. “I’ll take your word for it.”
They clink glasses and drink.
July 26, 2021
1
When Holly pulls into the handkerchief-sized Jet Mart parking lot at quarter past three, she sees the man she wants to interview is on duty. Excellent. She pauses long enough to hunt something on her iPad, then gets out of her car. On the lefthand side of the door there’s a bulletin board under the overhang. WELCOME TO A JET MART NEIGHBORHOOD! it proclaims. It’s covered with notices of apartments to rent, cars and washing machines and game consoles for sale, a lost dog (WE LOVE OUR REXY!), and two lost cats. There’s also one lost girl: Bonnie Rae Dahl. Holly knows who put that one up, and hears Keisha Stone saying love lost but plenty of love left.
She goes in. The store is currently empty except for her and the clerk, Emilio Herrera by name. He looks to be Pete’s age, maybe a little younger. He’s perfectly willing to talk. He’s got a round face and a charmingly cherubic smile. Yes, Bonnie was a regular customer. He liked her and is very sorry that she has gone missing. Hopefully she will get in touch with her mama and her friends soon.
“She’d come in most nights around eight,” Herrera says. “Sometimes a little earlier, sometimes a little later. She always had a smile and a good word, even if it was just how are you doing or what do you think about the Cavs or how’s your wife. You know how few people take the time to do that?”
“Probably not many,” Holly says. She herself isn’t apt to be chatty with people she doesn’t know; mostly contents herself with please and thank you and have a nice day. Holly keeps herself to herself, Charlotte used to say, with a little grimacing smile meant to convey she can’t help it, you know.
“Not many is right,” Herrera says. “But not her. Always friendly, always a good word. She’d get a diet soda, sometimes one of those sweets in the rack there. She was partial to Ho Hos and Ring Dings, but mostly she’d pass them by. Young women are figure-conscious, as you probably know.”
“Was there anything unusual about that night, Mr. Herrera? Anything at all? Someone outside who might have been watching her? Maybe standing where the video wouldn’t pick him up?”
“Not that I saw,” Herrera says, after doing Holly the courtesy of giving it some thought. “And I believe I would have. Convenience stores like this, especially on quiet streets like Red Bank Ave, are prime targets for robbers. Although this place has never been hit, grace of God.” He crosses himself. “But I keep an eye out. Who’s coming, who’s going, who’s loitering. Didn’t see anyone like that on the last night that girl you’re looking for was in here. Not that I can remember, at least. She got her soda, put it in her backpack, put on her helmet, and off she went.”
Holly opens her iPad and shows him what she downloaded before she came in. It’s a picture of a 2020 Toyota Sienna. “Do you remember a van like this? That night or any other night? It would have had a blue stripe running down low, along the side.”
Herrera studies the picture carefully, then hands it back. “Seen plenty of vans like that, but it doesn’t ring a bell. You know, about that night. Which you know is now almost a month ago, right?”
“Yes, understood. Let me show you something else. It might refresh your memory.”
