Before She Disappeared

CHAPTER 4

Leaving Guerline’s apartment, I can just make out shadowy clusters of people on front stoops as I pass. I walk with my hands tucked in the front pockets of my olive-green jacket. It would be warmer if I buttoned it up, but I don’t want to risk any restrictions to my movements. Especially as the first shape peels off from a front porch, exits the chain-link fence, and falls in step behind me.

I don’t pause or turn around. I head straight to the end of the block, where the red crossing light forces me to draw up short. Footsteps behind me. Closer, closer.

I move to the side, clearing an opening beside me. The second person stops in the empty space. Black male. Anywhere between eighteen and twenty-five. Tall, broad-shouldered with an oversized Patriots hoodie that makes him appear even taller and broader.

He glances at me. I keep my gaze straight ahead.

The crossing light turns green. He steps off the curb, one of his strides easily twice the length of my own.

I’m just starting to relax, walking now in his wake, when I realize I can still hear footsteps behind me. A second set, which I’m immediately paranoid has been there all along. I make it across the intersection only to realize the next block of triple-deckers is as dimly lit and ominous as the last.

Turn around and confront the person? Pick a door and pretend it’s my final destination?

Options. I should pick one, exercise some kind of caution as the footsteps quickly close the gap.

I whirl at the last second, preparing to meet the possible threat head-on.

The Black girl behind me draws up short. She’s wearing skinny jeans, a tight-fitting ribbed cotton shirt, and huge silver hoops, along with a black leather jacket and matching stiletto-heeled boots.

She lifts a finely etched eyebrow. “You nuts, lady? This is not a place to be walking alone after dark. Yo, Jazz, hold up.”

Then she scoots around me, catching up with the broad-shouldered kid and looping her arm through his. They saunter down the block.

I tell myself I’m okay.

Mostly, I bolt quickly down the maze of streets to Stoney’s bar.

I’m a recovering addict. It’s taken me a couple of tries, but I’ve now been sober for nine years, seven months, and eighteen days. And yet I still love walking through the doors and inhaling the scent of a tried-and-true local pub. It feels like coming home.

Many of my fellow AAs manage their recovery by avoiding booze and any situation involving alcohol. In the beginning I did, too. Well, kind of. I spent hours circling the outside of my local watering hole, wanting desperately to go in, willing myself to stay outside. That’s how I met Paul. He recognized me, what I was going through. And for a while, he believed in me, when I wasn’t ready yet to believe in myself.

I did the ninety-in-ninety drill. Got a sponsor. Got a new sponsor. Decided the program wasn’t for me. Worried sobriety wasn’t for me. Mostly, quietly, desperately understood that being me wasn’t for me. I didn’t know how to do it. I never had.

After more than a dozen years of AA and two reboots, I know firsthand there’s more than one path to sobriety. AA’s simple truth, however—admitting helplessness over alcohol and finding strength through a higher power—remains the best starting point that I’ve experienced. I attend my meetings. I read from the Big Book. I find comfort in the company of people living honest, messy, difficult lives without taking a drink and yet being okay. Even finding joy.

I had to go back to working in bars. Serving is one of the easiest and comparatively well-paying jobs, given my transient lifestyle. Besides, being around booze isn’t one of my triggers. Nights like this one, when I’m feeling overwhelmed and lost and a little bit sad, are the challenge for me.

Stoney glances up when I walk through the front doors. So do a few others. The late hour has brought out dozens of customers. Most of the tables and barstools are now filled. Loners, couples, groups of friends. Those who are having fun, those who are drinking hard.

I don’t mingle and I don’t judge. There but separate. That part has always come easily to me. Like a lot of drunks, I’ve spent most of my life feeling alone in a crowded room. Drinking was one way of making it easier to take.

I head to the kitchen to take Stoney up on his offer of food. I haven’t eaten since breakfast and now that the drama of the day has passed, I’m starving. I discover a short plump Black woman wearing a white apron and working the grill with a metal scraper in one hand and a wooden spoon the other.

She glances up when I walk in. “You the new girl?”

“I start tomorrow.”

“Lord, you’re a skinny thing. Hungry?”

“Always. But I can help myself. Looks like you’re busy.”

“No worries, hun. Burger or chicken? Long as I’m making four, five won’t matter.”

“My name is Frankie. And if you don’t mind, I’ll take a burger.”

“Viv. Met your roommate yet?”

“Briefly. She stared at me like I was the devil. Or maybe that was the way I stared at her.”

Viv lets out a low chuckle that shakes her entire five-foot-nothing body. “She likes me.”

“Seriously?”

“Chopped chicken livers. Works every time.” Viv flips four burgers and throws on a fifth frozen patty in the blink of an eye. I respect any person who can cook that fast.

“You a lifer?” I ask, meaning a lifetime of working in a kitchen.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Me, too. Behind the bar.”

“Stoney says you don’t drink.”

“Twelve-stepper.”

“Mmm-hmm. My husband does the same dance. Need a list of local meetings?”

“That’d be great.” I’d printed out some info before my arrival, but in this matter, at least, I’ve learned to accept help. “What do you put on the burgers?” I push myself away from the doorjamb.

Viv nods toward the stainless-steel prep island, where I see a block of sliced cheese, a jar of pickles, and a bag of buns. Thin white melamine plates are stacked at the end, near canisters of silverware. It’s a small kitchen, but efficiently set up. Viv moves straight from the grill to the fryolator and drops in a basket of fries.

I wash my hands, then plate the buns, dish out sliced pickles, unpeel slices of cheese. I add a fifth plate for me. Tucked in the kitchen with the smell of seared hamburgers and crisping fries, I’m famished.

“Lettuce and tomatoes in the fridge,” Viv informs me in a stage whisper. “And my special sauce. Keep a batch just for Stoney. And friends of Stoney’s.”

“I like you already.”

Happy hum. Viv tosses the four finished burgers onto the plates, flips the fifth, and grabs the fries. She is damn good.

I deliver the four plates to Stoney while Viv finishes up mine. Stoney doesn’t bat an eye to find me standing at the end of his bar with food delivery. The three of us could’ve been working together for years. I both love the feeling and fear it. There’s a reason I’m always the outsider. Many AAs talk about needing to replace one addiction with another as a form of coping. I gave up drinking and took up always being on the move instead.

A rolling stone gathers no moss. Paul used to tell me that all the time. Later, he’d accuse me of not listening. But I heard it all. I always heard it all.

Viv has moved on to deep-frying frozen chicken wings. She hums as she works, a sheen of sweat glistening across her brow. Her movements are unhurried, smooth. Stoney appears with two tickets in his hand. He glances at my burger, still midpreparation, then hands me the tickets and disappears.

I read off the orders for Viv, then smash the top on my burger and dig in.

“Stool in the corner,” Viv sings out.

Sure enough, there’s an old wooden stool tucked in the shadow of the fridge. I pull it up to the prep counter and take a seat. Since Viv has already proved she has no problems talking while she works:

“I heard there’s a girl gone missing,” I cue up.

“Angelique Badeau,” Viv confirms. The sizzle of meat as she tosses two more ground beef patties on the grill.

“What happened?”

A wave of the metal scraper in the air. “Girl walked out of high school one day and bam, no one’s seen or heard from her since.”

“Drugs, gangs?” I ask.

Viv turns long enough to give me a look. “Cuz she’s Black?”

“White kids have gangs, too,” I assure her. “For that matter, so do most groups, including all the middle-class, middle-aged white guys suddenly becoming biker dudes. You could argue gangs are one of our common denominators.”

“What are you, some sociologist lady? Or worse.” Viv sniffs at me suspiciously. “Some white do-gooder here to save us from ourselves?”

“I would never presume that a woman who wields a wooden spoon with your degree of proficiency needs saving.”

Viv gives a small nod, flipping two burgers, then raising the chicken fryer basket.

“Police still looking? For the girl?” I shovel in another bite.

“They say so. Hasn’t been any news in months.”

“What’s the local take?”

Shrug. “Sounds like the girl was a good student, smart, not the kind for gangs. Then again, tough times to be an immigrant, especially one of the ten-year Haitians.”

“Ten-year Haitians?”

“The ones that came after that earthquake. This area has always had a large community. So after the earthquake struck, people fled here, where they had family to help them out. Got in on some special visa for natural disaster survivors. But the visa was only good for ten years, and guess what, time’s up. By now, lots of ’em, especially the kids, have lives here. Jobs, friends, community. ’Course they don’t want to go back. But you’ve seen the news. These are tricky times to be an immigrant. Mass deportation would gut local healthcare, but that doesn’t mean it won’t happen. Some lawyers are now suing on the immigrants’ behalf, so there’s an extension while the courts sort it out. But after that . . .” Viv shrugs. “Plenty of local families don’t know what the future holds anymore. And limbo ain’t fun for anyone.”

“So this fifteen-year-old girl ran off to avoid deportation?”

“She changed her clothes.” Viv’s voice had dropped lower. “Least that’s what I heard. And left her phone behind. That sounds like a girl with a plan. God knows I’d never get a cell phone out of my grandbabies’ hands.”

I nod, chew my burger. Those details bother me, too. It did sound premeditated. The question remained, was it willing? As in, did Angelique place her backpack under that bush, or did someone rip it off her back and kick it there to avoid detection? If the police had any video of the event, they weren’t saying. But I was willing to bet they didn’t know that answer themselves. If there’d been solid evidence of abduction, the case would’ve rocketed immediately to an Amber Alert scenario. The fact that it took days for the police to fully engage told me there’d been doubt in the beginning. Maybe Angelique had a history of disappearing. Not something I’d wanted to ask the family during our first meeting. Our second meeting, on the other hand . . .

“So, the locals think Angelique skipped out to avoid possible deportation?”

“Girl’s spent most of her life here. You think she wants to go back?”

“Her mother still lives there,” I say, then add hastily, “At least that’s what I read.”

Viv rolls her eyes at me, pointing the metal flipper at the stack of white plates. Belatedly, I put down my half-eaten dinner, quickly wash my hands, and get back to plating. Viv bangs out the fries.

“The missing girl has a brother and aunt here. If she wanted to stay in the U.S., why leave them?” I ask, splitting buns onto the plates. “Now she’s all alone.” Viv tosses on the patties, I quickly add toppings. No custom orders, I’d already realized. Stoney ran a tight ship.

Viv gestures for two more plates. She splits the fry basket of chicken wings between the two, then adds more fries to all. From next to the silverware, she grabs a plastic squeeze bottle and squirts a deep red sauce into tiny bowls for dipping. The sauce smells slightly of barbecue, but is thinner, spicier.

“Your secret sauce?” I question.

“Stoney handles the wing sauce. Mine’s for sandwiches.”

“Do I get to invent one?”

“Gotta earn your stripes. ’Sides, what does a skinny girl like you know of cooking?”

“Not much.” Especially given that I hadn’t owned pots and pans, let alone a house, in nearly a decade.

I splay out three plates along one arm, grab the fourth in my right hand, and whirl out the door for delivery. Stoney nods his acknowledgment as he pours a beer at the tap, then jerks his chin toward a new ticket. I grab the order for more wings, then return to the kitchen, where Viv is already back to grilling.

“Pretty girl like that,” Viv says, returning to the subject of Angelique. “I’m guessing a boy. She falls in love. Doesn’t want to leave him. So off they go.”

“Wouldn’t there be two missing kids, then?”

“Assuming he’s a kid. Again, pretty girl like that.”

Viv raises a good point. The family insisted Angelique didn’t have a boyfriend, but as I’d already learned many times, the family is often the last to know. Better source of info on a teenage girl? Her friends.

I’m sure the police questioned them, too, but here’s one area where I have the advantage: Plenty of people don’t feel comfortable talking to cops. Whereas I’m just some random lady asking questions. Odd, but not threatening. Tracking down Angelique’s best buds will be one of my first projects tomorrow. After getting some sleep.

Now, I gulp down the rest of my dinner, then tend to my plate. The kitchen is too small for a commercial dishwasher, but the powerful spray nozzle over the deep stainless-steel basin is blistering enough to sanitize just about anything.

“Need any more help?” I ask Viv, drying my hands.

“Tomorrow will be soon enough.”

“I’ll see you then.” I hesitate. Time to head upstairs, my first night in my new room, with my new roommate. “Chicken livers?” I question.

Viv cackles. “No worries. Your roomie is out for the night.”

“She has a social life?”

“She has a job. Rodent control. Why do you think Stoney keeps her around?”

“I was hoping he had a soft spot for strays.”

“Hah. He’s not called Stoney for nothin’.”

I linger a moment longer. I like the kitchen, Viv’s companionship. It’s warm and cozy. Easy.

Then again, easy has never suited me.

A parting smile for Viv, then I determinedly head up the stairs. Home sweet home. I feel the booze beast stirring restlessly in my belly, triggered by my anxiety. Not tonight, I tell it. Tonight I’m strong enough. Tomorrow I will find a meeting.

I unlock the door to my new room, close and latch it behind me. Quick check under the bed. No sign of the cat. I take a moment to unpack my few belongings, set up my toothbrush, toothpaste. A ritual performed so many times, it leaves me both comforted and exhausted.

New town, new job, new case.

“Why are you doing this?” Paul demanded. “Why can’t I be enough for you?”

Me, standing there, unable to answer.

“You’re an addict.” He answered his own question bitterly. “That’s why. There will always be something you need more, some high you have to chase. Jesus, Frankie. I love you.”

Me, still standing there, unable to answer.

Paul turning away. Paul walking away.

Me, not following.

Now, I change into the boxer shorts and worn T-shirt I wear for bed. I snap off the lights, then crawl beneath the sheets, which feel scratchy and unfamiliar against my skin.

The beast stirring again.

“Shhh,” I whisper. To my racing mind, to my dangerous thirst. “Shhh . . .”

Then I close my eyes and will myself to sleep.

Later, I wake up with tears on my cheeks.

Later still, I rise to consciousness enough to register a rumbling weight on my chest and glowing green eyes staring down at me. “Shhh,” I mumble again, then tumble back into the tumult of my dreams.