Page 5

5

MACK

The snow never seems to stop. There are flurries this morning as I pull on my parka and push my feet into snow boots. I take a deep breath before I step out into the dark, frigid 5:00 a.m. air. My feet crunch and squeak over the packed snow on the sidewalk I haven’t had the energy to shovel because who can keep up? I sit shivering in the driver’s seat of my car, blowing on my hands, waiting for it to warm up and then drive the short ditance to open the Firefly.

When I get to the cafe, I plug in all the strings of fairy lights hung over the window frames and click on the flameless candles on each table. Even though it’s early January and Christmas is over, I keep the cozy feel people have come to expect from the place year-round—the wood tables and chairs and roaring gas fireplace in the corner next to stacks of hardcover classics. That was Leo’s idea—make the place an experience— fuzzy blankets on the leather couch near the fireplace, throw pillows, dark, moody colors. If an Irish castle and a New York bookstore and a ski chalet all had a baby it would be this place, he’d say. It never made much sense and never mind asking him how all three of them would achieve procreation together, but nonetheless, it is the coziest place probably in the tristate area, and that’s a comfort to me now.

I preheat the ovens and turn on some Billie Holiday that pipes softly through the speakers. Before I take off my coat, I make the first pot of dark roast, pour myself a generous mug, and sit in front of the fire to thoroughly warm up before getting to work.

I stare at the flames and think about Leo the way I do most mornings. The tears don’t come anymore, though. Now that it’s been over a year and I learned what I have come to learn about him, the tears have just stopped, which is worse, I think. At least crying was a short-lived catharsis, and now…there’s a stir of something inside that builds with nowhere to escape. I can’t tell if it’s anger or unthinkable loss, or the deep, unsettling torment of not knowing what the hell happened.

He left us broke and I haven’t even managed to be able to really, fully admit it to myself, let alone tell anyone. I haven’t even told Shelby, God help me. Twenty years ago, fresh out of college, we opened our first pizza place. I was a baker. He majored in business and finance, so it was kismet. We opened a few more locations, and then sold them five years later for a hefty payday. A comfortable life. Then, he opened a few other businesses and did some investments, but this cafe was my baby, so I ran it. I was happy to settle into one place and we were stable enough for him to dabble in other businesses because we kept a solid nest egg and that was the deal—the promise. We were happy, we were looked up to.

I didn’t know right away. Mercifully, I got to go through the initial stages of shock and police and interviews completely ignorant of his theft and deceit. But then a few weeks in, auto payments on household stuff were missed, and I started trying to delve into the finances myself until we could find him. Because of course we will find him. What a shock I was in for. I found credit card statements—secret cards that he went into debt on to pay bills and payroll on the two pizza shops he bought. Everyone knows he lost those businesses a couple of years ago, but that was post-COVID—that was the same hardship every restaurant dealt with. At least that’s what everyone thinks. Thank God that’s what they think, because it seems nobody knows about his gambling addiction and that he lost all of our savings, retirement, and multiple businesses and hid it from everyone.

Sometimes I wonder if he ran because it was only a matter of time before I found out we had nothing left. I’ve spent months and months wondering and sobbing into pillows and hating him, then forgiving him and begging God for him to come back and that we would work through anything—that he had an addiction and we can get help and make it right…and then the next day I think of Rowan and what he’s done to her future, and I hate him again, and it’s all so exhausting I can barely breathe.

I close my eyes, sip my coffee, and take a nice long sigh before walking the creaky wood floor to the back kitchen to start gathering ingredients for cranberry scones and apple turnovers. I top off my coffee and pop a very small Lorazepam under my tongue to get my nerves through another day. I touch my fingertips to my favorite blue bowls—porcelain delftware, and feel a sort of indescribable ache. Maybe it’s gratitude that it’s still mine—that the house and cafe were paid off, and so far I can’t dig up any second mortgages or incurred debt I don’t know about. But I fear every day that some other shock like that could surface. The length he went to steal and hide it all is astounding. He cooked the books like the finance expert he was and took out payday loans. For Christ’s sake, he actually borrowed from loan sharks, which I thought was something that only happened in B movies. Or maybe the aching feeling is simple hatred for a man who lied to me for years and stole everything I ever worked for out from underneath me.

I hear the bell above the front door jingle and Mort and Herb from the Oleander’s shuffle in, shivering beneath their giant overcoats. They sit on the burgundy leather couch in front of the fire, and Mort picks up the paper.

“Hiya, Mack,” Herb says, pulling off a scarf and shaking snowflakes out of it into the floor.

“Morning.” I smile. They don’t need to order. A black coffee, and a chai tea with milk. A cheese Danish for Herb, and a plain bagel for Mort because he could do without the diabetes, thank you very much.

“Twenty-two below zero this morning, oofta,” Herb says as I place their usual on the coffee table in front of them.

“You’re wearing flip-flops,” I say, staring at Herb’s feet.

“Well, but I got the socks on with ’em,” he says, biting into his Danish.

“You sure do,” I say, and pat his arm before making my way back to the coffee bar. A few very cold patrons rifle through the door and take a window-front two-top. I used to run this place like an owner, and now I’m waiting tables and making lattes with hearts on top, and earning tips every day until I have to bring in a few sparse staff for lunch rush. But I try not to think about that now. I don’t need to put on a happy face; but I need to arrange my features in an acceptable way as to not scare off the customers. Small towns are funny. I have the undying support of many, but still a lot of folks who feel uncomfortable and don’t know what to say to me because I am a reminder of tragedy. The fact that it’s all still out there unresolved makes people uneasy. And there are probably a few who think I killed him and am bound for an episode of Snapped , but today I am trying to just get through today.

On my way to bring a teapot to the window table, I see Shelby barrel in the front door with the twins. She tells them to pick something from the pastry case and continues to peer out the front window, sporting pajamas under her parka with her hair standing in a wild side ponytail. It’s her usual fashion statement these days, so that part’s not shocking, but she looks frazzled.

I know coming here at all has been a slow process for her. She waited six months to step foot back inside these doors, but in true Shelby style, she wasn’t going to let some psychopath take her away from her best friend’s business and the place the girls practically grew up in. He didn’t get to have that, take that away from her, so she’s done a better job than I would have of coming back and compartmentalizing the trauma.

Still, it can’t be easy, even after all the time that has passed.

“What are you looking at?” I poke her on my way back to top off Herb’s and Mort’s drinks.

“Billy Curran.”

“Everyone’s always looking at Billy Curran—he has a nice peach,” Mort says, and we all look to Mort. “That’s what Millie tells me anyway.”

“He’s in the construction business, why would he have any peaches?” Herb asks.

“It means his heinie, his butt, Herb. You should read a book sometime,” Mort continues, reading the copy of The Wind in the Willows he plucked from a shelf.

“You read about guys with nice peaches in those books? No thanks.”

“Why are you looking at Billy Curran?” I ask.

“Because I saw him go into The Angry Trout and I said, ‘It’s not even 7:00 a.m., a little early, don’t you think?’ And he said he’s doing some renovations. Did you know about this? He said he’s taking over the bar. I didn’t even know he was back. He lives in Milwaukee. Linda Curran told me that Lou would rather be buried alive than step down from running the Trout.” Shelby walks away from the window, exasperated, and looks at what her girls are pointing out in the glass case. She sits them at a table with apple muffins and pours herself a cup of coffee.

“No school today and they’re still up with the roosters,” she says, chugging the first few sips of coffee. “So, seriously what the hell? It’s gotta be big news that nice-peach Billy is back. I haven’t heard a thing. Lou didn’t die, did he?” Shelby asks, propping herself on a bar stool, pouring stevia packets into her mug.

“No,” I say. “Billy’s been in and out of town a lot for the last year or more, helping out. Lou can barely see anymore and Linda is never at the bar. It’s overrun by college bartenders they hire, giving away shots by the dozen, so it’s probably a good thing he’s finally stepping in.”

“Yeah, all that is good and well,” Shelby says, “but it’s weird. Why would he leave the city and his job…and does this mean Nora is gonna be at the bar now? Christ. It’s the only good bar in town. She’ll ruin it for everyone. Oh Lord. She’ll probably talk him into turning it into a nail salon,” she scoffs. “Get a napkin, Poppy, for goodness’ sake. That’s your school jacket.” Poppy hops over to the coffee bar and wipes hot cocoa off her collar. I sit next to Shelby on a bar stool.

“Well, Nora will not be moving back.” I smile conspiratorially, relishing in having any bit of gossip before Shelby gets a hold of it.

“Shut up!” she says, hand to heart.

“She left him for an anesthesiologist she works with…that was like two years ago.”

“How the hell do you know that?” she asks, her mouth gaping open.

“He told me. We have businesses facing each other. I’ve run into him a few times.”

“Stop” is all she says, waiting for more.

“I guess the times he’s in town, he’s keeping to himself while going through the divorce without needing commentary from everyone. He just decided to come back full-time and take it over recently—like a few weeks ago. That’s all I know.”

“Well,” Herb pipes in uninvited. “Linda used to show up at the Trout without her teeth and wearing a jungle-print housecoat. So get Billy with his nice peach in there and I think the whole town will appreciate that.” Shelby notices the pair of them, smirks and sits on the arm of Herb’s couch.

“I didn’t know you two snuck out so early. You know we have coffee at the Ole?” she says.

“Mmm-hmm,” Mort says, not looking up from his page.

“Did you know Billy Curran was obsessed with Mack in school?” she teases.

“Stop telling them stuff like that. He was not,” I snap.

“He looked quite smiley this morning for a guy in subzero weather before the sun came up. I guess if I stopped working a hard manual labor job and handed draft beers to folks for a living instead, I’d be feeling pretty smiley too. Annnnd getting to gaze through my neon Bud Light sign in the window at my long-lost love across the lane.”

“You’re ridiculous,” I say, picking up the small plate of crumbs leftover from Herb’s breakfast and walking back to the counter when I see Billy Curran walk through the door. I stop midstep, surprised to see him, and of course Herb, Mort, and Shelby all stare. He is immediately self-conscious. He closes the door and looks down at himself, then back at us.

“Um, hello.” He looks over each shoulder and again, back to us. “Everything okay?”

“Yes!” Shelby says. “You’re just lettin’ in all the cold air, is all.”

“Oh, sorry,” he says.

“Can you turn around?” Herb asks, and Billy raises his eyebrows at him.

Mort nudges Herb and shakes his head. “He has a parka on, you won’t be able to see it.” Herb silently agrees and goes back to his coffee. Billy shakes off a confused look and comes up to the counter.

“Morning, Mack,” he says, smiling. Shelby bounds over and sits on a stool next to the register.

“Morning, can I get you something?”

“A couple of black coffees,” he says, taking his card out of his pocket. Shelby gives me a “see, I told ya” look and holds up two fingers and mouths “Nora,” rolling her eyes.

“Actually,” he says, “I’ve been meaning to ask if you’d consider, I don’t know, taking a look at the bar, offering an opinion.”

“I’ve seen the bar,” I say, handing him his coffee.

“Well, I’m trying to make some changes. I mean, it has a singing trout on the wall and the carpets have been there since the ’70s.”

“I would argue that that’s what people like about it,” Shelby says, butting in.

“Maybe. But in my attempts to remove the smell of stale beer and pee, I need to update a few things at least. You have the vibe here everyone likes. I thought you could offer some ideas—I’d pay you, of course.” He sort of shakes his head like it’s a stupid idea, and I’m about to say no.

“Of course, Billy. Not a problem.” Because of course I can offer him this small kindness even though it comes with a smirk from Shelby.

“Oh, great,” he says, and before he can utter another word, Shelby stands and walks behind the counter.

“Go ahead, I’ll watch the register.”

“Uh, I don’t think he meant now, but thanks,” I say giving her a “what the hell are you doing” look.

“No one’s in this early anyway,” she says, giving the few that are a dismissive hand gesture like they’re the weird exceptions. Billy shrugs.

“I am painting today, so…but I know you have lot on your plate, so no rush, really,” he says, and I wonder what he means by that. Most people think I started working nonstop to keep busy and take my thoughts away from an empty house and my missing husband; they don’t know that I need to work just to pay the staff and my own bills. Does he know more than he’s letting on? He probably meant nothing by it and it’s just a thing people say, but I tend to overanalyze everything these days.

“It’s really no problem,” I say, taking off my apron and pulling on my coat that swallows me in its massive faux fur hood. I ignore whatever look Shelby is trying to throw at me and follow him out. It’s still dark outside and the sharp air is a shock no matter how many times a day you get punched by it. I smile to myself when I think about Leo’s description of the bar—if Applebee’s and a dumpster had a baby, that would be The Angry Trout. I can’t imagine there is much I have to offer, but it can’t hurt to be nice for a few minutes.

We walk into the dim, silent space. All the chairs are piled upside down on tables, and it’s warm and familiar. The red, tacky carpet is disgusting as ever with its dark gum stains and beer spills, but it’s sort of soothing and nostalgic at the same time. The jukebox that’s been there since I was a kid still lights up the corner, the karaoke machine on a tiny stage looks sad and lifeless in daytime hours, and the vinyl bar stools are still torn and ancient, really just the way people like it. This place hasn’t changed in decades, and it’s a nice comfort for folks.

He switches on the light above the pool tables and another behind the bar that illuminates the rows of glass liquor bottles. Then suddenly, I feel my shoulders being grabbed from behind. I scream and whip around, swinging my fist.

“What the fuck!” I yell, my heart in my chest…until I realize that it’s Billy’s father, Lou, and that I’ve hit him. In the face.

“Oh God!” Billy rushes over. Lou holds up his arms defensively and makes a whimpering sound that makes me feel worse than I thought possible.

“I’m sorry. I thought you was Billy. I…I wasn’t trying to…” Lou stutters, cowering.

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” I say. “Oh my God, you…are you okay? I’m so…”

“It’s okay,” Billy says, helping his dad straighten up. Lou adjusts his glasses and blinks at me.

“I’m fine. I wasn’t expecting anyone in here.”

“Here,” Billy says and helps Lou to his chair in the small office that’s really more of a closet with a desk in it off to the side of the bar. He gets Lou back in front of the computer monitor, the desk piled with dusty files, crumpled paper, and Pepsi cans.

“Everyone’s fine,” he says, but I’m still holding my heart, equal parts terrified I was about to be attacked and mortified that I hit an eighty-seven-year-old man.

I pick up the coffee Billy set on the bar that must be for Lou and bring it to him.

“Here, God, Lou. You sure you’re okay?” I ask, offering another apologetic look to Billy over the top of his head.

“Eh, I got worse from Linda when I walked in on her on the can the other day,” he says, and that’s when I see it.

Hovering over Lou’s shoulder, in this grimy closet office, on an antiquated desktop computer, blinks a handful of file folders labeled “security footage.” One says January to March 2018, April to June 2018…there are three months’ worth in each file, all the way up to the present, January 2024.

“Oh my God!” I blurt.

“He’s really fine,” Billy says. “We can go ahead and…” He starts to move out of the office, until he realizes I’m pointing at the screen with my hand cupped over my mouth. He looks to where I’m looking.

“You have footage of that night,” I say, not as a question but a statement because I know the camera on the front door faces the street and catches my cafe. “How?”

“What night?” Lou says, squinting at the screen through the thickest glasses I’ve ever seen.

“Dad,” Billy says, placing a hand on his shoulder. Lou looks up at Mack and makes the connection.

“Oh, yeah of course. Sorry. ’Course I have footage of that night,” he says matter-of-factly.

“All this time. Why didn’t you give it to the police? What’s on it?” I ask, my hands shaking, my heart speeding up. I can’t read the look on Billy’s face, but it’s a mix of discomfort and embarrassment, if I’m right.

“The police asked about my camera, and I said there was nothing on it. That was it,” he says, pushing his coffee aside with a curled lip and cracking open a Pepsi.

“What?” Billy asks, but he doesn’t seem totally shocked. Is that because Lou is sort of flaky in general and it doesn’t come as a surprise?

“So you told them you didn’t have footage?” I clarify.

“No, I looked through it all when I heard what happened and didn’t see anything on it, so when they came around, they didn’t press me. They just casually asked about my camera and I said I got nothin’.”

“And that was it?” I ask in disbelief. “This was Detective Riley, I guess, since he’s assigned the case.”

“Yeah, what’s the problem?” he asks, clicking on his Tetris game and then thinking better of it and turning back to me with his arms folded across his chest.

“Lou,” I say as gently as I’m able, although I would like to smack him again for his apathy right now. “Would it be okay if I take a look through it myself?” I ask. I feel like Billy is about to protest, and he passively does.

“If he says he didn’t see anything, are you sure you wanna—”

“Knock yourself out,” Lou interrupts, standing. “Linda’s got some Egg McMuffins she put in the glove box for me.” He gestures to his chair for me to sit. “Ain’t nothing there, though. I have hawk eyes.” With that, he heads out to his truck for his glove box breakfast. I look at Billy, who has an indiscernible look on his face. He gives me a tight smile resembling concern, and I sit in Lou’s chair and shakily hover the dusty mouse over the October–January file and click it open.

My breath catches when I see the date there, several rows down: October 19th. Each day is labeled. I click, and wait. The camera just sits there on the front of the Trout, mostly useless in general—just picking up cars passing, patrons coming in and out, hours of nothing.

“Why would he keep all of this—years back?” I ask Billy who’s perched on the edge of the desk, sipping his coffee.

“He doesn’t get rid of anything,” he says, looking around as if I should be able to tell that from the state of the place.

I continue to fast-forward through that day’s footage until I find 10:00 p.m., then I slow down and click frame by frame around the time Shelby was attacked. The camera sits on the front of the bar, and you can see my parking lot and front door, and I’m hoping for any clues—anything that shows someone breaking into the cafe. Maybe it’s so I can know once and for all it wasn’t Leo losing his mind and having some psychotic break that night the way people say—if nothing else, I’ll take that.

I know Lou didn’t see anything out of the ordinary, but I still feel tears forming behind my eyes and hear my shallow breath. This was the moment my life fell apart—and there’s nothing there except a crow on a telephone line in the frame.

I sit back in my chair and sigh. I pick up Lou’s untouched coffee and take a sip and then look to Billy with wet eyes and palpable disappointment. He pulls up a file box and sits on it next to me.

“I’m sorry,” he says. But then I see movement out of the corner of my eye. I slam the coffee down and my hands flutter to the keyboard to rewind the frames.

“What was that?” I ask, breathlessly. “I thought Lou said he saw nothing.”

“Well, in all fairness he can’t see shit and this is the first I’m hearing about this.”

I replay it, frame by frame, and then stop cold when I see a figure. I gasp. I rewind again. Out of nowhere, someone steps into the frame of the parking lot. My lot. Jeans and a hoodie, and they are just too far away to make out much more than that—I can’t discern stature or age. They pull the hood of the sweatshirt over their head a fraction of a second after they walk fully into the frame and then disappear behind the cafe to the back door.

“Who the fuck is that?”