In Search of the Rose Notes by Emily Arsenault Page B

wonder?”
    “If the police have, we don’t know about it. He’s still around. He worked in insurance for a while but got laid off. I heard he’s been bartending lately, for extra money to support his family. I kind of hinted to Porter that he should find Aaron and talk with him, but Dave told him no. Didn’t think it would be appropriate. The Valley Voice is still pretty lightweight.”
    I skimmed over the article again.
    “He didn’t quote anyone from the neighborhood here,” I observed.
    “He’s still working on that story… the neighborhood in disbelief. Will probably run tomorrow. I’ve suggested he come to the high school and chat with some of the teachers. They’ve had some stuff to say about Rose.”
    “Like what?”
    “Well, Cheryl Griffin claims that Rose came in in September as bright and cheeky as ever, but by November, when she disappeared, she seemed withdrawn. Wasn’t herself. Something was up.”
    “Mrs. Griffin. French teacher, right?”
    “Yeah. Of course, something like that could just as easily be like what you were saying with Aaron. Something someone sees after the fact, that might or not be real.”
    “I think that part might be real.”
    “What makes you say that?”
    “I was only a kid, so I wouldn’t have used a word like ‘withdrawn.’ But I remember thinking that Rose was more fun in the summer than she was during the school year.”
    “Sorry. Again, maybe projecting. You were a kid. Everything was more fun in the summer. During the school year, she had homework and shit. So did we. And I don’t remember feeling that way about her at all. But, you know, I think I’m going to do some more digging in the teachers’ lounge. They knew her so differently than I did. It’s kind of weird, actually.”
    “Do they know how you knew her?”
    “Some do, some don’t.”
    The toast popped up—brown on the edges and nearly black in the middle. Charlotte slapped the slices onto a glass plate and carried them to the table.
    “I didn’t ask you yesterday,” I said. “How are your parents doing these days?”
    “My mom’s okay,” Charlotte said before taking a crispy bite of toast. “She has good days and bad days with the MS. Like, right now she feels well enough to take a train out to see her sister. But how will she feel next month? Hard to know. And it’s recently started to affect her eyesight, which is scary.”
    I nodded. Charlotte’s mother had stopped working at the hospital a few years ago—when she’d grown too sick to manage it. I was about to ask a little more about her mother’s health, but Charlotte continued speaking.
    “And my dad’s the same. You know he has a condo in West Hartford?”
    “Oh, really? West Hartford? I didn’t realize.”
    “Works at the bank branch there now,” Charlotte said.
    I waited for more, but she didn’t add anything.
    I buttered my toast in silence, trying to scrape off some of the burned parts discreetly, so as not to appear critical of Charlotte’s offerings. She watched me for a moment before continuing.
    “How’s your mom, by the way? Did you see her on your way up yesterday?”
    “No. She actually doesn’t know I’m up here.”
    I caught Charlotte’s eyebrows twitch ever so slightly as she sipped from her coffee cup.
    “You planning on letting her know?” she asked.
    “When I feel like it,” I mumbled.
    She shrugged and got up to stick more bread into the toaster.
    After Charlotte left for work, I parked myself on the Hemsworth couch with my coffee cup and turned on the television. The early-morning weather report held my attention for about ten seconds, and then I found myself scanning the contents of the coffee table for objects of interest. There were two wineglasses, still dirty from last night. I made a mental note to wash them. A remote control, an ashtray, and a typed document Charlotte had left there.
    “You” was the first word on the page in bold. Below it a poem: “A giant clothesline in the