Postcards from a Dead Girl Read Online Free PDF Page B

investigation.
    The front door is mostly glass, with the name MICKEY’s etched across it. A shamrock punctuates the design, but the interior doesn’t resemble any Irish pubs I’ve seen. There are no fireplaces, no massive wooden beams. It’s merely a big square room full of tables and chairs, booths against the walls. The bar itself is pushed off to one side. An Irish flag hangs behind it, a weak attempt at homeland pride. The bartender is a tiny man, his shoulders barely clearing the bar’s counter. He washes dishes with great intent, hardly noticing I’ve arrived. The three patrons on the other side of the room don’t seem to notice either.
    I walk up to the bar and fish out the photo of Zoe from my pocket. It’s a Polaroid picture, the self-portrait of me and Zoe taken on one of those days we were bored and decided to screw around and make something zany. She knew how to scratch at the film as it developed, and she created some wild squiggly designs around our faces—strange glyphs that punctuated our mood of the day. Not the most normal image, but still the clearest photo I have of her face.
    â€œWhat can I do you for?” the bartender asks.
    I’m startled by his sudden appearance. My peripheral vision didn’t catch his approach. I spin the photo toward him. “I was wondering if you remember seeing the girl in this photo?” I realize I’m acting like a TV cliché, showing photos to bartenders, but it seems to be working.
    â€œYou a cop?” he asks.
    â€œNo. Does it matter?”
    He smiles and shrugs. “Not really. Just always wanted to say that.” He picks up the photo and gazes at it, his expression full offorced contemplation. He nods slowly and scratches his chin. I get the feeling he’s milking this episode for everything it’s worth. Probably not much excitement going on at the Mickey’s Laundro-Garage-Bar.
    â€œSo, does she look familiar?”
    He bites his lip and raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah, I remember this girl,” he says, and brushes a thumb across the scratch designs.
    I take the photo back. “You sure you’ve seen her here?”
    â€œLooks like that one over there,” he says, and nods across the room where a young, dark-haired woman sits. She’s fair-skinned and thin, like Zoe. I can see how this guy might make the comparison. I put the photo back in my pocket and study the bartender’s eyes. They are alive, glassy, like a woodland creature: tender, afraid. I wonder if he notices this when he looks in the mirror, if he’s at all aware of his fragile nature.
    â€œHow long ago did you see her?” I ask.
    â€œMaybe a year ago sometime, I can’t remember.”
    â€œBut not recently?”
    â€œNo.”
    â€œA year is a long time,” I say. “How can you be sure?”
    â€œI remember those freckles,” he says, and taps his nose. “Very nice.”
    He’s right. The nose freckles are one of a kind. Splashed across her face like a constellation of stars: five large, twelve small. I know the numbers because I used to count them. When I couldn’t sleep, I would stare at her for hours while she was lost in slumber—mouth open, drooling on the pillow, like a child sleeps. I used to imagine a connect-the-dots game on her face, creating my own Zoe Star Systems. Crescent Major was the three large freckles on her left cheek, and the Tear Twins sat directly underher right eye in perfect alignment with the path her tears would follow. The other Minor Freckles I thought of as distant, mysterious suns never to be visited or understood by anyone—not even Zoe, not for several lifetimes. I used to wonder if even she understood what a marvel she was, lying so peaceful there in the dark, her eyes twitching with dreams.
    â€œShe dead?” he asks.
    I hold my breath at this question, and wonder: is she? It’s a good question, although not one I