That’s why his disappearance made no sense.
A private detective wanted money we didn’t have.
So I did what I could.
I printed hundreds of missing people posters and took them wherever I went. I hung them in supermarkets, bus stations, laundries, restaurants and all over my university campus.
I gave copies to my co-workers and kept several folds inside my bag in case I met someone new. Before each shift, I would check my phone and pray that one of those posters would have produced a miracle.
He never did.
I printed hundreds of missing persons cartels.
Since Mom disappeared, “everything she could save” had become almost everything. Searching for her was not cheap. Neither was it to keep our family afloat without her.
That Friday, a couple sat in my section shortly after seven. They seemed to belong to this restaurant: rich enough to treat prices as decorative suggestions.
They were celebrating their anniversary, they told me.
They were polite—kinder than many of our regulars—but distracted. The man was still looking at his phone under the table. Every time she did, the woman would stop talking and watch her face.
“Could we have the check?”
Still, they asked as determined people to celebrate: oysters, filet mignon, lobster, three cocktails and a bottle of Bordeaux from the closed closet.
When they refused dessert, their bill had reached $407.63.
“Could we have the check?” The man asked, looking again at his phone.
I put the leather folder next to him and went to deliver drinks to another table. I couldn’t have been away for more than three minutes.
When I came back, the stand was empty.
“They left.”
That was the paybox.
