“Okay,” she says, squinting at a microfilm scan on the county archive site. “I’ve got three mentions of the Paducah Brewers Guild in the late sixties. Meeting minutes, who attended, a note about a fall tasting in ‘69, and… oh.”
She leans, zooms. “And a blurb about a ‘heritage recipe demonstration’ from a guy named… William H.—wait—Hoffman.” She glances over at me, eyes bright.
“Spell it,” I say, even though I know how to spell my own name.
“Just like yours,” she says, nudging me with her foot.
“Let me see.”
She swivels the laptop so it faces me, and I lean in. The scan is bad, but it’s legible enough to get a hit of adrenaline: Heritage Recipe Exhibition—Local Brewer to Share Traditional Methods. Wm. Hoffman to present at Paducah Brewers Guild, Oct. 11. Public welcome, refreshments provided.
“Guild Hall,” I read, softly. “Do we have any idea where that was?”
Paige’s fingers are already moving. “If they were like every other club in town, probably the VFW or the old Grange hall before it burned.” A few keystrokes, a quick frown, then a triumphant noise. “Yep. Looks like the Guild met in the community room at the River Museum for a while. And sometimes at the Elks Lodge. Here—look—there’s a map. I can email them in the morning.”
“Please,” I say, because the part of me that wants to call right now needs to fucking relax. “I’ll go in if they want me to.”
“Done.” She adds it to our QUESTIONS list, under a bullet that already says: Does anyone have the old ledger?
“Also, I found three William Hoffmans in the county directory in the eighties. One is obviously not him because he was born in ‘32 and listed as a school custodian out in Ballard County.” She scrolls.
“The other two are possibilities. One just has a P.O. box. The second is listed at an address on Sycamore that’s now a parking lot. We can cross-reference by looking for a spouse's name.”
“I don’t know my grandmother’s name,” I say, and the admission is sour on my tongue. My father never spoke about his mother, and every time I asked, I got a cuff on the head for it. So, I stopped asking.
She pauses. “We’ll find it,” she says, so simply that I want to believe her by force of will alone. “We’re good at finding things.”
Across the table, the book I’m working through—The Long River: Commerce and Community on the Ohio—has a chapter on post-Prohibition small brewers. It’s light on specifics and high on sepia-toned civic pride, but there’s a half-page photo of six men in shirt sleeves standing around a table set with bottles and paper cups. A handwritten caption under the scanned photo reads PADUCAH BREWERS GUILD, c. 1969. The names are typed below the photo, each one aligned under a face. My pulse kicks at the fourth one. Wm. Hoffman.
The man is lean, later-middle-aged, with a butcher’s forearms and a tie loosened like he’s allergic to fuss. The photo is too grainy to be sure, but I think he’s got my mouth.
“I think this is him,” I murmur.
Paige sets a hand on my knee and leans in so the side of her face brushes my shoulder. “He does have your mouth,” she says, like she read my mind. “And those are your eyebrows. Strong and stubborn.”
I huff a laugh. “Careful, that’s slander.”
She bumps me with her shoulder. “Hey, that’smygrandpa.” She points to the man standing next to William.
I drag the book closer until the spine creaks and angle the photo under the lamp. The names are typed in a wonky column—someone fought a manual typewriter and lost. I read them out loud, finger under each like I’m back in third grade.
“Wm. Hoffman.” Tap.
“Alton Mayes.” Tap.
“Roy ‘Buck’ Sutter.” Tap.
“Frank Delaney.” Tap.
“Earl Pennington.” Tap.
“Edward Richards.” Tap.
Paige snorts. “Grandpa Eddie.” She taps the man beside William—hairline retreating, grin wide and familiar in a way that makes something warm uncoil in my chest. “I was like five when he passed. Shortly before you moved back to town.”
I lean in. Now that she’s said it, I can’t unsee Don in the bones of the face—same thin face and easy-set mouth. I smile despite myself.
Then my finger goes back up the list on reflex, lands on Roy “Buck” Sutter, and the bottom of my stomach drops.
