“Hey,” I say, laying it where both of them can see. “Clean copy.”
Jason leans in. “Look at Dad’s dad,” he murmurs, soft with it. “He looks like he just told a killer joke.”
Ben’s thumb rests on “Wm. Hoffman.” He doesn’t press; he just touches the ink reverently. “There he is,” he says, and I hear the tiniest lift in his voice.
I set that one aside and open the first cash box. It’s the kind my grandmother kept bake-sale money in—green metal, shallow. The lid sticks, then gives way with a pop. Inside: paperclipped stacks of index cards, a coil of raffle tickets, and a small envelope labeled TASTING—TOKENS.
The index cards are a surprise. Each bears a date and a title in tidy block print—Brown Porter; Heritage Amber; October Trial—and then notes in two hands. One cramped and precise. One bigger, loopier.
“Comment cards?” I ask, delighted. “Oh my God, they did comment cards.”
Jason laughs. “Of course they did. This is Paducah.”
Ben takes one like it’s a relic. “Look at the backs,” he says, a little breathless. I flip mine. The cramped hand has written: “Too much caramel. Finish a hair thin. Try 154° mash.” Under it, the loopier hand has added: “Or don’t. People love it, Ed.” The bottom edge: W.H.
Ben swallows. “William Hoffman,” he says, and I see it hit him—this is the man, in ink, joking with my grandfather.
Jason points at the other initial. “E.R. is Grandpa Eddie. They were literally writing to each other on recipe cards.” He flips another. “Here’s one: ‘Buck says the hop bite is new-school and he’s wrong.’” He snorts.
I sift deeper in the stack, index cards sticking to each other, ink smudged by old thumbs. A card halfway down catches my eye.
It isn’t a comment this time; it’s a recipe. Below it, a neat column listing ingredients and portions is in my grandfather’s handwriting.
I understand none of it. I tap Ben.
“Look at this. Some sort of recipe.” I pass the card to him and continue sifting through the box.
It takes me a minute to realize Ben has gone completely still. I look up to see his face is pale as he stares at the card.
“Ben,” I say cautiously. “What is it?”
His mouth moves. No sound at first. Then, a whisper: “This is it.”
Jason stops rustling papers. “What is it?” he asks.
Ben swallows. “It’s the recipe for the Heritage,” he says, voice rough. “The grain bill. The hop schedule. Mash temp. My mash temp. ‘Let the toast speak.’ That’s my tasting note.”
He turns the card over again, like the ink might rearrange. “But why is it your grandfather’s handwriting on the card?” His voice cracks on the last word.
I lean forward a bit, like approaching a skittish animal. “Okay,” I say, slowly. “Okay, it’s… just a card, Ben.”
“It’s not a comment card,” Ben says, too fast now. He taps the title as if it’s an accusation. “That’s the beer. That’s my beer. That’s the recipe my father passed down to me. Which means it’s not William’s original recipe. Which means those guys were right—” He breaks off, breath sawing shallow.
“I am a thief. My grandfather was a thief. He stole this recipe, and that’s wh—"
“Ben—” I reach for his arm. He pulls it back without seeming to know he’s doing it.
“I’m a thief,” he says, so quietly the bulb hum almost swallows it. “I’m my father.”
“Absolutely not,” Jason says, hard as a brake. “No. We don’t know what this is yet.”
“I know what it is!” Ben says. He’s on his feet quickly. “This is the recipe for the Hoffman Heritage. This is my supposed legacy. A lie. A sham!”
“Bullshit!” Jason says, standing as well. “Even if that’s true, even if your grandpa stole this. That doesn’t mean shit about you, Ben.”
“Every time I pull a pint, I’m stealing,” he bites out. “I have to go take it off the menu. I have to go… I don’t know. I have to do something. I have to stop it.”
I rush to my feet before he can leave. His eyes are wild in a way I’ve never seen before.
