The Missing Place (13 page)

“You didn't.”

“Hell yeah, I did. Didn't need the help, but he came through with the hose, if you see what I'm saying.”

Colleen felt herself blushing, her skin warming.

“Sorry,” Shay said after a moment. “I didn't mean to embarrass you. Do you mind me asking, how long have you been married?”

“Twenty-two years. Our anniversary was last October.”

“Damn. That's an accomplishment.”

“And . . . were you married for a long time?”

“No, we only made it a few years. We were awfully young . . . and, well, I was looking for a baby daddy.”

“Oh—you were pregnant?”

“No, I mean for my first. My daughter, Brittany. I had her when I was seventeen. She's twenty-three now. Her dad was never really in the picture. I lived with my mom when she was a baby, but by the time she was two I was ready to get my GED and get a real job, and I didn't want to live with my mom for the rest of my life, so when Frank proposed I kind of figured all the pieces were falling into place. God bless him.” She said the last bit with a fond smile.

“You and he stayed close, then?”

“Yeah, until he died. Taylor was only two at the time, and I was twenty-three. We'd already gotten divorced. And it was a hell of a thing because I would have qualified for his service benefits, but the dumbass was stupid enough to die on leave, driving his motorcycle while drunk, instead of over in Iraq. Woulda, shoulda, story of my life back then. But yeah, I always did love him, and we were kind of talking about getting back together.”

“Oh, my God, I'm sorry,” Colleen said, thinking,
Two kids by two men, all by the time she was twenty-one years old, practically still a child herself.
She and Andy hadn't had Paul until she was thirty-three, and then only after two rounds of IVF. “Do you . . . is there . . . I mean, it's none of my business.”

“Am I seeing someone? Not really. Which I guess means only
when I've had too much to drink.” Shay laughed, but Colleen thought she detected a note of sadness. “I mean, don't get me wrong, I don't take people home from bars or anything. Just, if I get lonely, I know who to call. Old friends, you know? But mostly, I'm on my own, and I have been for almost all of Taylor's life. I mean, I had guys I saw for a while here and there, but nothing ever got serious, especially because I never wanted to introduce the kids to a guy unless it was the real thing. I used to tell myself that when Taylor got out on his own, I'd look . . . you know, for real. Maybe try the online thing, seems like everyone's doing that. I have girlfriends who found guys, got married, even.” She was silent for a moment, and Colleen searched for something to say, but before she could think of anything, Shay added, “Maybe I've just been independent for so long, it's too late for me to live with anyone again. Too used to having my own space and making all my own decisions. Hell, I don't know.”

“I met Andy in college,” Colleen said impulsively. “I was twenty-one. He was my first real boyfriend. I mean, I dated a few other guys. But still.”

“Do you love him?”

It wasn't the audaciousness of the question that caused Colleen to freeze up—it was something else, a tiny hesitation before she said, “Of course.” During that split second, she realized that she had no idea if she still loved Andy or not. She said “I love you” every day—had made a point of it since early in their marriage—but the words felt like nothing, a casual gesture like wringing the dishrag out before hanging it, or the way Andy always rubbed his shoes twice on the coir mat at the front door. Habit. Ritual. Both important to humans, maybe especially important to Colleen, who was dependent on the repetitive nature of the rhythms of her life for serenity—but was it love? Especially in the last year or so, when the distance between
them seemed to be widening into a chasm, something Colleen had blamed on the tension with Paul—had they moved so far apart they couldn't find their way back?

“I
do
love him,” she repeated. “He's a great husband. And father. He's . . . good with Paul.”

“Paul's lucky, then. Okay, here we are.”

They had arrived at the Walmart, Colleen too wrapped up in the conversation to notice. The snow was coming down again, big fluffy flakes clinging to the windshield between swipes of the wipers. Underneath the new snow the lot was slick with ice; Colleen saw a man slip and almost fall as he walked toward the store.

“We can't risk you getting hurt. We need to get you some new boots.”

Colleen laughed, then realized Shay was serious. “These will be okay. They're really comfortable.”

“The salt'll ruin the leather. Besides, it doesn't matter how comfortable they are if you don't have any traction. Look, we can't afford for you to break a leg.”

“How do you know so much about snow, anyway?”

“Fairhaven is only an hour and a half from Tahoe. I used to take the kids up there in the winter.”

“Skiing?”

“No, too expensive. But there's a stretch along the highway where people park, and there's a slope they turn into a sledding hill. We'd take lunch and they'd sled all day, and warm up in the car when they got cold. I brought extra mittens and stuff for when they got wet. But eventually they'd get soaked through their snow pants and we'd have to call it a day. Then they'd sleep all the way home . . . I loved driving home with them asleep in the backseat.” She smiled at the memory. “Okay, so, boots. And I bet you didn't bring thick socks,
right? And then we need more food if we ever plan to eat in the RV. And maybe some beer. What else?”

“I don't—I don't think I need anything.”

“If we head out to the rigs, you're going to need better gloves and a hat.”

“My coat has a hood,” Colleen said, lifting it to show her.

“That thing? Come on, it doesn't look like it would even stay up.”

“But we're not going to be outside, are we?”

“The rigs aren't exactly luxurious. The guys working outside are exposed to the elements. Taylor told me stories of guys freezing to death when they went out to the shed and couldn't find their way back to the rig. And inside they run some sort of heater, but he said it was freezing in there. Besides . . . I'm not counting on a big welcome, are you? So we need to be ready to stand outside if we have to.”

“Okay.” Colleen nodded. She could do this. It was just a pair of boots.

They moved slowly through the parking lot, keeping their heads down against the wind and stinging snow. Twice Colleen slipped and narrowly avoided falling, and she took to bracing herself against the vehicles they passed, hanging on to the beds of pickups, the big steel bumpers.

“Why would anyone park back there?” she asked, pointing at the far end of the parking lot, where a dozen vehicles were lined up.

“Those are the ones who are sleeping in their cabs. The ones who don't have anywhere to stay. The lady at the church told me that in the fall there were so many, Walmart had to kick most of them out so the customers could find parking.”

“I can't believe that's even legal.”

“Oh, no, Walmart allows that all over the country. Me and Frank, we borrowed a camper for our honeymoon, pulled it behind his Jeep
down to Mexico. We stayed in Walmarts on the way. Once you get there, you can stay right on the beach . . . it's beautiful. Here, let's grab that cart.”

She took a cart from a man who was finishing unloading his purchases. When they got to the doors, Colleen saw why: there were no carts left in the corral. There was a line of people waiting to get through the door. Nearly all of them were men, just like everywhere else they'd been.

Inside, a blast of warm air hit Colleen in the face. This Walmart was much bigger than the one in Salem; the entire right side of the store was a giant grocery. In front were bins full of merchandise: T-shirts with the logo of the Minot Muskies hockey team, carelessly mounded with no regard to sizing. A special on Blazin' Jalapeño Doritos.

“Keep moving,” Shay said, grabbing her arm and propelling her toward the produce aisle, but not before a man stepped in their path and said, “Evening, ladies.” Shay steered around him, ignoring him. Colleen raced to keep up.

They made it as far as the dairy aisle before another man—a fortyish, thickset redhead with a couple days' growth of beard and a bad case of hat hair—put his hand on their cart to stop it and stepped in front. “God, you have beautiful eyes,” he said to neither of them in particular.

“Yeah? Fuck off.” Shay drew the cart back and then rammed it against his shins, causing him to curse and jump back. Even then he called after them, “Feisty, huh? Come party with me and my friend!”

“The checker warned me about this when I was here the other day,” Shay said, grabbing a carton of milk. “She says most women won't even come at night. There's been rapes in the parking lot. So they say, anyway. Man rape too.”

“
What?
” Colleen was aghast.

“Man on man. Because they're desperate, you know? But I think that's just urban myth.”

“No, I mean . . .” Colleen felt dizzy. “Why does she even work here? The checker?”

“Well, for one thing, she's about seventy and has a face like leather, so maybe they leave her alone. And for another, they pay double here what they pay at any other Walmart in the country, plus a signing bonus if you stay a full three months.”

Colleen shook her head, trying to wrap her mind around it all. Up ahead she noticed a stocky man pushing his cart into the office supplies aisle, reaching for a box of envelopes. It was his cap that caught her attention—or rather, the logo stitched on the front: a stylized palm tree above a swirled flourish.

Hunter-Cole Energy's logo.

She raced after him before she could change her mind, leaving Shay with their cart. He had moved on, down the aisle and around the corner, before Colleen caught up with him. She found him pondering a wall of snack foods, dozens of brands, hundreds of bags of chips and pretzels.

“Excuse me.”

The man looked around in surprise. He was fit looking, in his late thirties, Colleen estimated. He'd taken off his bulky coat and gloves and tossed them in his cart. Resting on top of the coat were the envelopes, a package of cheap pens, a six-pack of Gatorade, a box of Slim Jims—and a mop-top doll with floppy fabric sneakers.

“Me?” he asked, looking around. The aisle was empty other than the two of them. “Help you with something?”

“You work for Hunter-Cole, right?” Colleen pointed to his hat, and the man's hand went to it self-consciously.

“Yes, I do . . .”

“Did you know the boys who went missing? Paul Mitchell and Taylor Capparelli? Fly and Whale?”

The man's expression went wary, and he began backing away. “You from the news?”

“What? No. I'm his mom. Paul's mom.”

The man stopped edging away, and his expression morphed into pity. “Oh. Well, I'm real sorry about all that.”

Shay came around the corner, pushing the cart ahead of her. The man glanced at her. “Is she—”

“Taylor's mom. Listen, can we talk to you?”

“What about? I didn't actually work with them. I was on a different rig. Worked with Taylor once last fall, but I got rotated out when my dad died. When I got back they put me on another crew.”

“But you've been with Hunter-Cole this whole time, right? Please, could we talk to you? Ask you a few questions?”

“I don't know what I'd be able to tell you. I haven't seen him since then.”

“Just general questions. I understand you didn't know them well, but we just need a place to start.”

“Look, ma'am. We all sign nondisclosures, you know? I could lose my job if I talk to you.”

“But we won't tell anyone we talked to you, I promise.” Colleen felt tears of frustration building. “Every day—every
minute
that passes, the trail's getting colder, do you understand that? Please. You have children, Mr. . . .”

“Oh, Jesus, it's Roland, okay? Just Roland. Yes, okay, I got a daughter, she's four. She's back in Ohio with my ex-wife and I go my whole hitch without seeing her, but they depend on my paycheck. I feel for you, I really do. But the last guy who talked to the media about safety
problems on the rig got fired and their legal team came down and threatened to sue him. They didn't let up until he was finished here, couldn't get a job anywhere after that. I can't afford that, okay?”

“Then let's go somewhere.” Shay pushed forward, abandoning their cart. “Look, we'll meet you anywhere. Just tell us where.”

“I don't even have much to say . . . it's not like I know anything about your sons. I mean, if that's the impression you have, you're going to be disappointed. None of us know anything. And everyone's been talking about it. So if there were rumors I think I would have heard them. All I could do is tell you what happened . . . what they
say
happened . . . to other people.”

“That's all we're asking,” Colleen said, resisting the urge to touch his arm, to somehow cement the tenuous connection. “That's plenty. It's a start.”

“Give me an hour. I don't want to go anywhere public. I got to clear this with a friend of mine; if she says it's okay, we can go over to her place. She won't say anything. Look, I'll text you the address, okay?” Already he was backing away from them, scanning the aisle behind him, where a couple of men were putting bags of chips in their carts. One of them looked curiously in the women's direction, and Roland looked like he was going to bolt. Shay pulled a pen from her purse and grabbed a price tag from the shelf, yanking it out of its plastic holder and scribbling her phone number on the back. She handed it to Roland and he jammed it in his pocket as he hurried down the aisle.