The Missing Place

by Sophie Littlefield

  “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 stop
ped 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.

  SHAY GRABBED THEIR cart and headed in the other direction. “So, let’s find your boots,” she said loudly.

  “He was so skittish,” Colleen said as soon as they were out of earshot of the other customers. “I can’t believe it’s really that risky. I mean, just to talk to us?”

  “Hunter-Cole isn’t fucking around. Think of how they’ve been treating us, right? You said the minute you explained what you wanted, they shut you down.”

  “They talked to Andy . . .” Colleen said uncertainly. “I should get the name of the guy. He told Andy that he should call with any questions, that he would serve as a liaison to the company’s own investigation.”

  “Right.” Shay’s tone was grim. “The investigation they only said they were starting after you talked to them, right? And your husband told them he’s an attorney?”

  “Well, yes, but he does intellectual property law, which isn’t . . . but how would they even know?”

  Shay rolled her eyes. “What you got to realize is, this isn’t a company run by a bunch of redneck wildcatters. Sure, the guys on the ground drive trucks and chew tobacco, but you got to believe there’s a bunch of guys in suits running the numbers and doing damage control. You know what I found out about Hunter-Cole?”

  “No . . .”

  “They’ve had twenty-seven OSHA citations in the last two years, and six fatalities in the last fourteen months. It’s all in the public record, but how much of that got in the news? Hardly any of it, all because they spend a fortune on legal fees and buying off the victims’ families. They’re serious about this shit. Okay? And don’t think they haven’t looked us both up. At this point, if they consider you a threat, you can bet they know everything about you, from your bra size to what brand of toaster waffles you buy. And since they know I’m here, they’ve got all my dirty laundry too. Now, there’s nothing we can do about that.”

  “There’s nothing interesting to know about me,” Colleen said. She wasn’t good with computers, didn’t really know what was possible to discover online. “Nothing anyone would care about.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s our culture now, so you better be sure. I mean, look what kind of shit we know about celebrities’ private lives. So it’s no wonder this guy Roland is scared. But we just have to hope he calls. Okay. Look at that, just what we need. Temperature-rated to minus forty for twenty-seven bucks, I’d say that’ll work. Size?”

  Shay had led her to the racks of shoes at the back of the store. On the end of the row was a display of women’s rubber-soled snow boots, their black nylon uppers topped by a cuff of fake fur.

  Until today, Colleen wouldn’t have been caught dead in them. “Eight and a half,” she said.

  “Nope. Whole sizes only. So you’re a nine.” Shay dug through the stack of boxes, many of them open and torn, until she found the pair she was looking for. “What kind of socks do you have on?”

  Colleen unzipped her right boot and slipped it off. “Um, just these wool-blend ones . . .”

  “Hang on. I’ll be right back.”

  Colleen stood, holding on to the cart for balance while she stood on one foot. The floor looked clean, and after a moment she put her shoeless foot on the floor. The smell of synthetic leather was strong.

  Nearby, a woman with a little boy was forcing his foot into a boot decorated with some sort of cartoon warrior. The boy was beginning to cry, protesting as his mother tried to wriggle the boot onto his foot. The problem seemed to be that the Velcro straps were stiff and unyielding and didn’t leave enough room for his foot to slip into the boot; the harder the mother tried, the more the little boy protested.

  Abruptly the woman yanked the boot off and threw it at the shelf, where it knocked a box onto the floor. “All right, all right, all right!” she burst out, shocking her son into silence. A second later, as he began to wail in earnest, she pulled him into her arms and said, “I’m sorry. Goddamn it. I’m sorry.” She stood up with her son in her arms and hurried away, leaving the boots and boxes in disarray on the floor.

  Colleen’s heart went out to the woman. How well she knew that moment. She had never yelled in public, had never thrown anything. But there had been so many times, when Paul was little, that she yelled at him in private, at home. When she dug her fingers into his arm so hard that her nails left little crescent moon marks. When she wished for a fraction of a second that she’d never had him at all, then suffered for the rest of the day with the guilt.

  Long before Paul was ever diagnosed with ADHD and—for want of anything that precisely fit the diagnostic criteria and, she suspected, because she and Andy had spent a hell of a lot of money on a battery of tests and weren’t about to walk out the door without a diagnosis—with oppositional defiant disorder. Long before she had accepted that it wasn’t just a rough-and-tumble preadolescence that Paul would outgrow, she had privately admitted to herself that she wasn’t the mother she’d anticipated being and her son wasn’t the child she’d expected. When a couple of years of trying went by without another pregnancy, she and Andy decided—in a brief conversation where she suspected neither admitted the rea
l reasons—that they would be content with just one child. If Andy had suspected what she was really thinking, that she couldn’t handle another one like Paul, years of sleepless nights and screaming tantrums that nothing would quiet, he never condemned her for it. Quite possibly he felt the same.

  But now. Oh, now. To go back to when he was the age of that little boy—three, maybe four—knowing what she knew now. She’d do everything differently. Because what she had done hadn’t worked, had it?—even though she’d tried everything, paid every specialist, consulted every physician, tried every medication, every special camp, every education expert—had practically bought Paul’s way into Syracuse with that shockingly expensive “admissions consultant” who essentially wrote his essay for him.

  If she were given the opportunity to start over, Colleen would give away all her breakable things—her crystal and china and art and good furniture and every single knickknack in the house—and pad the walls and put an extra lock on the door, for safety, and then she’d let him run as wild as he needed to and never complain. She’d sit down and learn to play that zombie video game with him, she’d let him play lacrosse despite the potential for injury, she’d throw rocks into the duck pond with him all day long and ignore the posted rules. She’d move to some other community—somewhere like where Shay came from, maybe—where no one expected kids to sit still and take conversational Mandarin and join the debate team and score in the top percentile on standardized tests. She would have let Paul break a few bones and wreck a car and get into fights when he was in elementary school, before years of chafing at the restraints imposed by his overprotective parents made him do something so much worse.

  “You okay?” Shay was standing in front of her, waving a hand in front of her eyes. “You zone out or something?”

  “Sorry.” Colleen forced a smile and turned her mind away, something she had taught herself to do when the churning of her thoughts proved too much to bear.

  Shay held up a pair of socks, thick gray with a stripe of pink. “Here. Try these.”