Lisa Gardner - Gone

Laura’s hands were trembling. Candi decided to make it easy on both of them. She made a show of patting down her jacket. “Ah shit, I must’ve left them in the car.”

Laura looked at her.

“My cigarettes,” Candi explained. “Don’t suppose you happen to have one…”

The woman finally smiled. She wasn’t fooled, just grateful. “Don’t suppose I do.” She whipped out the red -and-white pack. Banged one out for herself, then handed the pack to Candi. There was a book of matches by the grill. They both lit up, Laura exhaling smoothly, Candi managing not to cough. It’d been years since her last cigarette. Ah man, though, it did taste nice.

“I’m supposed to have quit,” Laura volunteered finally, waving away the gathering smoke. “We were trying to have a baby. Can’t smoke while you’re pregnant. Can’t smoke, can’t drink, can’t eat fish. Kind of funny when you think about it-all the rules they have now. I got a picture of my mom, seven months pregnant with me, with a beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. Then again, some days I look in the mirror and I think I’m a walking advertisement for the surgeon general.”

“Take it it didn’t work,” Candi commented neutrally.

“Five years of in vitro,” Laura said. “Gotta love the unions. Give the workers such great insurance, they’d be crazy not to burn it up.”

“Five years? That’s hard.”

Laura didn’t say anything, just pursed her lips. Candi thought of her earlier statement about her husband-quitters never win, winners never quit. Maybe that worked on the football field, but when it came to matters of the bedroom…

She could understand why Laura Carpenter looked so tired. Like the life had been drained out of her, and now she was just a human shell, hanging out till it all came to an end.

“Is that when you decided to adopt?”

Laura looked at Candi, eyes sharp, not fooled. “Maybe you should ask Stanley.”

“It was his idea?”

“A man wants a son. That’s what he told me.”

“What does a woman want?”

Laura laughed; the sound hurt Candi’s ears. “I can get pregnant. That was never the problem; I just can’t seem to carry ’em to term. First time, you blame nature. Second time, you blame yourself. Third time, you blame God. Four, five, six times later, I think a smart woman stops blaming anyone and simply takes the hint.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Ever think of having children? Maybe it doesn’t mix well with the career. Then again, you’re young, you have plenty of time left.”

“I don’t know,” Candi told her honestly. “I grew up the oldest of seven cousins. Some days, I think I’ve spent enough time changing diapers. Other days, I’m not so sure.”

“Got a husband?”

“Haven’t met anyone who could keep up with me yet.”

Laura smiled, finished off her cigarette. “Why don’t you come inside, Miss Rodriguez. Ask me what you really want to know.”

She picked up her cigarette stubs, deposited them in a plastic bag she had in the back pocket of her jeans. The pack of cigarettes went up high, tucked behind the downspout of the gutter. The matches she returned to the grill.

Laura had spent some time perfecting her deceit. Inside, she whipped out the Lysol spray. Then she excused herself.

“These are my smoking clothes,” she said by way of explanation before retreating to her bedroom.

Left alone, Candi wandered the small space. Nineteen seventies kitchen with dark stained cabinets and gold Formica countertop. Eat-in kitchen with round pedestal table and four solid wood chairs. An oversized TV, easily the most expensive item in the room, wedged on top of a rickety microwave stand. Surround-sound speakers were plunked in every corner. Candi wasn’t sure why anyone needed surround sound in a space this tiny, but she supposed boys wanted their toys.

The walls were covered in dark wood paneling and dotted with pictures of the high school’s football teams, spanning ten years. Two mounted shelves displayed the decade’s bounty-various trophies in metallic shades of red and green and gold.

Candi ducked her head into one small room, discovered a bathroom. Pushed back a second door to find a tiny office. Third time was the charm: She saw a bare mattress topped by a single white sheet. So this was Dougie’s room.

No pictures on the walls, but three impressive holes. No clothes in the closet, but a two-quart bucket. No toys of any kind. The room reminded Candi of a prison cell.

“Got a good enough look?” Laura asked from behind her. She had changed into another pair of jeans and a fresh baggy sweatshirt-this one dark green. She’d done something to her hair-probably splashed it with water-then wrapped it in a turban to disguise the cigarette smell. She really was pretty good, if you didn’t consider the nicotine stains on her fingers or the state of her teeth.

“Where’s his stuff?”

“Dougie doesn’t have any stuff. It’s part of the program. Kid starts with nothing, then earns things back bit by bit.”

“He doesn’t even get clothes?”

“He has clothes. They’re in our room. I provide him with one outfit a day, my choosing. If he wants his own clothes, again, he’s gotta behave.”

Candi arched a brow. Laura merely shrugged.

“With a boy like Dougie, what else are you gonna do?”

“Do you like Dougie, Mrs. Carpenter?”

“Not really.”

“Have you ever hit him?”

Laura’s gaze remained level. “My mama whacked me most days of my life. I don’t feel a need to return that favor.”

“And Stanley?”

“I’ve never seen him raise a hand to the boy.”

“What about to you?”

Laura raised a brow. “Stanley has his faults; that’s not one of them.”

“So what are his faults?”

“He’s a man. What are all men’s faults? Pigheadedness, self-centeredness. He wants what he wants, no matter what anyone else says.”

“Like he wanted Dougie.”

“Like he wanted Dougie.”

“So you just go along with it?”

Laura cocked her head to the side. She studied Candi for a full minute. “I know what you think, Miss Rodriguez. I know what you all think when you traipse through here. Look at that poor woman, with her face like a hundred miles of bad road. Look at that ugly little house with its ugly gold carpet and cheap Wal-Mart furniture. How can she live like that? How can she keep any man happy?

“You want to know the truth? I don’t always keep my man happy, but I always keep him. We’re no Catherine Zeta-Jones and Michael Douglas, but we understand each other. We’ve known each other since we were five. And compared to the trailer park where we grew up, we are living in a fucking mansion and this is our slice of paradise. Maybe no one else wants it, but for us, our life is doing just fine.”

“You’re taking care of a child you don’t even like,” Candi said bluntly.

“I’m taking care of my responsibilities.”

“He’s lost.”

“He ran away.”

“Or is kidnapped.”

Laura snorted. “Honest to God, not the devil himself could make that boy do something he didn’t want to do.”

“Then why are you raising him?”

“Because my husband asked me to.”

“And you always do what your husband wants?”

Laura exhaled sharply. For the first time since Candi had arrived, the woman appeared angry. “You people,” she said suddenly. “You keep coming here, searching, searching, searching. I’ve never seen so many people look so hard for something that’s right in front of their faces. Come here!”

Laura marched into the family room. Candi followed in her wake. The woman jerked down a photo album, flipped it open, then stabbed at a photo with her finger.