by Tawni O'Dell
“Oh my God,” Jessy gasps.
She instinctively holds her own child tighter to her chest.
“Oh my God,” she says again. “Mom!”
Shawna doesn’t even glance our way.
Jessy grabs the photo out of my hand and rushes to her mother. Tears are streaming down her face.
“Mom! Look! It’s Camio.”
She shoves the photo in front of Shawna, who darts a look at it.
“It’s feet. So what? You know how many girls paint their toenails pink and have crappy little anklets? And don’t you start telling me again that that Massey kid bought it special at Kay Jewelers. It’s a piece of shit you can get at Walmart. I seen ’em.”
“It’s Camio. Look at the scar on the side of her foot. Remember when she was little and stepped on that nail and it went right through? It got infected.”
“Why the hell do you know so much about your sister’s feet?”
“Mom!” Jessy screams, shaking the photo at her. “What’s wrong with you?”
Shawna slaps her daughter so hard, the sound makes the baby start to cry.
“Don’t you talk to me like that,” she hisses.
I take a step forward, but I’m stopped by Miranda laying her hand on my arm.
“What happened to her?” she asks.
“I’m afraid I can’t give you any more information at this time. We’d like to have access to her dental records so we can make a positive ID.”
“Where is she?”
“The county morgue.”
She motions at Jessy and Shawna.
“Come on. We’re going.”
“Mrs. Truly,” I try to stop her. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s in very bad shape.”
“Worse shape than having her head ripped off by a tractor trailer or spending two days dead at the bottom of a crick? Marty had crayfish in his eye sockets.”
I don’t know what to say to this.
“Shawna. Your child is dead,” Miranda announces. “Get up now.”
Shawna rises in slow motion and shakes crumbs out of her shirt.
On her way past me, she jabs a finger in my face and spits, “Don’t you say nothing to me. You can ma’am Miranda but don’t you ma’am me.”
I want to tell her that I’m not the enemy, that we’re the same, that I know what it’s like to be poor, to live in squalor, to wonder why others have it better but that these unpleasant realities didn’t make me turn inward and blame and dislike the bigger world; they made me want to be a part of it.
Aside from the presence of my siblings, my mother’s house depressed and frustrated me. I came up with the plan that I would sleep and eat there out of necessity but do all the rest of my living somewhere else.
I loved school. I loved activities and events. I loved having friends. I loved having boyfriends. I loved my town. I loved community involvement.
I loved my mom, too, and this is why I was constantly cutting her breaks. I knew she was bad at mothering, but I was never sure if this was the same thing as being a bad mother. Neely and I were convinced that deep down Mom loved us; otherwise, why would she have kept us?
“I’ll have an officer meet you there,” I tell them.
Neither Miranda nor Shawna make sure that I leave before them. They pull out while I’m standing beside my car. I briefly entertain the idea of going back in the house and poking around, but I know I can’t.
I’m about to go when I see a little boy crawl out an upstairs window and scurry across the front porch roof with the agility of a squirrel.
He stops precariously close to the gutters and produces a Slim Jim from his jeans pocket. He tears off a piece with his teeth.
“Who are you?” I call up to him.
“Derk Truly. Who are you?”
“Dove Carnahan.”
“That’s a stupid name. We shoot doves.”
“I’m sure you do. How old are you, Derk?”
“Eight.”
“Is it okay for you to be home alone?”
“I’m alone all the time.”
I wait to see if he’s going to venture any closer on his own. Like the woodland creature he reminds me of, I’m certain he’s skittish and easy to frighten away.
He sticks the meat stick back in his pocket, lies down on his side, grabs the edge of the roof, rolls off, then swings onto the porch in one fluid motion. He lands on his feet with a resounding thud.
I stay where I am. He’s an adorable boy: big brown eyes with long lashes, a sprinkle of freckles on his cheeks, ears a little too big for his head. His close-cropped hair has a baby seal appeal to it, and I’d like to grab him and stroke its silky softness.
“Do you know Camio’s boyfriend?” I ask the little angel.
“Zane Massey,” he answers me. “He’s a cocksucker. His whole family’s a bunch of cocksuckers.”
I’m not the least bit surprised by his language, but I can tell from the defiance on his face and in his stance that he expects me to be.
“Really? Do you know what a cocksucker is?”
“Yeah,” he replies, unconvincingly.
“The only Masseys I know are Terry and Brie and their kids. He’s a CPA and she’s a secretary in an orthodontist’s office. Now you could say they’re a bunch of Presbyterians, or a bunch of brunettes, or a bunch of animal lovers, or a bunch of Ford-Explorer-driving, Old-Navy-shopping, Olive-Garden-dining Taylor Swift fans, but I highly doubt this family sits around sucking cocks together.”
He stares back at me saying nothing. At least I’ve got his attention.
“Know what you’re talking about before you open your mouth,” I tell him. “It’s a good rule to follow.”
“I don’t follow rules.”
“I see. What do you think about your sister Camio?”
“She’s a bitch.”
“Why’s that?”
“She wants to leave.”
“With Zane?”
“Don’t know. She wants to go to college.”
“You think that’s a bad idea?”
“College is for cocksuckers.”
“Well, that’s partially true. And what about your brother Tug?”
“He’s okay.”
“He works for my sister, the dog trainer.”
“Tug says she’s okay.”
I get into my car.
“It was very interesting talking to you, Derk,” I tell him through the open window. “You have a nice day.”
I pretend to be busy writing down something in a notebook.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see him leave the porch and start to approach me while trying to look like he isn’t.
I take a candy bar out of my purse, break off a piece, and wait for him to arrive outside my window. He does.
“Don’t you have another brother?” I ask him.
“Shane’s in jail. He stabbed someone.”
I extend the rest of the candy bar to him. He grabs it without hesitating and shoves it into his mouth.
“Any cocksuckers in jail?” I wonder.
“Nope,” he says through a mouthful of chocolate.
chapter five
I CALL NOLAN and tell him the girl is almost certainly Camio Truly and her family is on their way to the morgue. Nolan rarely swears but he lets loose with a few choice words that Derk would have admired. He didn’t want the family at the morgue yet. He says he’ll drop everything and meet them there.
I decide not to tell him the name of Camio’s boyfriend. Let the big man figure it out on his own.
Nolan wouldn’t approve of me talking to Zane and his parents yet. He’d want us to wait until we were sure of her identity and go at them with the shocking news that his girlfriend was dead but if she was dead then we’d be conducting a murder investigation and Zane would be a potential suspect because boyfriends always are and his parents would immediately circle the wagons. I know them, not well, but well enough to assume they can’t be happy about their son dating a Truly and that,
like most parents, they’d do anything to protect their child.
SINCE IT’S A SATURDAY, I might find one or both of Zane’s parents at home. During the era when I grew up, there’s no way a kid would be inside on a day like today, but nowadays there’s a good possibility he’s embedded in the basement rec room playing video games.
Terry Massey’s mowing his yard. He holds up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun and to get a better look at who’s pulling into his driveway.
I’m in my own car and wearing street clothes. I shouldn’t be a scary presence, but I smile brightly and wave cheerily at him when I get out of my car just to assure him that everything is okay.
I know Terry because he helped Neely with some tax problems related to her business a few years ago. He’s the antithesis of his profession’s milquetoast stereotype. He’s a big, bluff guy, gregarious and loud, who gets up from his desk and eagerly comes at you across his office for a handshake like a linebacker heading for a fumbled ball.
The roar of his mower subsides, and he makes his way across his perfect carpet of vivid green grass. I’m reminded that I need to tend to my own yard, then wistfully recall my fantasy to let it revert back to its natural state of weeds and wildflowers where birds and animals can cavort freely, but we have strict guidelines for lawn maintenance within the borough; outside of it residents can grow their grass three feet tall, cover their property with no longer functioning household appliances and disabled vehicles on cinder blocks, and dispose of anything unwanted—from a chipmunk carcass to an old recliner—by lighting it on fire in their front yard. From what I saw earlier, the Truly family seems to have wholeheartedly embraced this look.
“Hey, there, Chief Carnahan.”
Terry draws a forearm across his face to wipe the sweat away.
“I’ve told you before to call me Dove.”
“Okay, Dove. What can I do you for?”
“I was hoping to talk to Zane.”
The welcoming grin falls off his sunburned face.
“He’s not in any trouble,” I tell him. “I just have a few questions for him. Is he home?”
He takes a moment to decide how he’s going to answer me.
“No, but he’s only a block away at a friend’s house. I can text him.”
“That would be great. Is your wife home?”
“She’s out back.”
I follow him around the side of his two-story, mocha brown, vinyl-sided house with barn red trim, marveling all the while at how some people manage to keep their yards cleaner than I keep my kitchen.
I’ve met his wife once in passing at the Olive Garden. My memory of her is of various elements, not of an overall impression: shiny hair cut in a swingy pageboy, a forced cackling giggle, a distracting multistrand necklace made of silver-dollar-size red metallic discs. I would have been able to pick her laugh out of a lineup but not her.
We find her kneeling on a plastic mat next to a flowerbed. I’m certain she took the time to pick out her outfit rather than throw on just anything to dig in the dirt. She’s wearing a pair of orange capri pants, matching Crocs, a sleeveless yellow blouse, and a blindingly white baseball cap. Her work gloves are covered in a butterfly pattern and are amazingly clean.
She sits back on her heels and flashes a warm smile at her husband and me.
“Honey, you remember Chief Carnahan. Dove,” he adds with a wink.
She pulls off a glove one finger at a time and extends her hand to me while Terry walks over to a patio table and picks up a cell phone.
“Nice to see you again,” she says, and hops to her feet.
“She wants to talk to Zane,” her husband explains while texting.
“Zane?” Her smile widens and tightens. “Why? Zane never gets in trouble. He’s almost too good.”
I try to make my smile equal hers in size, but the muscles in my face won’t comply.
“That’s refreshing to hear about a seventeen-year-old boy,” I say. “He’s not in trouble. I want to ask him a few questions about his girlfriend.”
I leave the statement hanging in the air, waiting to see if she’ll supply a name.
“Camio?”
“Yes. What can you tell me about her?”
“She’s a nice girl. Polite. Straight A’s from what Zane tells us. A little on the shy side. We have no problems with Camio.”
She darts a look at her husband.
“But . . . ,” I urge her.
“It’s her family.”
“You’ve met them?”
“Well, no. But we don’t really have to meet them to know what they’re like.”
“How’s that?”
“Half of them are dead or in jail,” she says.
“But the other half isn’t,” I offer.
Terry laughs. His wife smiles at him, uncertainly.
“I’ve met her mother,” she continues.
“And how did that go?”
“I don’t want to sound mean,” she lowers her voice to a conspiratorial level. “I understand some people have no willpower. It’s an addiction, you know. Overeating. Just like being addicted to drugs or alcohol. The only difference is that you can stop eating like a pig. I mean, just stop it. Put the Twinkie down. Drugs and alcohol are much harder to quit. Not that I would know firsthand, of course.”
“When you met Mrs. Truly did you have any kind of interaction with her other than realizing she’s overweight?”
“She was extremely rude. It was a school function. I introduced myself. I said, ‘I’m Zane’s mother,’ and she said, ‘Do you want a medal?’ ”
A laugh leaps to my lips, and I clear my throat to cover it up.
“Are Camio and Zane serious?”
“No,” she says automatically, shaking her head, while her husband simultaneously nods and says, “I think so.”
Before I can question them further, Brie pulls her husband aside and attacks his ear with tiny hisses that I can’t quite make out.
“Were they together last night?” I try.
Again, I receive two different answers. A “no” from Zane’s mother, and another “I think so” from his father.
Brie fixes Terry with a glare, and he turns suddenly serious.
“What’s this about?” he asks me.
“Camio is missing.”
I carefully watch their faces: Terry looks a little shaken, while Brie appears almost pleased.
“From what you know of her, do you think she might have run away?” I ask.
“If she has run away, I wouldn’t be all that upset,” Brie replies. “I know that’s a terrible thing to say, but I can’t help myself.”
I nod my understanding.
“It’s almost as if you have an addiction to saying terrible things.”
Terry lets loose with a guffaw.
“I told you she’s got a great sense of humor. For a cop.”
“I thought you said you didn’t have a problem with Camio?” I continue.
“I don’t. She’s a nice girl and I wish her well, but I don’t want her to be the mother of my grandchildren.”
“I thought you said they weren’t serious?”
Her frustration gets the better of her, and she explodes into one of her shrieking giggles I remember from the restaurant.
“You’re twisting my words.” She laughs.
I can tell Zane has arrived by the sudden transformation in her expression; the brittle panic melts into fuzzy fondness, then two stark lines of worry appear on her forehead and dip toward her nose.
I look over my shoulder and see a teenage boy loping toward us with the easy, loose-limbed gait of an athlete leaving the field after a satisfying practice. He’s cut through a half dozen backyards to get home. Even if Zane is not too good—as his mother believes—he’s good enough to earn the tolerance of his neighbors.
He arrives in front of us. His mother immediately puts an arm around his shoulders. He allows it to rest there for five seconds before shrugging it off. I can almost he
ar the two of them ticking off the countdown in their heads: the mother thinking it’s better than nothing, and the son thinking it’s the least he can do.
He’s dressed in shimmery red basketball shorts that fall to the knee, a dark blue tank top, and a pair of rubber white Nike sandals. No piercings. No visible tattoos. No outward signs of rebellion. I’m impressed at how quickly he obeyed his father’s call.
Terry makes the introductions. Zane doesn’t seem intimidated or surprised by my presence. He takes the fact that the chief of police has shown up at his house on a Saturday afternoon wanting to talk to him as a matter of course. Either he’s an authentically nice kid who’s utterly innocent or a sociopath who’s completely guilty.
“Could I have a moment alone with Zane?”
The parents have become uneasy. I don’t expect a teen to sense this, but he does. Zane smiles at them.
They’re a smiley, attractive family. I’ve yet to meet the younger daughter, but I’m sure she fits in snugly with the rest, completing them like the last piece of a puzzle. I know there’s a professional portrait of them in color-coordinated sweaters posing on a rustic footpath on a wall in their house somewhere, along with photos of both children documented at every milestone age.
Shawna Truly didn’t have a single photo of any of her five children displayed anywhere that I could see, just her own faded wedding picture.
“What’s wrong, you two?” Zane asks his mom and dad, and they relax at the joshing quality of his voice.
“They’re totally paranoid I’m going to fu . . . I mean, mess up someday in a major way ’cause I haven’t so far,” he says to me, and laughs. “Sometimes I feel like doing it just to get it over with.”
“This will only take a minute,” I say to everyone.
Brie clenches her mouth shut. Terry holds his hands out to me, palms up, as if he’s giving me the memory of his son’s long-gone infant body.
I want to tell them that I won’t hurt their baby, but I can’t make that promise yet.
“Where were you last night, Zane?” I ask, once his parents are safely inside the house, each pressed up against a different window watching us.
“I was out with some friends. Then I was home.”
“You have a girlfriend but you weren’t out with her?”