five

“Are you here about Bob?” Barbara finally asked. Frank chose his words carefully and explained that Bob hadn’t been available to close the recycling center yesterday.

“The recycling center is a dangerous place,” Frank said. “The town can’t afford to have it unmanned. We sent a car over when we got word there was no one there.” Of course, the police department hadn’t been notified, but Barbara seemed to buy the white lie. Maybe we’d never have to tell Barbara the truth—that Bob may have had a tip for Frank that led to his disappearance.

“So Bob was at work yesterday morning?” Barbara asked.

“As far as we know.”

“We had breakfast together at seven thirty, and then we went our separate ways. I offered to drive him to work, but he likes to walk.” Barbara glanced at their metal yurt. “He’s not here, and you’re telling me that he’s not at work now. Is that right?”

I nodded and added, “I’m guessing Jimmy is covering for Bob.” I turned to Frank. “Jimmy is Bob’s second-in-command.”

Barbara appeared calm, but her hands were restless. She puttered around Bob’s workspace reorganizing his piles of art supplies. “It’s never been easy being married to Bob,” she said. “I’ve learned to appreciate an artist’s temperament, because I know at the end I’ll be rewarded with these wonderful creations. You can’t box him in. His mind is constantly moving, so I’ve learned to be flexible and give him the space he needs.”

“Does Bob spend the night out often?”

Silence.

“Barbara?”

“Years ago”—she paused—“when we first met, in our twenties, Bob was a bit of a drinker.”

“Drugs?”

Barbara tilted her head from side to side. A noncommittal motion. “Everyone did drugs back then. Bob wasn’t called up, but his friends were coming home with limbs shot off and their brains blown out. Drugs seemed to be a solution.”

“So a few weekend benders as a young man?”

“You could say that.” Barbara’s shoulders released as tears rolled down her face. “Maybe a few times when we got older, but really not in years. Lately, it seemed he was distracted by his art. His mind seemed to always be somewhere except here.” She was worried but not panicked. Of course, she didn’t know about the warehouses stocked with leaking toxic tech equipment. She didn’t know Frank had called Bob before he went missing.

Almost a day had passed, and Bob’s wife deserved an answer. We all wanted an answer. This was a woman who thought maybe her husband had slipped up—a handful of pills, some beers, and a night on someone’s couch or an artistic excursion that kept him away from home. It wasn’t completely out of character, given Bob’s previous behaviors.

Here’s hoping she’s right, I thought.