Supercell

by H W Buzz Bernard

  “You guys didn’t know about the plantation?”

  “There was no plantation. Only in my dream.”

  “Sorry. Forgot.”

  “Anyhow, I woke up this morning, after the dream, thinking about prairie grass and horses and where your recorder might be. What the dream told me.”

  “You believe in that stuff?”

  “The Indian part of me does, not the soldier in me. That part only thinks about death.”

  Metcalf’s Lincoln and the camera truck pulled into the lot. Metcalf, a new Greek fisherman’s cap pulled low over his eyes to ward of the low-angle sun, strode to Chuck and Sam. “Okay, chief,” he said to Sam, “where do we look?”

  Sam squinted at him. “How about the Little Big Horn?”

  Metcalf brushed his fingers through his beard. “Sorry,” he said. “Where do we look, Mr. Townsend?” He put sarcastic emphasis on “Mr. Townsend.”

  “I suggest you and your team go through the debris covering the parking lot again. Yesterday, everyone was tired and stressed out, and the light was failing. Today we’re rested, the light is great and we’ve got the whole day ahead of us. Be methodical and thorough. Dig through everything. Like I said yesterday, you might have walked right by the camera or recorder a dozen times without realizing it.”

  “What about you and Chaz?”

  “We’re going to take my truck and check the grasslands around the lot, just in case the thing got blown out onto the prairie.”

  “Or farther,” Chuck added. Dejection riddled his words.

  “We’ll find it,” Sam responded. “Let’s go.” He spoke to Metcalf: “Call Chuck’s cell if you find anything.”

  “Like that’s gonna happen,” Metcalf mumbled. He motioned for his crew to follow him into the center of the parking lot.

  Chuck lifted Stormy into the bed of Sam’s pickup, then climbed into the cab beside Sam. “What are we really looking for?” he asked as Sam steered the truck into prairie.

  Sam shrugged. “A horse. Maybe a trail through the prairie grass. A rubber plantation.”

  “Jesus.” Chuck sank down into his seat. He fixed his gaze on the floorboard, not the grassland.

  Sam chuckled. “I’m kidding about the rubber plantation. Look, only half of me is Osage. The other half is like you. Rational. Let’s give it an hour or two. Who knows . . .”

  Chuck didn’t respond. He didn’t believe in mystical guidance from dreams, but on the other hand, the hours spent searching yesterday had proved fruitless.

  “Okay?” Sam asked.

  “No more than two hours.”

  The prairie grass, lush and green from the recent storms, lay semi-flattened in the bright dawn. Debris—strips of insulation, shingles, sheets of aluminum, all manner of wastepaper—coated the rolling landscape to the near horizon. The litter appeared less dense than that which layered the area immediately surrounding the Gust Front, but . . . they could search for days and never find the SSR. Chuck shook his head. There seemed no hope. Only another defeat.

  He and Sam rode in silence for the better part of half an hour.

  “Sam, this is ridiculous,” Chuck finally blurted. “I don’t mean to offend—”

  “There,” Sam said. He pointed dead ahead of the pickup.

  Chuck lowered the sun visor to shield his eyes. “What’s that?”

  “Wild horse. Usually they run in herds. This one seems to be alone.” Sam gunned the engine. The truck lurched forward. The horse wheeled and galloped toward a low rise.

  Chuck gripped the grab bar above the door as the pickup bounced and hopped over the grassland in pursuit of the horse.

  “Christ. Easy, Sam. You’re gonna break your truck.”

  “Don’t wanna lose the horse.”

  “It’s just a horse, damn it.”

  “You think?”

  Chuck didn’t answer.

  The horse reached the ridge and slowed his pace, allowing Sam to close the gap. The animal trotted down the opposite slope as Sam reached the peak of the rise.

  “Well, shit,” Sam said, looking down the slope. He stopped the truck.

  The horse had led them to his herd, not the Panavision, not the SSR.

  “So much for Indian lore,” Chuck said. But he had to admit he was more disappointed than angered. He had, in fact, held out just a smidgen of hope that Sam’s vision would bear fruit.

  “Get out and look around,” Sam said.

  “Sam—”

  “Humor me.”

  Chuck dismounted, told Stormy to stay put. “You can’t help out here, girl. You need to rest that paw. We’ll get you to a vet this afternoon.” Stormy whimpered, but remained in the bed of the truck.

  Chuck and Sam tramped around in the grass for almost an hour before Sam raised the white flag. “Well, there’s nothing here,” he said.

  “Lots of horse pucky.” Chuck examined the bottom of his left shoe. “That’s not a metaphor.”

  “Kind of what you’d expect, I guess. From real horses. Not dream horses. Sorry, partner.” He rested a hand on Chuck’s shoulder.

  “I was kind of hoping—”

  “I know you were. So was I. Maybe I’m more soldier than Indian.”

  Chuck’s cell rang. He answered.

  “Well, Chazaroo, your Injun bud knew what he was talking about after all,” Metcalf said. “We found the Panavision and the SSR in the parking lot. They were under a big pile of wreckage from the motel. But we got ’em! How about that shit?”

  Chuck turned to Sam. He couldn’t help it, the words came tumbling out: “I’m a millionaire, Sam. A fucking millionaire. Can you believe it?” Elation swept over him. An emotion that had been matched only twice in his life: by the birth of his son and the birth of his daughter.

  Sam high-fived him.

  “We’ll be back in 30 minutes, Jerry,” Chuck yelled into the phone. “Hang on.”

  “Hey, Chucky,” Metcalf said, “before you wet your pants in excitement, let me correct one thing. You ain’t a millionaire. See ya back here.” He hung up.

  The buoyancy that had filled Chuck mere seconds ago exploded from him like air bursting from a pinpricked balloon.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  MONDAY, MAY 12

  CHUCK AND SAM rolled into the debris-shrouded parking lot of the Gust Front Grill a half hour after receiving Metcalf’s call. Metcalf, in an animated discussion with Willie Weston and Ziggy, stood near his Navigator.

  Chuck dismounted from Sam’s pickup and marched toward Metcalf, who greeted him with a forced smile. Willie and Ziggy stared at the ground, as though examining their shadows.

  “What the hell did you mean, Jerry, I’m not a millionaire?” Chuck snapped. “We had a deal. You gave me a one-day extension. I delivered. I found your supertwister.”

  “You did.”

  “So what’s the problem? You gonna try to claim it wasn’t an EF-4 or -5 that caused all this.” He gestured at the wreckage surrounding them, at the flattened grill, the destroyed town.

  “No.”

  “You’re just gonna stiff me then, you son of a bitch?”

  No longer smiling, Metcalf stepped closer to Chuck. “Watch your mouth, Chuckie. I’m not a guy who welches on deals. But we never had one.” His voice rumbled with an undertone of menace.

  “We shook hands on it.”

  “I said—and I remember my words precisely—I’d give you an extra 24 hours.”

  “So?”

  “So I never said I’d extend the contract. The million-dollar incentive expired on Saturday.”

  “I’ll get a lawyer. I’ll fight this in court.” Chuck attempted to sound resolute, but effeteness strangled his retort. He knew he’d just been shoved off a cliff.

  The smile returne
d to Metcalf’s face. “Sure you will, Chaz. Outside of the fact you don’t have a pot to piss in, the only signed document you can produce is the original contract, the one that gave you 14 days to earn your prize. Day 15 didn’t count.”

  Chuck clenched his fist, measuring the distance to Metcalf’s smile. Enough is enough from this asshole. He cocked his arm and fired an uppercut at his tormentor’s chin.

  Sam, suddenly beside Chuck, blocked the punch. “Don’t.”

  Chuck, chest heaving, stared at his friend.

  “He’ll have you arrested for battery,” Sam said, gently pushing Chuck’s arm down. “Don’t give the bastard any more to gloat over than he’s already got.”

  “Jesus, Sam . . .” But no more words came. He’d been gutted by Metcalf, like a trout freshly yanked from a mountain stream. His legs went wobbly and he sank to his butt on a pile of debris.

  Willie stepped forward, confronted Metcalf. “Come on, Jerry. The guy delivered. We got some of the best footage of a twister ever shot. That alone—”

  “Back off, Willie. Let me handle the business end of things. You stick to directing.” Metcalf turned to Chuck. “Hollywood is a dog-eat-dog world, Chuckie. Nothing personal.”

  “It’s actually pretty damn personal. You screwed me.” Chuck stared straight ahead, not at Metcalf.

  “I wish Monty were here,” Sam said. “He’d take care of things.”

  “Yeah.” Dejection smothered Chuck . He’d taken a long journey, from doubt to resurrection, from defeat to victory, from dream to reality. But in the end, it had all been an illusion. There was no pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. He should have known that.

  Sam rested a hand on Chuck’s shoulder. “A wise man once said, ‘In a fight between you and the world, back the world’.”

  “Osage wisdom?”

  “No. Franz Kafka.” Sam extended his hand to Chuck. “Come on. Let’s blow this joint.”

  “Where to?”

  “There are some people in a Bartlesville hospital that would probably like to see you,” Sam said. He pulled Chuck to his feet.

  Metcalf tipped his cap to Chuck and Sam as he climbed into his SUV. “Maybe next time, gentlemen.”

  Sam gave him the finger.

  Willie approached Chuck. “Sorry,” he said. “This just isn’t right. The trouble is, legally, the bastard is on solid ground. Morally, that’s another story. I hope you don’t judge everyone in the business by him.”

  Chuck shrugged. Drained.

  Ziggy remained near Metcalf’s Lincoln. He looked in Chuck’s direction, shook his head slightly, his dreadlocks swinging like grandfather clock pendulums, and mouthed, “Sorry, man.”

  “Come on you guys,” Metcalf yelled at Willie and Ziggy. “Let’s get out of cowpuke country and back to civilization.” He gunned the engine.

  Stormy limped to Chuck, stood on her hind legs, and licked his hand.

  CHUCK ENTERED GABI’S room at the Jane Phillips Medical Center in Bartlesville. Her eyes closed, she stirred uneasily as the door clicked shut behind Chuck. A monitor tracking her blood pressure and other vital signs beeped softly. Inserted in her right hand, an IV drip, presumably an antibiotic of some sort, went about its work silently.

  He sat in a chair next to her bed. Contrasted against her ebony hair, her face, washed of color, appeared even paler than it likely was. After a moment, she opened her eyes and offered a weak smile. “My hero,” she said, her words slightly slurred.

  He placed his hand on top of her unencumbered one, but didn’t respond, afraid he’d blubber.

  “The doctors told me you and Ty, but you especially, performed CPR on me for quite a while until the EMTs got there with their little shock machine and squeezy thing.”

  “It’s called a Ambu bag.”

  “Whatever. My point is, if you save a life, you’re forever responsible for it,” she said, her voice almost a whisper. “Think you’re up to the job?”

  He gathered himself, checked his emotions. “Probably not.”

  “Why not? I’m not going to be a vegetable, you know.” Her voice remained soft. “It’s a funny thing to say, but luckily, that damned snake—” she shuddered “—squeezed me so hard it stopped my heart before I suffocated. If I’d suffocated—you know, no oxygen to the brain—you’d probably have a turnip for a girlfriend.” She stopped talking, seemingly exhausted by her effort.

  “A lot of pain?” Chuck asked.

  “I think I’m stuffed full of pain killers. Hey, at least my migraine is gone.” She managed a fragile laugh.

  A nurse entered the room and checked the monitor, writing something on a clipboard. She bent over Gabi. “How ya doin’, honey? Can I get you anything? Water? Something to eat?”

  “Ribs.”

  “You that hungry?”

  “No. New ribs. For me.”

  The nurse patted Gabi’s head. “I know, darlin’. Those’ll take a while to mend. Sorry. Not much we can do for ’em. Well, the doc will be along shortly to talk to you. Okay?”

  Gabi nodded. The nurse left.

  “Hey,” Gabi said, a thought seeming to strike her, “did you find the recorder? The images of the tornado?”

  “Yes.”

  She smiled, more robustly this time, then winced. “Chuck, that’s great.”

  “Not really.”

  “Why? I thought—”

  “Metcalf screwed me.” He explained.

  “That son-of-a-bitch,” Gabi said after he’d finished. The words came out strong, surprising Chuck. “We’ve got a lot of lawyers in the Bureau. Let me see what—”

  “It’s okay, Gabi. All I’ve got is a handshake on my side. Worthless. The only thing that matters legally is the contract I signed. It says time ran out on me Saturday, not Sunday.”

  “Yeah,” she whispered, and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.” She squeezed his hand with surprising strength.

  “I need to be going, Gabi. Ty’s being released today. Gotta get him back to Ok City; and Stormy to a vet.”

  She opened her eyes and continued to grip his hand. Her voice remained subdued. “Remember, you’re responsible for me now.”

  “Okay,” he said. He bent over and kissed her on the lips, knowing a broke, jobless, middle-aged man couldn’t effectively be responsible for much of anything.

  “I expect you back here tomorrow,” she said, a sweetness coating her words. She released his hand.

  He nodded, noncommittal, and slipped from the room. In the hallway, head down, he trudged toward the main entrance. What had he accomplished the last two weeks? Won the battle, lost the war? Pretty much. He’d led the film crew to the greatest tornado ever filmed . . . and came away empty-handed. He’d fallen for a woman . . . but had nothing to offer her. He’d perhaps closed, slightly, the breach that separated him and his son . . . but couldn’t deliver on his promise of financial restitution. And he still hadn’t come to grips with exactly where he stood with Ty. Or God.

  Was he, Chuck, being tested as Abraham had been with Isaac? Must he leave Ty on the mountain, a sacrifice? Did the answers lie in the Bible bound in strict conservative armor? Or in modern-day 21st-century science? Some people, Chuck knew, like his father, seemed to find clear-cut, black and white answers in the Bible. But the real world existed in shades of gray.

  Behind the main information desk of the hospital lay a chapel. Chuck stepped into it, found it unoccupied, and seated himself in a pew. The confusion over how to address his relationship with Ty continued to unsettle him. The chasm between them seemed have narrowed over the past two weeks, but could it be bridged completely? What was right? How do you balance the pejorative terminology about homosexuality in the Bible with the inherent desire to love your children unconditionally?

  He bowed his head and prayed, hoping to find gui
dance in the silence of the sanctuary.

  He emerged a short time later and found Ty and Sam waiting for him in the lobby. Ty wore slightly worn golf shorts, flip flops, a tee shirt adorned with a big red OU, and a heavy bandage around his left thigh.

  “Nice threads,” Chuck said.

  “Nordstrom was closed. Goodwill was open. At least they found me a University of Oregon shirt.”

  Chuck laughed. “OU? No, I think you’re a Sooner now. How are you feeling?”

  “Like I’ve been shot in the leg. Ironic isn’t it? Not a scratch in Afghanistan, then I get a Purple Heart in Oklahoma?”

  “Not much logic to life, is there?” Chuck said.

  “Yeah. I guess we both should know that by now.”

  Sam interrupted the conversation. “Take your time, you two. I’m gonna mosey off and get the truck. I think Stormy might be getting kind of lonely. I’ll meet you at the front entrance.” He tipped his still-mashed top hat and strode off.

  Ty inclined his head toward the chapel. “So, did you find any answers in there?” He spoke softly, not challenging his father.

  “Not really. I just ended up with more questions. My conversations with God usually turn out to be pretty one-sided.”

  Shoulder-to-shoulder, father and son strolled toward the entrance. Outside, the brilliant late-afternoon sun reflected like tiny supernovas off the windshields of the vehicles crowded into the parking lot. A steady flow of people, both entering and leaving the facility, suggested the hospital was busier than usual. The traffic, Chuck guessed, consisted mainly of visitors seeking out victims of the previous day’s tornadoes.

  “Maybe,” Ty said, “the answers lie within you. God probably wants you to find them for yourself. Not in some booming voice from heaven.”

  “Or even a quiet voice.”

  They walked in silence for a few moments, then Ty said, “So, where do I stand, Dad?”

  Chuck stopped and touched his son on the shoulder. “When was the last time I hugged you?”

  Ty turned to face him. “I don’t remember. Years ago.”