Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  He looked over at his father in the passenger seat. Dad remained asleep. The click and thump of Wes’s tires vibrated the thin bags hanging from his father’s cheekbones. The call connected after one ring.

  “Where the fuck are you? Where is Dad!” she yelled. Wes yanked his head away from the phone, from her yells. He should have expected this.

  “We’re okay, Sis.” Wes spoke with a calm voice, returning his ear to the phone. He didn’t want to wake his dad. “Pop’s fine, okay? He’s asked me to take him somewhere.”

  “Bullshit!” she screamed. The speaker in Wes’s phone rasped, unable to re-create his sister’s loudness.

  “No. He called me from the hospital,” Wes explained. He focused on keeping his tone cool. “He needs to get …” How much should he say? Irene was smart—she could fuck this up for them. “He needs to get someplace, to see someone. So we’re taking a quick trip.”

  Irene hissed a sigh. “Let me talk to him.”

  “He’s asleep.”

  “Well, wake his ass up, dipshit! I need to hear this from him!” she spit.

  “No, he’s exhausted, and he needs to rest. Maybe he’ll call you later, okay?”

  “Fuck no, this isn’t okay!” Irene returned to screaming. “Wes, I swear to Christ, I will call the fucking cops!”

  Wes chuckled. “Go ahead, Sis. We’ve done nothing wrong.”

  Irene was silent for a long moment, the sound of the road filling the space. “Just tell me where you’re going.” She had regained some composure.

  Wes knew he wouldn’t do that. “I don’t think that’ll help, Sis. We’ll only be a day or two, okay? Trust me.”

  On the other end of the line, Irene exploded in a profanity-laden wall of noise. Wes pushed away the guilt. He couldn’t control his sister’s feelings. He could control only himself. His own choices. His own obligations. He’d promised Pop he would let Irene know they were okay. He’d done that, and Wes didn’t want to put up with this shit. Enunciating into the phone, not so loud that it would wake Dad, Wes said, “Hey, Irene, can you tell me something?” The line went silent. He hoped Irene was listening. “Does this sound like a phone hanging up on you?” Wes disconnected the call. He turned off his phone and tossed it back into the plastic tray with a thin clatter.

  That had gone as expected. Irene’s head was hard. Her ego refused to bend. There was no way Dad could have gone to her with his current problem. If he was being honest, Wes didn’t think that the video was legitimate at first. He never would have, except Pop insisted that it was real, that the voice told him so. After Wes found the Utopia video online, his dad explained the voice’s instructions—get to this healer kid, find your purpose. Wes couldn’t even pretend to understand. But that didn’t matter. Pop needed this, and he needed his son to make it happen. So Wes didn’t think about it; he gathered what he had and stepped up to help. Ten hours away—that’s how close they were to ending his suffering and saving his life. The approaching sign for Las Cruces reminded him to adjust his math. Wes smiled. Make that nine hours.

  Beyond his father, the sun blazed below the horizon. It hit a sky iced with clouds that turned the threat of rain into glowing purples and reds. Color rose tall into the sky and carried away to the north. It would be the first monsoon of the season, a promise of much-needed rain back home.

  Pop stirred a bit, coughing. His clothes swallowed him, like he was three pounds of dirt in a ten-pound sack. The fanny pack secured tight around his waist cinched his oxford shirt into messy folds. He could tell the zipper lay open without looking down. The cap of the script bottle peeked out from behind the smirking metal mouth of the pack. Wes acknowledged the itch, the toothache all over his body. He wanted to push on it. To create some pain only for the pleasure of releasing it. He ignored the thought, turning his head back to the road.

  A random thought made Wes chuckle. How much product was his dad holding? This might be the largest haul Wes had made south on I-25. Usually he was heading the other direction, hauling loads of “Mexication” up from the border to Albuquerque. Most of his customers turned out to be around Pop’s age. They needed anything from Oxy to antibiotics to boner pills. They could convince a doctor to fill a bogus script, but most couldn’t afford the price of the legal drugs. It was low risk for decent money, and Wes enjoyed helping people. And now he was helping Pop, by hauling his ass and his drugs in the opposite direction. The experience was familiar, and Wes couldn’t help but feel he had been preparing for this trip for a long time.

  Wes jumped as a splotch of rain smacked the windshield. Then he smiled. It was another sign of impending relief, telling him they were on the correct path. It would rain. The ground would swallow it down. The stubble that grew here needed the water, just like the world needed his father. Like Wes needed his father.

  He flipped on the wipers, which puttered across the windshield with a squeal. The windshield was too dry. Wes realized his mistake, turning them off before they woke up his dad.

  But it was too late. From the passenger seat, Wes heard a painful groan pierce his father’s sleep.

  Chapter 18

  Caleb

  Caleb was moving. No, he was being moved. Forward. The sigh of road noise replaced the shudder that had stirred him awake. He was in a car. Driving his BMW. He could see the road ahead of him. The lines were in the wrong place. And the steering wheel was missing. Why did it smell like a wet ashtray?

  Caleb wasn’t driving. He was being driven. His mind cleared, and he could see the cracked vinyl of the dashboard. His son’s El Camino. They were on a trip. Were they leaving? Or coming back?

  A flicker of lightning pulled his attention out the passenger window. The sun was setting. Or was it rising into the storm? He massaged his eyelids, trying to force the fever dreams out of the way so he could remember.

  His body ached all over. A crankiness that came from inactivity. On top of it, a sharp pain punctured his stomach. A brace wrapped his wrist. He had been in a hospital, but now he was in a car. Traveling to the boy.

  Or had that happened already? He might not remember. The doctors said that would happen sometimes. “You might feel better some days, but the sickness is in your brain, and it changes how you see things.” His hand went to his stomach. The hard knot was still there. Cancer still riddled his body, squeezed his liver like a vise. He remembered the deer, broken, then whole. Would there be holes where the cancer was, after he was healed? A hole in his liver, his pancreas, his brain? Or would Caleb be whole again?

  The pain crested. He groaned. The noise displaced his fugue. He lifted his head from the window, stretching his cramped neck and shoulder. He turned to find Wes driving.

  “I need food. To take my medication.”

  His son’s mouth moved. Caleb concentrated, focusing hard on the thin lips as they ebbed and flowed into shapes. Restaurant. They have food. Caleb nodded and closed his eyes.

  He smelled toast. Wasn’t that a sign of a stroke? He opened his eyes. He could see toast too. He must be okay. He had wanted toast, but he didn’t remember ordering it. There were other people here. He didn’t know them. He could see his hand, holding a glass of water. The glass moved close to his mouth, and the straw found his lips. He pulled in the water and swallowed.

  The cold worked its way down his throat. It hit his stomach and anchored him. He was in a restaurant. Wes was holding the glass, asking him a question. Caleb pulled another gulp from the straw and nodded. He was unsure if the response was appropriate as the water washed away the last of his haze.

  Wes sat across from him, ignoring an omelet and hash browns as he fiddled with Caleb’s glass. Wes’s hands moved to the condiment tray on the table, pulling out the single-serving jellies into a pile. His son was looking for a grape packet, unaware that since chemotherapy, Caleb could no longer tolerate the cloying sweetness. He chewed a bite from the corner of the dry toast.

  Seeing his father didn’t need the jelly, Wes grabbed the
ketchup and sprayed it over everything on the plate. As he put the bottle back into its cubby, he asked, “So, what’s it sound like?” His voice was discernible over the room noise.

  Caleb paused his chewing. “What?”

  “The voice! What else would I be asking about?” he chuckled as he forked a wad of egg into his mouth. “What’s it sound like?”

  Caleb considered the question as he resumed chewing and swallowed. “I’m … I’m not sure.”

  Wes raised a brow. “How can you not be sure when you’re the only one who can hear it?”

  Caleb put down his food. He shook his head, considering how to convey the experience. “I don’t know how to describe it to you.”

  “Well,” Wes said between lip smacks, “is it a guy’s voice? Or is God a woman?”

  The question furrowed Caleb’s brow. He hadn’t noticed or considered it before his son had asked. “You know what? I can’t tell. The voice … it doesn’t speak as much as …” He puffed a sigh, trying to find the right word. “The words just sort of arrive.”

  Wes stopped chewing, motioning for his dad to elaborate. Caleb shrugged, unsure of what else to offer. “It’s kind of like understanding something. Like recognizing someone’s face. Or identifying an odor. It just … happens.”

  “Okay,” Wes said, “so you and I, we’re chatting here. You’re listening to me, and I’m speaking. Then you speak and I listen to you.”

  Caleb nodded.

  Wes stabbed some potatoes as he asked, “So is it like that? A conversation?”

  Caleb’s nod became more animated. “Oh, yes, it’s absolutely a conversation.”

  Wes filled his mouth before continuing, “But you don’t listen to the voice. You … what?”

  Caleb leaned against the back of the chair to relieve some pressure growing in his abdomen. “I hadn’t thought about it, but now that you ask, it feels strange. I definitely hear words, like I hear yours. But I can tell that you said your words. I can tell it’s coming from you. But this voice … I hear it only in my right ear. I can’t tell you where it comes from. It comes from everywhere. I can’t describe what the words sound like, but …” He thought some more, his son’s eager face encouraging him. “There is inflection around the words. Like they’re coming from someone with … I don’t know, feelings? Sometimes I sense anger behind the words, sometimes they’re playful. But I can only describe the voice they travel on as …” Caleb swallowed, remembering the emotions. The compulsion to move, the undeniable urge to appease. Almost like dealing with a bully. “It’s crippling. Overwhelming.”

  Wes had stopped chewing, hostage to his father’s story. He finally swallowed and asked, “Like, loud, you mean?”

  Caleb shook his head, “Naw, not loud. Not really. More like, authoritative. Impossible to ignore.”

  Wes nodded, staring down at his food. Caleb hadn’t captured the experience, but he wasn’t sure it was possible. They ate a few minutes, the sounds of his own soft chewing unable to compete against Wes’s lip-smacking fervor.

  Taking a breath between shovels, Wes waved his fork in a probing circle. He said, “So this kid in Texas, if he is the real deal, like the voice says”—he swallowed some coffee—“I wonder why we haven’t heard about him before.” Wes gazed up and to his right. A sign that his son wasn’t speaking to him, but was thinking out loud. “I mean, maybe he developed the ability just recently, you know?” He piled more egg into his mouth, adding, “Sort of how you started hearing that voice, or those words. Or however you put it.”

  Caleb shrugged, unsure what to contribute to his son’s meandering thoughts. Wes wanted something from him. Validation? A flush of foolishness grabbed him by the chest. Their logic was thinner than the paper napkin in his lap. His son continued to eat as Caleb asked, “How are we going to find him? The boy? I mean, how do we know he lives where the video was taken?”

  The clatter of Wes’s utensils on the plate snapped Caleb’s attention up. His son beamed, his face relaxed with satiation. Wes’s eyes widened, sharp with confidence. “Oh, he lives there,” he said. “Remember the video?”

  Caleb nodded, hopeful.

  “It was morning. Kids heading to school. The adult knew the boy’s name. Could be his mom. Or a teacher.”

  The clues fit. Caleb smiled, surprised at the details Wes had pulled out of only two viewings.

  Wes reached across the table, yanking his dad’s smartphone from his shirt pocket. He continued, “And I don’t think finding him will be difficult either. I checked out the town online—it’s built around a single street.” He powered on the phone, poked and swiped for a few moments, then turned it so Caleb could see the screen.

  Wes had the video open, stopped on an image somewhere near the end of the clip. He pointed with his stubby finger at the cream building in the background. Brick-red trim and roofing were just visible at the corner of the frame. Next to it, highlighted against a pale sky, was a rusted-out sign that read: silverleaf.

  “This place,” Wes said, “is the only restaurant in town. The town’s school is just up the road.” He powered off the phone, handing it back. “He’ll pass it every morning and afternoon on the way to school and back. If that fails, we can scope the school and try not to look like two pedos.”

  His son was proving to be quite the sleuth. Caleb smiled, feeling more confident in their journey and purpose. Then, a wave of pain crashed against his gut. His reminder to take his ATC medication. He reached down, unzipped the fanny pack at his waist. The massive bottle took up most of the pack. He unscrewed the cap as Wes excused himself to go smoke.

  Caleb fished out a pill before packing the bottle back into its pouch. He swallowed the medication, then picked the check off the table and waded through his discomfort to the cashier station near the door.

  The teen woman operating the register asked if everything was good, and Caleb said that it was fine, thank you. He handed her his credit card and turned to look for Wes out the restaurant windows. And things were fine. Caleb felt confident. He’d eaten a little food. The meds would kick in soon. And his son was solving problems instead of creating them. Trepidations and doubts lifted, and it wasn’t until then that Caleb realized he had been carrying them. As odd as this all was, it felt right.

  “Sir.” The woman tapped Caleb on the shoulder. He turned back to the cashier. Her face had lost its cordiality. “They declined your card,” she explained.

  Caleb’s positive feelings poured into a rift of confusion. “What?” he asked. There was no way he was over his credit limit. “Can you try it again, please?”

  “I’ve tried it three times, sir. Do you have another form of payment?”

  Chapter 19

  Irene

  Irene passed the door from the kitchen to the dining room of her father’s house. She stepped around the bench of the heavy oak dining table and into the living room. Massaging her temples, she skirted the perimeter of the room. At the edge of the crisp ivory sofa, she turned again, moving into the home’s foyer. From there, she headed back into the kitchen.

  The house was still unfamiliar. Dad moved into it after she had left for school. She’d been here a few times, for holidays. She expected the house from her childhood, but this wasn’t that place. This bungalow was small, but Dad described it as “just enough for me.” Irene imagined that many of the rooms went unused, especially in these last few weeks as Dad moved from his bed to the sofa and back again. He would occasionally disappear into his office for a bit. Irene assumed to organize things for after his Final Release.

  While the topology of Dad’s home was novel, the odors were not. Irene could have walked into the place blindfolded and known this was his house by the mix of his musky deodorant and the wood cleaner he used on his office desk. And tonight, the air carried the smell of petrichor through the open windows. An earthy anticipation of relief, the desert’s sigh before a rain. She stopped to enjoy the vivid memories of that smell luring children outs
ide. Teasing them to play in the cooling air. She opened her eyes, and the loamy vapor again compelled her to leave, to act, to do something. But what was there to do? Where would she go? So she resumed walking, chewing on the skin around her thumbnail. Back in the kitchen, she repeated the loop one more time.

  Right after Wes had hung up on her, she called the police. The authorities were helpful, taking the details from her: Dad’s name, address, cell phone, description. They immediately issued a Silver Alert for Caleb Allard, age fifty-nine, height five feet ten inches, weight somewhere way under his precancer 180 pounds, mixed gray and blond hair, brown eyes. Wearing khakis, a button-down oxford, sneakers, a wrist brace on his left arm, a small bandage over his right ear, and a goddamned fanny pack cinched at his waist, filled with opiates. Traveling with Wes Allard, an intellectually stunted overweight man-child with dirty blond hair and pale blue eyes with a history of addiction and thinking of no one but himself. At least authorities would look for them. When they found Dad, they would take him into protective custody until she could get him home. Safe from Wes.

  Irene pressed the authorities to cut access to Dad’s bank and credit accounts. This would flag the authorities if anyone attempted to use his credit or debit cards. Dad had made it easy. He’d collected his account numbers as part of his end-of-life packet. Irene had expected some pushback from the cops. She was ready to get a lawyer involved, but the police were more than happy to oblige. Evidence to her that this situation was more common than she’d thought.

  As she passed through the kitchen, Irene wished she had information about Wes’s accounts. Wes’s pockets were nowhere near as deep as their father’s. He wouldn’t get far on his own. At some point Wes would fuck up and need to rely on Dad. On Dad’s money.