Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  She noted the date of the first entry and blanched. Almost a year before he told her about the diagnosis. Why would he wait so long to talk to her? The simplest answer was that he hadn’t wanted to put her through it again. She shook her head at his selfishness.

  Irene shucked forward a few pages, skimming. Words stood out to her: “positive,” “enthusiastic,” “assured.” These were hope-laden chronicles of trips to the doctors. They discussed options available to Dad at the beginning. The pages that followed turned more methodical, Dad falling back to his habits. Lists of where the cancer appeared. Tables of body parts shifting columns from healthy to sick, asset to liability, black to red. Why the hell would he go through this alone, without telling her?

  Irene snapped out of her self-pity. If Dad had kept up with this journal, maybe the more recent entries would offer a clue to his current thinking. She thumbed through the book, looking for empty pages. A sudden visual break caused her to stop.

  The page started with an entry. A terse note about how Dad was increasing his use of ATC. “The more of these damned pills I take, the less pain I have, but it comes at the cost of time. I sleep so much more now, and I can’t imagine it—”

  The sentence stopped in the middle of the phrase. A thick, dark line jutted from the last letter. It sliced straight across both pages of the fold, breaking Dad’s consistent crisp margins.

  Irene swallowed her shock. “God, he must have been in so much pain here,” she whispered. She ran a finger over it, the chasm in the paper evidence of the force he had applied. Irene bounced her eyes to the top of the page. Three months ago.

  The next spread returned to Dad’s standard clean and squat letters. She flipped forward a few more pages, finding more journal entries. Dad had been consistent, at least. Irene turned the page, and she gasped.

  The date on the page was six weeks ago, right before she arrived here to help. The date was the only readable thing on the spread. Messy lines and swirls covered the paper. Sloppy shapes, drawn with purpose. She realized Dad may have been trying to write, may have even thought he was writing. Jesus Christ. Irene felt a sharp pang of guilt at having this intimate view into her father’s failing mind. This journal was personal. Under other circumstances Irene could never bring herself to read it. But these weren’t other circumstances. She needed data to develop insight into what her father was thinking. She turned the page.

  The top of the entry contained the date, written in her father’s compact block letters. Three weeks ago. The rest of the page looked as if someone else had written it. It was full of writing, but it looked nothing like her father’s signature boxy print. Instead this writing was loopy, light. Elegant. Wide curves, elongated letters, the spacing consistent but not contained within the lines.

  It was not her father’s writing.

  Each line started with a wide oval, giving the page a visual pattern Irene noticed right away. It took her a moment to realize that each line of script repeated the same words.

  “Caleb, can you hear me?” Across the fold, another phrase repeated down the page. “I need to know if you can hear me.”

  What the hell was this? Irene turned the page, finding the same refined script, the same lines repeated over and over. “Caleb, can you hear me? I need to know if you can hear me.” She checked the top of the page. The date jotted in Dad’s normal hand.

  She thumbed another page, finding the same script, the same words, another dated entry. Who the hell could have written this? Irene had been living here, in his house, when these entries were written. She had been with her father the whole time. No one else had been in Dad’s office. She flipped the page, finding the same terrifying clean swirls scribed on the paper. Her heartbeat mirrored the rhythm of the pages as they snapped by. Her pattern brain noted the same words over and over, “Caleb can you hear me? I need to know if you can hear me.” Elegant. Stately. Repeating. Page after page after page.

  Irene froze. The pattern broke. She had reached a blank spread. No graceful writing. No stumpy date. Swallowing her dread, Irene slid back the left page of the fold. Three lines composed her father’s last entry in the journal.

  The first line contained the date. Two days ago.

  The second line was in her father’s stodgy hand, beginning the journal entry: “I am afraid. I am so afraid to die.”

  A line wormed away from the end of those words, the pen having been held steady on the paper. The writing transitioned into the lacy, graceful cursive of the third and final line:

  Don’t be afraid. You’re mine now.

  Chapter 22

  Wes

  Wes glanced at the gas gauge. His chest tightened every time he noticed the needle dip lower. They had two-thirds of a tank, but it wasn’t enough to get them all the way to Utopia. They would need to fill the car, but first they had to fix their cash situation. Their options weren’t great. This stretch of I-10 was unfamiliar to him, but Wes knew an opportunity would present itself. They were on a mission, and the voice would help them.

  The headlights pierced a few yards into the night. A large green sign crept into view. They were approaching Van Horn. Wes brought up the paper map in his mind. He tried to recall the markers he’d identified along their route. El Paso had been the first, marking their entry into Texas. They had passed through El Paso about ninety minutes ago. He recognized Van Horn as the next milestone. What was the one after that? Fort Something? He had made up a song with the names of the towns, but it hadn’t stuck. Hell, it didn’t matter. He needed to go east on I-10. The rest would work itself out. Besides, this wasn’t some ordinary road trip. They had a mandate. Wes had faith.

  A line of traffic cones forced him to merge into the right lane. Ahead, portable lights split the darkness with a haze of white. A construction site. Traffic slowed as everyone tried to get into the single lane. Wes applied the brake, and the car shuddered.

  Fort Stockton! That was the next marker! Wes smiled at himself as the tune came back to him: El Paso we’ll pass through, across the Van Horn; east to Fort Stockton, and east we go on; Ozona, we’ll own ya, but Junction’s the cap; that’s where we stop to look at the map. The rhymes weren’t great, which explained why it hadn’t come to him right away.

  Traffic crawled, and Wes sighed. This would waste their precious gas, force the money issue sooner. Why the hell were so many damned people on the road at this hour? The sodium lights were blinding, and Wes lowered his sun visor to block them. The eighteen-wheeler riding his ass wasn’t helping either. Wes tapped the level on the rearview mirror to get the high beams out of his eyes. The dashboard and visor limited his view of the road to a few inches. It was enough to follow the bumper of the car ahead of him. The orange traffic cones appeared and disappeared as they inched down the freeway, never stopping but always slowing down.

  The car rolled over a rumble strip, stirring Pop. He exhaled with a rattle, clearing his throat in phlegmy grunts. Wes looked over as his dad massaged his eyes and coughed out the sleep from his throat.

  “Sorry, Pop, didn’t mean to wake you,” Wes murmured.

  Dad sucked in a breath, shielding his eyes from the brilliant white light ahead. “Are we there already?”

  “No, Pop, not even close. We’re hitting some construction, I think.”

  Dad swallowed, the sound thick and crackling. “Is that why we’re leaving the highway, then?”

  Wes shook his head, replying, “No, we’re just in traffic. It’ll clear once we’re past.”

  Dad turned his head away from the light, toward Wes. “We’re on an exit ramp, aren’t we?”

  Wes shrugged as the car came to a stop. He lifted the visor enough to take in the scene ahead. Dad was right—the line of cars was off the highway. They were driving straight into the middle of the blinding light. That was weird. Why would they divert traffic into a construction site instead of around it?

  The car ahead slugged forward half a length. Wes lifted his foot from the brak
e, letting the El Camino pour into the space. He winced as the high beams of the truck crawled up his side-view mirror and reached his eyes. Blinded with blue and red strobing afterimages, Wes hunched down in the driver’s seat. Staring off into the scrub on the side of the road, he waited for the visual splotches to dissolve. His stomach dropped. The colors didn’t fade. They were becoming sharper.

  Dad cleared his throat again and said, “I don’t see any construction. This looks like a DUI checkpoint, maybe.”

  Wes bolted upright. Police. He whipped his head around, taking in their situation. Pop flinched at the quick movement.

  Wes looked for a way out. They were in the middle of a line of vehicles, in a single-lane exit ramp. There was no shoulder. With the truck behind them, there was no backing out onto the highway. How could he be so dumb? How could he not have seen this?

  “Wes, what’s wrong?” Pop gaped at him, eyes wide.

  Wes looked in the mirrors again, gauging how close the truck was to their bumper. “We gotta get out of this line!”

  Pop’s voice was pleasant, almost teasing. “Why, son?” After a pregnant moment, his braced hand landed on Wes’s shoulder. “Oh my God, Wes, do you have drugs in the car?” His tone had fallen, and it dripped with disappointment.

  He turned to face his dad, scowling at him. “The only damned drugs in this car are yours!”

  Pop let go of him, holding up his hands. “Okay, then what’s the matter?”

  How could somebody so smart have such little common sense? Wes pointed to the line of traffic ahead of them. Shadows moved in the blue and red strobes. “The checkpoint, Dad! Who do you think they’re looking for?”

  Wes watched realization and despair take turns on his father’s face. Pop’s head pivoted back to the windshield, the lights giving his skin a pallid and yellow hue. Wes explained, “Irene has everyone searching for a sick old man being kidnapped by his son. That looks a lot like us right now.”

  Pop fidgeted in his seat. He turned to Wes and asked, “What can we do?”

  Wes needed some way to hide his dad. The bed wasn’t an option. Too exposed. The car had no backseat, but there was a small area behind the bench seat. If he could work his way under the soda cans and fast-food wrappers, it might hide him long enough to get waved through.

  The slap of the semi’s horn pulled Wes’s head up. The line of traffic had moved forward again. Three cars separated them from the checkpoint. They were running out of time. Wes lifted a hand to shield his eyes from the sodium lights. One of the shadowy blobs ahead congealed as an officer approached the car ahead. Another officer appeared at the passenger side. The first stooped to the window and, after a moment, waved the car through.

  “Oh shit, they’re not searching cars. They’re checking passengers. They’re looking for us.” Wes’s heart sank.

  “So what do we do?” Pop repeated in a strained voice. The next car filled the hole at the head of the line, leaving a space for Wes to move forward.

  Two cars left. Wes shook his head. He was out of ideas. The next car moved through the checkpoint and headed back onto the highway. As the car in front of them approached the officers, Wes kept his foot on the brake. The officer leaned to the car ahead, shone a light through the interior of the car, and waved them on.

  Wes’s foot bounced off his brake when the semi behind him belched out a hydraulic squeal. He scanned left and right again, frantic. There was nowhere to go. “I’ve got nothing here, Pop.” The El Camino rolled forward, carrying the two men into the checkpoint.

  “If they are looking for us, I’ll just explain, okay?” His dad’s voice broke, betraying his lack of confidence. Wes’s hope shattered. He would fail. And Pop knew it.

  The blue and red strobes from the cruisers bounced around the inside of the car. Patterns of moving colors left Wes disoriented as the cops and cruisers appeared in two places at once.

  He rolled to a stop next to the immense shadow of an officer. Wes scanned for a way to bolt through the checkpoint and make a run for Utopia. More officers stood ahead. More patrol cars. A half dozen or so. He saw the long shadows of shotguns. The shifting and impatient shapes of dogs.

  They were absolutely fucked.

  A light shone through the passenger window. Dad shielded his eyes with his unbraced hand. The black nose of a dog smeared across the bottom of the window as it sniffed the air coming from the car. The dog would smell their fear, Wes’s terror. His failure.

  Two heavy thunks pulled Wes’s attention to his window. Outside the car, a wide and thick officer held a Maglite in his left hand, knocking it on the glass. The officer motioned with his other hand. A swirling motion, indicating he wanted the window rolled down.

  Wes’s hands trembled as he reached for the knob on the window handle. He whispered to his father, “It’ll be okay.” He lowered the window in starts and spurts. The officer raised his light into Wes’s face. He flinched and squinted at the bright light. The officer leaned close, eyes on Wes. Cataloging. Measuring. Wes felt hunted, as if this shadow knew his weakness and would use it to consume him whole.

  He could floor the gas. Run, hope for the best. It would take the cops a few moments to organize, get in their cars. They might evade the cops, take the back roads across Texas, find another way to Utopia.

  The light moved from Wes’s face, and on to Dad’s. Wes worked to control his breathing and hide his panic as the officer took in Pop.

  Wes swallowed his dread as he did the math. How far would they get, running from the cops in a shitmobile that wouldn’t top seventy miles per hour? A tremble rattled through his dad’s hand. Pop whimpered, and Wes realized he was clutching his wrist brace. He released it, trying to convey some sense of calm. To himself. To his father. To the officer leaning into his car.

  The cop’s face emerged from the shadow. His voice was rough, alert. “Well now, good evening, gentlemen.”

  Chapter 23

  Irene

  Irene maneuvered her dad’s BMW into the parking area outside Wes’s apartment. The units were single story. Each shared walls with the apartments beside it. From the front, they were the same repeating pattern of cheap screen doors separated by windows.

  Irene approached Wes’s place—second from the end. She found the door locked, but her hard shoulder and desire to break things made quick work of the flimsy frame.

  The acrid odor of fresh pot poked her nose. Her hand found the light switch. The place was a shithole. Irene imagined the entire row of apartments had the same simple layout. An open studio with a small kitchenette. There was an identifiable living space, but no separate bedroom.

  She scanned the room. There was a futon sofa and a table for a television, but there was no television. On the couch was a stack of mail secured with a rubber band with an attached hold notice. Overflowing ashtrays were everywhere. Empty soda and beer cans. Fast-food containers, months old, judging from the crust on them. Dirty clothing. More mail. A glass bong sat on the floor by the sofa. The water was clean, a delicate ash in the bowl. Wes had used it today. He must have returned home to get high before kidnapping Dad.

  Irene shuddered. Wes stoned with their mentally fragile father and a bottle of opiates wouldn’t lead to a positive outcome. Whatever his intent, wherever they were going, things would get tough. Wes would fuck it all up to get those pills, and Dad would find himself on his own.

  Wes was self-serving and lazy. Everything he did was to make things easy on himself. She rescanned the room in this mental context. A hypothesis formed in her mind—these piles were chronological. Older piles would be farther from the sofa, newer items higher in the stacks. If there was any clue about where Wes was taking Dad, it would be close to the futon, on the top of the piles.

  Irene toed through a pile of clothes by the couch. There was at least a week’s worth of shirts. On top was the shirt Wes had worn to the diner where Dad lost it and had his accident. Hypothesis confirmed: Wes had been here.

&nb
sp; She moved on to a leaning stack of papers on the TV tray next to the futon. On the top of the pile was a crisp envelope with the name “Del Rio Rehabilitation and Assisted Living Center” printed in a soft, comforting font. Irene opened it, yanking out a typed letter. She skimmed its contents, scanning down to the last paragraph.

  “We do not feel Wes Allard is ready to be released on his own recognizance and recommend he completes the program before leaving.” Irene felt a rush of warm vindication in her chest, another hypothesis confirmed. But the rush evaporated to worry. The letter proved Wes was a liar, but that wasn’t helpful now.

  She dug through the rest of the stack, scouring for any hint of where Wes was heading. It was piece after piece of junk mail, credit card offers and power-washing coupons. She checked a postmark—the mail was eight months old. Useless. She let the pile spill onto the floor, along with her expectation of learning something from this disgusting place.

  Her hands found her hair. They clenched into tight fists, pulling her scalp away from her skull. She looked around the apartment, taking in the context. There was no planning here. No strategy. Her brother lived from opportunity to opportunity. He let them pile up, one on top of the last, until his life exploded into the space and people around him.

  A vibration in her pocket broke her thoughts. Her phone rang. She retreated out of the apartment, answering the call. “Yes?” she said, hoping the call was bringing some news.

  “Irene Allard?” The male voice coming from the phone was slow, pedantic.

  “Yes?” she repeated, her voice rising in pitch.

  “Oh good, good. Ma’am, this is Sheriff Smelly, from the Las Cruces Sheriff’s Office.”

  She waited for the voice to continue. After a few seconds of silence, she spit into the phone, “How can I help you, Sheriff?”

  “Oh, well … there’s a Silver Alert on your father?”