Dad turned in his seat a bit. “And why is that important to you?”
“Well, because!” Wes’s eyebrows wrinkled. Why was it such a thing with him? He wanted to be right. To prove Irene wrong and show her way of thinking was inadequate. This miracle was happening around their dad—the voice, the boy, this trip. But this wasn’t about Dad. Wes had a stake in this too. This was his chance to do something right, for once. “Because it means we’re doing the right thing.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Well, take the voice,” Wes started, doing his best impression of the professors he’d seen on PBS. “It offers you knowledge, right? But only you, Pop.”
His dad nodded, noncommittal.
Wes continued, “It’s leading us to the healer, to get your cancer taken away. Right? Is that not a miracle?”
Dad’s face turned thoughtful. Wes smiled, knowing he was getting through. “You can’t deny those things. You experienced them firsthand, I didn’t. And back there, the voice or … whatever it is … got us through the checkpoint, somehow. God, or fate, or the universe, or Brahma, whatever you want to call it? It’s looking out for us.”
Pop turned to the windshield, his hand finding his stubbled face. Wes recognized the behavior—Dad was thinking through what he heard.
Wes went on, “Something bigger than us. Bigger than all of us. It wants you healed, and it’s pushing the obstacles out of our way.”
After a few moments, Pop sighed and shook his head. “I can’t believe that, Wes. I mean, that was terrifying back there, wasn’t it?”
“Hell yeah, it was a real pants-ruiner!” Wes laughed.
“So if the universe wanted to intervene, why not remove the entire roadblock?”
Wes snorted, raising a hand. “What, like with a meteor? I mean—”
“No, I’m serious,” Pop interrupted. “If this voice I’m hearing is God or some omnipotent thing, then why didn’t it even tell us about the checkpoint? Give us a chance to drive around it?”
Wes’s head shook with more fervor. Dad wasn’t getting it. “Nah, it didn’t need to, see? We managed our way through it. The voice could see that we would be okay! It would have helped us if it needed to. Or it did help us, and we just don’t know.”
“But that’s the thing, you’ve got this circle of logic that’s self-fulfilling and—”
“Stop, okay?” Wes snapped. His patience stretched to near breaking, and he raised a hand to block Pop’s words. “Just stop with the Irene-speak and hear me out. There’s this story a friend of mine was telling, about a man who ended up trapped in his house during a massive flood. In like, Louisiana, I think. Katrina, maybe.”
Wes glanced over at his father’s face. He was listening, his eyes focused with curiosity. Wes continued, “So yeah, the flood comes, and the army, or whatever? They issue an evacuation, but this guy, he stays. He refuses to get on the truck, saying that God will take care of him, see? So the water keeps coming, and now he’s trapped in his house. He prays for God to help him. When someone in a boat comes by and offers him a ride, the guy says, ‘No, I’m good. God will take care of me.’ More floods come, and they get so high he’s got to go up onto his roof. He’s got nowhere else to go, he’s gonna die if the water keeps rising, and he prays more, see?”
Pop nodded.
“Then a helicopter flies in. The pilot lowers a ladder and shouts at the guy through his megaphone thing to get aboard. But the guy is still, ‘Oh naw, God will take care of me.’ So, long story short, the waters keep coming, and they reach the roof.”
Wes paused for effect, trying to stretch the reveal. “So he drowns! And he dies and goes up to heaven, and he’s all pissed, so when he sees God, he lays into him real good. Like, ‘What the hell, man, I prayed for your help!’ And that’s where God tells him, ‘Hey, dude, I sent you a truck, a boat, and a helicopter to get you out of there, what else was I supposed to do?’”
A smile broke across Pop’s face. A smirk. Shit! Wes wasn’t shooting for funny with his story. When the therapist had told Wes the tale, the spiritual impact was profound.
“The point is,” Wes stammered, recovering the momentum of his story, “you won’t always see where God’s stepping in. Especially if you’re spending all your effort looking for it.”
“Okay,” Pop said, “but how can you cherry-pick which actions to classify as God’s hand?”
Wes looked over at his father, trying to work out the question.
Dad elaborated, “I mean, wouldn’t the floods in your story be God’s doing as well?”
Wes turned back to the road. He hadn’t considered that. He tried to reimagine the story, figure out how God making the flood supported the moral. A coherent plot failed to form. He stalled, “I mean, sure, there would have to have been a bigger picture, right? Like, the flood would have been for a reason—”
Pop interrupted his thoughts. “So you’re saying that every incident, every action anyone takes on this planet, is according to some plan from God?”
Wes nodded, unsure. “Something like that, I guess.”
“But why would anyone worry about their decisions, then? If God guides us to every consequence? People would do whatever they pleased, chucking it all up to God’s will.”
Wes’s face soured with confusion.
“Take murder,” Pop offered. “Or rape. Or genocide. By your logic, it’s all justified after it happens. That it happens at all means it was God’s plan. The act of doing something implies God wanted it to happen.”
Wes raised a hand. “Well, no, you can’t justify that stuff on its own. Consider the … situation. Or the aftereffects.”
“Such as?” Pop asked. He folded his arms across his chest, wincing as his elbow knocked his wrist brace.
Wes could feel his face reddening. He turned back to the road, speaking around his waving hand. “I dunno. Maybe the person murdered was going to do something awful.” What the hell was Pop’s problem? Wes’s tone was becoming sharp with his growing impatience.
Pop let out a tiny laugh. “How could the murderer know that, though?”
The rush through his face became a pounding in his head. “Fuck, Dad, how the hell should I know!” Wes was angry now, punctuating his questions with a slap against the steering wheel. “How the hell did you know the lottery numbers? How the hell did you know about this healer in Texas? Huh?”
Dad went quiet for a moment. “And your addictions? God’s plan?”
Wes’s fist found the steering wheel and tightened around it. His teeth ground together. He could feel his dad staring at him, waiting for him to say something dumb, but Wes kept his eyes on the road.
“Breaking your sister’s jaw, when we were trying to help you? God’s master plan? Where do we take personal responsibility? Where are the consequences of our actions, son?”
The frayed thread holding back Wes’s tongue snapped. He turned to his father, veering the El Camino off the highway as he screamed, “I don’t know!”
Dad flinched into his seat, his eyes wide with shock and terror.
“I don’t know! I have no fucking clue!” Wes’s voice grew louder, tighter. “And fuck you for throwing that shit in my face!”
Wes sucked in a breath, pulling the car back into the lane. The two men rode in silence for several minutes, Wes’s breath heaving as he calmed down. His dad’s fear left a cold vapor between them, his posture frozen in defense. He wouldn’t look at his son. That was fine. Wes didn’t want to see Pop right now either.
Wes swallowed, clearing his throat and relaxing his grip on the steering wheel. His voice came out raspy, deeper than normal. “Look, man, most everyone I know is focused on getting through the day, all right? Everyone. Junkies. Doctors. Criminals. Judges. Everyone is waiting for the day to end, so they can hurry up and do it again tomorrow.” He swallowed again, gaining back more control and composure. “All I’m saying is that this is different. For us. This,” he sa
id, motioning toward the road ahead, “feels different. What we’re doing here. We have a … I dunno … a purpose. You’re getting a second life, and that must mean something to you. I’m helping make it happen, and that sure as shit means something to me, Pop.”
Dad relaxed a bit, staying close to the passenger door, and turned to his window.
Wes continued after a moment, his voice breaking, “And yeah, all of that negative shit we …” He sighed. Shame and regret over his tantrum pushed tears out of his eyes. “All the shit that I put us through, I need to believe that was to get us here. To this moment. To fulfill our purpose.” Wes rubbed his nose on the back of his hand. “I have to believe that, Pop.”
His father didn’t speak, didn’t turn from the window. Wes figured he was crying.
“I’ve apologized so many times, I know it’s meaningless to do it again, so I won’t. But this thing we’re doing?” Wes stopped to wipe his own tears. “You need to understand, this is redemption for me. A chance to make up for all that shit I put you through. I’m so sick of getting by, getting through today. Waiting for the next today to come so I can be sick of that too. I want to do something more, something good. For once in my fucking life, Pop.”
Dad remained quiet and still.
“Are you awake?” Wes asked after several seconds.
Pop nodded, turning forward and wiping his eyes.
They rode without speaking for a long while, the cadence of the road noise filling the space between them. Wes felt the time was right. He needed to share his letter, the one he’d put together in rehab. A contract. A promise. He hadn’t finished yet, but he remembered enough to fill in the gaps. When he had his thoughts formed, he broke the silent tension.
“Okay, so here’s the deal,” he began, looking over at Pop. “There’s nothing I can do about what’s happened. I take full responsibility for all the damage I’ve caused over my life. And I can’t promise I won’t fuck up again, okay?”
Wes sighed, slowing the car as they approached the ass end of a Greyhound bus. He swallowed, girding himself for his next words. “But if I fuck up again, I promise not to pull you or Irene into it. I’ll deal with it myself.”
His father turned in his seat, stiff and grimacing. “And what does that mean exactly, son?”
Wes shrugged. “I don’t know. I won’t know until it happens. If it happens, I mean.” He followed the bus as it lilted right onto an exit ramp and left the highway. “I guess I’m saying that if I slip again, I’ll do it away from you guys. I’ll … up and disappear. Do my best to work it out on my own, without pulling you or Irene into it with me.” Wes pulled the car into the restaurant parking lot, careful not to park too close to the bus.
Pop exhaled. “Wes, I don’t want you to …” He stopped, looking out the window, confused. “What are we doing here? My God, son, are you hungry again?”
Wes threw the El Camino in park and killed the engine. “No, Pop.” He pointed at the bus. A stream of passengers were unloading, stretching their legs and arms, and wandering into the restaurant. “I think it’s time we deal with our cash shortage.”
Chapter 27
Victoria
“I swear to God, you bring this burger back to me again with mayonnaise on it and I’m gonna get you fired!” The old man punctuated his demands with a gnarled finger aimed at Victoria’s face.
“Of course, I’m so sorry,” Victoria soothed. She lifted the plate from the table and turned toward the service bar. The old man’s hand shot to the hem of her apron and held her in place.
“This is the second time I’ve had to send it back!” The man’s wrinkled face was sour with contempt. “How hard is it to leave off mayonnaise? It’s less work than adding it, for Pete’s sake!”
“I know, and I’m sure it’s very frustrating, sir. I’ll get this fixed right away,” she replied, keeping her tone civil. The mistake was an honest one. Customers had packed the diner at this late hour, a bus full of seniors making an unexpected stop so the driver could load up on coffee. Victoria worked the floor by herself tonight. She had jumped at the extra shift. It made for a long day on her feet, but the extra cash was too enticing to pass up.
“Oh, stop badgering the poor girl. She’s all alone here and doing her best!” His wife slapped the man’s hand away from Vic’s apron. Victoria smiled as she walked from the table. The wife continued to dig into her husband. “You’re still put out about the busted air-conditioning on the bus. Don’t take it out on our waitress, you grouchy old fart.”
Victoria set the plate on the service bar and called Samson over from the grill. She explained the issue to him, emphasizing the “no” part of “no mayonnaise.” Samson rolled his eyes, but took the burger. Vic smirked at him. The buses were great for business, but the later ones made for a long shift for them both.
Patting down her apron, Victoria found her ticket pad. She turned toward the counter seats. After the bus had unloaded, two men wandered in and had been waiting for her to take their order. Pulling her pencil from behind her ear, she sucked in a deep breath, and approached them with a fresh smile.
“So sorry for the wait, y’all—it’s just me tonight. What can I getcha?”
“Um, coffee,” the younger man ordered. Before she could ask, he added, “Lots of cream, lots of sugar, please.”
As she pulled out a mug from beneath the counter, Victoria turned to the older gentleman. His stare remained locked on his hands in front of him. “And you, sir? What’ll ya have?” He didn’t respond, keeping his gaze low.
After a moment, the younger man placed a hand on the man’s back and responded, “How about tea, Pop?” Looking at Victoria, he said, “He’ll have hot tea. Nothing caffeinated, though.”
Victoria nodded and ducked under the counter. She rummaged around for the box of herbal samplers, finding it tucked behind the sugar canisters. Before standing, she wiped off the dust, using her apron. Grabbing another mug, Vic rose to the men.
“Well, at least you’ll make more tips, right?” The young man’s smile was all pink and gums.
Vic set down the mug and tea. “Sorry? I don’t follow.”
“It’s busy, and you’re working the place alone, but that means more tips for you, right?” he elaborated.
Vic smiled and nodded with enthusiasm as she replaced the unused pad and pencil back in her apron. “It sure does,” she replied. Spying a woman returning from the bathroom to her table, Victoria excused herself. She walked over to take the woman’s order. The thought of extra cash lightened her aching feet. With her daughter’s birthday later this week, she was running out of time. She needed another hundred bucks to make their trip to the San Antonio Zoo a reality. Her daughter loved elephants, and she’d never seen a real one. Vic hadn’t either, and if she was honest, she was at least as excited as her kid. She had saved what she could for a while now, but she wasn’t sure if they could afford the trip. After paying for rent, food, gas, laundry, clothing, and everything else, there was never wiggle room in their budget. But tonight, with this crowd, she just might pull enough together to make the trip happen. And that idea made the crabby crowd worth the hassle.
Bathroom Lady ordered the Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes and carrots. She asked to have it prepared medium, and Vic nodded as if it would make any difference with Samson. Vic walked back to the counter, delivering the order onto the spindle and hollering at Samson. He acknowledged her by raising his spatula next to his head without turning from the griddle.
Orders were in, and there was no food up for service. Victoria picked up the pot of stale coffee. She approached the men at the counter, the older man still hunched small, as if he was trying to crawl into himself. The younger man waved her off, covering his mug with his hand. Vic saw some tension between the two of them. Everyone passing through carried a story, and sometimes Vic made up her own. She knew better than to get involved. She was here to smile, serve the food, and take the money.
“Service,” Samson mumbled, slapping the call bell with the dirty spatula. The old man’s burger was ready. Vic put the coffee back on the scarred heating element and pulled the plate from the bar. She walked over to Mr. Grumpyfarts, forcing a smile as she approached. She eased the food in front of him and sang, “Here you are, sir, and again I apologize for the inconvenience.”
The man responded with a grunt, lifting the bun and checking the mayonnaise status. His hands moved to the burger, shaking as they lifted it to his mouth. He took a bite, smacking his thin lips with each sucking chomp.
“How is it?” Victoria asked.
“Finally edible,” replied Mr. Grumpyfarts. “Congratulations for doing your damned job.” He spoke around a mouthful of processed cow. Vic could see that there was no mayonnaise on it.
The call bell rang again—that would be Bathroom Lady’s Salisbury steak. “Let me know if you need anything else,” she said, turning back and crossing the floor. As she rounded the counter, she sensed the smiling young man watching her. Not a casual glance, more of an intense fucking-with-his-eyes stare across her body. She hated it when customers leered, but she couldn’t afford to lose a tip—or, worse, her job—over calling out the shitty behavior. If the guy got too creepy, Samson was more than capable of protecting her.
She picked up the order and delivered it to Bathroom Lady. All orders out, none in the kitchen, she walked the floor, making sure everyone had what they needed.
Grumpyfarts waved her over. Vic hid her sigh, wondering what the man wanted this time. Vic stole a glance at his plate as she approached the booth. He had stopped eating halfway through his burger. His wife had finished her BLT and was poking at a game on her phone with tentative fingers. “Yes, sir? Is everything okay?”
“Bring me some of that sweet potato pie I see in the case over there,” he grunted.
At that, his wife looked up, moving her finger from her phone and shaking it at her husband. “Dammit, your diet, Phil …”
“You shut your damned hole. I’ll eat what I want,” Grumpyfarts interrupted. With a pout, he added, “And I want that pie.”
Season of Waiting Page 13