Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  “Ms. Allard,” she said, her tone all business, “I thought you should know that officers in Junction, Texas, have located your brother’s car. Shouldn’t be long now before they have your father safe in custody.” She punctuated this report with another knock on the tabletop.

  Junction? Where the hell was that? She bounced to her map, scrolling along I-10 through Texas. She found it. About a hundred miles west of San Antonio. The town looked too small to matter. The closest city in her model was San Antonio, and even then, the estimated probability of Wes heading there was almost zero. She’d have to dig further to find out why. She could guess that the city had a saturated drug market, bringing prices down. Wes wouldn’t know that, though. Or would he? Was there a Dow Jones for illicit drugs?

  Fuck it. She shook her head to purge the logic tree from her mind. There was no time to understand. She needed to get there. Irene opened her web browser, looking for flights out of Las Cruces that would get her close to Junction. A little math, and she concluded that the universe was patronizing her. If the town were any closer to San Antonio, she could have flown there and saved time. Any farther west and driving would have been the faster route. Instead, Wes had landed in the sweet spot, with the same travel time by car or by plane. If she didn’t know her brother, she might think he planned it that way to make her life more difficult.

  Her laptop dropped into her backpack with a thud, and Irene crossed the cube farm to the exit. She jogged to the BMW, threw her pack in the backseat, and fell behind the wheel.

  The car chewed up the interstate. El Paso was a blur, Irene ignoring the sprawling city as she forced the vehicle to its limits. While she was thankful for light traffic, the endless construction was slowing her down and pissing her off.

  The road ahead of her was undeviating. The empty expanse of red-and-brown desert disappeared in the haze of heat and sunshine. The gas pedal reached the floor. The car cut through the distance cleanly, with no fanfare or complaints. Another mile closer to Dad.

  Irene moved to the passing lane and glided around an RV like it was sitting still. She glimpsed the silver-capped man in the cab as she passed. The RV’s horn wailed a nasal chord that fell in pitch and volume as she flew down the road. The Doppler effect. The pitch of a sound rising as it sped toward you and falling as it headed away. An insight that wasn’t helping her get to her father.

  Her mind wandered back to Wes. To the unknowns. Why would he pick a place so far away? Tucson was closer and off I-10. Hell, he could have headed to Albuquerque and disappeared in less time if that’s what he wanted. But he’d run south, not north. Then he went east, not west. The facts didn’t fit Wes’s motivations. The questions piled up in her head, hypotheses getting filed away for later testing.

  Hypothesis: Wes knew someone in San Antonio who could help him.

  Hypothesis: Wes wasn’t selling Dad’s drugs; he was planning to use them for himself. He wanted to crash in a place where prices would be low when his supply ran out.

  Hypothesis: Her assumptions about Wes’s motivations were wrong.

  Hypothesis: Wes was an unpredictable idiot.

  Chapter 30

  Wes

  On stirring, it took a moment for Wes to remember the cheap motel. A pair of blackout curtains held back the sun. Enough light managed its way around them to show the shabby fixtures and stained walls. The room wasn’t much more than two twin beds. The one in which Pop slept prevented the door from fully opening.

  What time was it? Wes grabbed his phone from the nightstand, then remembered it was powered off. He reached for the alarm clock, turning the red glow to his face. It was late morning now. He had gotten a few hours of sleep, and that was all he wanted. They needed to get moving. Time and money were going to run out soon.

  He planted his socked feet on the carpet and rubbed the sleep from his face with his palms. A pang in his stomach reminded him how empty it was. If Wes was hungry, his dad needed to eat too, at least to keep his pain meds down. He recalled a truck stop next door, large enough that it might offer warm food.

  He slipped on his sneakers and looked for a piece of paper so he could leave Pop a note. The room had no amenities. Remembering their adventure at the diner last night, Wes scanned for Pop’s fanny pack. He found it on the floor by the bed and eased open the zipper.

  Inside he spotted what he needed—paper napkins and a pen. He left the zipper open, not wanting to chance waking his father with more noise. Last night was hard on him. Having been unable to wake him enough to get him walking, Wes carried him from the car to the room. Well, two rooms. The petite abuela that ran the place had given them a room that smelled like literal shit. Wes had to ask for a different one. Once they settled in a clean-enough space, Pop was in dreamland. Wes glanced over at him. His body lay in the same position he’d landed in when Wes got him into the bed.

  Stooping to the nightstand, Wes jotted a note for his dad on the paper napkin: “I’ll be back.” He looked at it, wondering if a “Love, Wes” would seem genuine. He sighed, thinking again through the events of the night and early morning. He replayed the uncomfortable conversations. Dad’s lack of trust. Lack of belief. Wes licked his lips and finished the note: “Trust me.”

  Leaving the message propped against the alarm clock was best, he figured. Pop’s eyes would open right to it if he woke. Wes grabbed the room key from the floor where he’d dropped it last night. It was chained to an obnoxious hunk of barn wood. He had to cram the key in the small change pocket of his jeans, and let the big wooden plank bounce against his leg as he walked. He unlocked the door, but it refused to open. After a few moments of fiddling with it, Wes gave it a solid yank. It popped open, and he lighted into the breezeway of the motel.

  The air felt soothing and warm on his skin, but his eyes expected the dank of the room. He rounded the back side of the motel, where the shadows gave his eyes time to adjust.

  Wes walked the tall and weather-worn fence separating the motel from the truck stop. When he reached the access road, he stopped a moment to glance at the El Camino parked out front. It was still there, but of course it was. This trip had angels watching over it.

  He crossed into the bustling truck stop. So many people passing through this place, at this particular time. How many possibilities could come from a mere second in this lot? How many interactions could there be? Wes knew he didn’t have the brains to figure it out. Irene would know. She could rattle it off the top of her head and still have breath to tell him why he was so dumb. The image made him smile—the innate brilliance in his own sister, his own flesh and blood. He must have gotten a bit of that too.

  The smile faded as he thought back over their history, looking for places where his gut stood up to her logic. There weren't many. The scenes that came to mind were more fights than arguments. Not just emotional shit, but physical too. It was no wonder his sister hated him so much. Hell, Wes hated himself. It had been no surprise when Irene left home. And she went as far as she could afford to go. If Wes could, he’d leave himself behind and never come back.

  The hard wind of a passing truck snapped him from his self-pity. He walked the edge of the lot to avoid the muddled traffic around the pumps and approached the expansive building. A hand-painted sign in the window heralded Wes’s favorite word: Tacos.

  Nature’s perfect food!

  The truck stop was as busy inside as it was outside. The entrance led to a general store, and a small extension provided access to a food counter. The savory odors of sausage and spices pulled Wes in that direction. On the wall hung a chalkboard scrawled with a menu of breakfast tacos.

  He got in line, with six people in front of him. The man ahead of Wes danced and shifted, mumbling to himself that having to wait was bullshit. The cooks filled orders at a steady pace. The line shortened until the irritated man reached the order window.

  The round cook acknowledged the man with raised eyebrows. To Wes’s dismay, the customer had the nerve to ask for a
menu. The cook grimaced and stuck a thick stubby arm through the window. He reached over the uncomfortable angle to tap a gloved finger against the chalkboard. The customer stammered, processing his options now that he was aware of them.

  A hatred filled Wes, centered on this self-important dickhead. The arrogant ass had wasted that time waiting in line. Doing nothing to help himself. Instead, frothed up, lashing out at someone innocent and undeserving. Someone making the world better. With tacos.

  After asking what “chorizo” was and what animal it came from, the man ordered plain egg tacos. As the cook handed the asshole two foil-wrapped packets, he looked to Wes. Wes smiled, his order ready: one egg taco and two egg and chorizo tacos. Receiving the warm foil wads of portable flavor perfection, Wes felt his irritation melt away. He thanked the cook, paid at the register, and carried his food out of the station.

  The pumps were full with cars and trucks, and some had vehicles waiting. Wes fished a smoke out of his jacket pocket and lit the cigarette as he skirted the lot. As he approached, he noticed a gap in the fence he had missed earlier. Walking through, Wes faced the brick front of the motel. He turned left, heading around toward the office and stairs. He took two steps around the corner, then froze.

  His mouth opened. His cigarette peeled from his lips and fell to the ground.

  Parked at an angle behind his El Camino was a police cruiser. The emergency lights were on, and an officer peered through the passenger-side window of his car. As Wes gaped, another cop stood upright on the driver’s side. Wes slunk back around the corner, praying they hadn’t seen him.

  Chapter 31

  Caleb

  Fire razed his body, burning Caleb conscious. He sat up as fast as he could. The pain localized to his gut and throat, and Caleb recognized the sting. His liver tumors pressed into his belly while he slept. Gastric liquids roiled up into his esophagus. The acid reached his throat, but the burn he was feeling wasn’t heartburn. He had aspirated on fluids from his stomach.

  Sputtering, Caleb rose to his feet. He coughed, sending a vaporous burn into his sinuses. He pulled himself toward the bathroom. A rancid sweetness filled his palate, threatening to make him retch. He made it to the bathroom before his stomach contracted. His torso locked, the pain intense as he vomited what little he had in him.

  As the heaving subsided, Caleb’s skin wept a cold sweat. Any energy regained from his sleep had just gone into the toilet. He braced himself on the sink, afraid that the black haze in his vision was a sign he would pass out. He opened the small window, wanting some fresh air to clear out the acrid smell. The cloying odor of wet trash wafted in. He closed it, needing no more prompts to throw up.

  Caleb ran the water. He cupped several handfuls into his mouth, clearing out the acid tang. After he swallowed a few sips, the burn subsided. Caleb grabbed a washcloth from the towel bar. Hoping it was clean, he scraped out the thick paste that had accumulated in his mouth.

  The cool water felt good. It calmed him as he rubbed his wet hands on his face, cleaning out the gunk from his eyes and around his mouth. He sucked in a few more breaths, trying to bring his body back under control. The pain was falling, but he would need to dose up soon and stay ahead of it. He raised his head to the mirror over the sink. The surface was disgusting, an amber film staining the reflection of himself. Even his eyes had a yellow tint to them.

  Caleb pulled the towel from off its hanger, wetting a corner and wiping down the mirror. This stain wasn’t coming off. Caleb stopped wiping the mirror, realizing that the stain was moving across the mirror with him.

  It wasn’t a stain. It was him.

  He had jaundiced overnight. The dark scoops under his eyes. The ochre tint in his sclera. His face wasn’t the right shape either. It was gaunt. At first he thought it was the crack running down the height of the mirror. Moving from one side of the crack to the other made the sullen cheeks and sharp bones worse. Caleb had lost considerable weight in the last few days.

  His face tightened in a grimace. The shock of seeing such rapid decline in himself transformed into prickling fear. His frown intensified. He would lose what composure he had left. A familiar pressure filled his skull. A knot formed around the right side of his mouth as the voice arrived.

  It’s not long now. Two days, maybe.

  His face unknotted, but his lips continued to tremble. The terror of death being so close. He knew it was coming, and he wanted to meet it standing, with acceptance. But he could see it now, painted on him. As if death had caressed him while he slept. Seeing it draped on his own face made him want to run. Claw away from it, kicking and screaming. To wring out another day, another minute, another moment of living.

  Stop. It will be okay, Caleb. There is still plenty of time. And you’re so close now, you know that? An hour from the boy. I knew you’d make the right choices.

  In a heartbeat, the rattling fear in his chest turned into rage. “Where the hell did you go?”

  What do you mean?

  “You’ve been silent! We’ve had to deal with some intense stuff! Why didn’t you come to help us?”

  I guess … I mean I’m confused. You’re on the right path. Where you need to be. What should I have done?

  “For starters, tell us about that police checkpoint? Or warn us Irene would freeze my accounts so we could have left home with enough money?”

  The voice was silent. Caleb stared at himself in the mirror, waiting for the telltale tic on his lips. The face that stared back was angry and tired.

  Caleb slapped the edge of the sink, stinging his hand. “Answer me!”

  Look, you’re doing fine on your own, right? And besides, how was I supposed to know those things would happen?

  Caleb’s eyes widened. Incredulity spit from his lips, “What the hell does that mean?” He tightened his grip on the sink, feeling it give a little from the wall. He leaned closer to his reflection in the mirror. “How could you not—”

  A stern pounding on the door interrupted the thought. He scanned the tiny room. His son was missing.

  “Where’s Wes?”

  The door burst open.

  Chapter 32

  Nestor

  The little orange light on the dashboard blinked. The car was running on fumes. Nestor lifted his foot from the gas, hoping to keep the car alive long enough to make it to the truck stop ahead.

  “Please,” he asked the beat-up Nissan, “please make it to the gas station.” The subcompact sputtered in protest. He pulled up to the red light. “It’s only another fifty feet.”

  His phone rang. The opening harmony of “Fat Bottomed Girls.” It was Caterina again. He answered the call, not waiting for her to speak. “I’m on my way. I just need gas.”

  “You should’ve been here ten minutes ago,” she jabbed. “Why am I not surprised?”

  “I said I’m on my way, Cat! Ten more minutes is all.”

  “You’re making me late for work!” Her voice went shrill. “I’m calling my mother. I should have asked her to watch Armand. She would have been on time!”

  Dammit, there it was. “You know you have to ask me first.”

  “I called you first, asshole!” Caterina hissed. “And you had every chance to say you couldn’t make it, Nes!”

  “Cut me some slack, Cat!” She loved throwing the separation agreement in his face. Following it to the letter. Cataloging Nestor’s mistakes to use against him later. “I’m not dumb, you know? I know what you’re doing.”

  “What? Trying to get to my job? So I can earn a living? Pay for rent and food?”

  Nestor laughed, “No, you know better. You keep setting me up to fail. You already got full custody, and now you want to take away my visitation too.”

  Caterina sighed. “I don’t have time for your shit. I’m calling my mother and leaving as soon as she gets here.”

  “No, wait, Cat!” Nestor pleaded. “I’ll be there in a few minutes, okay?” Silence. “Cat?” The line went dead. N
estor huffed and threw his phone on the floor. He’d already been to court several times to keep the visitation he had. He saw Armand one day a week, and every other weekend. It was like not seeing him at all. Every week the boy was bigger, different, using unexpected words. Nestor had a few hours every week to get to know his own son. And yeah, he had missed two or three visits, but paying child support means you need money. Money came from working. Work was where and when you could find it. Nestor had to be flexible, but his ex-wife had no such demand on her in making Armand available to him.

  The traffic light changed to green. Nestor whispered a prayer to Saint Christopher and lifted his foot from the brake. He set his eyes on the truck stop ahead and tapped the accelerator. The car bucked. Nestor switched from silent prayers to verbal cursing, willing the car forward with spite. The car stuttered.

  Nestor steered the car into the station as the Nissan belched one last gasp and the dashboard lit up. The breathy noise of the tires on the pavement became prominent, his engine no longer active. The pump crept up alongside as the car coasted into place.

  He released the breath he was holding, thanking heaven for small miracles. He heaved himself out of the car, the struts protesting until his feet found the ground. He headed toward the building, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a wad of bills. Sifting through them, Nestor made sure he had at least ten bucks for gas. He smiled as he counted out eighteen dollars. Another miracle.

  Nestor signaled the cashier, giving her two fives and pointing to his car. He walked back to the pump, checking his watch. He was cutting it close on time, but he still had a few minutes to pick up tacos from Sammy. Armand would like that. Cat might even appreciate it.

  Nestor shook his head as he fitted the nozzle into the open gas tank. No, she wouldn’t appreciate it. She would complain about it. “Nestor, the boy’s sick and doesn’t need tacos!” she’d say. It didn’t matter what he brought. Food? “It will make Armand sick.” Medicine? “That’s the wrong kind.” Games? “Too engaging, the boy needs rest.” A movie? “Too violent.” Nothing Nestor did was right, and Caterina made sure he knew it.