Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  His anger pumped in time with the gasoline. Why should he have to choose between seeing his son and working to pay child support? That’s the position Cat was forcing on him. See Armand, then miss a job and be short on his support payment. Or miss his visitation so he could work and earn the funds. See his son and go to court, or not see his son and work to pay the boy’s mother. It was a shit sandwich, and it was the only food Cat knew how to make.

  He would set her straight, though. He’d show Cat what a father does. He’d figure it out, make it work. She’d see it. Take him back, and they’d be a family again. He had a bead on a construction job in Uvalde. If that panned out, he’d have good money for a few months.

  The pump slapped off, the lever snapping open in his hand. Nestor reseated the nozzle and closed the gas tank. Sammy’s tacos would fix anything, including this bleak mood he’d found. He left the car by the pump and walked toward the building. The smoky odor of chorizo hung in the air with the smell of gasoline and tires, and Nestor’s stomach rumbled. He pulled open the door, waiting to let a pair of men exit before he rounded the entrance.

  “It’s just for a few days.”

  Nestor stopped and turned. A man was looking at him, boring into him with piss-yellow eyes. Nestor backed away at the sight of him. Translucent skin, face blotched with wrong colors and hanging off his skull, lips trembling as if he was freezing. Nestor raised his hands, as if the man’s appearance would reach out and assault him.

  The other man—younger, less ragged—stepped over and pulled the yellow man by the elbow. “Sorry, don’t mind him.” Nestor took them in. The old man, a brace on his arm, clothes loose and stained with sweat. The younger man, shirt smeared with filth, eyes straining in their sockets. Christ help them, what had they been through?

  Nestor watched as they left through the door. The old man hesitated, but the younger man insisted. Nestor shook his head as he turned toward Sammy’s counter. He had his own problems today. He didn’t need distractions.

  As Nestor walked through the aisle, he called out, “¡Oye, Sammy!” The cook poked out of his window and saluted him, his face breaking out a crooked smile. Nestor held up four fingers, and Sammy nodded, getting to work on the tacos.

  Nestor walked over to the coffee counter, putting together a large coffee for himself. He carried the coffee to the refrigerator. Scanning the rows of beverages, he found the chocolate milk that Armand loved. As he approached the food counter, Sammy had the tacos ready in a brown paper bag for him.

  “¿Qué onda?” Sammy asked.

  Nestor took the bag, smiled at his friend, and replied, “Todo bien, todo bien. Hablemos más tarde, okay?”

  Sammy nodded and focused on another customer as Nestor went to pay for his food. He dropped the wad of eight dollars on the counter. Not waiting for the cashier to count it, Nestor headed for the door. The bag warmed his hand. The salty odor of egg and tortillas wet his mouth. His stomach grumbled, knowing food was close. Nestor figured it would be okay to eat on the way to Armand. His son wouldn’t mind.

  He backed out of the door, pushing it open with his ass and turning to face the day. Sunshine filled the sky; Nestor raised his face to it, thinking about the day ahead with his son. They would play board games, rest, laugh together. Maybe he would even tell Caterina about the job. Then again, maybe he wouldn’t.

  He walked back to the pump, stopping when he saw the pickup truck where his car should have been. Thinking he was looking at the wrong pump, Nestor walked to the next lane of pumps. It was empty. Nestor stood still, his face falling. He scanned the last row of pumps. His car wasn’t there either. Eyes frantic, his chest tingling with anxiety, he scanned the pumps. The lot. The road. His car was gone.

  Nestor’s food and drink hit the ground.

  Chapter 33

  Caleb

  “Dammit, son, slow down a second!” Caleb was frantic, terrified by what Wes had done, yet his voice came out pathetic and whiny. The seat belt yielded in fits and spurts until he landed it in the buckle with a soft clunk. The rush of running from the motel was catching up with him. His body aches became pointed. His breathing couldn’t happen fast enough, and Caleb worried that he would pass out. His fanny pack dropped to the floorboard. “You’re gonna get us killed, Wes!”

  “I’m going to get us out of here,” Wes responded, his voice brisk. His eyes bounced from the road to the rearview and back with an intensity Caleb hadn’t seen before. Was his son afraid? No, Caleb had seen fear in Wes many times. This was something else. Something far from fear. A smile spread on Wes’s face. His son chuckled, and it grew into laughter. Caleb swallowed his discomfort. His son wasn’t afraid—this was elation.

  As if confirming, Wes released a maniacal yawp and punched his fist into the roof of the car. Caleb withered at the noise, shying to the far side of the passenger seat. He looked to the side-view mirror, glancing back at the truck stop. The man who owned this car wandered the pumps, clutching a paper bag. Caleb’s heart dropped when the man raised a hand to his head. Wes jerked the car around a corner. The gas station disappeared behind the highway overpass.

  Caleb turned to his beaming son. “We shouldn’t have done that! This isn’t petty theft, Wes!”

  The smile on his son’s face didn’t falter. “Pop, we’ll fix it after Utopia.” He dismissed his father with a wave of his fingers. Caleb sighed and turned to the road, putting a hand over his mouth. He could feel his son glance at him. “If you want, give that guy your nice-ass Beamer as a thank-you.”

  “We left that man stranded back there!”

  Wes groaned, “Goddammit, you’re ruining this buzz with your moral edge, you know?” The car slowed to a legal speed. Wes threaded the dirty compact through the rolling hill country. “If we hadn’t taken this car, we’d be in custody. Waiting for someone else to choose what will happen to us while you fade away.”

  Caleb’s mouth opened as he searched for words. Wes didn’t give him the chance.

  “Look at yourself, Pop. You’re beyond sick now. I may not remember Mom, but I’ve seen the dying, enough to recognize it.” His son looked back at the road for a moment, but returned his steady smile to Caleb. “You don’t have the time, Pop. I’m getting you to that boy, come hell or high water.”

  They sat in silence for a minute. Caleb scanned the spiral backcountry drive as it wound through a mass of small bushy trees.

  Wes cleared his throat and said, “Achieving balance requires patience.” His tone and cadence mimicked someone else, perhaps the original source of the words. “You’ve been patient, Pop. You’ve suffered, and now the universe is correcting itself in this …” Wes waved his hand at everything around them. “… this glorious moment of redemption.”

  Caleb licked his dry lips. He shook his head, replying, “I don’t buy it.”

  “What? What’s the issue?”

  “The logic, it doesn’t hold up. Why would the universe need correcting? If this is some … blessed crusade we’re on, why are we hitting any obstacles at all?”

  Wes eyed him with curiosity, his smile replaced with a look of interest. “How do you mean?”

  Caleb shifted in the seat to find a more comfortable position. “The roadblock, the police finding your car, Irene freezing my accounts? If this is a correction, why would any of those things happen? Why not—hell, I dunno—zap away my cancer while I’m in my bed in New Mexico?”

  Wes shrugged, his head lilting to the side. “Regardless, here we are, on the road to Utopia. Because some disembodied voice told us it would help you. And considering we’re almost there, I’d say things are going our way.”

  “No,” Caleb retorted, his voice cracking, “no, see, I don’t feel the same. This is wrong! We shouldn’t have to steal things to make this happen if we’re so …” Caleb struggled with his words. Was he conning himself? Wes was so fixed on the idea that this entire trip was some kind of mission from God. But why hadn’t the voice warned him about the troub
les they would hit? Let them prepare instead of having to improvise their way across two states?

  Wes sighed and pointed toward the road ahead. “Look, we’re only forty minutes from Utopia. Do you still have that map in your pack, Dad?”

  Caleb reached down, lifting his pack and removing the map of Texas roads from the front pocket.

  Wes added, “I penned some marks of our route, once it leaves I-10.”

  Caleb searched through the folds of the map, looking for their current location, while the rattle of garbage in the backseat filled the silence. He followed I-10 east on the map until he found an ink circle around Junction, Texas. “Looks like Highway 83 south a ways, then a left on State Road 39, and then 187 will take us all the way into town.”

  Wes repeated the names of the roads, playing with the words out loud. Caleb folded the map, cramming it back into his fanny pack. He held the pack loose in his lap, wondering whom this car belonged to. He opened the glove box. It exploded in a mess of papers on the floor.

  “What are you doing?” Wes asked.

  “Trying to figure out who this car belongs to.” One piece of paper stood out from the pile of receipts and mail. Caleb reached down to pick up the expired Texas vehicle registration. It had a name on it—Caterina Ramos—and an address.

  Caleb unzipped his pack again, pulling out the paper napkin and pen. He unfolded the napkin flat on his thigh. Beneath the note describing the waitress, he copied the name and address from the car’s registration.

  Wes snorted. Caleb glanced up to see his son smirking at him. “You’re keeping … what is that, a crime ledger?” Wes chuckled. “How bean-counteringly unnecessary.”

  Caleb was in no mood. He finished taking down the address, cramming the loose papers back into the glove box. Something was blocking it from closing. He sifted beneath the raggedy pile of stuff, and his fingers found a solid metal lump. He pulled it out, curious, and held it in his open hand.

  It was a toy car. An El Camino. White, with red flame marks on the hood. Like a tiny, clean version of Wes’s car they’d abandoned at the motel.

  Wes snatched the toy from his dad’s palm, holding it up and inspecting it. “Holy shit, it’s my ride!” He grinned at the discovery, nodding his head. “See, Pop? Tell me this isn’t a sign that we’re supposed to be in this car, right now.” Wes thrust the car back into his father’s hands, closing Caleb’s knobby fingers around the toy.

  “You keep that, Pop, to remind you. Remind you we have a mission. No one else on earth, Pop. Just you and me. We’re doing this thing, and you’d better start believing in yourself. And in your purpose.”

  Caleb tucked the napkin back into his pack and set it on the floor. He held the car in his fist, thumbing a wheel as he considered his son’s logic and the road ahead.

  Chapter 34

  Wes

  Dad faded in the passenger seat. Wes couldn’t blame him. The adrenaline rush from stealing the car had burned off, and their stomachs were still empty. Driving through the curves and hills required concentration. Wes trusted the road signs and murmured the little travel ditty to himself again. “Highway 83 to State Road 39, then south 187 to the end of the line.”

  They passed countless outfitters and tubing-excursion businesses. Wes recalled this part of the trip followed a river as it wandered the Texas Hill Country. The road crossed the water now and then, giving him a brief glimpse at a slow and calm waterway. People played in the river, some in tubes, some not. Wes imagined Pop in a tube on the water, healthy, enjoying a beer. The image made him smile.

  A signpost showed the turn onto 187 was coming up, and a kick of excitement hit Wes in the chest. He looked over at Dad, who stared out the passenger window at the passing bushy trees that lined the road. “Hey, Pop! This is it, the last road before we get there!” His dad acknowledged him with a weak nod.

  After a few minutes, they breezed through Vanderpool. That was the last town on the map before Utopia. Wes’s mind started considering their next steps.

  “So, once we hit Utopia, should we head straight to that restaurant and wait?” he asked his father.

  Pop groaned instead of answering, putting a hand on his gut. His breathing became rapid, shallow.

  “Pop? What’s wrong?”

  He tried to make words, but they wouldn’t form on his shallow, staccato breaths.

  “Do you need your pain meds?” Wes shouted.

  Dad didn’t answer and fumbled with his pack. He unzipped the main compartment, spilling the contents on the floor. Bending to collect them, he moaned in pain.

  Wes pulled the car onto the shoulder, stopping under the shade of a gigantic oak. He reached into the backseat, pulling a bottle of water from the carton set among the pile of debris. He bolted from the car and ran around to the passenger side. Opening Pop’s door, Wes found his medication spilled across the dirty floor mat. Wes knelt, picking up the oblong tablets and placing them back into their bottle.

  He placed one tablet into his father’s mouth and raised a bottle of water to his lips. Pop swallowed between gasps of pain. Wes wiped spittle from Dad’s cracked lips. He was getting dehydrated. “You need to keep drinking this, okay?” Pop nodded, folding his shaking hands around the bottle.

  Wes stood and took in the road. Grass fields framed the patched asphalt. The occasional line of trees marked the edge of someone’s property. Wes’s body retaliated for the morning’s fight-or-flight session. He needed to take a piss. He turned around, eyeing the oaks separating the shoulder from a farm.

  “Listen, I’m going over there to take a leak, but I’ll be right back, okay? Pop? Can you hear me?”

  He nodded once, enough to show that he understood. Wes walked across the dirt shoulder toward the trees, the ground hard under his feet. Turning his head back to his father, he said, “You keep drinking that water.”

  Wes found a gap between the oaks large enough for him to pass. The trees offered privacy from the road. Beyond them, several acres of low ground cover expanded around an open metal barn. The sun beat down through the leaves above, warming Wes’s head and shoulders. The light and shadow created a pattern on the ground—eyes staring up at him.

  Being watched made it hard to pee. Wes closed his eyes, thinking of the river he’d seen on the way here. Relief came, blissful, bordering on painful. The patter of his stream accented how quiet it was. There was a slight wind stirring the leaves above him. Some grinding bugs somewhere beyond the barn. The natural beauty of the soundscape deteriorated as a puttering motorcycle growled.

  Wes finished, zipped up his jeans, and pulled his shirt away from his gut. He turned to make his way back through the trees to their car. The deafening buzz of a siren revved his heart into overdrive.

  He peeked around the oak tree. A highway patrolman made a U-turn on his bike, pulling up behind the car.

  Wes’s gaze traced the car’s frame to his father. His dad gaped back at him, a hand pressed against the window, mouth trembling, eyes wide and yellow with fear.

  Chapter 35

  Demetrio

  The midday Texas sun pulled the sweat out of Demetrio Cruz. But the breeze created by his Road King wicked the moisture off his skin. He revved the engine, feeling the vibrations through his pelvis and legs as the bike hauled him home. He should wear his helmet. It was the law, and he was a lawman. But the exhilaration of the wind on his face sure beat the hell out of setting a good example.

  His shift had been quiet, most of it spent at his desk catching up on paperwork. The night had been boring, but boring nights were the pleasant ones. When things weren’t boring for Cruz, people were heading to a hospital or to jail.

  After work, Demetrio took his time on the serpentine roads, taking pleasure in each curve. He had two stops this morning. He’d done the first—visiting a small grocery where he packed his saddlebags with fresh fruits and vegetables. Now he was on his way to his second stop—to deliver those foods to Mrs. Park and her family in Ut
opia. He had made it a point to visit them once a week since her stroke last year. Cruz smiled, thinking about her remarkable recovery. The elderly woman had been nonverbal, confined to a wheelchair on her better days, bedridden on the others. At least, until her daughter brought her to church. The kids doted on Mrs. Park, asking her where she’d been, giving her hugs, and offering prayers. And then, the miracle. She stood. She hadn’t gotten on her feet in a year. But then, her frail form straightened from her wheelchair. Her feet popped off the flanges and onto the floor. And she stood. She rose from her chair at the front of the church, wrapping her arms around the boy hugging her. It stole the air from the room. Everyone stared at the living wonder, stunned and silent.

  Then came the most incredible moment, at least for Demetrio. She sang. So quiet at first, you could hear it only as an echo, the words to “Amazing Grace” sketched in their ears. But Mrs. Park found her voice. The tentative hums grew into her tenacious alto, which no one had heard in years. Once the congregation started breathing again, their voices joined hers. The space between them disappeared in worship and wonder.

  She’d been at church every Sunday since, healthy as ever. More than healthy, even. Her slack face and atrophied muscles came back toned, strong, and supple. She radiated now, engaged with the community in ways she’d never been. Cooking, teaching, leading. It was, Demetrio knew, a genuine miracle of God. Mrs. Park was a living testament to His power and glory.

  Demetrio steadied the bike, decelerating as he entered a turn, then opening up again. The center of gravity drifted back under him, keeping him in the tight side of the curve. When he reached the deepest part of the turn, Demetrio twisted the throttle. The bike howled forward, and he relished the sinking sensation in his gut.