Season of Waiting

by Jim Christopher

  At the car, he fell into the front seat, exhausted. Dad sat silent and still in the passenger’s seat. Wes waited a breath, then revved the Nissan and put it into drive. With a heavy yoke, he moved them back onto southbound 187.

  Chapter 38

  Caleb

  The car’s bald tires spun on the cracked pavement, filling the space with an unsteady hum. Neither man spoke.

  Caleb tried once, turning to his son to check if he was okay. The sight of the glistening streaks stopped him. He hadn’t seen Wes cry in years. Caleb realized his own face was wet as well.

  Were those tears of sadness on his son’s face, over what they had just done to that poor man? Or was he crying at the joy of what they were about to accomplish?

  He didn’t ask. Wes wouldn’t know the answer. Caleb sure as hell didn’t know the answer either.

  An incessant clanking pulled Caleb’s wet gaze to the floor near his feet. As the car moved down the road, the vibrations set the little toy El Camino bouncing against the barrel of the officer’s gun. It made a sharp, pinching tap. Metal on metal. Arrhythmic, cacophonic. Caleb reached to his feet, carefully lifting the toy off the pistol. He rose, unsure of where to place the toy. He stuffed it into his fanny pack.

  “We’re here.” Wes’s voice was hoarse and dry, yet there was a rise to it. “We made it, Pop.”

  Caleb lifted his gaze to the road. A sign, whitewashed plywood and hand painted with large red print, greeted him: Welcome to Utopia. This is God’s country. Please don’t drive through it like Hell.

  UTOPIA

  Chapter 39

  Caleb

  His son had been right: Utopia stuck to the road. A thoroughfare formed the vein of commerce and traffic. Capillaries of ranch roads and residential areas branched into the hills.

  Caleb had ridden the length of town in a daze. The shock of what they had done pressed on him. The town’s southern edge snapped him out of the fugue. The buildings ended as the road disappeared in a turn, the view obscured by maple trees. They turned around, paying more attention to their surroundings.

  The restaurant was easy to find. Wes had recognized the sign from the video. The Silverleaf stood alone, a converted two-story house wrapped in cream clapboard and finished with brick-red trim.

  If the roads were veins, and the people were the blood of this small town, then this place must have been its heart. At least forty people had come and gone in the two hours Caleb waited at his table in the corner.

  Wes had dropped him here. Caleb was concerned about separating, but Wes was in no shape for public viewing. He said he would clean up, figure out where they could stay, after which he would return. That was two hours ago. Caleb’s waiting had turned to worry. Maybe the cops had found Wes. Maybe he had left. Caleb’s hand sought the bulge in his fanny pack. He felt a twinge of guilt at doubting his son. Relief that he still had his medication.

  “Nothin’ else?” the waitress asked, her tone short. It was the fifth time she had asked, and it would be the fourth time Caleb ordered nothing. From her scowl, the waitress seemed irritated at his loitering.

  “No, I’m just waiting for someone,” he said. He held up his mug and added, “I’d love a reheat, though.”

  The waitress left, then returned with another cup of hot water and a selection of tea bags. Her smile stopped at her eyes as she left to take care of someone else.

  Caleb tore open the single-serving mint tea and landed it in the steaming mug. The sharp and clean aroma did little to calm his nerves or his impatience. Caleb knew he was an awful sight. Sweat and dust stained the cuffs of his shirt. Hemorrhages darkened his hands, but the space between them glowed as the bilirubin built up in his body. He worried about how he was behaving, how people perceived him.

  It was more than being a stranger in this town. The incident outside Utopia cracked his core. He hadn’t thought about what he was doing until he opened the car door. The voice wasn’t offering any help, so he had just acted. And then Wes took action too. The violence shattered Caleb. As he sat alone with his thoughts, he realized why.

  Deep down, Caleb had understood what he was doing. How his son would react. Relied on it. Trusted it would happen. He had forced Wes to take action, and he knew what that action would be.

  His son swung the branch. It was a terrible choice. But he had manipulated Wes to make it happen. Caleb had made a plan. He put it together in the moments between opening the car door and standing up. It wasn’t one choice. It was a logical sequence of events he conceived and put into motion. That he would be so cunning, so thoughtful around harming another person—that’s what bothered Caleb more than anything.

  Wes had assured him that the officer would be fine for a day or two, until they could get this done. Before they separated, Caleb asked for his phone, and Wes flat out refused. His son didn’t trust him not to call the authorities, tell them where to find the incapacitated patrolman. It was a good bet—Caleb had spent the last two hours perseverating on ways to get the officer anonymous help. If he had his phone, he would have caved and called 911.

  Caleb repeated the mantra in his head. “Find the boy, fix the cancer, then we can fix the rest.” Another day at most. Then he would welcome any punishment given, make any amends possible, if it took him the rest of this new life.

  After waiting through the lunch crowd at the Silverleaf, Caleb wasn’t so sure. The whole effort was fragile. Illogical. Wes was on his own. Caleb was in a random place, hoping to find a stranger. He didn’t know how long he should wait. For the boy. For Wes.

  And the damned voice had been silent since this morning. He had reached out to it several times, but heard nothing. Just deafness in his deaf ear.

  Caleb sighed, shaking his head. When had he become so prideful? Why would he get to cause so much suffering, only to help himself? He had had enough. He cursed his feeble mind and body for fooling him into nurturing some hope. He would pay for his two-hour tea; then he would walk outside. He’d head to the fire station. Tell them about the injured officer. After that, come what may. He pushed up from his chair.

  A warmth moved under his skull, a bliss worming out from wherever the voice lived.

  Caleb turned to the room. Near the front entrance, he found his waitress nuzzling a ruddy and dusty boy, talking to him. The kid squeezed her, hands interlocked around her back. As they parted, Caleb recognized the demure child from the video. Heat filled his cheeks. His head spun.

  He took a moment, some time to consider his actions. Should he approach them? What would he say? How would they react? Caleb ran his hands over his wrinkled and stained shirt, trying to clear the detritus it had accumulated over the last day. Why the hell hadn’t he spent the last two hours thinking about this moment?

  The moment was here, now. The opportunity would pass, whether or not he acted. He chose to act. Caleb took a few steps toward the mother and her boy. He looked from his disheveled clothing to find the kid staring at him from across the room.

  The look on the boy’s face flushed the warmth from Caleb. The boy’s mouth was agape. His eyes saucers, hands frantic on his mother’s apron as he struggled to move behind her. To protect himself. To hide from Caleb.

  The boy was terrified of him.

  Chapter 40

  Emerson

  Emerson lowered his head into his shoulders. He hoped to disappear into the crowd of kids leaving the elementary wing of Utopia School. His feet shuffled across the wide lawn, his eyes fixed on Main Street ahead. He chanced a look behind him, checking for Henry and his friends. They were somewhere, searching for him. They had promised they would pound Emerson to dust after school.

  Emerson had made a mistake during recess. That’s why Henry was mad at him, why he and his friends were looking to beat him up. That morning he had seen the kink in Shannon’s Lavender halo. Her heart was sick. It would get worse in a few days or weeks. So Emerson stood behind Shannon when she got in line for the swings at recess. He smoothed the
refractions through her heart. But his hand ended up stroking her wavy brown hair, just enough for her to notice. She turned around and started calling him names. Creep. Touchy McStalkerson. Shannon was going with Henry. Even though Emerson didn’t understand what that meant, he knew Henry was mad at him now.

  Mom would be upset too. She told him to stop helping people on his own. To wait for the right moment. When she was there and could keep him safe. Emerson understood. He’d known for a long time that few people believed he could do what he did. But also, Emerson couldn’t help himself. The light was pretty when it was right. When the light was wrong, though, he couldn’t look away. Like an itch he could scratch with his eyes. And besides, he was helping people, and helping people was a good thing to do.

  Emerson reached Main Street, his heart jumping in his chest. He stopped at the curb and waited for the crossing guard to signal that the street was safe to cross. She was talking with a driver, her halo glimmering with the color of limes as she laughed. Her lovely light did nothing to calm Emerson’s nerves. His shoulders hunkered up to his ears, he turned his head back toward school. Peeking through the gaps between the bigger kids, Emerson saw him.

  Henry. And two of his friends—Juan and Miguel. They ran down the school yard in his direction, heads circling, eyes searching.

  Emerson sucked in a breath. His legs itched to run. They were looking for him. Coming his way. When they reached him, they would tear him apart.

  Emerson turned back as the group of kids began moving across the street. He kept his head down. Stayed in the middle of the kaleidoscope of colors shining from the crowd. He reached the opposite side of Main Street. Over the din of kids ready for their afternoon free time, Emerson heard it.

  “There he is, man! Across the street!” Juan had seen him.

  Emerson hugged his library books to his chest and broke into a run. His backpack slammed against him with each footfall. The binders and books shoved him forward, then pulled him down with each slap of his sneakers. He could leave it. Run faster without it. Deal with the anger Mom would have if he lost his backpack again. Emerson knew it wouldn’t matter. Henry and his friends were bigger. And they were faster than he was. They’d catch him either way, and if he dropped his backpack, he would never see it again.

  The crossing guard shouted. Emerson turned to see Henry and Juan running across the street. Cutting around the cars stopped in the road, they made a beeline for him. Fear tingled through Emerson’s tummy and into his legs. He made those legs pump as hard as they could go.

  “Don’t you run, freak!” Henry. His voice was deeper than those of the other boys. His body was bigger too, and his light was never still. From what Emerson had seen, Henry was full of rage now. Ugly colors spitting out of him. No pattern. No control.

  Emerson had to get to the diner, to his mother. He would be safe there. His feet stung as they beat the dirt. The heavy backpack shoved the air out of him as he ran faster. Faster. Unable to catch his breath. The flops of other feet grew louder behind him. He was three blocks from the Silverleaf. He might make it.

  “Here we come, faggot!” Henry hollered. Juan’s sick laughter followed the insult.

  Emerson bolted into Lee Street without looking. The shrieking brakes of a car startled him, but he didn’t stop running. He glanced to see the driver’s light twitching with shock. Emerson shut his eyes as he turned back toward Mom. Two blocks away. Maybe she was outside, waiting for him. He opened his eyes.

  A blur. Then the ground leapt up at Emerson. His hands took the fall. Emerson’s books scattered in the surrounding dirt. Then his bulky pack landed hard on him, sandwiching his body to the ground with a puff of dust. Before he could sense any injury, Emerson felt a yank on his pack. Someone flipped him. Miguel’s snarling and pimply face leered over him. Henry and Juan appeared a moment later, Henry panting after the chase.

  Henry bent, grabbing Emerson’s shirt with two fists and lifting him up, only to slam him back into the ground. The binders in Emerson’s backpack ground into his spine and shoulders. Then Henry did it again. The third time, spots filled Emerson’s eyes. Not normal spots, like the lights from people. These were all in his head.

  Henry dropped a knee on his chest, leaning his weight into Emerson’s body. His face eased close, their noses almost touching, the smell of gasoline and bubble gum pouring off Henry. He waited there, inches from Emerson’s face, letting him stew in his fear. Henry was enjoying this now. Emerson saw it in his Silver and Yellow tones. The halo never lied. After a forever moment, Henry spit in Emerson’s face and hissed, “You weird piece-of-shit freak.”

  The large boy rose and balled up a fist. Emerson held his breath as Henry punched him in the gut. The pain was immediate, explosive, brilliant. Emerson coughed, his breath leaving him.

  “That’s for making me chase you!”

  Henry’s fist rose. He aimed higher this time.

  “And this is for putting your freak hands on my girlfriend.”

  Emerson gave up. He clamped his wet eyes and went limp, waiting for the pain. Maybe this time Henry would stop after hitting him once. He might split Emerson’s lip straightaway, or break his nose on the first try. Then he would leave Emerson alone.

  Instead of pain, there was lightness. The other boy’s weight disappeared. Emerson opened his eyes. Henry was in the air, held up by his shirt, which wrapped around an immense fist.

  It was Mom’s new friend, Jaime. His Indigo light shone steady and bold. Henry flailed and kicked, his halo bounding around him like a goldfish out of the bowl.

  Henry screamed, “Stop it, man, I was just playin’!” Emerson looked for the others. Juan and Miguel were gone.

  Jaime’s eyes lowered to Emerson. “You okay, boy?” His voice was deep, stern, no hint of effort at holding Henry’s squirming bulk off the ground.

  Emerson swallowed and nodded. Jaime pointed behind him with his chin, toward the Silverleaf. Toward Mom. “Go. It’s Wednesday. Get you some kuchen.” Jaime turned his face to Henry. “Tell your mom I’ll be back in an hour.”

  Emerson gathered his books, stumbled to his feet, and ran. He didn’t look back. Over the slaps of his sneakers on the pavement, he could hear Henry hollering, “Let me go! C’mon, man, just let me go!”

  Emerson checked the traffic before crossing Jackson Street. His shoes crunched on the gravel in the road, and he didn’t stop moving until he reached the door of the Silverleaf. Mom wasn’t outside.

  He chanced a glance back toward school as he pulled at the door, but Emerson didn’t see Henry or Jaime. He clambered into the restaurant and dropped his bag and books by the door with a puttering thud.

  It took him a moment to adjust to all the light, all the people. He recognized Mom by her pattern—the Scarlets and Oranges radiating out and in as she took care of people at the tables.

  She saw him and smiled. Emerson waited as she set down her water pitcher and walked over to him. She eyed him up and down, a puzzled look on her face. She would ask him what happened, Emerson realized. How he got so dirty. Why he had been crying. He wrapped his arms around her tightly, squeezing his face into the warmth and safety of her tummy.

  She hugged him back. He could feel her kissing the top of his head and listened as she sucked in a long sniff of his hair. She knew. She always knew when he’d tried to fix someone. She said she could smell it on him.

  She pulled away from him, and his eyes met hers. He couldn’t read them, but Mom’s light showed how worried she was. “You did some work today, Em?” Her tone was firm, her voice quiet against the din.

  There was no reason to hide it. Emerson nodded, looking back into her belly. She opened the space between them and stooped down, holding his chin so his eyes rose to hers again.

  “Oh, Em. We talked about this. It’s dangerous to do that when I’m not around.” Her face was hard. Her lips thinned. She was disappointed. Her halo didn’t say if she was also mad.

  Emerson knew better th
an to look away. “Sorry, Mama. I just wanted to help Shannon.” Tears rolled from his eyes again. Not from fear now, but frustration. “She would have gotten sick someday.”

  Mom smiled at him. “I know, sweetie.” She cupped his face in a tender hand and wiped away his tear with her thumb. “And you’re a good person for wanting to help her. But not everyone understands, Em.”

  Emerson nodded again, tears flowing free. He wasn’t sobbing, not yet. He swallowed his nerves, waiting to see where Mom went next. Was she only disappointed this time? Or was she angry with him?

  “My darling boy,” she whispered, the smile spreading across her face and into her eyes. Emerson relaxed into her Pink tones. She pulled a napkin from her apron and cleaned his face. After another kiss on his forehead, she pulled away and motioned to the counter seating. Her voice took on a playful tone as she announced, “It’s Wednesday, which means …”

  Emerson lit up around his tears. Wednesday! That meant … “Kuchen!”

  “Kuchen!” Mom confirmed with a bright smile and wave of Red light. Mom moved to the side, wrapping an arm around Emerson’s shoulder as she walked him toward the counter.

  The lights from the people at the tables mixed with the sounds and smells of the place to weave a tapestry of the moment. The Olives and Sea Greens of comfort, the starbursts and twinkles of laughter, the various Blues as people ate themselves full.

  Mom moved Emerson in front of her, and he stopped. Mom asked him a question, but Emerson couldn’t hear her. His focus was across the room as he tried to make sense of something he had never seen.

  There, on the other side of the Silverleaf, was a man. He was moving. Standing up from his table. It was wrong. There was no reason for this, no sense to it. Emerson’s chest tightened, his breathing locked.

  The man turned, looking over at him. At Mom. Under his gaze, Emerson felt it again—the rush, the tingle telling him to run. He tried, but Mom held him still.