Wes slammed the door and jogged around the bed of the truck. “What’s wrong, Pop? What do you need?”
Dad’s face rose. His eyes widened, a smile breaking the stress from his face. Wes smiled back, the warmth of Pop’s expression feeding his soul. His dad was glad to see him. Wes stepped forward to give him a hug, but paused when his father’s face fell to a scowl as his hands lowered, his mouth falling open.
“Wes.” It came out somewhere between an accusation and a question.
“Yeah, I’m here, Pop.” His uncertainty carried on his voice. He couldn’t read if Dad was glad to see him or not.
Pop’s rheumy eyes stayed locked on his. They stood in that moment for a breath. Then, Dad shouted, “Wes!” His voice had an edge now. Wes flushed as his dad’s hands closed into fists.
“What? What is it?”
Pop took a step toward him, stabbing the air with his finger. “You abandoned me!”
Wes laughed, “Oh, piss off! I’m right here!”
“No!” Pop screamed. “No! You left me here! No money, no phone, left me here to die!” The words sank into Wes’s chest like a searing brand.
Wes stuttered, “No, wait—”
“Where’s my phone? Where are my meds?” Dad’s lips quivered, his eyes hardened. “I want to call your sister, right now!”
Confused, Wes pointed past his father to the shack. “I left you enough meds to get through today. I wrapped them in the note. Didn’t you find them?”
“Yeah, I found them!” Dad was yelling now, his voice at odds with his frail form. “What the hell happened, Wes? Did the damned high wear off? You come back for the rest of ’em? Huh?” Pop took another step forward. “You want those too?”
A familiar hole opened in Wes’s chest. He swallowed the feeling of failure, making the conscious choice to keep it from pouring out of his mouth. “Pop, no … I …”
“Shut up, Wes! I’m done with this!” He wasn’t listening. He was on a script now, one Wes had heard many times. The heat of shame burned into his throat and cheeks. Wes’s ears closed as his dad lashed out with the standard barbs. Hard words carried on his fragile voice. “Selfish,” “reckless,” “damage,” “grow up,” “responsibility.”
Wes tamped the flames down, willing their embers to die on his ego.
Pop stopped yelling and rubbed his ruddy face with a hand. “Just give me my phone, son.” Pop opened his hand flat, as if demanding a cookie Wes had stolen from the jar. “I can’t believe I let you get me into this.”
Wes crossed his arms to hold back the anger roiling in him. The buckle of the fanny pack clacked against the tailgate of the truck.
“I said give me my phone, son. I’m calling your sister, and she’ll figure out how to get us out of this shit pile you created.”
There it was: Dad bringing Irene in to fix what Wes broke. Her name was a knife, and it severed Wes’s emotional control. “No!” He gripped his dad’s shirt collar in his fist, pulling his face close. “No, you listen now!” he hissed between his clenched teeth. Rage spilled into his eyes. “If I abandoned you to get high, I would still be high. And I sure as shit wouldn’t be here now!”
Dad’s eyes went wide and yellow, his arms rubber at his sides. Wes twisted him toward the cabin, pointing with his free hand. “I left you enough pills to manage your pain for the rest of today. Wanna know why?” Wes whipped him back around to face him. “Because after today, you won’t need them, you ungrateful shit!”
Wes released Pop’s shirt, and he crumpled to his knees, shock on his face. Wes stepped back, finding the fanny pack on the ground by the tailgate. He swiped it up, unzipping the main compartment. Turning back to his father, he shoved a hand into the pack, finding the tight wad. Wes pulled it out in a fist, letting it fall to pieces in front of his father’s gaping stare.
Dad’s eyes fell to the pile of money on the ground. His face moved from shock to confusion. Wes could see him counting the large bills, scrunched into disorganized clumps. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft, barely audible over the hum of the waking hives. “You … sold them?” Pop sounded hurt. Offended. It was an accusation.
Wes snorted. “Yeah, I did,” he said, the heat of his anger hardening into righteousness. “I found a goddamned solution. I got the money for you.” He flexed his fists a few times, burning off the rage and calming himself before continuing. “Look, I figured I could run them to San Antonio. I’d be back with the money before you woke up.” He paused as the night’s details flashed through his mind. He debated how much to share with Dad. He wouldn’t approve. It didn’t matter. Wes didn’t need his approval. He needed Dad to get well. “But it took longer than I expected. And I’m sorry.”
His father picked up a crumpled bill, opening it flat. His eyes rose to look at Wes. “Who did you sell them to?”
Wes shook his head, his eyes falling to the ground. “Nobody, Dad. You don’t worry about that.”
Dad stuttered, sitting back on his haunches, shrugging in surrender. He was about to protest.
Wes shut him down with a raised hand. “We had a problem, and I solved it.”
Pop’s hands lowered. He relaxed, and his eyes turned back to the money.
Wes continued, his voice strong with confidence. “I told you, this is redemption for me. I’m not letting you die if I can help it. So anything I need to do to get you in front of that kid, I’m going to do it. Even if you don’t agree with it.”
Wes paused, collecting his thoughts. His father’s eyes stayed on the bills in front of him. “You have … this cosmic purpose, Pop. What did the voice say? ‘Save everything and everyone’?” Wes waited for Dad to respond, but he only stared at the money. “My conscience is clear on this. Yours should be too. You have the money you need to see the boy. I made that happen for you. Not Irene.”
Dad peered at him. His eyes narrowed with concern. Lips moved in self-debate. Wes sighed, the final bits of anger leaving his body. A new peace came to him, and a realization. He could help Dad only so much. At some point, his father needed to make a choice. Take action. Wes couldn’t do that for him.
He’d had enough of Pop’s ambivalence. His nonacceptance of the gravity of this entire series of miraculous events. Ignoring his own importance. His place in the universe. Pop had been chosen. By God. By Fate. By whatever. It was time he started putting in the effort.
Wes pulled his dad’s phone from his front pocket. He tossed it to the ground among the crumpled money. “And now you have a phone to call Irene for help, if that’s what you want.”
He turned back toward the truck. After a few steps he spit, “Call Irene, and end this. Or come with me and see this through. It’s time to shit or get off the pot. I’ll be in the truck.”
Chapter 49
Blair
Blair stood outside the Silverleaf, sucking on a cigarette and enjoying the last of the cool morning air. Her shift had started an hour ago. Once Emerson finished his breakfast, she liked to take a smoke break to watch him walk to school. This had been their routine for months, since Em started kindergarten. Before reaching the drive to the school, Em turned back toward the diner. Blair waved her hand wide over her head, letting the smoke from her cigarette draw an arc in the air. Her heart swelled when the smile broke across Emerson’s precious face. He traced his arm in a wide circle—his signal that he saw the arc she made. Then he turned into the school yard, walking out of view, leaving Blair’s chest full of warmth. The timing, the moments that defined their morning, none of the details ever changed. The kiss good-bye, Blair lighting the smoke as her boy crossed Jackson. A few minutes of watching Em walk up the road, waiting at the crosswalk, then disappearing into the school.
On schedule, the ember of her smoke reached the filter. Blair stamped the butt into the overflowing ashtray. She pulled her hair back into a ponytail. Walking around the corner of the building to the entrance, Blair smoothed down her apron with practiced moves.
S
he saw him as soon as she opened the door. The sick man from yesterday. He sat at the counter, in the seat that Emerson liked to sit in after school. He looked down at his hands as they manipulated something on the countertop. Blair tensed, scanning the dining room for the other one—the son. She didn't find him, and her breath released as she walked to the counter.
This sick man—what was his name? Carl? No, Caleb. He was alone, and that was good. On his own, this man was no threat. A stiff breeze would tear him in half. Blair looked him over as she approached. He wore the same clothes as yesterday. His shoes were dirtier. Blair rounded the business side of the counter, and she put on her work face.
“Good morning,” she sang. “Good to see you again. Coffee? Tea?”
The man’s eyes lit up as they rose to meet hers. She had caught him stuffing a fork handle under the brace on his left hand, probably to scratch an itch. He yanked out the fork and moved his hands to his lap, his frame straightening as if he wanted to impress her. He stumbled with his words, pointing out the window toward the park with a grimy yellowed nail.
Blair shook her head and leaned against the counter, closing the distance between them so she could speak low. She did her best to keep from grimacing. The man reeked of stale sweat and mold. “Caleb, right?” She kept her voice soft.
The brittle man nodded and swallowed. “Yes, that’s right. You’re Blair.” He smiled at her, mouth sticky and teeth yellow.
She returned the smile, hiding her disgust at the man’s breath. Jaime had laid out an approach for her to follow. A script. To keep her and Em safe during these exchanges. Jaime wasn’t here to take charge of the conversation, but they practiced this enough. The business wouldn’t happen here, or at home, but at the church where Jaime worked. Safest place. Controllable. Small. Isolated.
“Were you able to get the money together?”
The man nodded, shifting around in his seat. Blair’s brow knotted as she heard a thin snap. Caleb turned back, hauling a large fanny pack onto the counter. Before he pulled open the zipper, Blair placed a hand on his. “No, not here. There’s a church right next door.” She nodded past the kitchen, toward the church lot beyond. “Round the back is a new annex. A building on its own.”
Caleb turned to the kitchen, as if he could see through the wall to Jaime’s office. She continued, “You go there after three thirty or so this afternoon. You knock on the door. My friend Jaime, from the gazebo, you remember him?” The man nodded. “Give the donation to Jaime, and he’ll let us know. And then we’ll meet you there.”
A tingle of pride lifted her head. She had practiced the script several times last night. Jaime should have been here to watch her nail it!
“You understand, Caleb?” she asked, giving his hand a brief squeeze.
Caleb’s eyes still stared through the back wall of the café. He nodded again, his face loose and eyes dreamy. “I understand. Three thirty, the building behind the church next door.”
“Good,” Blair stated. “Bring the money. Jaime will take care of you.” His face turned back to hers, his eyes hopeful. “For now, how about some tea?” she inquired. He nodded.
She pulled a mug from the rack and filled it with hot water. She set it in front of Caleb with the collection of teas from under the counter. Another patron—Hue from the auto shop down Johnson Street—flagged her over. “Stay here for a minute. I’ll be right back, okay?”
The man still stared past the kitchen.
A fresh pot of coffee sat ready. Blair snagged it and walked toward Hue’s table. She passed him his check as he dropped $12 into her hand. The movements were shadows of a routine they ran several times a week.
Hue headed for the door. Blair checked on her other customers, refilling their coffee. She returned to the counter, replacing the carafe and ringing up Hue’s check. Caleb cleared his throat, and she looked up from the register drawer.
His face was tight with concern. “Is there anything I need to do? To prepare?”
Blair chuckled. “Prepare? Like, don’t eat for eight hours before your appointment?” she teased. The image of this twig of a man walking around town in a medical gown made her laugh. His hands fidgeted, wringing with embarrassment. “Mister, there ain’t no preparing for it,” she consoled. “Don’t worry, okay? You just need to show up. Emerson does the rest.”
His face relaxed into a weary grin. He was thinking. Wondering what it was like, being healed by her son. She’d experienced the magic so often. The feeling of it was empty. No stun, no bliss, no discomfort, no recognition of change. But it had never gotten familiar. Never became routine. Each time was exactly like the first. Unexpected and new.
He finally put words to his thoughts. “What’s it feel like?”
Blair thought for a few seconds, staring at the counter between them. What did it feel like? Thing was, it didn’t feel like anything. Em had been healing her for how many years? And she never even knew it was happening. He’d done it while she was asleep, and the experience wasn’t enough to even wake her. There was no explosion. No orgasmic release of health. You just changed. One moment, you’re injured. The next, you’re not. She’d seen Em remove cancer, seen him close bleeding wounds, watched him unclog Jaime’s sinuses. There was never a cry, a whimper, or a laugh.
Blair rested her hand on top of the register and met his rheumy eyes with a smile. “Well, it don’t hurt none, if that’s your worry.”
Chapter 50
Caleb
Caleb watched for a bee. Any bee. Coming or going. There had been no activity around the apiary since they returned from town a few hours ago. He noticed after Wes finished inhaling the meal Caleb had picked up for him at the Silverleaf. The quiet after Wes’s belch. No hum hanging in the air. The constant thrum of nature was missing.
Wes had stumbled into the cabin. He emptied his pockets onto the rickety table and fell into the hammock, snoring in moments. Once Wes passed out, Caleb moved the little chair outside, in the shade of a cluster of cedars near the closest row of box hives. The hives were active that morning. He didn’t know much about bees, but Caleb figured it was odd that the apiary would go silent. Had they swarmed off, en masse? Was that something bees did? Had their presence scared them away?
Caleb reached down, finding the near-empty bottle of water on the ground under the chair. He tilted it up, draining the last few swallows. His thirst was insatiable today, his body a bottomless sponge. At least water was available, since Wes had overstocked their supply setting up camp yesterday. Caleb capped the bottle and dropped it next to the other empties as he counted them. That made two liters he’d consumed since Wes fell asleep, yet his mouth remained dry, his skin tight on his bones.
Continuous intravenous fluids. If he were back home in hospice care, that would be scribbled on his chart. Dr. Pav had warned him, a time would come when he wouldn’t be able to drink enough to keep his body working, and machines would force it into him. It was one marker Caleb had identified for his Final Release. When the medical tether became mandatory to keep his body functioning.
Caleb sighed in the warm and still air. The voice hadn’t lied—it was happening fast. His flesh was giving up. If he were back home now, the metal box would be in his hands, the button waiting for the slightest pressure. But Caleb wasn’t home. He was here. And he just needed a few hours more. His body could give him that. Then it would be reset. He’d have the strength to start over. The time to fix the things he and his son had done in the last few days. The chance to explain everything to Irene.
He trembled up from the seat, one arm bracing his frail body against the cedar as he staggered upright. He was dying, but not dead. His bladder still worked and at the moment, it screamed. Caleb steadied himself before making his way to the pine tree he had been using as a urinal all afternoon. He emptied himself into the ground around the tree. The sound of his stream filled the silence left by the missing bees.
As he finished, he could hear his son’s thick feet
slap the wooden slats of the cabin floor. He was awake, groaning a low rumble. It was a sound Caleb recognized—bending stiff joints and stretching tight muscles. Caleb moved to the screened door, finding Wes sitting up in the hammock.
“Sounds like your warranty expired overnight,” he said to his son. “Hate to tell you, but each morning feels better than the next one, kid.”
Wes chuckled. Caleb watched him through the screen as he rubbed the sleep from his face. He stood up and stretched. Shoving open the door, he stepped into the afternoon. “You’re peeing a lot, Dad. That’s the fifth leak you’ve taken since we got back.”
Caleb nodded and sighed, “Yeah, I can’t hold it. I think it’s the sun.”
Wes shielded his eyes as he looked to the sky. “Yeah, I guess we’re closer to the sun here in Texas than we were in New Mexico.”
The joke made Caleb snort, and he relaxed at the levity returning to their relationship. Whatever had happened overnight, Wes had come back with an edge to him. Caleb had asked once—what happened in San Antonio? Wes had refused to talk about it. Caleb didn’t have the strength to press him, but he kept revisiting the questions in his head. God knew what the hell Wes had done to get that money together. What damage had he inflicted? How many lives had he derailed? Regardless, it honed his son’s temper and purpose. There was resolve in him now, the likes of which Caleb had experienced only from his sister.
Wes looked at his watch. “We’ll leave in a few minutes, Pop. You got the money in your pack, right?”
Caleb answered by patting the bulging pack at his waist.
Wes nodded. “Good. I’m gonna take a few minutes, go over to those trees, and make like a bear.”
Caleb missed the reference, furrowing his brow. Wes held up a roll of toilet paper, grinning at his own joke. As his son walked stiff as a scarecrow into the small grove of trees beyond the truck, Caleb scoffed, “Show-off. I haven’t been able to take a crap since before the hospital in New Mexico.”
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