vituperation

So, you may have noticed I haven’t updated in a while. Life is very quiet here, and that’s a good thing. The year is winding down, I’m caught up on my projects (except putting polyurethane on that big-ass pantry in the garage, that is, and reducing the number of chickens we own). Being caught up lets me do something I absolutely love, but don’t seem to have much time for—read.

Books were my first love, and I always come back to them. A good book fulfills you in a way TV and movies can’t. Books also seem to stimulate my creative side.

I haven’t been updating…but I have been writing. This man in my head has been begging me to let him out for four years now. His son died in a fire, you see, and the poor guy was so torn up — he thought the fire was his fault, dontchaknow, even though it wasn’t — he went crazy for a little while and his wife moved out several months ago. Their son has been dead for a year now, and the couple just had an ugly scene when they met at his grave just off the Las Vegas strip…

The westering sun hung low in the sky by the time I pulled the Jeep into the driveway. I checked the mailbox—nothing—and walked up the short drive to my two-bedroom bungalow. Bungalow. That’s what the realtor had called it, while she led me on the tour through all three rooms. Shanty might be more appropriate. The cool amber light did nothing to diminish the garish teal of the flaking stucco, and so many shingles were gone from the roof I worried I might be in danger of drowning should it ever rain.

The creak of the wooden steps up to the door shattered the still afternoon, and I wondered if this was it, if this time the whole ramshackle thing would peel away from the house with a scream of rusty nails and dump me unceremoniously in the dirt. The stairs held. Thank God for small favors.

Inside the house, I tugged off my tie and hung it on the back of a chair in the kitchen. I rummaged for something to eat in the refrigerator, but nothing looked good. Why couldn’t Sara have at least gone out for a meal with me? Was I that low in her eyes now?

I opened a can of food for the cat and fed him from a saucer on the counter. Who did I need to impress? I stroked him as he ate, soothed by his purr and the brushed cotton feel of his fur. No matter how awful you are, or what you’ve done, a pet loves you unconditionally.

I wanted a drink, anything to take the pain in my chest away. I knew it wouldn’t, though. Alcohol is a hollow panacea that promises to fix all ailments but in reality makes them worse. Instead, I poured a glass of orange juice and took a Tylenol PM for the headache I felt coming on. I went into the living room and got comfortable in the recliner there, then turned on the TV.

The electronic burring of my cell phone pulled me to consciousness some time later. I was still in the recliner. Tears streaked my cheeks, and the phantom smell of smoke filled my nostrils. It felt like a construction worker was in my head working my brain over with a jackhammer. The glass had slipped from my fingers and spilled orange juice on my slacks. I looked at the clock.

Who calls at 12:47?

An overwhelming certainty grabbed me: something happened to Sara on the way back to Laughlin. A drunk driver or juiced-up trucker, maybe, losing control and slamming into her, two lives destroyed in a fireball. Or maybe she nodded off at the wheel and drifted onto the shoulder, waking just in time to realize—

My cell phone rang again. I pulled it from my pocket and flipped it open.

The voice on the other end was electronic, smooth and female. “This is AT&T with a collect call from…”

There was a slight pause as the line switched from the recorded computer voice. Then, a single word that took my breath away.

“Andrew.”

I would know that voice anywhere. He was crying, and sounded tired and scared, but it was my son. My baby. Alive.

“Will you accept the charges?”

“Yes!” I nearly screamed. My heart pounded so hard I thought I might pass out.

“Daddy?” he asked, and burst into tears.

“Where are you, buddy? Tell me where you are!” Sudden terror gripped me. What if something happened to our connection, and I lost him again?

“I don’t know,” he sobbed. “At a store by the road.”

“What road? Where? Are you okay? Are you hurt?” I was out of the chair, pacing. Frantic.

“I’m okay. Please come get me, I’m scared!”

My cell phone beeped, a sound I knew all too well. The battery was almost out of power.

“Tell me what you can see. What’s the name of the store? Is there a sign?”

“There’s writing on the side. It says ‘Little Alley Inn.’”

I raced back to the bedroom and brought up Google on the computer. A quick search showed lots of Little Valley Inns, but no Little Alley Inn.

“Can you see anything else?” I asked. Panic rose in me like a dark tide.

“Just the road. I want to come home!”

“I’m coming for you, Andrew, but Daddy has to figure out where you—”

Of course. Caller ID.

I pulled the phone from my ear and looked at the tiny screen. Area code 775. I added the word “Nevada” to the search phrase and tried again.

The Little A’le’Inn, Rachel, Nevada. I felt a glimmer of hope.

“Andrew, is the ‘alley’ on the sign spelled A-L-E?” I asked.

“Yes.”

I knew exactly where he was.

Rachel is a wide spot in the road about 150 miles from Vegas, a place where the nuts gather to look for extra-terrestrials and UFOs. The Little A’le’Inn got its name from a play on the word ‘alien.’

“Daddy’s coming to get you, buddy. Just stay on the phone with me, you hear?”

I checked my pockets for my keys and wallet, and hurried for the door.

The cell phone beeped again. Please God, just let me make it to the Jeep so I can get it plugged into the charger.

“Please hurry, Daddy, I’m scared! They’ll be coming for me when they find out I’m gone.”

His words stopped me cold. “Who? Who’ll be coming?”

“Bad people.”

A chill finger traced its way up my spine.

“Do you know who they are? Where are they coming from?”

“I—”

With a third beep, the cell phone shut itself off.

Now, if I did my job properly, you hate me right now. Have a great day.