The Pendleton Omens - 11. Chapter 11

Monday it snowed again. There was a surprise. And Owen was still tense.

“What gives?” I asked.

“Nothing,” he said. And he tried to leave it at that.

“This is dumb,” I told him.

“What?”

“Us not talking.”

“We’re talking,” he pointed out. “What’s there to talk about?”

“Oh, come on.”

But he said nothing to that.

I tried again. “I’m still getting used to this,” I admitted.

“Used to what?”

“The whole thing.”

“Thing?”

“You know what I mean.”

He just looked at me

“All you have to say is you’re still getting used to it, too.”

He might have wanted to. But I guess he couldn’t.

Tuesday it snowed. Not a lot. Just enough to make the old stuff look older. I tried to see the whole thing from Owen’s view. He knew why I’d gotten divorced. I’d been open with him about that. But he’d never seen me out with a guy. I’d always kept that quiet. So I guess he’d let himself forget

Wednesday it snowed some more. If you believed in omens, this was a bad one. But if you believed in reverse omens, this was great. Owen stayed home sick.

Thursday evening, Sharon called. I was at Noah’s.

“I’ve left you alone,” she said. “I’ve left daily messages for Scoot, now that you got his machine working again. And I’ve gotten nothing back. Saturday, I’m flying to LA.”

“What!” I said, then added “Why?” more quietly, picking up the pieces.

“Why do you think?”

“What are you hoping to find?”

“You know what.”

“You don’t have to go to LA.”

“We’re not doing anything from here.”

“We’re doing something. We’re being good parents. Letting our kid have his space.”

“Space?”

“Whatever.”

“It’s been three weeks.”

It had been a short three weeks. To me, at least. To Sharon, it must have seemed longer. But it still seemed too early to panic.

“What was the longest we’ve ever gone without hearing from him?” I reasoned.

Sharon had to think. Which is what I’d hoped for. Because I needed time.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe a couple of weeks. But that’s when he was in college, when we knew where he was.”

“At least, we thought we did. Remember when he turned up in Ethiopia?”

“He told us about that.”

“Afterwards. So we wouldn’t worry before. There’s a pattern.”

“Well, I’m going to LA. You can look for patterns where you like. Want to come?”

“To California?”

“Yes.”

Now there was a trap. If I agreed, I’d do something I didn’t believe in. If I refused, it would seem I didn’t care.

“That’s unfair,” I pointed out

“Donald, it’s been three weeks.”

I hated when she called me “Donald.” I sounded like a duck.

“I know how long it’s been. And every day, I hope Scoot comes home.”

“Well, I’m going to find him.”

“How can I talk you out of it?”

“You can’t. Go with me. Or go yourself.”

Three choices. Which one did she mean?

“Let me think about it,” I said. “I’ll get back to you.” Then I chased down Noah. “What do you think?” I asked after I’d explained.

He laughed. “You want to go to LA with your ex-wife?”

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

“Then don’t.”

“And let her go alone?”

“If she wants to.”

“What if something’s really wrong?”

“You’ll be on the next plane.”

I thought about that. “It seems weak.”

He laughed again. “Weaker than doing something you’re forced into?”

“Maybe,” I admitted.

He sadly shook his head. “I’m in love with a moron.”

I called Sharon back. “Go,” I told her.

It wasn’t what she wanted to hear – which she didn’t have to tell me. And I knew her silences – either way, they got to you. If I talked, we’d fight. If I didn’t talk, she wouldn’t, either. I chose the moron’s way out.

“Let me know if you need a lift to the airport,” I offered.

She hung up without replying. Then she called back. I let the phone ring. She didn’t leave a message.

“This is great fun to watch,” Noah observed.

“What would you do?”

“Not go to LA. Definitely not with my ex-wife.”

“You don’t have an ex-wife.”

“Sometimes, I think you don’t, either.”

I called Scoot’s number, partly so mine would go straight to message if Sharon called again. But I didn’t leave a message for Scoot, and Sharon didn’t call.

I called Jamie. “I’m busy right now,” her voice mail said. “But please leave a message because I really hate it when people don’t.”

“Hey, Jamie, it’s me,” I recorded. She knew my voice.

“This is nuts,” I told Noah.

He grinned

“I don’t need to go to LA.”

He nodded.

“This isn’t about Scoot. It’s about...”

“Feeling guilty?”

And the phone rang.

“Hey, Dad,” Jamie said. “When are you and Mom going to California?”

“I hate it when they gang up,” I told Noah.

“I heard that,” Jamie said.

“You were supposed to.”

“Then why are you letting Mom go alone?”

“Jamie, me love...” I began. And when she said nothing, I knew that silence was genetic. Still, I pushed on. “If I bought you a ticket, would you go with her?”

“No,” she said immediately. “I have school. And you know how much work.”

“So you not really worried about Scoot?”

That got her for a second. But she regrouped. “I told you before, Scoot can probably take care of himself. But I’m not sure about Mom. Especially not in LA. Which is why you should go with her.”

Noah was listening. He gave me thumbs down.

“I can’t,” I said.

“Don’t be an asshole, Dad.”

“I love you, too,” I told her and clicked off.

She called right back.

“Okay, I’m sorry,” she said. “Again.”

“It’s all right.”

“But you’ve got to do this.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“Jamie...”

“I know Mom can take care of herself. And I know she’s traveled more than you.”

A lot of that happened in the last three years.

“But you can’t just send her chasing off after Scoot when she doesn’t know what she’s doing.”

“What’s the worst thing that could happen?” I asked.

“I could get really angry.”

“The worst thing that could happen to Scoot?”

“Absolutely?”

“Yes.”

“If you didn’t go?”

“Yes.”

“Something terrible. And if you didn’t help, you’d feel really horrible about it for the rest of your life.”

Now she was ganging up with Noah.

“So go, Dad. You can get time off.”

“Let me think,” I said.

“Why can’t they all go away?” I asked Noah, after I hung up. “Why can’t I divorce the three of them?”

He didn’t answer that. “What’s the longest you’ve ever been out of touch?” he asked instead.

“With my kids? Almost never.”

“My family once didn’t talk to me for three years.”

I knew why. He’d told me the story.

“And I survived,” he went on.

“I’m not saying you’re wrong.”

“But you give in too easily.”

Noah thought I was spoiled. He thought my kids were spoiled. And he couldn’t believe I still loved my ex-wife.

“That can’t even fit into my head.”

So I didn’t make it try.

That night I had bad dreams. I hate dreams, and I almost never have them. Sharon says I don’t sleep long enough.

I didn’t dream about Scoot. Or Sharon. Or a city I’d only seen in movies or on TV. I dreamed about electrocution.

It was one of those old wood and leather chairs like they used in prison movies – the black and white ones. A chair with straps and a tin beanie with wires. I was strapped in, naked, probably because I slept that way. They pulled the switch, and just when I should have gone stiff, the chair fell through the floor, snapping my neck.

I woke up soaking. That was mostly because of the water bed. Sometimes it gets too warm. I found my shorts and went down to the kitchen for a drink. The dog followed me. She thinks life is about food.

While I gave her an illegal snack, I was still trying to shake the dream. I was standing, safe if freezing, in Noah’s kitchen and expecting the floor to drop out.

“She okay?” Noah asked when I got back to bed. I was sure he’d been sleeping.

“Fine,” I told him. “She begged another biscuit.”

“Good Saint,” he said laughing.

Yeah. But she had it easy.

“Good,” he repeated and was out again.

Which was just as well. ‘Cause he was gonna be really pissed at me in the morning.