Her Wild Oats (28 page)

“Hey, sweetheart,” Sarah Jean said, “I’m glad you’re there.”

“What’s the matter, baby?”

“Oats is gone.”

“What? What happened? Tell me what happened.”

“I don’t know where to start,” Sarah Jean sobbed. “It’s our worst nightmare coming true.”

“Just tell me what happened.”

“Oats knows…”

“What?”

“About Bobby Lee, about that night on the tour.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Finally Sarah Jean said, “Greg?”

“Did Bobby Lee tell him? I swear, I’m going to come down there and kick his teeth in, after all those promises.”

“No, no, it wasn’t Bobby Lee. He’s actually too chicken-shit, which in a way was a good thing. Dickie showed up drunk and told everyone the whole story about me and Bobby Lee. And Charlotte is devastated, of course. Meanwhile, Oats disappeared and we haven’t been able to find him.”

“Have you called the police?”

“Of course. But there are a couple of complications. Yesterday when he took a walk and ended up running into his friend in the Christian marching band, they also called the cops—the same cops. And now those guys won’t take this seriously. They just think we’re crazy and have a restless kid.”

“Shit, Sarah Jean, how could this happen?” Greg didn’t say “how could you let this happen,” but he didn’t have to. She started to sob.

“Hey, hey,” he whispered. “Hey, we’ll find him. He’s a resourceful kid. He probably needs some time to think. That was quite a bombshell you all dropped on him. Let’s keep a clear head, sweetheart.”

“I can’t really do that right now,” Sarah Jean cried. “My son is missing.”

“How is Hank Wilson?”

“OK. Luckily, Hank Wilson wasn’t there right when the big drama occurred. He knows something’s up, of course, but not exactly what.”

“And Eddie?”

“Eddie is talking to Bobby Lee and Arizona about Oats, to see if they all can figure out some clues about where to find him.”

“I’m leaving right now. I’ll be there in a few hours. Meanwhile, try to stay calm. Think about what you would do if you were Oats. Is there anything you need from here, anything I can bring to you?”

“Is Hoagy around?”

“Yeah, actually he is…”

“Bring Hoagy. Oats adores him. Maybe he would be able to help him see things a little bit differently. That is, when we find him…” Sarah Jean burst into tears again.

“I’m on my way,” Greg said softly.

Playing with the Big Boys

21

By the time Oats finished his second beer, he decided he’d probably like to try that tequila after all, and asked for the bottle.

“Look who’s ready to party now,” Lonesome Al commented.

Major Booty handed the bottle back and Oats took a big gulp—almost spat the burning liquid out, but managed to hold it down—then sat back, feeling like quite the grown-up, as the glow of warm liquid rose from his stomach to his head. He felt floaty and light, his arms and legs apparently controlled by someone else’s body. Oats stared out the window at the dusty blacktop. The circle of worries rolling around in his brain evaporated. He felt warm and safe. He couldn’t believe what he had been missing all these years. It was just one more way in which the grown-ups had been lying to him.

“You reckon we can make it there in time?” Major Booty asked.

“I think so,” Lonesome Al replied.

Oats tried to say that Bakersfield wasn’t that far away, but his tongue got confused and he couldn’t manage to get the words out. Someone put on a Marshall Tucker eight-track, and Oats leaned into the seat, relaxed, barely noticing as Lonesome Al drove past the turnoff to Bakersfield, on down the highway.

*

Arizona made herself useful entertaining Eddie and Hank Wilson with iPhone apps while Sarah Jean paced the parking lot from one end to the other.

Bobby Lee locked himself in his room and tried over and over again to reach Charlotte, who wasn’t answering. Every now and then he’d wander outside with a bottle of water or a word of solace for Sarah Jean, but she impatiently shooed him away.

When she saw Hoagy’s pickup turn off the freeway and onto the exit ramp, she almost didn’t recognize the passengers. Hoagy and Greg, usually smiling and relaxed, had such serious set-jawed expressions that it took her a minute to realize who they were. Greg jumped out of the shotgun seat before Hoagy had completely stopped the old red pickup. Hoagy screeched to a diagonal halt across two parking spaces and jumped down a minute after Greg. Sarah Jean ran over and threw herself into Greg’s arms, sobbing.

“Hey,” he said, stroking her hair. “Hey.”

“Where’s Hank Wilson?” Hoagy asked. Sarah Jean pointed toward the restaurant.

“How much does he know?” Greg asked.

“He knows his brother got upset and ran out of the restaurant. That’s all I can tell you for sure. He’s with a woman we met here, Arizona. She’s trying to keep him occupied while we all flip out.”

“OK.”

“I know what you’re thinking. You’re thinking how could I let this happen, aren’t you?”

“Sweetheart…”

“You’ve never liked secrets, especially this secret.”

“Well, you’re right about that. But what were we supposed to do? I was there too, Sarah Jean. I let the lie go on along with everyone else, and I’m also the one who urged you to let him come on this tour. So in a way, you could say it’s all my fault.”

“That’s ridiculous!” she snapped.

“You’re both being ridiculous,” Hoagy offered. “Either we can put our heads together and try to find your kid, or you two can stand here and argue about whose fault it is. I know what I’m gonna do.”

Sarah Jean looked down and started crying again.

“What do you suggest, Hoagy?” Greg asked through gritted teeth.

“First thing I want to do is take a leak,” Hoagy answered. “After that I want to know everything that happened, and everyplace Oats has been in the last few days. Then we start looking. And once we find him I want to personally murder that asshole Dickie Jaspers.”

“I’ll help,” Sarah Jean and Greg both said at once.

*

Arizona ran out of ways to amuse Hank Wilson at around three in the afternoon. By then, they had played every game on her iPhone, taken a walk, eaten an ice-cream sundae, and gone through an entire book of Mad Libs. Arizona marveled that, although she could smooth the ruffled feathers of any superstar on any set connected to Gargantuan Studios, including her difficult boss, keeping up with a rambunctious second grader was a whole other story. She was exhausted.

*

When the tall man with long gray hair walked toward them and Hank Wilson shouted “Hoagy Hoagy Hoagy Hoagy,” she was at first simply relieved to have a chance to go to the bathroom. Watching the older man lift Hank Wilson up and spin him around as the child shouted his delight, she became wistful, wondering if she would ever have a family.

“You must be the famous Hoagy Guitarmichael,” she said, holding out her hand. “I’m Arizona Rosenblatt, friend of the family.”

“Pleased, ma’am,” Hoagy answered with a little nod. “And how did you come to know all these crazy people?”

“I was working here at Murphy’s, and just kind of took a liking to Oats,” she said. “He’s a pretty likeable kid, you know?”

“I certainly do.”

“Anyway, I ended up getting to know the whole band and then Sarah Jean had the idea that I could be substitute tour manager. Oh! You heard about Pete, right?”

“Yes, I’m about to go see him as soon as I can find out what’s up with you all.”

“Hey, can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why didn’t anyone ever tell Oats? I mean, most adopted kids are told right off. My cousin Sergio is adopted. He’s always been comfortable with it, and he’s even a whole different color than the rest of the family. It seems like Oats could have handled the information just fine.”

Hoagy stood quietly thinking for a minute or two.

“Sometimes you mean to do right, and the time just goes by without that happening, I guess. Sometimes it’s diapers and school and lessons and life seems fine and you don’t want to rock the boat. I don’t have any children and I’m no parenting expert, but what I do know is we have to find this kid right now.” Hoagy scanned the horizon, as if looking for something—anything—that might lead them to Oats.

“Listen,” Arizona said, “I need to go up to my room and regroup a minute. I’ll be down in a couple of minutes. Here’s my cell number in case there’s any news.”

Arizona walked back through the restaurant, toward the front door.

“Ari,” a soft male voice called out.

“Jerry?” In all the excitement over Oats, it had somehow slipped Arizona’s mind that her husband and his lover—not to mention her wacked-out friend Kira—had all made surprise appearances at Murphy’s that afternoon. A quick glance toward the gift shop told her that Kira was fine, tottering around on her six-inch heels while filling a shopping basket with every weird souvenir in sight. Jerry sat at a corner table, alone. Tired as she was, she decided to join him for a minute.

“Where’s Stephanie?” She tried, really she did, to keep the sneer out of her voice while speaking the other woman’s name.

Jerry nodded in the direction of the large band table. “It seems she ran into an old friend.”

Stephanie and Dickie appeared to be lost in deep, flirty conversation. Though they were too far away to be heard, there was no mistaking the body language.

“Whoa.” Arizona couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“I know.” Her husband looked miserable, diminished. It was hard to remember what about him had terrified her so on the night she’d left.

There was an uncomfortable silence, after which they both spoke at once.

“Why didn’t you call?” and “Why did you leave?”

“I think there are some bigger ‘whys’ to answer for, honey,” Arizona said testily.

*

Bobby Lee Crenshaw finally got “lucky.” Charlotte answered at last, and—after reaming him from one end to the other without taking a breath for never having told her he had a son—said, “You idiot! A kid is missing. What are you doing whining on the phone to me? Get the fuck out there and find him.”

He walked out of his motel room feeling so low and guilty and miserable that he needed to get away from his own self for a few minutes, and breathe some air—however tinged with cow shit it might be. He walked down to the parking lot, then over to the restaurant, hoping he’d run into someone who could update him on the search for Oats. He saw Sarah Jean and Greg sitting at a corner table, looking pale and miserable. Eddie and Hank Wilson hovered nearby, trying to concentrate on their twenty-seventh game of Mad Libs. There was no sign of Arizona, or anyone in the band.

“Hey,” he said, walking over to Sarah Jean and Greg’s table.

“Hey,” they both answered simultaneously. Greg made a “sit down and join us” gesture.

“No word?” Sarah Jean asked.

“Nope.”

“What’s the next step?”

“This might sound weird…” Bobbie Lee began.

“No weirder than anything else that’s happened in the last week, I’m sure.”

“Touché. I know you’re going to think this is crazy, but I want to move on to the next gig. It’s just a couple of hours from here.”

“What? You’re kidding me. You can go with the band if you want, but there’s no way I’m not staying here while my son…”

“Whoa, down, girl,” Greg said softly. “Let’s hear him out. If he’s thinking what I’m thinking it just might be a plan.”

“What are you thinking, and why am I not thinking it?” Sarah Jean grumbled. But she shut up.

“Basically, it’s the ‘playing hard to get’ routine. Well, not exactly hard to get but not desperately seeking, either. Look, chances are Oats is OK and he’s just hiding out somewhere. He’s a really smart kid, and he has money on him, and it’s unlikely he’s come to any real harm, right?”

“Oh God,” Sarah Jean sobbed, looking down while she tore a paper napkin into hundreds of pieces.

“No, I see what he means,” Greg almost shouted. “If we go chasing after him with cops and social workers and such, he’ll feel like he has every right to keep running—like he has to. But if we roll on to the next venue, he can save face by being a pro and just showing up for work. Once he’s back in our orbit we can work on talking things through.” Greg smiled at Bobby Lee. “I like it,” he said. “Someone should wait here, too.”

“That’ll be me,” said Sarah Jean.

Bobby Lee, unwilling to admit that he’d come up with the plan as much for financial and career than psychological reasons, nodded.

“Now,” he said, “I’d better go make a call and see if I still have a wife. Maybe y’all could track Arizona?”

“OK,” Sarah Jean answered. “I’ll look for her. It would be a bit much to lose your wife, your son, and your tour manager all on the same day, huh?”

Playing Hard to Get

22

They drove along in silence for a while. Oats took more hits of tequila when they were offered; otherwise he passed the time in a brainless fog. They drove past a couple of farms and a large prison where men in orange jump suits did some kind of work outside under the watchful eyes of guards. Oats thought their clothes looked funny, and he laughed, and then he couldn’t stop laughing.

“Kid’s getting kinda hinky,” he heard Lonesome Al—or maybe it was Major Booty—say.

Oats wished he could control the laughing, but when he tried it turned into hiccups. He knew he needed to drink some water upside down and backwards, the way his mom had taught him, but there wasn’t any water, only beer and tequila. And then he hiccupped some sour-tasting stuff up into his mouth, and the world started spinning around.

“He’s gonna ralph!” Lonesome Al shouted.

“Out the window, kid!” Major Booty commanded. “Out the window, dammit.”

“He’s gonna do it on our fishing gear, God damn it!” Oats felt a rough hand pushing him toward the door.

“Stop the car, you fool,” said the Major, who seemed to be laughing. But it was too late. The barf came up, just like when he had the flu when he was six, all over Al’s arm and the back of the driver’s seat.