Her Wild Oats (17 page)

Sarah Jean wandered around the medical-center parking lot for a few minutes before she remembered that she hadn’t come in their old pickup truck, but in the brand-new cherry-red hybrid minivan. Purchased because she couldn’t drive a stick shift with her left leg in a cast, the car served a dual purpose—it also helped Sarah Jean and her family feel great about themselves. The Pixlie-Carsons were now officially reducing their carbon footprint in a way that was obvious to the world. The minivan came with some fun whistles and bells, too: satellite radio, GPS, and some kind of self-parallel-parking gizmo that she was actually a little afraid to use, and didn’t really need in Lake County. The GPS came in handy when they ventured over the mountain road to points south; it didn’t work all that well in the sticks. In fact, the family often had races with the GPS and won, finding their destination before the machine found its satellite connection.

The radio was fun—she actually heard her own songs sometimes—and the amazing variety of stations was especially useful when they played games like “Beatles Alphabet” (think of a Beatles-related song that begins with each letter from A to Z), or “Second Line” (guess title and artist based on a recitation of the second—not the first—line of lyrics…harder than it sounds), which were enhanced by access to music that wasn’t already on the club’s jukebox. But mostly they used the satellite radio’s oldies station for sing-alongs, with everyone finding a harmony part or—in Hank Wilson’s case—something to bang on, and howling along with great old hits.

She pulled into the gravel driveway outside the Dewdrop Inn and parked the minivan in her designated space. Her leg felt weird—lighter than air, after having dragged the cast around all this time—and she nearly stumbled as she slipped out of the driver’s seat.

“Mom! Mom!” Hank Wilson’s voice shrieked from the open upstairs window. “Mom, phone!”

It’s probably Chrissie, the asshole manager for tonight’s band. There goes my bath.

“OK, I’ll be right up,” she called out. “Tell her to hold her horses.”

She walked into the large, quiet nightclub and opened the door to the small office in the back corner. The “hold” light was blinking on the old-fashioned wall phone.

“Hello, Chrissie,” she said wearily. “What do you need now?”

“Um…” The voice on the other end of the phone had been making her stomach drop to her knees ever since Cindi Lou Bender’s “Magnolia Heart” tour, and this time was no exception: despite years of up-and-down friendship; despite the fact that she rarely saw the voice’s owner, and that she was happily married to Greg.

“Hey, Bobby Lee, sorry. I thought you were the manager for tonight’s band, the Squashblossoms. She’s been driving me bat-shit.”

“Listen, Sarah Jean.” Bobby Lee’s voice sounded strained and hoarse. “There’s no easy way to say this.” Sarah Jean felt her whole body stiffen.

“What? Just say it.”

“Oh, man…something seems to have happened to Oats. He’s disappeared.”

“He WHAT?” She felt her stomach turn over, hopeful butterflies replaced by hollow dread. “What happened?”

“As far as we can tell, he got upset about something and just took off. There’s been some tension between him and Dickie Jaspers…” Bobby Lee ended lamely.

“Why the fuck weren’t you looking out for Oats? Where was Pete?”

“Listen, SJ, I know we made some promises, and I feel real bad about all this. But it’s not like I can watch him every minute. He has to play by the rules, too. This isn’t Lollipopalooza.”

“Where was Pete?” she asked again, her voice quiet and cold. “Pete promised he would make sure nothing happened to Oats. Where was Pete?”

“Shit,” Bobby Lee stammered. “Um, Pete’s in the hospital. He had a stroke on the bus a couple of days ago.”

“And no one thought of calling to tell me?”

“Oats was afraid you’d pull him off the tour. He begged me not to tell you.”

“And you’re telling me that my thirteen-year-old didn’t act like enough of a grown-up on your stupid fucking big-boy tour?”

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Have you called the police? Where are you?”

“Yes, they’re on their way. We’re in this motel for a few days, while we figure out what’s up with Pete. Here, I’ll give you the info.”

Sarah Jean wrote down the coordinates with a shaking hand.

“Call me if anything happens,” she said. “I’m on my way.”

“Hey, I’m sorry…”

“Don’t bother, asshole,” she interrupted. “Just find my kid.”

It took her five minutes to tell her husband, Greg, and ask Perle to supervise the kitchen; another five minutes to pack an overnight bag for herself and Hank Wilson. Eddie walked up the driveway just as they were piling into the minivan.

“Hey, what’s up?” he asked.

“Get in, Eddie,” Sarah Jean said. “Call your people and ask if you can come along on a trip for a couple of days. We’re going to find Oats. I’ll explain in the car.”

Eddie hopped into the back seat next to Hank Wilson, and Sarah Jean handed him her cell phone as she gunned the engine. A few minutes later they were headed down the road toward Highway Five. No one was in the mood to sing.

Trouble in the Parking Lot

13

“Woof! Woof! Woof woof woof!”

Arizona pressed the call button and walked a few feet away from the cluster of worried adults in Murphy’s parking lot.

“Hi, Kira, what’s up?”

“Hey, I was just thinking it’s a long time since we’ve hung out. Want to go shopping and do lunch or something?”

“Honey, I wish I could. But I’m, I’m just slammed with, uh, family stuff after the funeral. Is there something I can help you with from here? Do you need anything?”

“Oh.” Kira sounded dejected. “I was just…I was hoping you could come shopping with me to buy things I need for my new business.”

“You’re starting a business? Kira, that’s so great! Tell me more.”

“I had this idea,” Kira said proudly. “You know how so many of our friends have won awards—Oscars and Emmys and everything. Those statuettes are cool, but they look so
naked.
I’m going to make seasonal hats and wraps for people’s award trophies so they can dress them up for holidays and other special occasions. But I need some supplies.”

“Aw, that sounds like fun but I’m too far away. Isn’t there anyone else you could call? Someone from your tennis club or something?”

“Not really, no,” Kira replied after thinking for a long, slow minute.

“Well, I can’t meet you today but maybe I can help. Why don’t you email me some photos from the crafts store and maybe I give you some ideas.”

“Crafts store? OK, I guess…Also I want a blouse the exact same color as those Preludin pills the doctor gave me for weight loss.”

“What? Kira, you weigh, like, eight pounds.”

“I know, but last time I went to the doctor I put rocks in my purse and left it hanging over my shoulder when I got on the scale. So he gave me these pills to lose weight. They are soooo nice. And so pretty too, kind of an eggshell pink. So I decided I needed a blouse the same color.”

“Sounds lovely.” Arizona sighed, suddenly understanding where Kira’s new energy was coming from. But as always, she marveled at the fact that this beautiful, privileged woman apparently had few interests outside of her medicine cabinet and wardrobe. She also seemed to be short on friends.

“OK then,” Kira chirped, a little more cheerfully. “Also, Dr. Friedman is into this new healing art. He calls it Pyramid Power. I don’t totally understand how it works but he says it changed his life. The only thing is in order to get the best results you have to walk around with a metal triangle thingy on your head, and the ones he sells in his office don’t match any of my accessories. Anyway, I’ll get back to you. Wish me luck.”

“I always do,” Arizona answered.

*

Oats started walking back along the blacktop and that road was way longer and hotter than it had seemed when he was running away from the little scene on the tour bus. He was hot and thirsty and there was nothing much to look at and the air smelled like cow shit, but he just put his head down and kept walking, playing his harp and trying to keep “Loser Blues” stuck in his head. He was also trying to rehearse looking cool about Dickie and Arizona, pretending not to be devastated. That must have been why he didn’t hear the shrieking of hydraulic brakes or notice the huge silver letters that said “Angels of the Lamb Drum and Bugle Corps…Marching for Jesus” when the giant bus transporting Melody’s marching band pulled up beside him on the shoulder, and she leaned out the window.

“Hey, Oats! Where you going? Need a ride?” He was so startled he dropped his harmonica on the hot blacktop and started blushing like crazy.

It was a relief to get on an air-conditioned bus, even one containing forty or fifty young Christian marching band musicians, and it was nice to see Melody, too. As always, she was wearing her baton twirler’s uniform, spangles from head to toe with the fringe and her big tall hat. All the other kids wore regular clothes, jeans and T-shirts and shorts, which was surprising somehow. He’d assumed that Melody always dressed in her uniform because it was a band requirement. Turned it out it was because she was just being Melody.

The driver pulled the bus off the shoulder and eased it into the traffic on the highway, as Melody pulled him into the seat across from hers. A tall skinny man with glasses and a tiny, chubby woman approached. They were both holding onto the back of the bus seats as they walked, as though they were terrified of falling over.

“Melody, why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” asked the man.

“Yes, indeed,” said the woman.

“All right,” Melody answered brightly. “This is Otis Ray Pixlie and he plays harmonica with a band. Oats, this is Mr. Teagle and Miss Rench, our church youth leaders who are chaperoning the band tour.”

“Pleased to meet you, ma’am, sir.” Oats held out his hand.

The bus lurched a little, and Miss Rench decided to keep herself from falling over by digging her long, sharp, red fingernails into his arm.

“You play harmonica, is that so?” asked Mr. Teagle.

“Yes, sir, I do.”

“How would you like to join us in a sing-along? I was just about to lead the group in a round of ‘Jesus Loves the Little Children.’”

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Rench.

“Well, I just have my A harp with me, which means I can play in A, E, B, B-minor, and F-sharp minor,” Oats offered. “A and E are best for that kind of music. Just so you know…”

“That will be fine,” said Mr. Teagle. “All right, group, listen up!” he shouted. “Melody’s friend Otis Ray Pixlie is going to join us on a song. Let’s all treat him with gracious good manners. Count of three, now, we’ll do ‘Jesus Loves the Little Children’ in A.”

Mr. Teagle pulled out a little pitch pipe and hit a note. Then he counted off one—two—three, and everyone began singing with less than total enthusiasm.

Jesus loves the little children

All the children of the world

Red and yellow

Black and white

They are precious in his sight

Jesus loves the little children of the world

Oats wondered what Eddie and his Pomo family would think about a song that described them as “red,” or if Mrs. Chan the school librarian might be offended by “yellow.” “Jesus Loves the Little Children” came off sounding a bit racist, and it also seemed like a song meant for much younger kids.

Still, it seemed important to Mr. Teagle and Miss Rench, so Oats tried to fit in with appropriate little fills in between the lines about yellow, red, black, and white children. “Jesus Loves the Little Children” is a hard song to kick ass on, especially in straight harp with no microphone, but he did his best.

They all gamely rolled into the final chorus, and without stopping to take a breath, Mr. Teagle led them into a ten-verse rendition of “Onward Christian Soldiers” as the bus rolled down the highway.

“Praise the Lord,” Mr. Teagle shouted after bringing the group to a grand crescendo. “What did you think, young man?”

“Um,” was all Oats could come up with. “That’s what I call a song with a lot of verses.”

“There’s more where that came from, silly,” Melody said, nudging him in the side. “Our pastor says that we have to save all the little children of all the colors, and if that means marching together to do battle it’s God’s will. We have to try and save the little children of the world from becoming lost souls.”

“Lost souls?”

“Yes, silly, the Devil’s followers. Don’t they teach that in your church?” And right at that moment something happened that Oats could only describe as a miracle. He glanced out the window and saw a sign: “Exit Here for Murphy’s Corned Beef ’n’ Cabbage Emporium.” Maybe Jesus actually was looking out for him after all.

“Mr. Teagle, Miss Rench, would you mind pulling over so I can meet up with my band? We’re staying over there in that motel.”

“All right, young man. I’ll tell the driver.”

“Thank you so much for the ride,” Oats offered. “And the inspiring music.”

Mr. Teagle shook his hand as the bus slowed to a stop with huge bus-belch sound effects.

“Yes, indeed,” said Miss Rench.

*

The last thing Oats expected when he got off that bus was a group of concerned-looking adults standing around in the parking lot, but that’s what he got. Bobby Lee and his brother Billy were talking quietly to two uniformed highway patrol officers whose helmets and sunglasses reflected the light in a way that reminded Oats of giant space-alien ant creatures. Arizona was there too, with a couple of other women in green Murphy’s uniforms, and it looked like she might be just about to cry. Next to her stood Bus Driver Dave, Gary G., Rascal Roscoe, and Jeremy Farren. The only ones missing in action were Dickie and Willie.

Oats waved a last goodbye to Melody and tried to act nonchalant as he walked over to the group. He realized suddenly that maybe Pete had died. Heart pounding, he tried to prepare himself for bad news.

“Hey, guys, what’s up? Is Pete OK?”

“Oh, thank God!” a woman’s voice cried.

“Oats! Oh man, we were so worried.” Bobby Lee came running over and gave him a big, tight hug.