Gabi ignored it and continued, “I know contractually the hunt is over on Saturday. But that’s not the end of tornadoes for the season, is it?”
“Of course not.”
“So when’s the next threat?”
“Probably Sunday.”
“A significant threat?”
“I’d have to take a closer look.” He fiddled with the beer mug on the table, rotating it in a slow circle.
“Do it. Then go to Metcalf and ask for an extension, one more day. Tell him you’ll guarantee him a tornado. Tell him you’ll get him his twister.”
“There’s no way I could guarantee—”
“You think we tell the truth in hostage negotiations all the time?”
“No, but—”
“But nothing. A million bucks, Chuck. That’s really what’s at stake here. Besides, what’s the down side? Say you don’t get a tornado. So you don’t get your million dollars. You weren’t gonna get it anyhow. This way, there’s at least a chance.” She reached out and laid her hand over his. “Give it a shot, boyfriend.”
The waitress loomed over them, unsmiling. “You two love birds ready to order? Got a special on crunchy toast.”
BACK IN HIS MOTEL room, Chuck, with Stormy lying near his feet, studied the most recent weather models on his laptop. He scanned several different ones, each confirming the other. What he saw caused him to catch his breath. Even the Storm Prediction Center seemed excited at the prospects. Though SPC rarely outlined threat areas more than three days in advance, their graphics and accompanying discussion defined what they termed “a significant threat of a major outbreak” for Day Five—Sunday. The region at risk extended from the Red River along the Texas-Oklahoma border northward through eastern Kansas.
The setup appeared classic, with a powerful jet stream aloft forecast to dive from the central Rockies into the Southern Plains and there hook sharply northward. Beneath it, a deep stream of high-octane warmth and moisture was predicted to barrel northward from the Gulf of Mexico. Chuck’s initial analysis suggested eastern Oklahoma would be ground-zero for a violent atmospheric war.
“Armageddon?” he said out loud. Stormy looked up and cocked her head. “Okay, maybe too strong a word.” He reached down and petted her. “But it’s gonna be wild.” Maybe a million-bucks-worth of wild.
A short time later he knocked on the door of Metcalf’s room. No response. He knocked again. Silence. He tried once more, this time hammering. From within the room came muffled cursing. Something crashed to the floor. More cursing. Metcalf yanked open the door and stood glaring at Chuck.
Red-eyed and rumpled, Metcalf obviously had slept in his clothes. They reeked of stale liquor and cigarette smoke. A funk of dead air fled the room through the open door.
“Jesus, Chuckie,” Metcalf growled, “cantcha fuckin’ let a guy sleep in.”
“It’s almost noon.”
“Shit. That’s what I mean. Whaddaya want?”
“Can I come in?”
“At your peril.” Metcalf stumbled back to his bed and sat on the edge of it. A table lamp lay sprawled on the floor next to the bed. He bent to pick it up, belched and farted simultaneously, and decided against retrieving it. He put his hands on the bed to steady himself. “Tough night.”
“No shit.”
“Don’t pass judgment on me, man. This is Sioux Fucking Falls. It’s not exactly the entertainment Mecca of the world. Luckily we found a nice . . . uh . . . gentlemen’s club.”
“I’m sure.”
“Gawd, the women here are built like brick shit houses. Must be that good Iowa corn—.
“We’re in South Dakota.”
“Whatever. Interesting dudes, too. Hey, could you make us some coffee?” He pointed at a Keurig on the dresser. “Yeah, met a guy with an ankle monitor who said he was on an undercover job for the CIA. Another weirdo, a black dude with a mohawk, claimed he was an alien from Pluto and looking for investors to help develop a tourist industry there.”
Chuck busied himself with the Keurig. “Maybe you should shoot a movie here.”
“Yeah,” Metcalf snorted derisively. “Might have better luck with that than trying to film a tornado.”
“That’s what I wanted to talk to you about.” The Keurig hissed as it jetted a stream of hot coffee into a cup. “How do you like it?”
“Like what?”
“Your coffee.”
“Black.” He burped softly as Chuck handed him the cup. He took a tentative sip. “Hot.” He placed it on the night stand. “So what’s up, Chazoroo?”
Chuck, thanks to Gabi’s mentoring, convinced himself he wouldn’t be groveling, which he detested, but that he would be opening “negotiations” with Metcalf. “I’ve got a deal for you. I’ll get you your tornado.” He couldn’t quite bring himself to say “guarantee.”
“What’s the catch?”
“Why does there have to be a catch?”
“There always is.”
“No. No catch, as you call it. Just a contract extension.”
“You had your chance. Saturday’s the last day. No storm. No moolah.” He reached for the coffee, dribbled a dozen drops onto the bed sheet.
“Sunday. One stinkin’ day. Extend the deal one stinkin’ day and I’ll find you the most spectacular twister anyone has ever filmed.” Damn you, Gabi.
“No.” He drained the cup and wiped his mouth.
“No?”
“Is there an echo in here?”
“Why not?”
“Because I’m on a time clock, too, Chuckie. I’m bound by the film’s production schedule. We need to press on regardless of whether or not you’ve delivered.”
“I’ll deliver. Give me one extra day.”
Metcalf shook his head. “Negative.”
“So, you’d rather go back to L.A. empty handed in order to stay on schedule rather than sacrifice 24 hours to get some blockbuster footage for your movie?” Chuck’s gut churned. He really wanted this now but sensed the opportunity slipping away.
Metcalf extended the empty cup to Chuck. “Do you mind?”
Chuck took the cup and went back to the coffee maker. “Same kind?”
Metcalf nodded.
“Good. That’s all they’ve got.” He started another brew.
Metcalf stood and sauntered over to the window. He drew back the curtains. Daylight flooded into the room. Metcalf squeezed his eyes shut and pivoted away from the brightness. “So. Sunday. A slam dunk you say?”
Chuck knew it wasn’t. Didn’t want to say it was. But Gabi’s words slithered into his head: You think we tell the truth in hostage negotiations all the time? “Slam dunk,” Chuck said. Double damn you, Gabi.
A weasel-like smile creased Metcalf’s face. He approached Chuck and extended his hand. “Sure, and you’re an alien with property on Pluto.” His stale breath smothered Chuck in an 80-proof smog. “Lord, I hate the thought of hanging around Yahooville another five days. But you’ve got yourself an extra 24 hours, bwana. Make it happen.”
They shook hands, Metcalf’s grip feeling weak and irresolute. Little matter, however. They’d made a deal. The fat lady had just swallowed a chicken bone.
THAT EVENING, sipping a beer, Chuck played a game of toss and fetch with Stormy. Chuck hurled an old sock around the motel room with Stormy darting after it in happy pursuit. A sharp rap on the door brought the activity to an end. Chuck peered through the peephole in the door, then opened it.
“I heard you got a stay of execution,” Ty said.
Chuck nodded and motioned his son into the room.
“Seems so,” Chuck answered. “Who told you?”
“Gabi.”
Chuck placed his beer back into the room’s tiny refrigerator. “How about some Scotch?”
Ty shrugged. “Yeah, fine.”
“So, what brings you into enemy territory?”
Chuck wondered how many others in the chase group besides Gabi were aware of the deep rift between him and Ty. He wondered if any of them knew his son was gay. Certainly Gabi must have some inkling. Nothing much got past her. But it really didn’t matter. He didn’t care what she or the others knew or thought. It wasn’t their issue. It was his. But within him churned a conflict that seemed virtually unresolvable.
He harbored a huge amount of admiration for Ty, how he had turned out, his accomplishments, his goals, his . . . manhood. Yet, he was gay. How do I come to grips with that? How do I reconcile the inherent goodness of my son with the pejorative language and warnings in the Bible? Had his son made a reprehensible choice, or had the choice been made for him and he was simply damned by genetics? He wished he could reach out and embrace Ty, but he sensed an almost palpable restraint against doing so. The dichotomy gnawed at him with surprising fierceness.
“Just curious,” Ty said, “wondering if you really think you can pull this off? Believe that you can find the Atmospheric Holy Grail on Sunday? A magician pulling a tornado from a smoke-filled jar. A conjurer of storms. Thor, god of thunder.” He jammed his fist toward the ceiling, a mocking gesture, but then seemed to reconsider. “Sorry.” He lowered his arm. “That was uncalled for.”
Chuck nodded and handed Ty a plastic cup half filled with Scotch. Ty l took the drink.
“Why do you care?” Chuck asked.
“Remember, I have a vested interest in this crazy-ass chase. I’ve pissed away two weeks out here on a gamble you might actually be able to deliver on your promise—well, sort of promise—of financial restitution. So far, it’s been nothing but a flashback of my life: getting rugs yanked out from underneath me.” He stared into his Scotch. “God, I don’t know why I thought things might be different this time.”
Because you hoped they would, Son, just like I did. “To answer your question,” Chuck said, “yes. I think I can pull this off. Whether I will or not is another matter, but if ever there was going to be a chance, Sunday is it.” A sourness crept into his gut, squeezings from a knot in his stomach formed from the pressure of the high-stakes game on which he’d embarked. He’d pretty much laid everything on the line to take this job. Now he’d gone beyond that.
The conversation lapsed into one-sentence exchanges . . . not much in common between father and son.
Ty sat in a chair near the room’s window, swirling the Scotch in his cup and staring out into the evening darkness. Stormy lay on her side near the foot of the bed, snoring softly and occasionally uttering a brief whimper as if dreaming. The sounds from a TV in an adjacent room leaked through the cardboard-thin wall.
Chuck, who’d been pacing, stopped. “Ty?” he said.
Ty took a sip from his cup, then gazed at Chuck. “What?”
“Something’s been bothering me.”
“Now there’s a revelation.”
Chuck knocked back his own Scotch, tossed the empty cup into a waste basket, and wiped his lips. “Just for a minute, lose the attitude, if you can.”
Ty took another swig of his drink and set the cup on a table near him. “I’ve been working on it. But it’s hard to do after a decade of being kicked in the ass.”
Chuck closed his eyes and let the brickbat fly past before speaking. “I like you, Ty. I admire what you’ve done with your life . . . in spite of me . . . without me. You’re not what I expected—”
“Which was?”
“I don’t know. Someone a bit more overtly gay.”
“A stereotype?”
“Yes, I suppose. But that’s not my hang-up. I get wrapped around the axle when it comes to the Bible and homosexuality.”
“I don’t.” Ty polished off his remaining Scotch.
“I know. I could never get you to go to church after you were in high school.”
“I go to church every Sunday now.”
Chuck stared at Ty.
“I probably couldn’t articulate it when I was younger,” Ty said, “but I always believed in God. I felt trapped between religion and who I was. Not what I was, who I was. I didn’t want to have to make an either-or choice, didn’t want to have to choose between God and my sexuality. But with you hammering me for being a queer and the church damning me as a sinner, I saw no way out. I knew I was doomed. But as I grew older, I realized I wasn’t, and that what I thought would be an excruciatingly difficult decision was really a false dilemma.”
“The Bible’s pretty specific about homosexuality.”
“Not really,” Ty said. “The word isn’t in the Bible. It was your fire-breathing, Bible-thumping, Southern Baptist father, my grandfather, who was specific about us ‘fairies.’ He was certain we were destined to a fiery eternity in hell. Zealous about condemning our ‘bestiality.’ Convinced we were synonymous with pedophiles.”
“Ty, stop.” But Chuck spoke without conviction. His son, in fact, wasn’t that far off base. Ty’s grandfather had indeed been an archly conservative member of the church, a fundamentalist deacon. He’d put the fear of God into Chuck as a youngster and cultivated that fear even after Chuck had matured and had a family of own. Ty, in particular, had become a high-visibility target for his grandfather’s fiery proselytizing and damnation.
Chuck eventually came to question the ultra-conservative Southern Baptist doctrine and drifted away from the church. But the teachings of his father stuck in his head, indelible ink that refused to fade even under the harsh illumination of 21st century science. Was that good or bad?
Ty continued speaking, ignoring Chuck’s request. “Without belaboring the point, there are different interpretations of the Biblical passages traditionally employed to condemn people like me.” His words seemed more challenging than angry.
Chuck resumed pacing. “Yeah, yeah. Liberal interpretations. I’ve heard them. That God’s decision to destroy Sodom was made well before the men of the city were pounding on Lot’s door demanding he turn out his male guests ‘so we can have sex with them.’ That Paul’s writings are cloaked in first-century prejudices.”
Ty remained seated, his gaze tracking his father around the room. “And?” he said, the word sharp.
“And what?”
“What makes those interpretations, liberal ones as you call them, any less valid than the more traditional ones?”
Chuck stopped and turned to face his son.
“What makes them any more valid?” Chuck fired back.
“Yes,” Ty said, “that’s always the impasse we reach, isn’t it? You’re really no different than Grandpop.” He stood. “Well, I guess that’s enough enlightened repartee for tonight. I need some fresh air.” He moved toward the door.
Chuck stood, arms dangling at this sides, and watched his son walk away.
Ty stopped when he reached the door. Resting his hand on the handle, he turned toward his father. “Just for the record,” he said, his voice even and controlled, “I actually have a conservative view of the Bible, at least when it comes to love, the unconditional agape type. When I was searching for a church, I looked for that, and found it in the one I finally joined. There was no hypocrisy, none of those ‘love the sinner, hate the sin’ platitudes thrown my way followed by attempts to ‘convert’ me.”
Stormy lifted her head and eyed the two men as if wondering why they had disturbed her slumber. She issued a muted half-bark and sat up.
Ty continued speaking. “I was accepted because I was a follower of Jesus. I was accepted because I was Tyler Rittenberg, no questions asked, no labels attached. Most members of the church knew my orientation. And they understood and accepted that what I was, my sexuality, was integral to who I was.” He paused a beat before adding, “Unlike some people I know.”
Without allow
ing Chuck to respond, Ty opened the door, stepped out, and shut it firmly.
Chuck lowered himself to a sitting position on his bed and listened to Ty’s retreating footfalls. He lowered his gaze, stared at the motel’s faded carpet, and shook his head. The gulf between father and son loomed as dark and choppy and wide as ever.
Chapter Twenty-one
THURSDAY, MAY 9
GABI AND CHUCK strolled along a footpath adjacent to the Big Sioux River in the Mary Jo Wegner Arboretum just east of Sioux Falls. On the river side of the path, meadows rife with blossoming wildflowers blanketed a sun-blitzed floodplain. Farther from the water, stands of oak, elm, and Box elder, cloaked in the soft green of early spring, swayed in the gentle gusts of a warm wind. Overhead, riding the invisible up-elevator of a midday thermal, a pair of hawks orbited, perhaps performing recon for an opportunistic lunch. Some distance away and higher in the sky, a Bald Eagle, with languid flaps of its majestic wings, soared toward the spire of a White Spruce.
Gabi had awakened early that morning, the incipient pain of a migraine boring into her skull. Brilliant flashes, like sheet lightning exploding from a faraway storm, flickered behind her eyes. She’d fumbled with the coffee maker, got a cup brewing, and slammed a Treximet into her mouth. An hour and three cups of coffee later, she actually felt better.
Still a bit woozy from the medication, she didn’t quite lean against Chuck as they walked, but the backs of their hands brushed. It was good to know he was there. Despite his defeatist attitude—understandable, considering what he’d been through both personally and professionally—he seemed a rock. Someone who could be relied upon. Someone who wanted to do right. Someone you could root for, the good guy, an underdog.
“I’m glad Metcalf granted you an extra day,” she said.
“I had a good job-coach,” he responded.
“You think it’ll pay off?” She sidestepped a puddle.
He shrugged.
“But it looks good?”
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