It had been a long time since Bobby Lee had been attracted to a woman he’d met on the road. In the early days he’d been quite a player, both onstage and off—pretty women were always available to a good picker with a nice smile and decent manners, no strings attached. Like most of the guys he played with, he also had a semi-serious girlfriend back home.
Charlotte had been his sweetheart through most of college, and stayed in school to finish requirements for her education major when he quit in junior year to join a touring band. They’d never actually lived together, but Bobby Lee often stayed with Charlotte during breaks in between tours. They had a comfortable understanding: they saw each other exclusively when they were together, but both were free to date others during his extended periods away from home.
He married Charlotte when she told him she was pregnant. He loved her, and it seemed like the right thing to do, despite the fact that he was also head-over-heels crazy about a woman he’d just met, a backup-singer in a country star’s touring band. There was an intense, on-and-off love affair with the singer for a couple of years after that and Charlotte was never the wiser. She was too busy raising their daughter, a beautiful developmentally disabled girl who required a lot of extra care. Charlotte went back to school to get a graduate degree in Special Ed and enjoyed her large, warm circle of friends at home in Nashville. She never knew that if it hadn’t been for her pregnancy, Bobby Lee might very well have married someone else.
The affair with the backup singer ended when, in a coincidence that was surely stranger than fiction, his wife and his lover met on an airplane. They hit it off immediately and became great pals before his lover figured out that the smart, friendly woman she’d met was none other than the difficult bitch he’d been complaining about for years. He’d been exaggerating Charlotte’s irksome qualities, of course, so that they would both feel justified in the affair. The fact that his lover had kept some pretty big secrets of her own didn’t hold any water when she delivered her final farewell.
She married someone else, and after a while—in the small world of Alt-Country Americana music—they found a way to become tentative friends. The whole adventure had broken Bobby Lee’s heart and spirit for several years. He dug his way back up out of depression by writing the soulful and well-crafted songs that eventually got him a label deal, resulting in the Hell Bent and Whiskey Bound tour. And now, finally the bandleader instead of a sideman, he was hoping to tie up a few loose ends of his own.
Bobby Lee picked up his guitar and strummed softly. The only sure-fire remedy for the blues that he knew of was his sweet old Martin D-18, and he started working on the arrangement for a new song he wanted to add to the set. As always, Bobby Lee forgot everything else while he worked on the tune, fingering the neck with his left hand while alternating between pick and pen as he strummed and scratched lyrics on a piece of scrap paper with his right. He wasn’t watching the clock, so when he heard the pounding on his motel-room door he assumed it was Billy letting him know it was time to go back to the hospital and check in with Pete.
“Right there,” he called out.
“You better get your fucking ass over here now!” Dickie’s voice, not Billy’s, sounding drunk and furious. “You let me in and you listen up or I’ll bash this door down.”
“OK, buddy, hold your horses…” Bobby Lee put his down his guitar carefully in its case, and walked over to the door. “What’s up?”
Dickie didn’t even wait for Bobby Lee to open the door all the way. He forced his way in and began pacing around the room, fuming.
“I’ve had it with that little shit. I mean it, Bobby.”
“You mean Oats? Dickie, we’ve been through this a hundred times…”
“I don’t care, man, I don’t give a flying fuck. That kid is bad fucking news.”
“OK, Dickie, what’d he do to you this time?” Bobby Lee sighed and sat down on the side of the bed, pointing to the room’s one desk chair. “Why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?”
Dickie walked to the chair and kicked it over on its side.
“Fuck talking it over, man!” he cried. “You are always and forever trying to talk shit over. I’m sick of you and I’m sick of this lame-ass kiddiegarten tour, too. I quit.”
Bobby Lee stood up and walked toward Dickie, who flinched. Leaning over, Bobby Lee picked up the chair and set it upright. “So you don’t want kids on the tour, I get it. But that doesn’t mean you get to act like a big baby yourself,” he said calmly. “Look, you’re drunk and you’re mad. Go get some rest. When you’re not in the mood to throw furniture we can talk. Meanwhile, I’m gonna forget I heard you say you quit. Whatever Oats did or said to you, I’m sure it wasn’t intended to piss you off. He’s a good kid and he’s trying hard.”
“Trying hard to fuck up my life,” Dickie pouted. Even drunk, he knew that he couldn’t tell Bobby Lee much about what had happened, since he himself had been breaking two band rules—no screwing around on the bus, and no invading the bandleader’s private space. Instead of saying any more, he bumped the chair and slammed the door on his way out of the room. He stormed down the stairs in search of the cute cash-register woman, to see if they could pick things up where they’d left off. Maybe she had a room where they could go without being interrupted.
Bobby Lee stared at the closed door for a minute or two, then slipped on his boots to go look for Otis Ray. He wanted to get the kid’s side of the story before talking to Dickie again, and it was also time to run back over to the hospital. Maybe Oats would join him and they could talk in the car. He knocked on his door, and every other band member’s except Dickie’s, knowing there was no way the kid would be there. He cruised through the restaurant, the gift shop, and the gas station. Everyone he asked said they’d seen Otis Ray earlier in the day and not to worry, he was bound to be around somewhere.
Only problem was, Oats wasn’t anywhere to be found.
*
Arizona knew she should get up off her bed, wash her face, and get something to eat. She knew she should figure out a plan for the rest of the day, not to mention the rest of her life. But the bed was safe and private, and as long as she stayed there with Madison in her arms and her door bolted shut, she figured she couldn’t do anything else that was irreparably stupid.
She couldn’t figure out how and why she suddenly couldn’t help getting herself into messy situations with the male half of the species. She didn’t want to figure it out. She wanted to lie there in her uniform with her eyes closed, as the sounds of
The Oprah Winfrey Show
, and other people’s problems, drifted through the wall from the room next door. She fell into a deep sleep.
When she woke up, the sky outside her window was a transitional foggy gray, and she mistook the dusk for daybreak, thinking she’d slept through the night. She jumped out of bed and ran the shower, and it wasn’t until she had completed her preparations for work that she realized it was still dusk on the same day. She had over twelve hours stretching ahead of her with nothing to do and nowhere to go.
Arizona flicked on the television with the remote control device that was bolted to the bedside table. She began channel-surfing, looking for something that might capture her interest for an hour or two, and finally settled on a rerun of
CSI: Des Moines,
which, of all the luck, happened to be the very same episode she’d watched with Jerry on her last night home. The tears started slowly, but before long she was curled up against the headboard in a fetal position, rocking and sobbing into her pillow. Letting herself go, letting herself cry, feeling the visceral ache of Jerry’s deception and her own defection, she got lost in herself and her tears. It took several minutes for her to notice that someone was knocking on her door.
She realized she must look a sight with her red, puffy eyes, wild hair, and wrinkled uniform, but she didn’t care. She opened the door wide enough to see who was knocking without undoing the security chain. Outside stood the last person she’d ever hope to see in this condition, the cute band leader, Bobby Lee Crenshaw. He looked as surprised to see her as she was to see him.
“Hello, ma’am—I mean Miss Arizona,” he drawled. “I didn’t know you were staying here, too.”
“Let’s just call these palatial digs my Central Valley pied-à-terre,” she said.
“I’m knocking on every door here at this motel.”
“And I thought you were paying me a visit because I’m special.” She laughed, but immediately regretted her crack as he blushed deeply. “Seriously,” she said more kindly, “what can I do for you?”
“I’m so sorry to bother you during your time off, but I’m wondering if you’ve seen the boy who’s traveling with us, Otis Ray? No one in our band has seen him for several hours.”
“He was helping me out in the gift shop this morning,” she said, wondering if it was necessary to mention the incident on the bus, trying not to let panic take over. “He was still there, talking to a customer, when I clocked out.”
“And that’s absolutely the last you’ve seen of him, you’re sure?”
“I’m pretty sure,” she answered. “I’ve been here in my room all afternoon, though.”
“Something happened between Oats and my guitar player, sometime after your shift,” Bobby Lee said. “Dickie is madder’n a goose on wheels. He’s had it in for Oats since the beginning of the tour anyway, but this was different. He was really, really pissed off.”
“Do you think Dickie might have done something to Oats?” Arizona asked, starting to feel a little sick to her stomach. “I mean, if he was that mad…”
“Nah, I don’t think so. Dickie can be an asshole, even a mean drunk asshole, but he’s also a pro. He understands that I’m the boss. At least, I think he does.”
“Have you contacted the police?”
“I thought I’d check all the rooms here first.”
“Is it possible he might just be holed up somewhere practicing?”
“I guess. It’s not really his style, though. He seems to like hanging around other people, but maybe…”
“He’s probably fine, probably around here somewhere, right?”
“That’s what I’m hoping. We were supposed to meet up in front of the restaurant to go visit Pete. He may be a kid, but he’s conscientious about being on time.”
“OK, look,” Arizona said slowly. “Give me five minutes to change clothes so I don’t scare the crap out of people knocking on their doors, and I’ll help you look for him.”
“You don’t have to…”
“No, I want to.”
Bobby Lee flashed his most charming smile. “That’d be right nice of you, Miss Arizona.”
Arizona slipped on jeans and a T-shirt, ran a comb through her hair, and was downstairs in the parking lot in less than five minutes. She felt guilty, panicked, and confused. Not mentioning her awkward run-in with the boy on the tour bus would certainly be interpreted as withholding crucial information, information that could help keep Oats safe, maybe even save his life if he was really in danger. On the other hand, it was most likely that he was around somewhere, safe, happy, and oblivious to the fact that people were looking for him. If that was the case, it didn’t make a lot of sense to draw attention to her misguided assignation with Dickie Jaspers, fifteen minutes of her life that she fervently wished she could undo.
Arizona, Bobby Lee, and Bus Driver Dave each assumed responsibility for a third of the rooms. She walked from room to room, knocking politely and asking people if they’d seen a redheaded kid about this tall, possibly playing a harmonica. She heard “No, ma’am,” “Sorry, lady,” and—in one case—“Sounds like my grandson Harold. Would you like to see a photo of him at his sixth-grade graduation?” If it turned out that her carelessness had caused harm to a really nice kid she would never forgive herself.
When they had finished knocking on every door, they looked in the gift shop, the restaurant, and the restrooms. Arizona checked the gas station while Bobby Lee looked in the pool area. Bus Driver Dave called Oats’ cell phone, only to hear it ring in his own back pocket. He remembered that the kid had loaned him his phone when he’d forgotten to charge his own the night before.
Dave, Arizona, and Bobby Lee had a brief, worried conference and decided that there was nothing left to do but call the police.
“Shouldn’t you call his parents, too?” asked Arizona.
Bobby Lee looked as though he’d rather have a root canal with no anesthetic. “I was hoping it wouldn’t have to come to that,” he said, “but I guess so.”
*
Oats’ mom, alt-country indie recording star and nightclub proprietor Sarah Jean Pixlie, left the doctor’s office with a giddy sense of well-being. Life was sweet; the Dewdrop Inn was doing fine despite its owner’s long absence—the club was owned by Sarah Jean’s mother, Allie Pixlie, who had decided to get married and take a summer-long honeymoon trip to Paris—in fact, summer bookings were strong and profits were up. Jasper, the new chef, was handling things nicely, able to ride the trends just enough for foodies who got lost on their way to the wine country while keeping the menu familiar enough for the regulars. Her great-aunt Perle was helping Jasper come up with a high-fiber, low-calorie “spa menu” and he hadn’t thrown anything at her yet. In fact, the two seemed to be thick as thieves.
She missed Oats desperately, but had to admit that everything seemed to be going fine on the tour. Pete, who’d called her several times a day in the beginning with reports about each show, had relaxed some. In fact, she hadn’t heard from him in a few days, and she assumed that no news was good news. Hank Wilson was blossoming; this was the first opportunity he’d ever had to be an only child, and despite his complaints of boredom he looked healthy and happy, basking in the delicious attention of both his parents with his intense big brother safely out of the picture for a while.
Most of all, though, Sarah Jean Pixlie was in heaven because she could scratch her leg anywhere it itched without having to stuff a knitting needle down a full-leg cast. The doctor had finally taken the damn thing off, substituting a much smaller and more flexible apparatus that allowed full scratching access. “Scratchcess,” she called it. Her plan for the rest of the day was simple: she’d go home, make lunch for Hank Wilson, take a bubble bath, and spend the rest of the afternoon reading pulp fiction and scratching her leg. Talk about heaven!