So Long, Chester Wheeler(53)

“At least three days, though,” he said.

“Probably more like four.”

“Maybe we should have flown after all.”

“You said people with lung cancer can’t fly.”

“Oh. Right.”

He turned his head and looked out the window at Phoenix proper flashing by. We were on the 60 West, and I peered at the map on my phone and watched the I-10 approaching, knowing we still had to decide on our direction before we got there.

“That actually wasn’t true,” he said. “I don’t know that people with lung cancer can’t fly. Maybe they can’t, but I don’t know. Nobody ever told me I couldn’t.”

“If you want to fly home, I’ll put you on a plane. Say the word. I’ll drive home by myself.”

“No, I can’t do that. I can’t make you drive all that way on your own.”

I wanted to laugh out loud. I wanted to tell him he overestimated the value of his own company. I didn’t.

“I would be absolutely fine,” I said.

“Besides. How would I get home from the airport?”

“Car service? Shuttle? If it was some kind of bus, it might even have a wheelchair lift.”

“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I’m lying again. I’m afraid to fly. And you just shut up about it, too. Don’t even start with me. Everybody’s afraid of something.”

I pulled off the highway at the last exit before the I-10 and onto a side street. I found a spot at the curb. Shifted the Winnie into park. Unfortunately he seemed to think I’d done that to give him some kind of dressing-down, and that only made him more combative.

“You lie too,” he said. “Don’t even try to tell me you don’t. You shouldn’t have put on those bumper stickers. They’re ridiculous. I shouldn’t have to ride around in my own RV with those on the back. It’s embarrassing.”

“If you want, I’ll go peel them off right now.”

“Well, it doesn’t really matter. You’re driving. It’s a reflection on you, not me. I’m just saying you were wrong to do that.”

I could have been detail oriented and overly specific and said Anna was wrong to do it, not me. But I hadn’t stopped her. So that mostly would have been a weaselly dodge.

“You’re right,” I said. “I was wrong to do that.”

He seemed to struggle with that for a minute, but then he came up fighting. To say my admission of guilt didn’t mollify him would be an understatement.

“See, that’s what’s so weird about you, Lewis. It’s just completely abnormal. When somebody gets on you for doing something like that, you’re supposed to defend yourself. It’s supposed to be a fight.”

“I don’t want to fight.”

“I know,” he said. “It’s weird. There’s something about you that’s not quite right.”

We sat quietly for a minute while I tried to think how to phrase my important question.

“Why aren’t we driving?” he asked.

“You have to decide on a direction before we get to the I-10.”

“Wow, you’re really losing it, Lewis. It’s east. Home is east.”

Speaking of losing it, I noticed that he hadn’t caught on to our direction by the angle of the morning sun, which would have been easy. When the sun is behind you in the morning . . .

“Right, home is east. But you have to decide if you want to make one other stop first. You came out here for closure, right?”

“Yeah, and I got it.”

“With Sue. But there might be more closure out there for you.”

He pondered that statement for about the count of three, his forehead furrowed.

Then he said, “You better be talking about my kids.”

“I’m not.”

“I don’t want to talk about him with you, Lewis. It’s none of your business. When are you going to get it through that thick skull of yours that it’s none of your business?”

“We don’t need to talk about it. I just want to know if you want me to drop you there for a visit before I take you home.”

“Drop me where, Lewis? Use your head. We don’t even know where he is.”

I pulled the slip of paper out of my shirt pocket. I didn’t hand it to him or show it to him. Just let it dangle there in the fingers of my right hand, which was draped over the steering wheel.

“I know where he is,” I said.

That simple statement brought on lots—and I do mean lots—of silence.

He turned his face away and looked out the window. I turned the dashboard AC up high and aimed the vents at us, because I sensed we’d be there for a while.



Six minutes later I decided that if the silence was ever going to be broken, I’d have to break it myself. And I was glancing at my phone at regular intervals, so when I say six minutes, I seriously mean six minutes.

At four minutes I had picked up the phone, keyed in the address in Venice Beach, and hit “Directions.” It was almost four hundred miles and about six and a half hours away.

“So, what are we thinking?” I asked Chester. “I figure it’s time to get on the road one way or the other. I worry about the engine overheating if we sit here idling and running the air conditioner much longer. And if I turn it off, we’ll roast. Time to know what we’re doing.”