WU BE UNTO YOU, Part II: Wu Tangled Up in Amarillo

By dawn, the school bus had developed a new noise—a chirping rattle that only surfaced while accelerating and reciting the Rosary. Angus said it was the transmission. Thelma said it was probably a demon. Either way, they limped the final few miles into Amarillo and parked behind a Cracker Barrel, where the Chariot of Fire could rest under the shade of a fiberglass possum statue.

“We leave it here,” Thelma declared, patting the dashboard with the reverence usually reserved for relics and casserole lids. “And we upgrade.”

The upgrade was a 1994 Buick Roadmaster Estate Wagon, beige and glorious in a way only aging American station wagons can be. It belonged to Thelma’s cousin Doreen, who had once tried to sell homemade chia pets out of the back during the tri-county craft fair circuit. The chia pets didn’t pan out, but the car still ran like a repentant sinner—hot, heavy, and faithful when no one else would be.

Finished in Light Driftwood Metallic with simulated woodgrain vinyl along the bodysides and tailgate, the Buick looked like it had rolled straight out of an AARP daydream. It featured roof rails, pop-out rear quarter windows, a Vista Roof, and enough automatic controls to startle a space shuttle. The 5.7-liter LT1 V8 under the hood was no slouch either—260 horses of government-grade muscle, ready to tow a boat or outrun Methodist drama.

Inside, the beige leather and vinyl seats were sun-cracked but supportive. The cabin smelled of peppermint schnapps and powdered donut glaze. A power-operated rear window hissed to life like a reluctant butler. Angus tested the cassette deck with a tape labeled “COWBOY LOVE SONGS & WARNINGS.” It played crystal clear.

“Better than the Book of Revelation guy,” he muttered.

Their first stop was Rick Husband International Airport’s administrative office, where a bleary-eyed TSA officer named Troy pointed them to a door marked International Adoptions – Holding Room A.

“He was in there,” Troy said. “We gave him animal crackers, but he got out. Slipped through the side gate when somebody opened it to smoke.”

Thelma blinked. “You lost a six-year-old?”

Troy shrugged. “Technically, he misplaced himself.”

The search began at Terminal B and extended to every air-conditioned corner of Amarillo. They checked the food court, a bus depot, a Panhandle History Museum, and a suspiciously quiet bounce house franchise called Jumpin’ for Jesus.

At the public library, they found a stack of books pulled from the shelf: English-Korean Dictionary, Texas Wildlife for Kids, and Garfield’s Thanksgiving Special. A librarian confirmed a small boy had sat reading with his shoes off and had asked—politely—if lasagna was a breakfast food.

“He took a paperclip,” she said, solemnly. “But he said thank you.”

They stopped at a nearby elementary school, where a custodian reported seeing “a quiet little ninja” sneak into the cafeteria through the loading dock.

“He sweet-talked Ruby the lunch lady into two pudding cups and then vanished near the mop sink.”

“That’s him,” Angus nodded.

“Bless his heart,” Thelma whispered.

By mid-afternoon, they were both losing steam. The automatic climate control in the Roadmaster was working overtime, blowing lukewarm air over their frustration. The power antenna had given up trying to find decent radio. Thelma’s knees ached. Angus’s patience, already a fragile thing, was on life support.

Then they spotted him.

At a Chick-fil-A across from the mall, sitting inside the plastic tunnels of the playland, was Wu—shoeless, content, and halfway through a second milkshake. He was hugging a giant plush cow that said EAT MOR CHIKIN across its chest.

Thelma pressed her hand to her heart. “Merciful heavens. He’s adorable.”

“He’s sticky,” Angus added.

Approaching him proved tricky. Wu didn’t speak English, and Angus’s attempt at universal sign language resembled an interpretive dance about constipation. It was Thelma who finally made the breakthrough.

She pulled a tiny laminated card from her purse: the Lord’s Prayer in Korean. Wu’s eyes lit up. He took the card gently, nodded solemnly, and patted the cow on its head like a fellow convert.

“Come on, sugar,” she said, holding out her hand.

He took it.

Getting him out was simple. Explaining things to airport security was not.

A young woman with a clipboard insisted on documentation. Angus handed her a note written in Sharpie on a Burger King receipt:

WE HAVE WU. HE’S FINE.
(CALL THELMA FOR JESUS-RELATED DETAILS)

It did not go over well.

Eventually, after two phone calls and one awkward photo recreation of Wu holding the original adoption folder, they were allowed to leave. As they crossed the terminal lot, Wu pointed at the Buick.

He said a single word: “Whale.”

The drive home should’ve been smooth. It wasn’t.

Outside of Tulia, the rear air suspension let go like a sinner on payday. The back end of the wagon sank low enough to scrape against moral decency. Angus cussed. Thelma prayed. Wu chewed happily on a fruit roll-up and watched it all like a documentary.

They pulled into a roadside mechanic named Sonny’s Garage and Taxidermy. Sonny himself came out holding a crescent wrench and a frozen opossum.

“Got a special on radiator flushes and raccoon mounts,” he said cheerfully.

“We’ll take the flush,” Thelma said. “And maybe just a price quote on the raccoon.”

While the Roadmaster was being patched, they shared a cold Dr Pepper and told Wu stories about Fort Stockton. Thelma described the smell of rain on caliche, the pews at Our Lady of Immeasurable Concern, and the Dairy Twin’s banana split so large it had to be served with a pizza paddle.

Wu listened, wide-eyed.

Angus looked over. “Reckon he knows what he’s in for?”

Thelma smiled. “He doesn’t need to. He’ll learn. Lord knows we all had to.”

Back on the road by dusk, the wagon hummed low and slow across the West Texas flatlands, its fake woodgrain panels catching the last of the light.

Wu fell asleep with his head against the window, one hand holding the Lord’s Prayer, the other still clutching the Chick-fil-A cow. In the front seat, Angus drove in silence while Thelma softly sang a hymn about homecomings and second chances.

Fort Stockton waited on the horizon like a punchline with heart.