Creedence and his brothers, led by their father, DeLoyal, and their pale, wide-eyed mother, Cresta-Lee, approached our house and asked us if we wanted to join their prayer circle.
My father accepted enthusiastically. He was inappropriately exhilarated, like a kid in an earthquake-themed amusement park. The adrenaline rush had stirred something in him.
“Well, it can’t hurt,” Serena said, trying to justify the excessive exultance. My brother and I got up and moved grudgingly toward the prayer group on the street. I heard Creedence whisper to Timoteo something about the earthquake happening in the Valley because of the porn-film industry. It was a sign from God.
Our neighbors stood in the circle. It was understood we had to be flexible with our religious affiliations in times of crisis. That day we’d have to make do with a generic, all-encompassing God, though the Mormons felt they were the protagonists of everyone’s redemption since they were leading the prayers. I prayed to Mary for the first time since Arash’s death. I asked her to be kind to everyone, just to be kind because we were all so tired.
The Mormons raised their hands toward the center of the circle and I saw a shadow advancing toward our street from the ruins of Victory Boulevard. A Terminator rising from the ashes. He walked hunched forward but unafraid—a duffel bag on his shoulder. I ran toward him.
Henry.
He hugged me close to his chest and kissed my head.
“How did you get here?” I asked.
“I walked.”
“From your store?”
“It’s not my store anymore.” He grinned. “It’s gone. Collapsed, exploded. A fire.”
“What about your mom?”
“She’s fine. She’s happy. We have insurance. Only smart thing she’s done in her life. She’s with our neighbors right now. Her gross canned food is finally being put to good use. They’re eating pinto beans on Ventura.”
“I’m sorry I was a bitch,” I said.
He handed me the duffel bag and made a gesture like we had all moved on. “I brought some stuff I thought you guys might need: sleeping bags, batteries, tents, Snickers bars. I’ll help you through this. Italians don’t know about California earthquakes.”
He was right.
—
Henry camped with us in our backyard for a week. At night we sat around a bonfire watching the flames swell and subside under our command. It felt good to control something. We boiled water on hot coals and went to bed early. Ettore talked about practical things, like how to keep the fire going for a long time with the least amount of wood, how to recycle used water, how to make lemon and mint infusions to quench our thirst. He never once mentioned the Hotel Alexandria and the movie. During those days my brother and I felt like we were allowed to be kids again, relieved from any sense of responsibility that didn’t have to do with mundane duties. We all got along like a normal family and slowly that started to feel natural.
At night sirens still blared, but things were calming down. Before falling asleep I heard the sound of Deva’s body thumping against the rock—a punctual summons that reached me as soon as darkness descended. I was caught in between a feeling of paranoia and a sense of urgency and justice because of what I’d done. I tried to justify myself, but the question remained: Had I really been crazy? Had I imagined things? Once, I woke up to the sensation of my legs tumbling down a hill—the galloping rhythm from my Eagle Rock escape back in my feet. I felt my knees strike against the sleeping bag’s padding. Even with my eyes open I could not stop them. My chest ached. It felt as if a wrinkled hand were keeping the surface of my heart taut, stretching the flesh out so I would know how much more painful things could get. I tried to unclench the grasp, but the hand stayed there, forcing me to feel what I did not want to feel. Slippery Deva, fleeting eyes, swaying hair. I didn’t know who I was without her and without the canyon.
I stepped out of my tent in the middle of the night and stood in my nightgown in front of the fire pit, gazing at the disembodied parts of our home on display at the end of the backyard: the broken plates, the ripped couch, my father’s oak desk. They all seemed so insubstantial now.
My mother came shuffling out of her tent after me, groaning.
“What are you doing up?” she asked, sleepy-eyed. She hugged me from behind in front of the dying fire.
“I can’t sleep,” I said, staring at the red coals.
She kept her eyes half shut as if the conversation might be brief enough to not wake her up entirely. She hated losing sleep.
“We’ll be back inside the house soon.”
“It’s not that.”
She took a breath. “I was so worried about you not coming home. I thought I would kill myself if I lost you,” she said in a hoarse voice.
“You would?” I turned to her. “Really?”
“No, not kill. But I did see how ruined our lives would be without you in them.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you okay?” she finally asked, both eyes open now.
“Mom, I did something bad. I’m worried…”
She nodded reassuringly.
“I know it wasn’t a peaceful sit-in in the desert, baby. I think Dad figured it out too. We were young once and you never gave a shit about the Zapatista army.”
She lifted my chin to meet her eyes and I felt a surge of tenderness for her. Where had they been living all those months?
“Yes, it wasn’t a peaceful gathering.”
I let her fingers stroke through the front of my hair and rested my cheek on her chest. A little longer, I thought to myself. I’d rest there just a little longer.
25
I dreaded the moment when the phone lines would be working again, but that happened one day too. Halfway through February we were at dinner and the fax beeped and began regurgitating home-repair offers—the business of earthquakes was starting to take over the tragedy of it.
“Damaged house? Ruined interiors? We can help.”
I imagined fax machines all across the San Fernando Valley overheating, spewing out papers filled with promises of those organized enough to turn tragedy into opportunity.
“Seismic businesses,” my father grumbled.
We did the house cleanup ourselves, though it still smelled like mildew and rusty water.
I got up from the dinner table and pulled the curly phone cord from its base in the kitchen all the way to my bedroom. We were only one yard sale away from owning a cordless. I turned the lights off, then curled inside my bed under the blankets and made the call.
Chris picked up.
“It’s Eugenia,” I said in a quiver.
“My father is back from the hospital. You fractured his leg. He’s in a cast.”
“I’m sorry.”
“That plus the earthquake. Not great timing.”
“He’s okay?”
There was a shuffling sound and a sigh, but no reply on the other end.
“I thought he would hit Deva.” I tried to raise my voice and beat away the crackle. “He looked like he was going to do it and she was already bleeding, so I—”
“I know. Thank you.” He hung up.
I called back but nobody answered.