L.A. Weather

by María Amparo Escandón

  Wednesday, August 17th

  Some called it a fire whirl. Others, a firenado. But what triggered the evacuation of eighty thousand people on the outskirts of Los Angeles really came to be known as the Blue Cut Fire. Oscar watched the news in horror as the historic Route 66 diner, the Summit Inn, burned to the ground while nearby residents fled. It took thirteen hundred firefighters, four VLATS—known among laymen as very large air tankers—three super-scooper planes, and fifteen helicopters to contain the blaze. Oscar thought about all those evacuees leaving behind their photo albums and passports and pets. Dogs were easy to round up, but cats? In the last family evacuation drill just a few days before, Velcro had run from everyone’s haste and hid behind the stove, a place impossible to reach, even with a broom. Had it been a real fire emergency they would have had to leave him behind to burn with the house. You can’t run around looking for your cat when the flames are licking your roof.

  Thursday, August 18th

  Putting the leash on Ramsay was the easy part. Getting Claudia to change from her pajamas and make her way outside was a nearly insurmountable ordeal, but Olivia drew patience from the heavens and after substantial convincing was able to take her sister and her dog for a stroll around the block for the first time since the surgery.

  “But I’m not picking up after him,” said Claudia. “I’m an invalid.”

  “Nice try, but I’m not enabling you,” said Olivia, handing her the little roll of plastic bags.

  Although Claudia had healed faster than her doctors had anticipated, the discrepancy between her physical recovery and her state of mind was notable. She had stopped complaining about pain in her leg, but when dinnertime came, she’d drink a protein shake standing by the fridge and go to her room without saying a word to anyone.

  “We miss you at the table, sis,” said Olivia as they walked along the neighborhood, strollers and nannies abounding. This was West Los Angeles, after all.

  “Why should I torture myself watching you all enjoy your food?” she said as she shambled along the uneven sidewalk.

  “Maybe because we want you to participate in the conversation?” said Olivia, trying to alleviate her sister’s bitterness by making her feel needed. “There’s a lot going on these days, and we could sure benefit from your insights. Make use of that big part of your brain that’s intact.”

  “Let’s go home. I’m tired.”

  Sunday, August 21st

  On the very day that Olivia’s house went on the market, six offers came in. A couple with five children made the most attractive offer. All cash. No property inspection or contingency period. No repairs request. No title report. No appraisal. One-week escrow. This sounded like a dream real-estate-deal scenario, but it wasn’t: Felix had purposely undersold the house.

  “Why?” asked Olivia in disbelief, immediately regretting not having gotten involved in the sale process. After all, she’d thought, Felix was the real estate expert. But why was she so naïve? What made her believe that Felix would not undermine himself in order to hurt her, if that was what he did while they were married? Why did she even marry him in the first place? That was a question with a very long answer, one that would require perhaps years of self-examination. Claudia would say to her things like, “You’re Felix’s mudroom mat.” Perhaps keeping that image vivid in her mind when analyzing her behavior during her marriage would be a good starting point.

  “Why would you undersell the house?”

  “Take the cashier’s check and go live your little life. I got the same amount you did and I’m not complaining,” said Felix as he showed her an identical check, this one written in his name. “And just so you know, the new owners are going to demolish the house and build a Tuscan villa.”

  A Tuscan villa? Now, that hurt even more than finding out Felix had practically given away their home. She’d seen these houses pop up everywhere on the Westside; most of them seemed too large for the lot, built with the same ready-made floor plans, the same sad color palettes, and all resembling a Disneyland set.

  Doing the numbers later that evening, Olivia realized that Felix had sold the house for way below market.

  “He did it out of spite. He couldn’t help himself. All he wants is to fuck you over,” said Claudia.

  “But he hurt himself, too. What an idiot. I was counting on that money to buy a condo.”

  “You didn’t supervise him. I get it. Smart people do dumb things, but that was more than dumb. Now you’ll have to stay here until you save up.”

  Thursday, August 25th

  Rape is not sex but violence; her rapist wanted to have control over her; he didn’t act out of lust, but power; she’s not a victim, she’s a survivor. That was the mantra Patricia chanted aloud to herself as she drove her Prius out to Thousand Oaks that morning, hoping to believe it by constant repetition. Traffic was especially damnable, but the time sitting in her car allowed her to continue percolating the insights she’d arrived at during the three weeks since her return to therapy.

  An hour after she headed east out of the city on the 101, she reached her exit, turned left, and took a small road down a canyon. Although she was a seasoned hiker, she’d never been to that part of the outskirts of Los Angeles. She promised herself she’d bring Dani with her someday to explore those trails and climb those boulders, but made a note to do it soon before that area succumbed to some future inferno. She was grateful to live in L.A., where, fire permitting, she could go snowboarding on Big Bear’s slopes in the morning and surfing in the Santa Monica waves in the afternoon; or have a fancy Sunday brunch at some hip hotel and then go hiking in the mountains after that. For now, she’d focus on the beauty of her surroundings while they lasted. It helped soothe the anxiety that had spiked since she started having nightmares.

  After another twenty-five minutes on a dirt road (who drives an hour and a half to see their therapist?), she arrived at the ranch where Irene waited for her in cowboy boots and a Stetson hat. The cottage sat in a womb of steep slopes covered in chaparral: sand verbena, maidenhair fern, our Lord’s candles, and woolly blue curls. Inside, the living room was furnished with cozy sofas and pillows and throws and an oversize ottoman with two small trays on which to set mugs with hot chocolate. Photographs of horses and Irene’s Ph.D. diploma hung from the walls. She offered Patricia a cup of chamomile tea and both women walked outside.

  Farther along on a dirt path, they sat at a picnic table under the shade of a berry manzanita tree and spent some time going over the previous session’s insights.

  Exploring her past, Patricia had realized that most of the men she had had relationships with had been physically distant or emotionally challenged in some way, including Eric. Two of the guys she dated in college transferred out of state, a plan she’d known from the get-go. Another one was on the brink of getting married. What was wrong with them? Or was it her? She knew Eric would not move to Los Angeles, and from the beginning he had happily accepted her condition to live separately. Now she yearned for closeness and didn’t know why she was starting to feel different.

  “Let’s spend some time with Big Boy now,” said Irene.

  They walked a short distance along the path until they reached a round pen where a few horses gathered in small groups around a couple of bales of hay.

  During the first session and on Irene’s suggestion, Patricia had named an Appaloosa horse Big Boy. He was her other therapist. She was immediately drawn to his spotted coat; he reminded her of a giant Dalmatian. He seemed not so feisty as to inspire fear, but with enough character (and a thousand-pound body) to command respect. But when Patricia first approached him, her unspoken message to him was I call the shots, which didn’t go well. She rushed forward to pet him and Big Boy retreated, startled, raised his head, and turned his ears backward.

  “Remember that Big Boy is a prey animal. He can spook at anything that feels the least bit threatening,” said Irene in a kind and patient voice.

  It took Patricia the entire session to u
nderstand that if she was to develop a solid relationship with him over the course of her equine-assisted therapy, Big Boy had to be treated gently.

  “You’ll need to start looking straight into his eyes,” said Irene. “Make him feel comfortable around you.”

  Patricia changed strategy and tiptoed toward Big Boy. When he didn’t move, she slowly raised her hand to touch his muzzle, knowing he could very well bite her fingers off, but he let her, still seeming a bit suspicious. Then, she caressed his face softly and slid her hand along his cheek as if ironing it. Starting to get carried away, she tangled her fingers in his mane, and that’s when she noticed that Big Boy had his gaze on another horse shuffling its hooves on the soft footing not far from where she was.

  “That’s Mamma over there, the lead mare,” said Irene. “Big Boy is asking for permission to be petted. It’s fine. Go on.”

  Unsure of the potential results of this kind of therapy, Patricia had decided to let herself follow Irene’s instructions.

  “For our next session, give this question a thought: Why do you always have to be on top when having sex?”

  Patricia said good-bye, got into her car, and drove back home with the question burning in her mind.

  Saturday, August 27th

  Claudia’s house was so clean and tidy that Architectural Digest could have come in with their photographers and gotten print-ready images without having to move a single knickknack. Even though Claudia had never been her favorite among the Alvarados—too self-absorbed, not really empathetic, quite a little scoundrel if you asked Lola—she now felt profound compassion for her. No one deserved to have a brain tumor of any size, be it cherry or papaya.

  She finished later than she expected and drove down PCH to the 10 toward East L.A., where she’d been invited to a barbecue with childhood friends. As she saw the last vestiges of the Westside in her rearview mirror and passed downtown to her left, she smiled at this thought: Freeway exit names like Centinela, Sepulveda, La Cienega, La Brea, Alameda, Santa Fe, César Chávez, Soto, bound the City of Angels’ dwellers, East and West, North and South, to the Mexico of her ancestors whether they liked it or not, regardless of their race, beliefs, political affiliation, or ethnicity. She cherished the language her parents taught her, playful, harmonic; listened to Latin songs on the radio every morning; knew all the Spanish stations’ drive-time DJs by name. The airwaves were American, and not. The city was American, and not. And she loved it just like that.

  When she arrived at the cookout, a little late, Los Barón de Apodaca blasted out of the speakers on opposite corners of the patio where the hosts had set a long table composed of three tables of different sizes joined together under a bright pink tablecloth. A zarape along the center went from one end to the other. The barbecue coals were already red hot and the mounds of carne asada sizzled on the grill along with bunches of pearl onions and chiles toreados. She greeted a multigenerational assortment of guests who were dancing and milling around—thirty or so was her estimate, most of them old friends from the neighborhood. There were Ana and Mateo standing by the cooler, married the year before on the ferry to Catalina Island surrounded by waves and dolphins (and a few seasick guests). Over there, under the shade of the jacaranda, Elena, the little sister of her friend from elementary school, fanned her menopausal sweat. Lola greeted Don Flavio and Doña Carmen, grandparents of three girls she had babysat for on and off when she was a teenager. She noticed a couple of boys grabbing handfuls of chips, dipping them in guacamole and dripping it on the floor, everywhere. Tempted to scold them, she scanned the patio for the parents who were obviously distracted, but decided against saying anything. She wasn’t on the job, after all. She finally bumped into Amanda, the hostess, as she was bringing out a large skillet with nopalitos sautéed with tomatillo salsa and a palm-leaf-woven chiquihuite, surely brought from Oaxaca, containing a stack of warm blue corn tortillas wrapped in a cotton towel.

  “How can I help?” offered Lola, kissing Amanda’s cheek.

  “Lola! So glad you’re here! Put fresh ice in that bucket over there and bring out more beer. It’s in the fridge, please. Oh, and the molcajetes with the salsas; they’re on the counter. Can you spread those out on the table?”

  Lola went inside to find another group of friends bunched together, deep in gossip. Paco, Gonzalo, and Hugo, middle school classmates of Lola, called her over. She joined.

  “Look at you, guapa!” said Hugo, checking her out. “Every time I see you, you look younger.”

  “Oh, stop it,” she replied, enjoying the compliment. “Help me bring out the beer.”

  As the afternoon turned into the evening, Lola and her friends laughed. They helped. They went out to the patio. They ate. They danced. They ate again. By midnight, Amanda had twice replaced the trash bags from the big bins where people threw used paper plates, beer cans, napkins smeared with salsa. Lola said good-bye to her friends and drove home with a full belly and a heart overflowing with happiness.

  Sunday, August 28th

  “I’m not even sure if I’ll ever need any of this stuff again,” said Claudia.

  She pointed at her rarely used sculptural dining table for twelve designed by Joseph Walsh, at her Mario Bellini modular sofa, at her Raúl Baltazar hanging above the fireplace mantel, at her Pininfarina corner sofa outside in her patio by the pool.

  “And look at all this shit!” she said, walking into the scullery adjacent to her dining room where she kept her Georg Jensen silver trays, serving dishes and flatware, table linens, and dinnerware sets for twenty-four bought specifically for dinner parties she never organized.

  “Should I put it all in storage? Or just have an estate sale and get rid of it all? What do you think, Olie?” asked Claudia.

  “Estate sales are for when people die. I wouldn’t use that term. It’s too depressing,” said Olivia, turning her attention to Andrea just as she dropped a Baccarat crystal ashtray, sending shards all over the floor.

  “I guess I won’t have to pack that one,” Claudia chuckled.

  “So sorry! Where’s your vacuum cleaner?” Olivia said, picking up Andrea so she wouldn’t get cut. “Girls, go play in the other room. There’s nothing you can break there.”

  As Olivia vacuumed the floor, Claudia yelled over the noise, “I feel dead sometimes.”

  “You’ve been through so much, Clau, give yourself some time. I can understand why you may be feeling dead, but you need to make a plan for the future. If there’s a plan in place you’ll feel more in control, like you always have,” said Olivia, after she shut the vacuum cleaner.

  “Control is an illusion,” said Claudia, resigned.

  Olivia wasn’t a seasoned pep talker, but Claudia seemed to have picked her to hold her up and cheer her on, so she did, for hours on end. They’d sit in Claudia’s bedroom, like when they were girls, and talk about their divorces and Claudia’s recovery. “At least Gabriel is gone, out of your life. I have to deal with Felix all the time. It’s sickening,” Olivia would say, just to make Claudia feel better.

  But now, other important decisions needed to be made, and Claudia was asking for help.

  “Why don’t you send everything to storage? You never know if science will invent something that will restore your sense of smell and taste and then you can go back to your old life, minus Gabriel, the prick,” said Olivia as she took her phone out and started taking pictures of the different rooms in the house.

  After they finished, Claudia said good-bye to her stuff and rode with Olivia and the twins in Homer, the minivan, back to her parents’ house with an empty belly and a heart filled with dread.

  Sunday, August 28th

  “He was never someone you’d notice. At school, he seldom said hi in the hallways; mostly he just stared at people. I didn’t even realize he was at the party that night. A bunch of us were smoking in the pool cabana and when everyone went back inside, I stayed behind to look at the moon. I remember it was full. Then he came out of nowhere. What was a junior doing
hanging out with a freshman? I had no idea what he wanted. He sat very close to me. He didn’t say much. Not that I can remember. He just pounced, like a beast. It was over very quickly.”

  Patricia, her eyes a well of tears, blew her nose with a tissue and continued: “I don’t know why I never told you all this.”

  Olivia, who was sitting next to her in the kitchen, held her tight and said, “I don’t know why I never asked you.”

  September

  Thursday, September 1st

  Monthly meetings with Aunt Belinda were increasingly devastating. At eighty-seven, with advanced arthritis and zero ability or interest in using a computer, she was a numbers prodigy, and the numbers were bleak.

  “You can’t get another loan to pay for the harvesting machines and the farmworkers’ salaries,” she told Oscar.

  “What if I get a little more from the house equity line?”

  “You’re maxed out, dear. Remember you used most of that money to pay for the bees during pollination season? And you’ve been buying overpriced water.”

  “Have you included the money that we’re going to make from the sale of the almond hulls?”

  “That’s coming next month. I don’t think we’ll find anyone in the dairy industry who will prepay for the hulls.”

  The decision was there, right in front of him, but Oscar had yet to face it. He knew that his only option was to pull out the trees and plant a more water-wise crop. But this meant spending money he didn’t have, unless he used the harvest money, his livelihood, his only income.

  “You can’t use the money from the harvest to get rid of the trees and plant something else. You need it to pay for your family expenses,” said Belinda, as if she were reading his mind. “Especially now, with all the girls living at home.”

  “I could ask Patricia to contribute more than she already does, but I’m not sure if Olivia can help out. And the money situation with Claudia is still uncertain; I’d never ask her for the money she will get from the sale of her house. That might be the only source of income she’ll have left.”