L.A. Weather

by María Amparo Escandón

  Oscar looked out the window and saw in horror an orange glow spewing tongues of fire lighting up a dense cloud of smoke behind the neighborhood’s treetops. Patricia snapped a few shots with her phone and quickly caught up with Olivia, Lola, and the twins, who were already at the foyer. Keila held Claudia’s hand as she went down the stairs.

  “Where’s Velcro?” asked Claudia, in a panic.

  “We don’t have time to go looking for the cat,” yelled Oscar.

  “I’m not going anywhere without Velcro,” warned Claudia, and sat on the stair landing, crossing her arms in rebellion.

  “Everyone! Find Velcro! Now!” ordered Oscar, thinking about his constant fear of losing a cat to a fire.

  The frantic search took twelve excruciating minutes. Dani, the hero of the night, finally found him and pulled him out from under an armoire in the family room.

  “I’ve got him!” he yelled while everyone ran to Oscar’s SUV.

  “Get the kitty litter box too!” yelled Claudia from her seat to Dani, who ran back inside.

  Once they were fleeing down Sunset Boulevard, suggestions as to where to go started pouring in:

  “The Rancho Verde Recreation Center is open for sure,” said Keila. “Last time we evacuated there it was pretty good, everyone was super nice, considering the situation.”

  “Yeah, they were handing out free Krispy Kreme doughnuts,” said Dani.

  “We could go to a hotel this time. My sous-chef Alicia gave me a list of hotels perfect for evacuation: pet-friendly, kitchenette, in-suite sofa beds,” said Claudia, pulling out her phone to look for the list. “I’ll pay for the rooms.”

  “How about if we go to the house I’m remodeling? It’s empty. The only problem is that the toilets aren’t installed yet; we’d have to use the Porta Potty,” said Olivia.

  Patricia checked her text messages and announced, “Hey, my friends Don and Laura are hosting an evacuation party. They’ve got plenty of sleeping bags. Some people are there already.”

  “Come to my house,” said Lola finally. And that’s where they all went.

  Saturday, October 15th

  Like a natural extension of her plentiful arms, Lola’s house cradled the Alvarados with the warmth of familiarity. She’d had them over for parties or just for simple visits many times in the past. Claudia and Olivia settled in the second bedroom. Lola took the twins into her bed. Keila got the sofa and Oscar the easy chair. Patricia and Dani picked the space under the dining table. Ramsay favored the kitchen floor. Velcro inspected every nook and cranny of the premises all through the night, meowing in a what-the-hell-am-I-doing-here tone.

  It’s really up to the wind whose home gets destroyed by the fire, Oscar thought, his eyes wide open, staring at an old leak stain on Lola’s living-room ceiling. Would their house be spared, again? He thought about the small Carlos Almaraz drawing he loved so much hanging in a frame in his living room and imagined it being engulfed by flames. Funny: he realized he didn’t care. Everything he truly loved was with him, right there, safe in that little house.

  Following LAFD updates while having breakfast (Lola prepared her special chilaquiles recipe for everyone and Keila made tila tea to calm the nerves), Oscar had learned that the fire was moving toward the coast, pushed by ferocious Santa Ana gusts, precisely in the opposite direction from Rancho Verde. But that wasn’t cause for relief. Hundreds of homes were in the path of destruction. And embers were known to fly around and land on shingle roofs miles away from the inferno. That’s how unpredictable the fire was; the way it decided to dance with the wind determined who was spared and who lost it all.

  By midafternoon, Rancho Verde was cleared of danger and residents were allowed back into their homes. As they entered the house, Keila looked around with new eyes, as if it weren’t her house. Everything seemed foreign. While her husband, daughters, and grandchildren went straight back to their daily routine, she wandered from room to room making a mental inventory of the things she and Oscar had bought over their forty years of marriage: the antique cabinet where she kept the stemware, her red sofa, the Murano lamps they’d bought in Italy years before, her sculptures, her china. And so, before nightfall, both Oscar and Keila reached the same conclusion in different ways. “It’s just stuff,” she said to herself.

  Sunday, October 16th

  Outside, the gusts of wind ruffled the palm trees with enough mischief to worry Patricia. She put on a pair of jeans and a sweater and went out to secure the barbecue-grill cover that the merciless Santa Anas had blown over to the ground. She wiped a thin blanket of ash off the table. She took a deep whiff of the smell of smoke that still lingered in the air and went back into the house to find Keila posting a 2016 calendar on the fridge.

  “It’s from a PETA and LAFD joint initiative. It came in the mail with my donation’s receipt; it just turned up now that I reorganized my studio,” she said, admiring the pictures of handsome, bare-chested firefighters holding rescue kittens and puppies in their pumped-up arms for each month of the year. She turned the empty pages of months past and opened it on October. “We can still use the last three months,” she said. The featured fireman was a strong Chicano with eyes the color of honey. He was smiling at the camera and was rinsing a cute mutt in a tub of soapy water. The photo caption read, “Laundromutt.”

  Keila took a green Sharpie and wrote on November 10th: “Teeth cleaning, 9:00 am.”

  Patricia took a red Sharpie from a mug holding markers of all colors that her mother had just produced from who knows where, one for each member of the family, and entered on November 16th: “Ultrasound—bring Olie.”

  She turned around and hugged Keila.

  “Our family calendar is back!” she sighed, delighted.

  Monday, October 17th

  Rain!

  The water pounding on the roof sounded to Oscar like a standing ovation. He thought about the firefighters still putting out spot fires and chasing embers around nearby neighborhoods. The drought had killed more than sixty million trees throughout the state since January. Luckily, his almond trees would likely be spared from being engulfed in flames, as the roads helped stop the fires, but still, he’d seen the valley blanketed in ash and smoke from wildfires in faraway forests. Almost seven hundred thousand acres in the wildland-urban interface, where the city met foothills covered in brush, had been burned by wildfires. He knew the numbers well. He had kept them meticulously in his log as the proud pyrogeographer he believed himself to be. Was this rain the beginning of the end of the worst drought in California in over a thousand years? The muddy stream meandering along the yard toward the drains said so, but there was no way to make sure. This could well be just a little tease, courtesy of climate change, the little jester.

  He’d have to keep a precipitation log, but the rain gauge he’d installed in his backyard had been knocked over and broken by two fighting (or copulating) squirrels three years ago. Not that he had needed it. But now, he’d have to buy a new one, so he threw some dry clothes on, grabbed his raincoat, which had been relegated to the very back of his closet, and drove to a nursery he liked in Torrance.

  Because it was the first rain in over a hundred days, the roads were slick with oil: the perfect condition for hydroplaning. Worried about accidents on the road, he listened for the SigAlert report on the radio and sure enough: a multivehicle crash on the eastbound 10 Freeway had caused a two-hour delay on the morning commute. A rig had jackknifed on the northbound 405 at Jefferson Avenue, blocking three lanes. An ambulance was still at the scene. He was glad to be going south, but knew it would take at least three times longer than usual to reach the nursery, what with all those people rubbernecking as they passed the accident on the opposite side of the road. Several other crashes on surface streets were reported, but most were out of his way. The meteorologist had said that the rain wouldn’t last long, and the temperatures would rise again to the hundreds by Thursday. Why bother buying a rain gauge? He might as well turn around and go home, he thought
, but the sliver of optimism he still had made him continue on his quest.

  Wednesday, October 19th

  Ordinary Wednesdays didn’t go like this. Oscar had spent most of the morning searching for the right words to describe his reality, words that would help him accept it and communicate it to Keila. In the end, he concluded that there was no fancy way to say it, so he delivered the news to her as bluntly as he could:

  “We have no more money to invest in the orchard. It’s as simple as that. And we still have significant debt. The rain we’ve had so far has fallen in the wrong place. Kern County is still dry. We’ll have to sell our land.”

  Keila, who was still decluttering her studio, stopped cold and sat down on the red love seat, patting the space next to her with her hand, motioning to Oscar to sit down.

  “First of all, the part I like best about what you’ve just said is the word ‘we.’ Second, have we considered leasing it? There are other farmers nearby who might want to work the land,” said Keila, not sure if it was a good idea.

  “We could. But if we lease it, all the income would have to go to pay debt. How are we supposed to live on no income? And then we have the girls living at home again. There’s no way we could sell the house and downsize now.”

  “Give me a few days to think.”

  Friday, October 21st

  This morning, as a result of the recent rain, Patricia felt entitled to extend her shower to a full five minutes so she could think. She rubbed her still-flat belly, looking for a sign of life. Inside of her, one or hopefully two tiny hearts were beating too faintly to be noticed by anyone. The fetus, or baby, depending on who you asked, would soon be an Alvarado, but it would be just as much an Almeida, and Felix had to know. Or not. She thought about Dani. Half of him had come from the boy who had raped her, but thankfully he never showed any interest in the baby. It would be best if she and Olivia could find a way for Felix not to care about the pregnancy. She’d need a lot more shower time to come up with a plan, but for now, she allowed the last few drops to fall on her skin like a mystical absolution.

  Monday, October 24th

  Claudia had stayed up, watching rain droplets slide down her window while she wrote on her laptop.

  “What’s it about?” asked Olivia in the morning. “I assume you’re writing something, your recent medical experience, maybe?”

  “I’m not sure yet. Just doodles, I guess.”

  “Like a novel?”

  “God no! Sounds too daunting. What I’d really like to try is to write a TV pilot.”

  “And send it to Gabriel under a pseudonym?”

  “Ha. Wouldn’t that be hilarious? But fuck Gabriel. Don’t yank me out of my creative zone by mentioning that creep. I do think I have a knack for telling stories, though.”

  “So, when can I read what you wrote?”

  “Now. But don’t be cruel with your comments.”

  Tuesday, October 25th

  The Mexico City airport was, as usual, a disaster. Too small for the number of people that passed through it; too old and cheaply built; too many poorly planned additions that had turned it into a tortuous labyrinth. Still, Keila loved the I’m-finally-home feeling she had every time she arrived. She navigated the airport deftly; she knew it well. She got in a taxi and went home to drop off her suitcase and then straight to see Simon Brik.

  “I’m leaving. I’m no longer going to work with your gallery,” she told him as soon as she sat down at his desk.

  Simon didn’t seem surprised. He offered her a glass of sparkling water. She accepted it.

  “You’ve made up with Oscar and want to stay away from the temptation of a possible relationship with me. Am I correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’ve been announcing this with your silence.”

  “I’m done, Simon. It’s not healthy. It’s never been. Thank you so much for so many years of support. You helped my career tremendously, but it’s time to say good-bye.”

  “I have a few of your pieces in storage. Is there a new gallerist I should ship them to?” he said, resigned, not even trying to hide his sadness.

  “Just send them to my studio. Thank you.”

  Keila leaned across the small desk, kissed Simon on the cheek, and walked away. She was happy the break had been so quick and efficient.

  At home, in her parents’ house, she roamed around the rooms and felt lonely and small. Perhaps she could list it on short-term-rental apps. Or she could lease it to someone who planned to open a boutique hotel, like the many that had sprung up elsewhere in Polanco. With six bedrooms and six bathrooms, it surely qualified. She considered the possibility of opening a bed-and-breakfast, but this idea required capital she didn’t have, and her full attention was hard to provide from Los Angeles. Any of these initiatives would help alleviate the cash problem she and Oscar were in. On the other hand, along with the house she would be giving up all the memories that it contained. The thought of it felt like treason.

  She took an Uber to the cemetery and went straight to her mother’s and father’s graves. After clearing them of weeds, she posed the question point-blank: What should she do with the house?

  She waited for an answer from her mother, but this time she didn’t hear her voice.

  Thursday, October 27th

  Patricia and Eric met at a bar in the Arts District, the kind of joint meant for social interaction where the noise from people talking makes it impossible to converse. Their marriage was officially dissolved, and they were toasting the future. Negroni for Eric, Virgin Mary for Patricia.

  “Can I touch?” asked Eric, and without waiting for permission, he put his hand on Patricia’s belly.

  “It’s too soon, dummy. Wait till the fifth month and you’ll feel all the kicks you want,” she said, laughing.

  Eric turned serious, as if he had something important to say.

  “You know, this thing with your pregnancy could go south fast if Felix finds out the wrong way that you’re pregnant with his embryos.”

  “I know, but we still don’t have a plan. Any ideas?”

  “The more I think about it, the more I believe this scheme could work only if we were living in Telenovelaland. How long do you think you can sustain this farce before he finds out and sues the shit out of you and Olivia?”

  Patricia caught most of Eric’s words in spite of the bar’s sea of chatter and music. She filled in the rest by reading his lips, a skill she’d acquired in noisy venues and restaurants during college. She had to give him credit for thinking straight, the only one with a level head in what was looking more like a mess with no solution. She took a swig of her drink, having sworn off plastic straws.

  “I can offer this,” Eric added, looking at her without blinking. “If asked, I will say, which is totally true, that our divorce had nothing to do with your pregnancy.”

  Friday, October 28th

  What’s with this end-of-the-month traffic? It was that day of the year when monsters, witches, and creatures swarmed the streets demanding candy. Even though Halloween proper was on the thirty-first, it was customary for children to go trick-or-treating on the previous Friday, right after school. Olivia had just dropped off Diana (a little Frida Kahlo, unibrow and all) and Andrea (a little Amelia Earhart with helmet and goggles) after collecting a sizable amount of sweet loot around the neighborhood. Lola was to give the twins supper while she took Claudia to the doctor for her follow-up appointment as she always did.

  When they got home, Patricia was already waiting for them.

  “Hurry up! We’ll never find parking,” she said.

  In the car again, this time Patricia’s Prius, the three sisters barely fit wearing their costumes: Claudia was dressed as C-3PO. “I can walk like I’m holding a potato in the crack of my ass without faking it,” she’d said. Patricia had decided to go as R2-D2, but her legs stuck out of the cylinder in place of wheels, which broke the illusion. Olivia had chosen Princess Leia and was still attaching the cinnamon-roll faux ha
ir twists when they arrived in West Hollywood.

  “It’s acceptable that we’re all going together, but we didn’t have to pick out our costumes from the same movie franchise,” Patricia had said when her sisters revealed their choice for this year’s Halloween parade in West Hollywood.

  “It’s not like we planned it,” said Claudia. “See? We have a sisterly connection. We should embrace it.”

  “Parking spot!” yelled Olivia.

  Saturday, October 29th

  When Keila arrived home from LAX, she found Oscar up on a ladder fixing a gutter that had come loose from the stucco and hung by the side of the house. He noticed Keila standing a few feet away, still holding her carry-on suitcase.

  “You’re back! How long have you been standing there?” he said, surprised.

  “I like watching you work on something you’d abandoned.”

  “All the gutters are clogged with dead leaves. I’m glad I checked. Gotta prepare for the rains. How was Mexico?”

  “Brik & Spiegel won’t represent my work anymore; I just fired them.”

  “I hope you’re making the right decision; Simon has been your gallerist for so long.”

  Keila had decided not to share with Oscar the reason she had parted ways with Brik & Spiegel Gallery. She had fretted over the issue during the entire flight to Los Angeles, and by the time the plane landed she had convinced herself that telling him about her lifelong flirtation and one-night affair with Simon would only damage her marriage after their having barely survived its worst crisis. But when she found Oscar in the backyard cleaning out the long-neglected gutters, she felt a need to be honest. Why perpetuate a history of secrets?

  “The truth is, Simon has spent the past twenty-some years pursuing me, not just as an artist, but as a woman. And I slept with him. Once. Very recently. I was angry with you.”