by Lee Goldberg
The only natural source of water to the valley was the Los Angeles River, which remained bone dry half the year, only to swell in the winter as much as three-thousand fold in a single rainy day. As much as Los Angeles craved water, it didn't appreciate the unpredictability of the river and treated it as they would any other piece of land. They paved it.
Now the Los Angeles River was a concrete-lined flood channel that snaked through the valley, except for one small patch designated as a park, where the Streamline Moderne-style Sepulveda Flood Control Dam held back the water when necessary and served as a cheap film location the rest of the time.
Even when the river was flooding, there was no shortage of exciting film to be shot. Inevitably, somebody would fall in, despite the fences and steep concrete banks and would spark a dramatic rescue effort which, more often than not, failed. It made great TV nonetheless.
The flood basin beneath the spillway, so rarely filled with water, was now overflowing with people. It was one thousand acres of open space and that was the only place anyone felt safe now.
As Marty came down from the Sepulveda Pass, he could see the dam, and the flood of people, just beyond where the San Diego Freeway merged with the Ventura Freeway. He wanted to avoid the tangle of unstable overpasses that converged there and so he climbed off the freeway as it came down the base of the north slope of the Santa Monica Mountains.
He trudged down the embankment onramp alongside the freeway, then followed the street below to the stately, ranch-style homes along Woodvale and Haskell, with their collapsed chimneys, crumbling stucco, and fractured wood siding.
This was where most of the valley money was, in the gentle foothills above Ventura Boulevard and up the hillside to Mulholland. While Hancock Park and Beverly Hills was mostly old money, as old as money could be in Los Angeles, the valley was where the newly-minted TV, movie, sports, and software millionaires built their modest estates, at least by old money standards.
The old money felt when the valley rich had real money, and actually mattered, they'd move to one of the Bs—Brentwood, Beverly Hills, or Bel-Air. Until then, they deserved the valley.
Marty reached Ventura Boulevard and, having seen the thoroughfare after the Northridge Quake in '94, felt like he was looking at a rerun. The buildings on either side of the valley's "main street" had lost their faces, revealing their plaster sinew and iron skeletons. The sidewalks were buckled, the roadway rife with fissures. Broken glass, chunks of mortar, and loose papers were everywhere.
Ventura Boulevard, which ran along the entire southern edge of the valley, was one long, charm-less stretch of fast food franchises, gas stations, grocery stores, car washes, and countless, bland strip malls, with their interchangeable mix of hair salons and donut shops, dry cleaners and locksmiths, liquor stores, copy centers, and video rental places. Culturally and architecturally, no one would miss what had been destroyed, yet again.
The devastation here seemed different to Marty somehow from what he saw on the other side of the hill. It was if he was seeing it all in more detail, under more intense light. He thought perhaps the flatness of the valley and the paucity of tall buildings had something to do with it, allowing the light to spread into corners and cracks it couldn't Downtown or in Hollywood.
Or maybe it was because, unlike the LA basin, he considered this home. Maybe he saw more because he knew the landscape better. As he moved slowly westward, he was aware of so many details that he'd missed before: The sour smell of rotting food. The broken parking meters lying on the street, leaving a spray of glittering change. The concrete bus benches flung into the center of the street by the force of the quake and broken in two. The layer of dust coating everything like powdered sugar. The steady stream of liquor, milk, juice, and soda flowing from shattered mini-marts. The flies swarming over the dead. The overturned mailboxes and the hundreds of letters blowing in the breeze like leaves. And, most of all, the silence.
Everything that had been wailing in the hours immediately following the quake, the car alarms and the injured people, had long since died. All he heard now was the buzz of flies, the rhythmic chopping of a helicopter in the distance and the gentle flap of banners advertising the "Circus Valdez" that fluttered from tilted street lights up and down the boulevard.
Something made him stop suddenly, just west of the intersection of Reseda and Ventura, and he didn't know what it was.
He looked around. A woman stapled a hand-written "Lost Dog-Reward" flier to a listing palm tree.
No, that wasn't it.
About fifty people, some of them barely able to stand because of their injuries, were lined up outside a Tobacco-For-Less store, where cigarettes were being sold out of cardboard crates.
The pathetic sight was worth a glance, but not a full stop.
What the hell was it that grabbed him, instinctively or subliminally, and forced him to halt?
Marty scanned the street. A guy sat on the curb outside a travel agency, flipping through a Hawaii brochure. Someone had nailed a piece of plywood over their falafel place and spray-painted the words: "Welcome to Tarzana, Some Assembly Required." A couple kids were carting a big screen TV out of a crumbled storefront.
His eyes went back to the plywood sign.
Yeah, it was kind of clever, but it was more clever when he saw the same joke after the '94 quake. That couldn't be what caught his attention. What else was there?
People had dragged some couches out of a furniture store and were sleeping on them in the street. A realtor in his bright orange jacket was sweeping up the broken glass outside of his office, as if he was actually expecting some business. A woman was picking through the rubble at a dry cleaners, carefully sorting the clothes, no doubt looking for her own. A guy was getting his wife and kids to pose in the street for a picture, something to remember the earthquake by in case they forgot.
His gaze returned to the plywood sign. Again.
What was it with the sign? "Welcome to Tarzana, Some Assembly Required."
Yes, he was in Tarzana, formerly author Edgar Rice Burrough's country estate, long since sub-divided and divided again. A city named after a fictional, tree-swinging, raised-by-apes hero. Tacky, but so what? It was just a place he drove through on the way home, an exit off the freeway, he didn't know anybody here.
Yes, you do.
Then he remembered and he knew why he stopped.
Marty reached into his pocket and pulled out the photograph Molly tried to give him. The photo of her five-year-old daughter, Clara. And he remembered what she said, as she was bleeding to death in her car.
"She's at Dandelion Preschool in Tarzana, you'll call the school from the hospital, let them know what happened?"
And she showed him the photo. The same one she tried to give him when the shaking started again. The photo he wouldn't take because he was running away, leaving Molly to die. She screamed for him.
"Angel!"
He was almost home. Dandelion Preschool was out of his way. Clara wasn't his responsibility.
Marty looked down Ventura Boulevard. He was so close to Beth now. Five, maybe six miles, then his ordeal would be over and they would be together again. That was the whole point of the journey, wasn't it? To get back to his wife, to fight for her, and their marriage, again?
No, it was to get home. It wasn't about their marriage, about fighting for anything, at least not when he started.
But he knew it was now. Somewhere along the way, the destination of his journey had changed.
Now that he thought about it, Marty could almost pinpoint the moment. It was when he met Buck. Almost from the start, Buck challenged him about who he was, how truthful he was with himself and with his wife, forced him to all but admit that he was a lousy husband and that his marriage was falling apart.
And now Marty knew why. He supposed he always knew, he just never admitted it to himself. Their marriage was dying because he gave up his dream of writing and hers of being a mother. He knew the reason he stopped trying t
o have a kid was the same reason he stopped writing. The obstacles were too much. He couldn't deal with the failure.
But in the last two days, he'd overcome obstacles he would have found impossible to face before. Now the blank page and the empty semen cup didn't seem nearly so frightening any more.
He wasn't the same Martin Slack that he was before, he knew that now. And if he was going to prove it to Beth, he had to prove it to himself first.
* * * * *
5:11 p.m. Wednesday
The page Marty tore out of the phone book said that Dandelion Preschool was on Kittridge, which meant that technically it wasn't in Tarzana at all, not that it made any difference now.
He didn't have a map anymore, but he headed north on Wilbur because he vaguely remembered seeing a Kittridge street sign before, on his way to Costco, the warehouse store where Beth liked to buy things in bulk, not because they needed that much of anything, but because she couldn't resist. It was like asking her take one potato chip from the bowl when she could have a handful instead. They were still using the same five-pound container of seasoned salt they bought there two years ago, and they probably still would be for years to come.
They didn't take Wilbur to Costco, they took Tampa several blocks west, but this was the first north-south street he came across and he knew that if Kittridge crossed Tampa, and you could say the school was in Tarzana, then it had to cross Wilbur, too.
Marty didn't know what he was going to say or do when he got to the school, but he knew he had to go there. Molly's dying wish, even if it was implied rather than said, was that he save her girl. If Clara was even alive. And what if she wasn't at the school anymore? What would he do then? How long and how far would he search before going home?
He didn't have a chance to answer those questions right away, because he was immediately distracted by two things. First, was the Los Angeles River, which he could see to his left and right, which meant that he was over it and that the street he was on was actually a bridge. He'd been so lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even realized he was walking on a bridge. But he considered his alternative. The banks of the river were nearly vertical slabs of concrete. If he didn't take one of the streets over it, he'd have had to back-track all the way to Balboa Park near the Sepulveda Dam, scale the dry river bed, then come back this direction. He probably would have chosen this route anyway.
That's what he thought, and tried to tell himself, in the split second between his first distraction, and the second one, which made the first all the more horrifying:
The aftershock.
The center of the overpass collapsed, turning both ends into immense, concrete slides. Marty rolled and tumbled, along with a dozen other people, two cars, and one motorcycle, down towards the concrete river bed below.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
How Green Was My Valley
"The valley?" Marty couldn't understand what Beth was thinking. She might as well have suggested they move to Fresno. "Why would you want to move there?"
"Because you can get twice the house for the money," Beth replied.
"That's because no one wants to live there."
"Michael Jackson lives in Encino."
"I rest my case."
They were renting a house in Westwood, two blocks south of Wilshire Boulevard, for $2200-a-month. The neighborhood didn't have the cachet it once did, but when Marty walked the dog he still bumped into character actors, up-and-coming directors, and C-list screenwriters, and that was nice.
"Marty, for what it costs to buy an old, two-bedroom fixer-upper in Santa Monica we can go to the valley and get a new, four-bedroom Mediterranean mansion with a swimming pool and a huge yard in a gated community," she said. "And, best of all, we won't have to send our children to private school."
"We don't have any children."
"We will," she said. "That should be the criteria for choosing where we live, not whether it's a hip place."
"The valley has no character. It's just shopping centers and freeways and tract homes. It will be like living in one of those rest stops on the interstate," Marty argued. "What's wrong with the Hollywood Hills or one of the canyons, off Coldwater, for instance? Or how about the Palisades, Hancock Park, or Brentwood?"
"Forget about the hills and canyons. I don't want to be living on the edge of a cliff when the next quake comes. Besides, those houses have no yards at all and are on narrow, steep streets. Hancock Park, the Palisades, and Brentwood cost too much for too little, and we'd still have to send our kids to private school at $12,000-a-year-per-child," Beth said. "I also want to know our children can play in the front yard and be safe, and in a gated community, you've got some measure of security."
"So, in other words, you want to live in a country club prison out in the boonies," Marty replied. "If we're going to do time, let's at least try to embezzle some money or rob a bank first, so we've actually earned the punishment."
"I want the most for our money and the safest possible neighborhood for our family," Beth said firmly. "You want a place you can brag about over lunch at Le Guerre, so when agents messenger you scripts at home for a weekend read they'll be impressed by the zip code. Jesus, Marty, where are your priorities?"
He looked at Beth's face. Her eyes were blazing with anger and stubborn determination. She was already a mother-bear protecting her cubs, and she didn't even have any yet.
How could Marty argue against getting more for their money, the best schools for their kids, and security for his family? He couldn't. She knew it and so did he. It was an infuriating position for him to be in.
Who cares that the valley was numbingly dull, choked with smog, and one evolutionary step above a vast trailer park? No matter what he said in opposition, he'd come off like an asshole.
Beth was always doing this to him, framing an argument in just the right way so he got trapped every time. Either that, or he was a genuine asshole, and he didn't like that possibility.
Okay, so he did care what people thought about his zip code. What's so bad about that? After all, part of being a husband and father was being a good provider, and the wrong address, the wrong car, the wrong clothes, or the wrong table at a restaurant could have a severe impact on his industry credibility and, eventually, his advancement prospects and salary. And, by extension, the lifestyle he could provide his loved ones.
Image was the only thing that mattered in his business and yes, damn it, what other people thought about where he lived was important. But he couldn't admit that now, not when she had fiscal and parental responsibility on her side.
So he gave up.
It was just a house, and he was at the network most of the time anyway, which was why they could afford to buy a place. He'd just have to stay late on Fridays, that's all, and refuse to allow anything to be messengered to his home. He'd say his home was sacrosanct. The idea suddenly appealed to him. A rule like that would make him look even more powerful.
Yeah, he thought, I'm an asshole and pretty successful at it, too.
Marty sighed heavily and smiled in that lovable way he knew she liked. "Does this mean I have to trade my Lexus in for a Volvo wagon?"
She smiled back. "Not yet."
He put his arms around her and pulled her close. "Have you ever seen Chinatown?"
"All I remember is that Jack Nicholson gets his nose cut and slaps Faye Dunaway around until she admits she's his mother and his sister or something like that."
"Then we better go rent it," he turned her around and led her to the front door. "If we're going to live in the valley, you'd better know its secrets."
* * * * *
5:13 p.m. Wednesday
There was water in the Los Angeles River after all, and it was warm.
That was the first sensation Marty became aware of, the next was the intense pain radiating from his right side. Every breath brought a new stab of agony. He guessed broken ribs, because he'd suffered that before, falling off a dirt bike when he was eighteen, and it didn't hurt this bad. T
hat was two only two broken ribs, maybe all his ribs were broken this time. He was barely aware of his scorched back. He'd traded up to this new torture, which was so strong, it demanded all his attention, blotting out the discomfort of his other injuries.
The instinctive part of his brain was doing a quick systems check, his synapses firing back responses from all over his body, reports filtering up through his consciousness. He tried to wiggle his toes and flex his fingers and was relieved that he could and without feeling any new pain. At least he wasn't paralyzed. A visual inspection was required now and he was afraid of what he would see.
Marty opened his eyes and saw blue sky and half of the Wilbur overpass sloping down towards him, tiny pebbles of asphalt rolling down its cracked surface and spilling onto him.
He slowly lifted his head so he could see his body, knowing it was probably a mistake, that he'd widen the hairline fracture in his neck and paralyze himself for life, but he couldn't resist. Marty had to know what was causing his pain.
His neck didn't break, but what he saw made him gasp in shock. There were three inches of bloody rebar poking through his side. The warm wetness he was feeling wasn't water, it was blood. He was stuck on a piece of exposed iron from the snapped support pillar.
If that was true, then why wasn't he feeling the hard, jagged surface of the mortar under his back? Whatever he was lying on was soft and squishy.
Marty looked over his right shoulder. The blood he was soaked with was only partly his own. He was on the end of a human shish-ka-bob, the rebar impaling Marty and the several people beneath him who had cushioned his fall. He was sorry they were dead, but at the same time, knew if they hadn't died, every bone in his body would be broken. The thing to do was not to think about them or that it was their guts sticking to his back.
He looked to his left, and saw a crumpled Buick Regal only inches from him and realized things could be much, much worse. He could've been under that.
"Help!" he yelled, and immediately felt a blinding, teeth-grinding wave of pain that almost made him faint.
