“Look, the land belongs to us!” Kevin said from the kitchen.
Tom grinned. “El Modena has a population of about ten thousand, so we’re three ten-thousandth owners.”
“Not enough,” Doris said.
“No. But it is true that essentially this is a battle for the opinion of the rest of the owners. The rest of the state and the nation and the world have a say as well, and we might be able to manipulate those forces to our purpose, but the main thing is convincing the people in town to agree with us. The rest of the world doesn’t care that much about Rattlesnake Hill.”
* * *
Oscar had dinner with them fairly often, as his kitchen was in an inconvenient state of renovation. One night he came in with the tiniest hint of a smile on his face, and seeing him, Kevin said “Hey, what’s up?”
Oscar lifted an eyebrow. “Well, you know I have been making inquiries with the State Water Resources Control Board.”
“Yeah, yeah?”
Oscar accepted a glass of water from Doris, sat heavily by the pool. Things were a mess in Sacramento, he told them, as usual. On the one hand, Inyo County’s victory over the city of Los Angeles had had the statewide effect of making each county the master of its groundwater. But groundwater basins paid no heed to county lines, and so use of the groundwater in many cases had to be adjudicated by the courts. In many cases state control was stronger than ever. The waterscape was simply bigger than local governments could effectively manage. And so there was a mixed effect; some counties now had control over water that had previously been mined out from under them, while other counties were suddenly feeling pinched. Into that mix came the new source of water from the north, controlled by the state, and funneled through the canals of the old Central Water Project. Confusion, disarray—in other words, the typical California waterscape, in its general feel. But many of the particulars were new.
“So,” Oscar said, “it has taken me a while to find out what the board would make of this proposal of Alfredo’s, to buy water from the MWD and then sell whatever excess there might be to the OCWD. Because no one on the board is inclined to talk about hypothetical cases. They have enough real cases to keep them occupied, and hypothetical cases are usually too vague to make a judgment on. But one of the board members is a good friend of Sally’s, they were on the board together. I finally got her cornered long enough to listen to me, and she prevaricated for a long time, but it comes down to this—they wouldn’t allow it.”
“Great!”
“How does she mean that?” Tom asked.
“Buying water and selling it, or using it for other water credits, is not something the board allows municipalities to do any more—it’s the state’s prerogative.”
“What about the MWD?”
“They’ve been turned into a kind of non-profit clearing house.”
“You mean after all those years of manipulation and control and raking it in at the expense of Owens Valley and the rest of the south, LA is now collecting and distributing all that water as a non-profit operation?”
“That’s right.”
Tom laughed for a long time.
Oscar surged up out of his chair, went to the kitchen to refill his glass. “There’s no swamp like water law,” he muttered under the sound of Tom’s laughter.
* * *
So Kevin was feeling good about things, and late one afternoon after a hard day’s work at Oscar’s place, he gave Ramona a call. “Want to go to the beach for sunset?”
“Sure.”
It was that easy. “Hey, isn’t your birthday sometime soon?”
She laughed. “Tomorrow, in fact.”
“I thought so! We can celebrate, I’ll take you to dinner at the Crab Cooker.”
“It’s a deal.”
It seemed like his bike had a little hidden motor in it.
It was a fine evening at Newport Beach. They went to the long strand west of the 15th Street pier, walked behind the stone groins. The evening onshore wind was weak, a yellow haze lay in the air. The sun sank in an orange smear over Palos Verdes. The bluffs behind the coastal highway were dark and furry, and it seemed this beach was cut off from the world, a place of its own. Stars blurred in the salt air. They scuffed through the warm sand barefoot, arms around each other. Down the beach a fire licked over the edge of a concrete firepit, silhouetting children who held hot dogs out on coathangers bent straight. The twined scent of charred meat and lighter fluid wafted past, cutting through the cold wet smell of seaweed. Waves swept in at an angle, rushed whitely toward them, retreated hissing, left bubbling wet sand. We do this once, it never happens again.
At the Santa Ana River’s mouth they stopped. A lifeguard stand stared blankly at the waves, which gleamed in the dark. They climbed the seven wooden steps which lifeguards could descend in a single leap. They sat on the damp painted plywood, watched waves, kissed until they were dizzy. Lay on the wood, on their sides, embracing and kissing until that was all that existed. How perfect the noise of surf was for making out; why should that be? A waft from the barbecue blew by. “Hungry?” “Yeah.”
Biking lazily to the Crab Cooker, Kevin felt better than he could ever remember feeling. That happiness could be such a physical sensation! Ravenously he ate salad, bread, and crab legs. The white wine coursed through him like Hank’s tequila. He was very aware of Ramona’s hands, of the lips that had so recently been kissing his. She really was stunning.
They sat over coffee after dinner, talking about nothing much. They concentrated on what had been theirs together, laying out for their mutual inspection their long friendship, defining it, celebrating it.
Outside the night was cool. They biked in the slow lane of the Newport Freeway, taking almost an hour to get home. Without a word Ramona led the way down Fairhaven, past the gliderport to her house, a squarish old renovated apartment block. They rolled the bikes into the racks, and she led him by the hand into the building. Through the atrium and by the pool, up the stairs to the inner balcony, and around and up again, to her room. He had never been in it before. It was a big square room—big enough for two, of course—set above the rest of that wing of the house, so that there were windows on all four sides. “Ooh, nice,” he said, checking out the design. “Great idea.” Big bed in one corner, desk in the other corner, shelves extending from the desk along walls on both sides, under the windows. Occasional gaps on the shelves were the only signs of the recently departed occupant. Kevin ignored them. One corner of the room was taken up with bathroom and closet nook. There were clothes on the floor, knick-knacks here and there, a general clutter. Music system on a lower shelf, but she didn’t turn it on.
They sat on the floor, kissed. Soon they were stretched out beside each other, getting clothes off slowly. Making love.
Kevin drifted in and out. Sometimes his skin was his mind, and did all his thinking. Then something would happen, they would stop moving for a moment, perhaps, and he would see his fingers tangled in her black hair. Under her head the carpet was a light brown, the nap worn and frayed. She whispered something wordless, moved under him. This is Ramona, he thought, Ramona Sanchez. The surge of feeling for her was stronger than the physical pleasure pouring through his nerves, and the combination of the two was … he’d never felt anything like it. This was why sex was so … he lost the thought. If they kissed at the same time they moved together, he would burst. They were creeping across the carpet, soon their heads would bump the wall. Ramona made little squeaks at his every plunge into her, which made him want to move faster. Moving under him, tigerish … He held her in his arms, bumped the top of his head firmly against the wall, thump, thump, they were off into the last slide, breath quick and ragged and wordless, his mind saying Ramona, Ramona, Ramona.
Afterward he lay in her arms, warm except for where sweat dried on his back and legs. His face was buried in the fragrant hair behind her ear. I love you, I love you. The intensity of it shocked him. All his life, he thought, his happiness had been no more t
han animal contentment, like a cow in the sun. A carpenter roofing on a sunny day with a breeze, hitting good nails with a good hammer. Swinging the bat and barely feeling the ball when he struck it. Animal sensation, wonderful as far as it went. But now something in him had changed, and without being able to articulate it, he knew he would never be the same again. And he didn’t want to be, either. Because he was lying on an old brown carpet next to his love, head against a wall, in an entirely new world.
“Let’s go to bed,” Ramona said. He sat back, watched her stand and walk to the bathroom. Such a strong body.
She returned, pulled him to his feet, led him to her bed. Pulled the covers down. They got in and drew a sheet over them. The ordinary reality of it, the sheer domesticity of it, filled Kevin up—the world sheered away and after a while they were making love again, using the springiness of the bed to rock into each other. Euphoria set every nerve singing, this was the best time yet. Their night in the hills had been so strange, after all. Kevin had not known how to think of it. It could have been a stroke of magic, falling through his life just once—a result of Mars, Hank’s tequila, the sage hills themselves, intoxicating the whole party. But tonight was an ordinary night, in Ramona’s every-night bed, with white cotton sheets that made her body dark as molasses, that made everything more real. He was there and so was she, lying beside him, one long leg spreadeagled over his, the other disappearing under sheets. Really there.
Her breathing slowed. She was getting drowsy. “Remember Swing Tree?” she asked, voice sleepy.
“Yes?”
“That one swing—the long one?”
“I think we must have been out there an hour.”
She laughed softly. “All night. It felt like we did everything in that one ride. I thought we had our clothes off and everything.”
“Me too!”
“So wonderful. The long swing.”
“Happy birthday,” Kevin whispered after a while.
“Wonderful presents.”
She fell asleep.
Kevin watched her. His eyes adjusted to the dark. Far away in the house a door closed, voices sounded. Someone up late.
Then it was quiet. Time passed. Kevin kept looking at her, soaking her in. He was lying on his left side, head propped on his left hand. Ramona lay on her back, head turned to the side, mouth open, looking girlish. Kevin closed his eyes, found he didn’t want to. He wanted to look at her.
She had really powerful shoulders, you could see where her bullet throws came from. Funny how flat-chested she was. Dark nipples made little breast shapes of their own. He remembered her once, laughing resentfully and saying, Alfredo’s always looking at women with tits. Still she looked so female. Small breasts drew attention to the greyhound proportions of torso, flanks, hips, bottom, legs. She was perfectly proportioned as she was.
Time passed, but Kevin didn’t grow tired. In a way he wanted to wake her and make love again. Then again, just to lie against her side while she slept … a long quiver shook him, he thought it might wake her. No chance—she was out.
His hand fell asleep, and he lowered his head. Her hair spilled over the pillow, black shot silk against the white cotton. Perhaps he dozed for a while. He shifted and felt her, looked at her again. Occasionally he had seen love stories on TV. I adore you, I worship you. He had watched them thinking, how stories exaggerate. But they didn’t—in fact they couldn’t express it at all—poor stories, trying to match the intensity of the real! They never got it, they never could. Adore—it was all wrong, it didn’t explain it at all, it was just a word, an attempt to get beyond love. He loved his sister, his parents, his friends. He needed another word for this, no doubt about it.
The room was lightening. Dawn on its way. No! he thought. Too fast! The slow increase of illumination brought the room’s dimensions into focus, made everything a bit translucent, as if it were a world made entirely of gray glass. In this light Ramona glowed with a dark, sensuous presence. She stirred, spoke briefly. Talking in her sleep. Kevin stared at her, drank her in, the fine skin, the occasional freckle or mole shifting over ribs, the sleek curve of her flank and hip. Outside birds chirped.
And day came, too quickly. Because when the sun cracked over the hills and the little studio room was fully lit, Ramona shifted, rolled, sighed, woke up. The night was over.
* * *
They took turns in the bathroom, and when Kevin came out she had on gym shorts and a T-shirt. “Shower?” he said.
She shook her head. “Not yet. You go ahead, I’ll start up some coffee.”
So he showered, wishing she was under the crash of warm water with him. Why not?
Then later as he sat on the floor beside the coffee-maker, she quickly showered herself. What the hell, he thought. Hadn’t it been an invitation?… Well, whatever. Maybe she liked to shower alone.
Then she was out, hair slicked back with a comb, towel around her neck, dressed again. They sat on the floor in the sun, drinking coffee from her little machine. She asked him what his plans were for the day. He told her a little about Oscar’s house, the progress of the work there.
There was a knock at the door. She looked surprised. It was still a little before eight. She went to answer, coffee mug in hand. She opened the door.
“Happy birthday!” said a voice from the landing at the top of the stairs.
Alfredo.
“Thanks,” Ramona said, and stepped outside. Closed the door behind her.
Kevin’s diaphragm was in a hard knot under his ribs. He relaxed it, deliberately took a sip of coffee. He stared at the door. Well, Alfredo would have had to find out eventually. Hard way to do it, though. He could just hear their voices out there. Suddenly the door opened and he jumped. Ramona stuck her head in. “Just a sec, Kev. It’s Alfredo.”
“I know,” Kevin said, but the door was closing. He could hear Alfredo’s voice, sounding strained, upset. He was keeping it low, and so was she.
What were they saying? Curious, Kevin stood and approached the door. He still couldn’t distinguish their words. Just tones: Alfredo upset, perhaps pleading. Certainly asking questions. Ramona flat, not saying much.
He wandered away from the door, feeling more and more uncomfortable. Fright and confidence both filled him, canceling each other out and leaving him nearly blank, except for a light oscillation, a confused feeling. A discomfort. This was strange, he thought. Very strange.
All the objects in the room had taken on a kind of lit thereness, as things will on a morning when you have had little or no sleep. There on her desk, a few books: dictionaries, Webster’s and a yellow Spanish/English one. Several books in Spanish. A volume of the sonnets of Petrarch. He picked it up but couldn’t concentrate enough to read even a line. Something by Ambrose Bierce. A sewing repair kit. Six or seven small seashells, with a few grains of sand scattered under them. A desk lamp with a long extendable metal arm. From this window one looked into the branches of the Torrey pine in their atrium. What could they be saying?
After perhaps fifteen minutes Ramona opened the door and came in alone. She approached him directly, took his hand. Her expression was worried, guarded. “Listen, Kevin. Alfredo and I, we have a lot of things to talk about—things that never got said, that need to be said now. He’s upset, and I need to explain to him about us.” She squeezed his hand. “I don’t want you to just be sitting around in here trapped by us going over a bunch of old stuff.”
Kevin nodded. “I understand.” No time to think.
“Why don’t you go ahead and go to work, and I’ll come over later.”
“Okay,” he said blankly.
She walked him to the door. Alfredo would see his damp hair and assume they had showered together. In any case he knew Kevin had spent the night. Good. Kevin stopped her before she opened the door, gave her a kiss. She was distracted. But she smiled at him, and the previous night returned in a rush. Then she opened the door, and Kevin stepped out.
Alfredo was standing at one side of the lan
ding, leaning against the railing, looking down. Kevin paused at the head of the stairs and looked at him. Alfredo looked up, and Kevin nodded a hello. Alfredo nodded back very briefly, his face pinched and unhappy. His glance shifted away, to the open door and Ramona. Kevin walked down the stairs. When he looked up Alfredo was inside, the door was closed.
* * *
Kevin went to work on Oscar’s place. He and Hank and Gabriela worked on the roof, pulling out the old cracked concrete tiles to clear the way for the clerestory windows that would stand on top of the south-facing rooms. All day he expected Ramona to come biking down the street from Prospect, any minute now, for minute after minute after minute. Long time. Memories of the previous night struck him so strongly that sometimes he forgot what he was doing and had to stop right in the middle of things, looking around to catch his balance. Sometimes this happened while he was working with Hank. “Shit, Kev, you’re acting kinda like me today, what’s the problem?”
“Nothing.”
“You okay?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
“Flashbacking, eh?”
“I guess so.”
The only person who biked up to the house was Oscar himself, trundling home for lunch. He stared up at them for a while, then went inside and made lunch for everyone. After they ate he questioned them about the day’s work, ascended a creaking ladder to take a look at it. Then he biked away, and they went back to work.
And still no Ramona. Well, perhaps she didn’t know he was at Oscar’s. No, she knew. It was odd. Then again didn’t she have to teach today? Of course. So she couldn’t come by till after three or four. And what time was it now?
And so the afternoon ticked along, inching through a dull haze of anxiety. What had Ramona and Alfredo said to each other? If … It must have been a shock to Alfredo, to find Kevin there. He couldn’t have had any warning. Unless someone who had been up at the hot springs had mentioned something and news had spread, the way it tended to in El Modena. Still, there wouldn’t have been any warning about last night, or this morning. But why had he come by to say happy birthday so damned early?
Pacific Edge Page 20
