by Dianne Emley
A voice from behind Les said, “What are you doing here?”
The words startled Les and he accidentally brushed against the screen.
Dolly wrenched herself upright and gasped, self-consciously grabbing at the neckline of her dress with her soapy hand and crinkling it close around her neck. “Who’s there?”
She saw a shadow move outside the window and tried to scurry away from it. Her bare feet swam against the slick linoleum, not finding traction. Now in a panic, she tried to crawl out on her hands and knees.
“It’s just me, Mom,” eleven-year-old Thomas droned. He looked at Les and rolled his eyes. On Thomas, his father’s angular, aristocratic features were softened by his mother’s dark, sensual ones. He was handsome to the point of almost being pretty. “Les is here too.”
“Sorry I scared you, Dolly,” Les said.
Conscious of her disarray, she released her dress and smoothed it. She walked to the window and looked through the screen, peering at Les and Thomas, then squinting into the darkness past them. “Where’s your sister?” she asked anxiously.
Thomas shrugged. “She and Iris went off someplace. They don’t let me hang around with them.”
She looked alarmed. “They’re not with your grandfather and Humberto, are they?”
“They weren’t there a minute ago,” Les volunteered. “I’m sure they’re fine, Dolly.”
She stared at Thomas with intense eyes. “Come inside. It’s too late to be out. It’s dark.”
“Aww, Mom…Stop being a downer.”
“Thomas! Come inside now.”
“No. I’m going to help with the wall.”
“I’ll watch him,” Les offered.
“Let’s go,” Thomas said.
“She cleans a lot, doesn’t she?” Les said as he walked away with the boy.
“I’m sick of her. She’s always psyched out about stuff that might happen. I don’t know what her problem is.”
Suddenly the air seemed to resonate with small sounds. The caged birds tittered. The dog’s tags chimed as he scratched behind his ear with his back leg. The songs of night birds in the trees were clear and radiant.
Les turned off the running water and cocked his head. “The cement mixer’s off.”
There were angry voices in the distance.
Thomas gasped excitedly. “They’re fighting!” He bolted through the grove.
Les easily overtook him and the dog bounded ahead of both of them as they ran toward lights flickering through the trees.
Bill DeLacey’s brand-new buttercup yellow Cadillac was parked next to the wall, the engine still purring. The driver’s and front passenger’s doors stood open. William Junior, seventeen, hopped from foot to foot in front of the car’s headlights, dancing on his short, chubby legs and impotently wringing his hands.
Humberto was holding DeLacey’s arms pinned behind his back. The posture emphasized the otherwise slender DeLacey’s impressive belly, which hung over the top of his belt, testing the buttons of his white shirt and pushing down the waistband of his beige polyester pants, crumpling the fabric across his groin. He had a long face with high round cheekbones and a sharply pointed nose that was perennially sunburned. The large pink mole on his left cheek had turned crimson, reflecting his anger. He was fifty-six years old. “You goddamn good-for-nothing!” he snarled at Junior. “Do something!”
“William DeLacey Junior,” Gabriel taunted. “Bill DeLacey’s namesake.” He held a broken bottle in his hand, business end out. He laughed maliciously and squinted at DeLacey. “I’ll never understand what Dolly saw in you.”
Les ran from the grove and grabbed Gabe’s arms from behind. “Drop it!” He pinched Gabe’s arms until Gabe was forced to let the bottle fall.
“So old Les still knows what side his bread’s buttered on,” DeLacey said. Even in his compromised position, he drew himself up before he began to speak. “No man can serve two masters…”
“Humberto, let him go,” Les demanded.
“…for either he will hate the one and love the other…”
The giant grinned. “Get him to shut up first.”
Thomas ran to Humberto and yelled. “Let my father go, you goofball!”
“Now there’s a fine boy,” DeLacey said. He twisted in Humberto’s grasp to glance at Junior. “See your brother?”
Junior’s chipmunk cheeks flushed.
“You’re just trying to break him,” Gabe said to his son-in-law. Then he turned to his grandson, Junior. “But it won’t work, will it Junior? He’s made stronger than you think.”
“Break him? I’m trying to build him up.” DeLacey’s mouth went slack with disbelief. The world seemed to consistently surprise and dismay him. “You Mexicans.” He paused, as if that explained everything. “That’s what this whole thing’s about, making a future for your grandchildren.”
Gabe said, “Don’t try to make this out like it’s for the children. This is about saving your ass. It’s not my problem that you took people’s money and promised to build apartments here. My problem’s making sure you don’t get your hands on this land.”
Les sighed. “Let’s all go home.” He leaned around to look into Gabe’s face. “Have you calmed down?”
“Yeah, yeah. I’m fine.”
Les released him.
“Let me go, Humberto,” DeLacey said. “Party’s over.”
Humberto didn’t move. He winked at Gabe.
Gabe snatched the broken bottle from the ground and began running with it toward DeLacey. Les lunged to tackle Gabe, but he slipped through his fingers. Thomas angrily ran after him. Junior froze while Humberto continued smiling sadistically, still tightly holding DeLacey. The dog barked frantically. A piercing scream cut the night. Gabe kept coming. DeLacey tried to double over to lessen the striking area. Reaching the wall, Gabe spun, missing DeLacey and smashing into the wooden frame. The wood cracked as it absorbed the blow.
The giant released DeLacey.
Thomas flung himself onto his father. Junior got inside the Cadillac as if to hide.
Gabe’s laughter rang out. Humberto joined him.
Something white flickered in the car headlights. Dolly ran into the clearing. “Stop it!” Her hands were clenched by her sides, her arms were rigid, and the tendons on her neck stood out. “Stop this fighting. I can’t stand it!”
“Thomas, get in the car,” DeLacey ordered. “Dolly, come on.”
Dolly ran through the trees. “I hate you both. My life’s a living hell!”
“Hey, primo, look.” Humberto pointed at a wet stain that had spread across the front of DeLacey’s pants. His bladder had released involuntarily.
Gabe strutted in front of the car. “See, boys, see what the great Bill DeLacey is made of?” DeLacey released the Cadillac’s parking brake with a thud and gunned the engine. The car skidded on the dirt road and veered unsteadily as it sped up the hill. When it rounded the bend, DeLacey and his sons finally lost sight of Gabe and Humberto behind them, standing in the middle of the road, pointing and laughing.
CHAPTER FIVE
“Take some.”
“I don’t want any.”
“Take some.”
“I don’t need that to get high. I get high on life.”
Paula choked with laughter. Thick white smoke billowed from her mouth. “Right! Me too.” She wearily shook her head. “Just living here is a trip. A bummer.” She was fourteen.
They were in a toolshed that stood among the trees a hundred feet from Gabe’s house. Milky moonlight filtered between gaps in the ill-built walls and shone brightly on the bare wood floor. The unfinished walls were lined with black tarpaper that had curled in the corners and torn in spots. Tools hung from nails in the raw walls. A tall wooden work table next to the door held cans of paint and varnish and jam jars containing nails, screws, and bolts.
Paula and her next-door neighbor, Iris, also fourteen, reclined on bags of manure and cement. Iris’s mixed-breed German shepherd, Skippy, lay
with his large body rolled against her. A votive candle on the floor twinkled in its molded glass holder.
“Did I tell you about when Mike and I were blasted on Boone’s Farm and fooling around up behind the radio towers?” Paula leaned back on her elbows, stretched her legs out, and dropped one ankle on top of the other. She flicked her head, tossing her long, dark brown hair over her shoulder.
“We were humping, you know? And this guy comes hauling out of the radio station. He’s all yelling, ‘Hey! You kids!’” She laughed throatily. “It was brutal.”
“I don’t know why you get loaded so much. It’s not gonna get you anywhere.” Iris drew her nails across the thick fur on Skippy’s head. The dog flicked his long tongue at her ankle, which was exposed underneath the hem of her jeans.
“So who wants to get anywhere?” Paula took another hit on the joint. “Did I tell you about Mike’s friend who lives on a commune up north? They grow their food, make their clothes, everyone shares everything.” She weaved her head up and down. “Sounds bitchin’.” She slitted her dark brown eyes at Iris. “Think I’m gonna go. Blow this berg.”
Iris ignored her. She’d learned to discount at least half of what Paula said. “So what’s it like?”
“What?”
“Doing it.”
“Sometimes it’s okay.”
“Is Mike the only one?”
“Nah.”
“Was he the first?”
“Nah.”
“Who? Jess?”
Paula shook her head.
Iris furrowed her brow. “Kenny?”
“I’d never ball Kenny. Just drop it.”
“Manny?”
Paula’s face grew dark. “Just forget it, Iris.”
But Iris wasn’t about to forget it. “Tell me.”
Someone pulled hard on the block of wood screwed onto the door that served as a handle. The years of temblors had shifted the door so that it stuck in one of the corners. It bowed slightly before it creaked and scraped open. A diminutive figure, backlit by moonlight, stood in the doorway.
“Fucking Thomas,” Paula said derisively as she quickly hid the joint. “Get the hell out of here.”
He came inside anyway.
“Close the door,” Iris snapped, trying to sound as tough as Paula.
“You missed the fight.” Thomas sat cross-legged on the floor and began stroking Skippy’s back. The dog acknowledged him by darting his tongue against Thomas’s hand. “Grandpa was going to stab Dad with a bottle. Humberto was holding him.” He glanced at Iris, trying to catch her eye.
Paula shook her head. “I wish they would kill each other.”
“Mom came running out, screaming.”
“Don’t tell me she’s losing it again.”
“It’s Grandpa’s fault. He always starts the fights,” Thomas said. “Dad says you can’t stop progress.”
“Kiss ass,” Paula chided.
“Dad says he doesn’t care if he has to fight with Grandpa over the land. If there’s no struggle, there’s no progress.” Thomas pulled the dog’s silky ear between his fingers over and over. “You’ve been smoking marijuana.”
“I have not.”
“I can smell it. Dad says—”
Paula kicked her sandal-clad foot at Thomas. “Get out of here, Daddy’s boy. You make me sick.”
“Don’t get bent.” He flirtatiously looked at Iris as he stroked the dog’s ear. “She wants me to stay.”
“Thomas likes Iris,” Paula sang.
“I want you to go,” Iris said.
He sharply twisted the dog’s ear between his fingers.
Skippy yelped and gave Thomas a hurt look. Iris gasped and pulled the dog close to her. She looked at Thomas with horror.
Thomas shrugged. “So? I didn’t do anything.”
Paula kicked Thomas, hard. “Psychopath.”
The kick brought tears to Thomas’s eyes, but he just laughed. He left the shed, still laughing.
Through the open door, Iris heard a voice in the distance. “My mother’s calling me. I’d better go before I get it.”
It was late. The crickets were quiet and the air was soundless except for Humberto’s drunken snoring. He had passed out under a lemon tree. He snored loudly, then paused, as if he’d stopped breathing. Then he gasped for air with a long, wet noise and partially woke up. “What did you say?” He changed the position of his arms and fell asleep again.
Gabe picked up two hammers from the ground, slid the handles between his belt and pants, then picked up a shovel. He looked at Humberto and pressed his thick lips together, his mouth forming a downward arc.
Les swung a pickax over his shoulder. “Is he gonna stay out here all night?”
“Why don’t you take him to the house, then come back and help me clean up.”
Les dropped the pickax, bent over Humberto, and tried to pull him up.
Humberto rolled his tongue around his mouth and dryly smacked his lips. “It’s hot out here.”
“You’re drunk. Get up,” Les said.
The giant struggled to his knees and Les helped pull him to his feet. After Humberto managed to raise his leg and take one unsteady step, he began plodding quickly as if, once in motion, he couldn’t stop.
Les leaned against him, trying to keep him upright. “Just don’t fall on me.”
They disappeared in the grove.
Gabe hoisted the heavy pickax over his shoulder. Weighted down with tools, he walked through the trees to the toolshed, the dog gamboling behind. Once there, Gabe leaned the shovel against the wall and pulled hard on the door. It bowed and finally scraped open. He grabbed the shovel and stepped inside.
A triangle of moonlight from the open door cut across the wood plank floor. Perro ran ahead into the shed. Gabe let the pickax clatter to the ground. He pulled the two hammers from beneath his belt and set them on the work table. Walking to the back of the shed, he hung the shovel by its head between two nails in the wall.
The wood floor creaked behind him.
He turned around. A figure was silhouetted in the moonlight. The dog was wagging his tail.
“Who’s that?” Gabe asked. He smiled, his lips parting to reveal his crooked teeth. “So you came to pay me a visit, huh?” He grabbed the pickax by its handle and dragged it across the floor. The noise masked the sound of the heavier of the two hammers being picked up from the table.
“What could you want this late at night?” His back was to the door as he hung the head of the pickax between two nails. “Cat got your tongue?”
The first blow of the hammer was not true but glanced against the side of Gabriel’s head. Still, it stunned him and made his knees buckle slightly. He slowly turned. “Wha…”
The dog cowered and began to whimper.
The second blow hit Gabe squarely on the left side of his head, which cracked with a muted wet noise like an orange being trampled. He still didn’t fall. He touched his head and his mouth contorted when his skull felt spongy and soft beneath his fingers. Then he collapsed straight to the floor like a released marionette. Bright red blood meandered across the wood planks.
The assailant slowly walked from the shed into the grove.
Perro frenetically pranced around and over Gabe, nudging his body with his nose. Then he ran outside the shed, raised his head, and began to wail.
CHAPTER SIX
At 6:01 a.m., February 9, 1971, the shaking started.
Iris moaned, “Five more minutes, Mom.” But the shaking didn’t stop.
Her bed scuttled across the hardwood floor. A ceramic lamp on the nightstand rocked precariously back and forth on its base. Doorknobs and hinges rattled as they worked from their supports. Bottles danced on the dresser, slipped off the edge, and crashed on the floor. Windows clattered in their frames. The earth itself seemed to growl.
Iris wanted to steady the lamp, to get up, to hide, to wake up from this nightmare but—she could not. All she could do was lie flat on her back, clutching both si
des of the mattress, praying for it to stop.
She envisioned her death: the daffodil-yellow plaster walls folding on top of her, as pliant as a sand castle, pinning her to the bed, crushing her, smothering her. She screamed. She started to cry. Then it stopped.
She tentatively put one bare foot on the cool floor. She tried the other one. As soon as she was standing, she was knocked to the ground by an aftershock.
“Iris, Iris!” Her mother, Rose, pounded on the bedroom door. A bookcase had fallen against it, holding it closed.
Iris got up and dragged the bookcase far enough out of the way to open the door a crack.
“Thank God you’re all right.” Rose nervously fingered the rigid pink plastic rollers in her short henna-tinted hair.
Iris wobbled past her into the short hallway of the three-bedroom, one-bath home and walked into the living room. “Was that an earthquake?”
The house was dark. Dim light filtered through the big picture windows in the living room and the smaller windows in the kitchen. The street lights were off. Birds, normally boisterous and clamorous at this time of the morning, were silent.
Iris’s seventeen-year-old sister, Lily, futilely toggled a wall switch up and down. She turned on the television, which remained black, and continued walking through the house, flipping on switches. “There’s no electricity!”
A low noise started somewhere in the distance and grew louder, rolling closer like an ocean wave. The house shuddered once before beginning to steadily tremble, rising to a peak that quickly waned.
“Whoa.” Iris stood spread-legged in the middle of the floor. “Why won’t it stop?”
Lily put the telephone receiver to her ear and then held it out as if its inoperativeness was visible. “The phone’s dead too.”
“Where’s Dad?” Iris asked.
“Put your shoes on,” Rose said. “There’s glass.”
“How am I supposed to call Jack?” Lily demanded.
“You don’t need to be calling Jack.”
“Dad’s not here?” Iris asked.
Rose picked up two pieces of a broken decorative plate and fit them together. “Your father didn’t come home last night.”
