The View from Here

by Rachel Howzell

  I grunted, remembering a scene about something with some people millions of years ago.

  She scanned the messy room: half-empty mugs of tea, discarded tissues, a bloody sock, and abandoned sweatpants. “Looks like a homeless shelter in here.”

  Before the accident, our upstairs den had been as neat as a minister’s robe. Books organized by fiction and nonfiction, author and genre. A wide-screen LCD television on a cabinet that stored a DVD library as organized as the books’. Remote controls in a wicker basket, and magazines—current issues with no perfume samples or subscription cards hanging from the pages—fanned across the oak coffee table.

  In a week, that same room had de-evolved into an overstuffed junk box with an extraordinary view of clutter. Every day, I vowed to clean up my mess, but I’d watch reruns of sitcoms and talk shows until nightfall. Too late in the day for chores, I’d pushed the piles to the side of the room. Like a five-layer bean dip, shoes sat beneath towels, which sat beneath sweats, cups and discarded tissues.

  “Do you even know what day it is?” Leilani asked.

  “Thursday,” I said, chewing. “The gardener came.”

  “He forgot to yank the weeds from your hair,” Leilani countered. “So: what’s the plan for the day?”

  “Finish this sandwich, then watch Maury.”

  “We should go shopping,” she said. “There’s a sale at Fred Segal. Then, we can have lunch. Get out of the house and hang out. And we should do something for the Fourth of July tomorrow. Fireworks at the Hollywood Bowl.”

  “Don’t feel like it,” I said.

  She peered at me in silence, then said, “I miss him, too, Nic.”

  I nodded, then nibbled a shred of meat.

  “How are you doing?” she asked. “Really?”

  “I’m popping Valium like Pez. And I’m watching more episodes of Home Improvement than should be allowed, and…” And Truman. I saw Truman. My appetite vanished, and I held out the rest of the sandwich to my sister-in-law. “Want the rest of this?”

  Leilani grimaced. Girlfriend, that’s food.

  I stuffed the last third of the pastrami back into the bag. “I haven’t slept well all week. At first, the Valium let me sleep on and off, but now? Nothing. I haven’t slept for more than—”

  Leilani’s cell-phone chimed “Havah Nagila.” She popped it open, and read the message. “It’s about a job.”

  I said, “Answer it before they change their mind,” and then stood from the couch.

  She sent her thumbs flying across the phone’s tiny keypad. “Sorry, Nic. One… moment.”

  I wandered down the stairs and out onto the deck. Summer sun had blistered the parched canyon, drying the wild grass into a crispy brown. Gusts of warm wind kicked up dust and shook apart chaparral, worrying every fire crew in the city. I eyed the hillside with concern. A brush fire—that’s what Los Angeles needed.

  “Sorry about that,” Leilani said, stepping out from the house. “You’ll be glad to know that I have an interview at…” She squinted at the sun and plopped into a deck chair. “Damn, it’s bright out here.” She reached into her bag and found her sunglasses. “If you don’t wanna shop, let’s see a movie. Something fun and escapist.”

  I turned to her, wanting to speak but unable to.

  “What?” she asked.

  “I saw Truman.”

  She waited a moment, then narrowed her eyes. “Was that a joke? Cuz I don’t get it.”

  I frowned: what had I expected her to say? “I saw him last night. This morning. Whenever. At least I think I saw him. It was weird.”

  She hesitated as shadows darkened her face. “And? Then what?”

  “And then he left.”

  “This ain’t funny, Nic.”

  “I’m not trying to be funny. I just…”

  Something in Leilani’s expression shifted—don’t know what it was—and she slipped on her sunglasses.

  “I know it sounds crazy,” I said, sitting next to her, “but I’m telling you the truth. He was sitting at the computer in the den. So close I could touch him. I smelled his breath, his cologne. And then I saw him in our bed. And the covers were moving like he was sleeping and breathing, and I know what you’re thinking, but he was there, and… and…”

  Leilani chuckled and shook her head. “In the bed. Truman was in the… It wasn’t just a crumpled-up blanket or something? Or Robert Downey Jr.?”

  “Lei, I’m serious. You haven’t…? You haven’t seen him? You haven’t witnessed anything strange? Something that you can’t explain?”

  Leilani stared at me behind those sunglasses and said nothing.

  I shrugged, and said, “Who’s to say that he’s… you know?”

  “The judge says that he’s… you know.”

  “But we have no proof that he’s…”

  “No such things as ghosts,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m the crazy one. You’re the smart one. You’re supposed to know better.”

  “So what did I see?”

  “Nicole, I don’t know what you saw,” she said, her voice cracking with tears. “You’re not the same woman you used to be, you know? I’m not, either, and it hurts to even talk about this.”

  We didn’t speak for a long time. I gazed out at the canyon, my mind still processing all that I had experienced hours before. Leilani swiped at teardrops tumbling down her cheek. She leaned back in the chair, and tilted her face to the sky.

  “I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I just thought… You’re my friend, and I don’t know what I saw… or imagined… or…”

  “Have you told Mo about any of this?”

  “About seeing Truman?” I shook my head, then blushed. “I don’t want her to think that I’ve lost my mind. You’re family, and I’d know you’d understand.”

  Leilani nodded, then took a deep cleansing breath. “I wasn’t sleeping well, either. But!” She reached inside her purse and pulled out a business card. “I found a solution, and I’m gonna share it with you cuz you’re so damn special to me.” She forced a fragile smile to her face and handed me the card. “Dr. Lucas will hook. You. Up. Swear.”

  “I’m already on Valium.”

  “Guess what? It ain’t working. You need rest, Nic. Obviously.”

  “I’m not imagining this.”

  “So you believe in ghosts now?”

  “But he’s not a ghost,” I said, awed that I had uttered any of this aloud. “He’s not a ghost. He’s alive. He’s…”

  He had looked real. He had smelled real. But all of this was impossible, and now, all of this sounded outrageous. And my inability to determine real from imagined supported my earlier conclusions: my sanity had been shipped to Jesus, or to the saints, or to Whomever owned the rights of Reason.

  “You won’t say anything to Mo?” I asked.

  “You’ll go to the doctor?” Leilani asked. “And we’ll go shopping today? And to lunch and a movie?”

  I nodded ‘yes’ to everything. “And we’ll find a fireworks show tomorrow, but not at the Bowl.”

  Didn’t have the strength to return to place where Truman had proposed to me.

  “If you’ll do all that, then…” She tightened her lips, made a zipping motion across her mouth, and tossed the imaginary key behind her.

  28

  I stumbled into the house an hour before midnight, slightly tipsy after drinking bottle after bottle of Smirnoff Ice with Leilani and Monica on the Queen Mary’s lawn. When we weren’t drinking, we had gazed at the sky like the hundreds who sat with us, awed by the soaring pyrotechnics symbolizing our country’s battle for freedom. When we weren’t drinking and gazing, we cried—our first Fourth of July without Truman. The three of us toasted him with our malt beverages until the fiery climax of red, white and blue ended, and the sky boasted only smoke and helicopter lights.

  The antennae on the telephone blinked red: a voice-mail message left on July 3.

  Hi, Nicole. This is Tami, the manager of Human Resources at FOX Sports. I
hope you’re doing better. We certainly miss Truman. We’re in the middle of a reorg right now, and with everything the way it is, we’ve had to move ahead and… We’re gonna need the space, and we were hoping that you could come down sometime and, you know… If you can’t right now, we totally understand, and I can get someone else to—

  I deleted the message without hearing the rest.

  To the sober part of me, Tami’s voice-mail made sense. The network was a business, not a charity home for missing executives. With sweeps on the horizon, and the new fall season and ratings to consider, the Higher Ups had to move on without him. I only resented that they wanted me to come into the office and help them do it.

  The drunken widow in me, however, cursed out Tami and those sons-of-bitches at Fox for moving on after just nine days—not even two weeks!—and for giving his office—his office!—to some other guy who wasn’t as smart or as handsome as Truman. How could they have hired someone so damn quick? Was this jerk waiting in the office supply closet, resume and briefcase in hand? Bastards.

  I wandered to the dining room and stood before the wine cabinet. Sixteen bottles nested in wooden cubbies. Each had come from exotic wineries around the world. I had selected two: a dessert wine from Volcano Winery in Hawaii, and a rare California Viognier that tasted like bliss. Truman had found the other wines on his adventures taken without me. His two favorites were the Shiraz he picked up in India en-route to Everest, and a Merlot he discovered at a winery in Chile after a cave tour.

  I pulled the Merlot from its hole, and plucked the corkscrew from the sideboard’s drawer.

  Truman had postponed opening this bottle. For a special occasion, he had told me.

  Was this occasion special enough? I stuck the corkscrew into the cork and twisted.

  The cork wouldn’t budge.

  I grit my teeth and pulled harder. No luck.

  Truman had always opened the wine. It seemed so easy—stick the thing in, twist, pull.

  I tugged at the corkscrew handle again. This time, the cork twisted, but didn’t lift. I pulled again—nothing—and once more. Ashes of anger filled my belly with each tug. One more pull, one more failure, and I hurled the bottle with strength I didn’t know I had. It exploded against the wall, and red wine sloshed down its surface, a purple Rorschach blot on ecru paint. Shards of glass glimmered on the hardwood floor, and the aroma of ripened berries and crushed grapes filled the air.

  Damn it, Truman.

  Even before the dive, I had prayed every night that he would make it home safely; that some LAPD-hotshot with a grudge against successful black men wouldn’t make an example out of him. Any time the police helicopter soared above our neighborhood with that damn-bright searchlight invading hillsides and driveways, I had lain in bed, terrified, imaging Truman’s face pressed against the asphalt, guns trained on his head.

  And he had survived this city—the cops, the gangs, the freeways—only to perish in the damned ocean?

  Why didn’t he stop and think?

  Why did he have to be a hero?

  Damn it, Truman.

  After picking up wedges of glass, I pulled on a jacket, and grabbed my car keys from the breakfast bar. I pulled at the porch door to exit, but the door wouldn’t open. I turned the lock, then unlocked it again, and pulled harder at the knob. The door opened with a whoomf, and sent me stumbling backwards.

  That door had never stuck before. It was the house. It was pissed that I had vandalized its precious dining room wall.

  Explosions from forbidden firecrackers boomed throughout the canyon. Bursts of purple, green and gold exploded over rooftops and hillsides. In the middle of my street, teen-aged boys on skateboards vaulted over an object shooting white sparks from its belly. A kid with blond dreds shouted, “Happy Bastille Day” as I drove past.

  Not many people wandered the aisles of the village market. A couple of potheads stared into the deli fridge of cheese, and an old woman in a pink rain bonnet roamed Frozen Foods. I clutched a shopping basket and peered back at the millions of drug labels winking at me from their shelves. Natalie Cole’s weak alto warbled from the store’s speakers. “I Miss You Like Crazy.” Appropriate. I dumped four bottles of Nyquil and two boxes of Excedrin into the basket. I trudged two aisles over, and grabbed a box of sleepy-time tea, then headed to the checkout counter.

  Arnib, the cashier on duty, was reading the Los Angeles Times. He adjusted his glasses and his Uncle Sam-styled top hat. “Happy Fourth of July,” he said as he slipped the newspaper behind the cash register. “You’re in here pretty late. You usually come in around six.”

  I stared at him and said nothing.

  “You go to the Bowl to see the fireworks tonight?”

  I grunted.

  Embarrassed, Arnib’s chubby cheeks cranberried. He busied himself with his scanner gun and my bottles of Nyquil. “Not feeling well, huh?”

  “Can’t sleep,” I mumbled.

  “It’s so loud out there. I thought firecrackers were illegal in Los Angeles. My poor dog’s probably hiding beneath the bed.” He stopped scanning and looked up at me. “You should try Tylenol Nighttime. Nyquil’s good, but it leaves you groggy. Hung over.” He pointed to the pyramid of Tylenol boxes at the end of the counter. “We have ‘em on sale. Buy two for seven dollars.”

  I glanced at the boxes—the sign displayed there said, SALE, BUY 2 FOR $7.

  “Want them?”

  I shrugged.

  Arnib grabbed two boxes, scanned them, then tossed them into the bag. “How’s your friend doing?”

  I blinked, then said, “Which friend?”

  “Mr. Huston. I see you two together all the time. Here. At the coffee shop next door. How’s he doing?”

  “Fine, I guess.”

  “He’s handling all the craziness okay?”

  My lips tightened into a thin slash, and I lost all feeling in my chin.

  “You read the paper, right?” Arnib reached behind the register for the Times. “He’s about to be suspended by the Bar,” he said, handing me the “California” section. “I didn’t know he was a gang lawyer. He seemed so… I don’t know. Honest. Guess you just don’t know people.”

  I looked away from Arnib’s fleshy purple lips to read the article:

  Lawyer for Mexican Mafia Member Possibly Violates Ethics Code

  Jacob Huston, a partner at the powerful law firm Tucker & Johns, may have violated ethics laws in defense of his client, Gustavo Hernandez. Hernandez, 23, an alleged member of the notorious Mexican Mafia, was arrested last December for the kidnapping and murder of 12-year old Luis Argueta. Argueta’s body has yet to be found, and Hernandez denies any involvement in the kidnapping and death of the missing honor roll student.

  “I just want closure,” Avemaria Argueta said. “This suffering is too much. My son was innocent. Just a baby. How can that attorney defend those monsters?”

  The Los Angeles District Attorney has not publicized the well-regarded lawyer’s alleged violations. An anonymous source, however, recently spoke to the Times. “This is a serious and troubling matter. Once the dust settles, Mr. Huston may be disbarred.”

  When contacted by the Times, Huston offered no comment.

  Jake represented the effin’ Mexican Mafia? In the last year, this prison gang had racked up countless charges on drug trafficking, money laundering and murders. Everything they did—breathing, even—was criminal.

  I shook my head. There had to be more to this. Maybe Jake had been forced somehow to get involved, and… Jake defended homeless people and starlets with sticky fingers. Petty thugs caught up in unjust Three Strikes cases. Not… these people. He wasn’t Tom Hagen in The Godfather. But then, Tom Hagen seemed pretty nice, too. Jake and I had our personal issues, but I’d let him defend me any day. He was a great attorney. Smart. Ethical. The State wouldn’t disbar him. He was a good guy.

  “You can keep it,” Arnib said. “Geez, you’ve been though a lot lately, huh? First, your husband, and now, your friend’s…
problems.”

  I muttered, “Yeah,” and then, “How much?”

  He glanced at the register’s display. “Forty dollars and seven cents.”

  I found the bank card in my wallet, and with a trembling hand, swiped it through the debit machine.

  A receipt spilled from the register, and Arnib tore it away and handed it to me. “The Tylenol’s gonna work for you,” he said with a smile. “Promise.”

  29

  I’m chasing Truman across a field of poppies. The sky darkens, and I stop in my step. Truman’s disappeared, but a wine-colored blob is oozing my way. I turn and run. I reach the harbor, no longer in the poppy field. The ocean undulates before me. I glance over my shoulder—the blob gains speed, oozes just a few feet behind. I run down the dock, tripping over jutting planks. I reach the end of the pier—no where to go. “I can’t swim,” I tell the blob. But the blob continues to creep, and I take a step back and—

  I awakened from that nightmare sweaty and breathless. I swiped at my runny nose and glanced at my fingers. Mucus and blood smeared my fingertips. Did I give myself a hematoma? Was my brain bleeding?

  Go to the doctor, Nic.

  I kicked away the comforter, but refused to stand. The thought of showering, dressing, leaving the house and climbing behind the wheel again made me weary. I couldn’t make a grilled cheese sandwich, I hadn’t showered in days, and now, my brain was possibly bleeding, and still, I couldn’t do anything. My energies had been expended during my tantrum in the dining room and my visit to the market’s drug buffet.

  I twisted tissue into my bleeding nostril, then lay back on the couch with my eyes focused on the television screen. My breathing slowed, and my eyelids grew heavy; but each time I grabbed at the promise of sleep, it moved just a little out of my reach. On the television, a commercial for Wicked flickered on the screen. No one mourns the wicked. Clips of Elphaba and Glinda, flying monkeys and...

  What was that?

  I glanced around the room. Living room couch. Carpet. Den. I peered at the clock—almost midnight. Growing Pains on the television set. Bloody tissues scattered across the blanket.