“Your feet still hurt?”
Marty was holding his guts in with his hand, and Buck was worried about his blisters? But he knew what the remark was really about. It was about apologizing for trashing a guy while he was down and letting Marty know that Buck cared about him.
“Not as much,” Marty replied.
“I guess the new shoes helped.”
Marty glanced at his sturdy new shoes, now splattered with blood. “I think so.”
Buck nodded. “A man needs a solid pair of shoes.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
6:26 p.m. Wednesday
As Martin Slack sat on the weedy river bank in Balboa Park, packing a mixture of mud and leaves into his wound, he saw he wasn’t hurt quite as bad as he’d imagined.
Marty was afraid he’d have to stuff his oozing intestines back into some gaping, gory hole in his stomach. Instead, it looked like the rebar left a clean puncture about a half-inch around, swollen and red, straight through one of his “love handles.” He didn’t have to shove a perforated kidney or some other internal organs back into place after all. Then again, for all he knew, birds were fighting over meaty chunks of his appendix in the river bed right now.
The cool dirt made his wound feel better, and staunched the bleeding, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was promoting an infection at the same time. It was dirt. Weren’t you supposed to keep that out of open wounds? Then again, infection was hardly his immediate concern. All he really wanted to do now was stop the bleeding and diminish his pain so he could get home. So far, there were noticeable improvements on both fronts.
Buck studied the poultice and nodded with approval. “That’s gonna make for one manly scar.”
“Something to go with the bullet wound,” Marty said.
“Now that you’ve got some hard-living on your doughy flesh, you won’t look like such a wimp anymore. You may have to consider a new line of work.”
“I already am.”
Buck grinned. “I don’t usually take on apprentices, but I can make an exception in your case.”
“That’s a nice offer, Buck. But I was thinking of something more sedentary.”
“You want to be a gardener?”
“I said sedentary not sedimentary,” Marty replied. “I’m going to be a writer.”
“A writer would choose his words more carefully to avoid confusion,” Buck said. “Maybe you ought to look into a field that already matches your skills. You know, like car salesman or telemarketer.”
Marty ignored the remark. He picked up a sturdy tree limb he’d found on the bank and, using it for support, lifted himself up into a standing position, gasping with pain. It felt like his back and his side were competing with each other to be the most agonizing.
Now that Marty was standing, he could see the mass of earthquake refugees that surrounded the man-made lake in the center of the park on the other side of the river. It looked like they’d gathered for an outdoor rock concert. And, in the distance beyond them, he could see thousands more people filling the public golf course, which every few years would flood so suddenly and so completely, stranded golfers had to be plucked out of the trees by helicopters.
“I sure could use something to drink,” Marty said. “My throat feels as dry as that river.”
Buck motioned to a Red Cross tent in middle of the flood of people. “They’ve probably got water.”
Marty considered the distance, and the complications that would arise if the Red Cross workers saw his wound, and shook his head no. “I’d rather use the energy to get closer to home. Besides, we still have one more stop to make. C’mon, let’s go.”
“You sure you can make it?” Buck looked at him skeptically. “Maybe you’d be better off quitting and flopping on a cot in that Red Cross tent.”
“I’ve been quitting and flopping for too long already.” Marty hobbled off grimacing towards Victory Boulevard, leaning heavily on his walking stick.
Buck looked after him thoughtfully for a moment, then fell into step beside him.
6:50 p.m. Wednesday
After World War II, service men flush with GI loans all wanted their square footage of the American dream and came looking for it in the San Fernando Valley. Developers manufactured the dream with assembly-line precision, economy, and sameness, coating the valley with ranch-style homes that offered easy-living in harmony with nature, what little of it hadn’t been graded and paved over.
Every home Marty and Buck passed looked the same, with their plywood siding and low-pitched, wood-shake roofs, bird houses built into the over-hanging eaves or perched on top like little cupolas to add that extra touch of prefabricated charm. On many houses, the roofs stretched to detached garages or carports, creating breezeways which, in later years, were widely converted into cheap additions by amateur carpenters.
Dandelion Preschool still looked like the rambling, free-flowing ranch house it once was, only with several room additions and a high cyclone fence surrounding a broad front yard long since turned into a parking lot.
The school’s plywood sign, decorated with bad renderings of famous cartoon characters, dangled from the collapsed front porch, and a crack ran around the house where it met the raised foundation. But beyond that, and other superficial cracking, the house appeared to have come through the quake fairly well, raising Marty’s hopes that Clara might be alive and unhurt.
Marty stood out front, gathering his courage, trying to think of what he was going to say to Clara and the teachers inside. But he was so tired, and hurt so much, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. The only thing he could think of doing was asking for some water and a place to lie down.
“Maybe I ought to handle this,” Buck said, studying Marty’s haggard face.
“This is my problem.”
“Yeah, but I have a better chance of walking out of there with the kid.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Look at you, Marty. You’re a fuckin’ nightmare and you smell like a bucket of shit. You’re gonna frighten the teacher and the kid,” Buck explained. “Besides, if the teacher doesn’t cooperate, I’ll just snatch the kid. I’m big and I’m armed. You couldn’t stand up to a puff of air.”
Marty knew that logically Buck was right but it didn’t make any difference to him. “I have to do this, Buck. Alone. If I don’t come out with Clara, we can have another discussion.”
“Fuck that, you don’t come out with the kid I’ll go in and get her.”
Marty decided to conserve his energy and fight that battle with Buck when, and if, it was necessary. So he just nodded, opened the gate, and walked around the side of the house to the back yard.
The narrow pathway led to a weather-beaten, wood fence and was clogged with discarded playground toys: building blocks, balls of all sizes, tricycles, pedal cars, plastic buckets, and shovels. Working his way through the mess and trying not to stumble was killing him. Each twist around an object or big step over one felt like he was getting speared again.
He stopped to ride out a wave of pain and heard the laughter and squeals of children playing, which both surprised and enchanted him. It was odd, and yet magical, to hear such gaiety amidst such a disaster. He moved toward the sounds, drawn almost hypnotically, and in his haste, slipped on a tiny toy fire engine.
Marty yelped in pain and fell against a plastic slide, which sent a tricycle careening into the fence with a noisy clatter.
A woman rushed over from the back of the house, threw open the gate, and just stood there, clearly unsure what she should do next. She was about forty, wore shorts and a wrinkled Dandelion Preschool t-shirt, and regarded him with cried-out brown eyes that were underscored with deep, dark circles of worry and fatigue. Marty saw the questions passing across her weary face. Do I run away? Do I help him? Or do I find a weapon to defend
