However, as they crossed the metropolis through lengthening shadows and
a twilight that gradually filled with blood red light, the familiar
streets and buildings were as alien as any on a distant planet. She
had lived her entire adult life in Los Angeles, but Heather Mcgarvey
felt like a stranger in a strange land.
The Brysons' two-story Spanish house was in the Valley, on the edge of
Burbank, lucky number 777 on a street lined with sycamores. The
leafless limbs of the big trees made spiky arachnid patterns against
the muddy yellow-black night sky, which was filled with too much
ambient light from the urban sprawl ever to be perfectly inky. Cars
were clustered in the driveway and street in front of 777, including
one black-and-white.
The house was filled with relatives and friends of the Brysons. A few
of the former and most of the latter were cops in uniforms or civilian
clothes.
Blacks, Hispanics, Whites, and Asians had come together in
companionship and mutual support in a way they seldom seemed capable of
associating in the larger community - any more.
Heather felt at home the moment she crossed the threshold, so much
safer than she had felt in the world outside. As she made her way
through the living room and dining room, seeking Alma, she paused to
speak briefly with old friends-and discovered that word of Jack's
improved condition was already on the grapevine.
More acutely than ever, she was aware of how completely she had come to
think of herself as part of the police family rather than as an
Angeleno or a Californian. It hadn't always been that way. But it was
difficult to maintain a spiritual allegiance to a city swimming in
drugs and pornography, shattered by gang violence, steeped in
Hollywood-style cynicism, and controlled by politicians as venal and
demagogic as they were incompetent. Destructive social forces were
fracturing the city--and the country--into clans, and even as she took
comfort in her police family, she recognized the danger of descending
into an us-against-them view of life.
Alma was in the kitchen with her sister, Faye, and two other women, all
of whom were busy at culinary tasks. Chopping vegetables, peeling
fruit, grating cheese. Alma was rolling out pie dough on a marble
slab, working at it vigorously. The kitchen was filled with the
delicious aromas of cakes baking.
When Heather touched Alma's shoulder, the woman looked up from the pie
dough, and her eyes were as blank as those of a mannequin. Then she
blinked and wiped her flour-coated hands on her apron. 'Heather, you
didn't have to come--you should've stayed with Jack.'
They embraced, and Heather said, 'I wish there was something I could
do, Alma.'
'So do I, girl. So do I.'
As they leaned back from each other, Heather said, 'What's all this
cooking?'
'We're going to have the funeral tomorrow afternoon. No delay. Get
the hard part over with. A lot of family and friends will be by
