Quake Page 3

  I've gotta get home! The head rolled a little when he let go. Only an inch. Not far enough to matter.

  Rising from his crouch, Clint spotted the dead jeans near the middle of the intersection. He hurried to them and picked them up. They seemed clean. He used it to wipe the blood off his hands, then hurried with them to the BMW. The driver met his eyes. She frowned. So she's not catatonic. Is that good news or bad? 'It's all right,' Clint said. 'I'll just clean up this mess for you.' She nodded. He leaned inside the car and did his best to mop the blood off the seat cover. When it looked fairly clean, he tossed the jeans and swung himself into the car and sat down. He pulled the door shut.

  'I'm Clint Banner,' he said, forcing a smile. 'What's your name?'

  She blinked a few times, frowned. Her lips moved, but no words came out.

  'Your name?'

  'Mary,' she whispered. 'Davis.'

  'Were you on your way to work, Mary?' A nod; barely perceptible. 'What do you do?'

  'I'm a secretary. With an advertising firm.’

  'Advertising.'

  Her head bobbed, more pronounced this time.

  'Okay, if that's your job, there won't be any work Do you understand? We've had a major quake. You don't have to go in to work. What you need to do is go home.' He looked at her hands. They were clutching her thighs, fingers hard into the gray fabric of her skirt. She had rings on both hands, but no engagement ring or wedding ring.

  'Do you have family?'

  More bobbing.

  'In L.A?'

  'Chicago.'

  'Then you don't need to worry about them. What you need to do is get yourself safely home. Do you understand?'

  'I… don't know.'

  'Where do you live?'

  'Santa Monica.'

  'Great!' The word burst out, and Mary flinched. 'Great,' Clint said again, speaking more softly. 'Look, I'll help you. need to get home to my wife and daughter, and my car's… no good. I'm over in West L.A. It won't even be out of your way. All need is for you to get me over the hills. And I'll help you. It might be a tough trip. A lot of traffic between here and there…, traffic signals down…, roads will probably be blocked in places…, no telling what we might run into. We can help each other. Okay?'

  'What about my accident?'

  'Don't worry about it.'

  'But… that's hit-and-run.'

  'Not today,' Clint said. 'You probably couldn't report this mess if you wanted to. And even if the phones are working, the police have business a lot more urgent than this.'

  'I… ought to try and report it.'

  Clint put his hand on her shoulder. He squeezed firmly, but not hard enough to hurt her. 'We can't waste the time, Mary. Do you want to get home today?'

  'Yes.'

  'So do I. want to get home so bad it hurts. So what you gotta do is leave right now, and leave hard and fast. Do you want me to do the driving?'

  'I… yeah, maybe so.'

  ***

  When the earthquake hit, the Chevy Nova rocked and swerved left veered across the center line. Her stomach gave a sick lurch. Heather squealed while Earl yelled 'Hey!' and muttered, 'What the…?'

  'Brakes!' gasped Mr Wellen, slapping the dash with both hands. Barbara was already jamming her foot down on the brake as she wrenched the wheel to the right. The car cut out of its proper lane, then nosed too far to the right and for the tail of a parked Wagoneer. 'You're over-correcting, Bar… Stop!'

  'I am stopped!' she shouted back at her driver's ed teacher. 'You are not!' Earl yelled.

  Barbara knew that she had stopped the car - braked it an instant after it had taken the odd turn toward the Wagoneer, but it went on shuddering and jerking and twisting closer to the Jeep's rear bumper. 'Look out!' Wellen scooted himself across the seat, grabbed the wheel with one hand, flung his left leg sideways, and clamped his shoe down hard on top of Barbara's foot. 'OW!'

  He shoved against her foot as if trying to crash it into the brake pedal. Barbara shot her elbow into his ribs. Now I've done it, she thought. Oh, my God. What do they do to you for hitting a teacher?

  But at least he quit mashing her foot.

  'It's a quake!' Pete said. He sounded excited, like the first kid in class to come up with the answer to a teacher's question.

  'No kidding,' Earl said.

  A quake! Clenching the wheel, keeping her sore foot pressed to the brake pedal, Barbara thought for the first time to beyond the nearby threats to the school car. She saw a small apartment building a short distance ahead and off to the left. It was a two-story building. Instead of a lawn, it had pavement sloping down to parking spaces beneath the ground floor. The whole structure, the pavement below it, and the cars parked inside a few of its nooks, shook as if Barbara was watching through the viewfinder of a camera held by a person in the midst of a grand mal seizure. She was looking directly at one of its high windows as the glass exploded and a woman came out backward. The woman with wispy white hair, wearing a peach-colored robe that matched the stucco wall, a color that camouflaged her so that she was nearly invisible except for her head and small hands and bare white legs that kicked frantically sky.

  'Everybody down!' Mr Wellen ordered.

  The old woman dropped out of sight, rump first, scrambling with both hands as if trying to claw a rung of air. The wall of the next-door apartment building be crumble. It was just sloughing down when Mr Wellen grabbed Barbara's upper ann. Clutching it, he fumbled at her.

  'What're you…?'

  She looked down. The safety harness, suddenly retracting, whipped its buckle at her face. She flung her head back. The buckle missed. Then Wellen was pulling her by the arm, dragging her from behind the wheel toward his side of the car. Then he was clambering onto her. Sitting on her lap. Squirming off. Scooting under the wheel. Taking the wheel with one hand, shifting to reverse with the other, and backing away from the Wagoneer's bumper.

  'What're you doing?' Pete shouted from the rear. 'Getting us outa here!'

  The car lunged forward, shoving Barbara back against the Rat.

  'Wait till the quake stops!' Earl yelled.

  Wellen gunned it, speeding up Bedford, the Nova shaking and bouncing and swerving from side to side. A jaunt to the left skidded it toward the side of a parked Plumber John truck. Heather screamed. Barbara clutched the dashboard. Wellen fought the wheel, recovered, and swung them clear with inches to spare.

  During the next few seconds, Barbara glimpsed apartment buildings on both sides of the street break apart as if struck by huge wrecking balls. Walls exploded. Roofs crashed down. One building only lost its front wall, while the next collapsed entirely, the next two appeared to be intact and the one after those dropped its north half to the ground while its south half remained standing. This is really it, Barbara thought. This is the Big One. She Pictured her mother ducking and covering her head as their house on Swanson Street came down on top of her. No! No, she'll be all right. Maybe she's not even in the house. Maybe watering the yard, or…Please let her be all right. And Dad. Dad's so far away, he might not even be getting the quake where he is. Or maybe just a little tremble.

  'You ought to stop, Mr Wellen,' Pete advised.

  'You'll kill us all!' Earl yelled.

  'Shut your face, Jones! know what I'm doing. I'm the teacher around here, right?'

  'Doesn't mean you're right.'

  'Shut up.'

  Barbara released her grip on the dashboard, snapped the passenger seat harness, swept its belts across her lap, and felt for the buckle slot. Felt for it because she didn't dare look away from the destruction all around. The whole world's falling down! But not on us, she told herself. Not so far, anyway. As long as nothing falls on us, we'll be okay. And she heard her father. Kidding around, as earthquake never hurt anyone. An earthquake's ham. It's the shit that falls on your head that will kill you. Or your driver's ed teacher freaking out and careering in a head-on… She thrust the metal tongue into the buckle's slot and felt it lock into place. If he crashes now�
�A bowling ball sailed down from high on the right and landed on the hood. Can't be, Barbara thought. Not a bowling ball. But it is. She saw its finger holes, its pretty purple marbling… It bounced, leaving a big dent in the hood, and the speeding car rushed at the airborne ball. In front of Wellen's face, the windshield dissolved into frosty chunks. Bits of it flew at him. Barbara expected the ball to come in. But it bounced off and flew away, leaving a hole no larger than an orange in the safety glass. Wellen kept on driving.

  'You okay?' Barbara yelled. And realized that her voice seemed strangely loud, that it seemed so loud because the roar was gone. Not only the roar, but the rough shudders too.

  'I think it's stopped,' Pete said.

  'Yes!' Earl blurted. 'All right, sports fans.'

  Heather was crying. Barbara looked back at her. The girl seemed very small and fragile between Earl and Pete. She was hunched over, hugging her belly, head down, the sides of her face draped by long brown hair. Her shoulders hitched up and down as she sobbed.

  'You okay?' Barbara asked.

  Heather shook her head. The shrouds of hair swayed.

  'We're all right,' Barbara told her. 'We made it. The quake's over.'

  The car swung hard to the right. Barbara was thrust sideways toward Wellen, but the chest belt stopped her. In the rear, Pete caught hold of the door handle to keep himself upright. Heather fell across Earl's lap. He cast his eyes down at her. Wrinkled his nose. Said, 'Hey, get off the merchandise,' and shoved her away with a forearm.

  'Take it easy,' Pete said. 'Gettin' her cooties on me.'

  'I'm sorry,' Heather murmured.

  'Everybody knock it off back there,' Wellen 'Just knock it off'

  Heather, sitting up straight, leaned away from Earl. pressed her right side against Pete. She glanced at Pete as if asking permission. He nodded. Then he took her shoulders. His hand cupped her left shoulder, gave it squeeze. And Barbara felt an ache deep inside her. Something like longing or regret. Which made no sense. She didn't Pete, just from driver's ed. No sense at all. But it hurt a little, anyway, to see him holding Heather. So Barbara turned forward. She into her seat. What's wrong with Wellen? she wondered. Hunched over the wheel, he was peering at the hole in the windshield. Barbara could only see his right eye. But it looked bulgy and wild. His red face sweated. He was gasping for breath. His lips were skinned baring his teeth. It scared her to look at him. So she looked forward. Beyond the windshield, a wide road.

  Filled by stopped cars. Bordered not by apartment houses but parking meters, shops, banks, businesses of all sorts in shambles. People stumbling about as if dazed. We're sure not on Bedford anymore, Barbara thought.

  No, of course not. That right turn we made…

  She spotted the Shell station. Our Shell station? she wondered. The one with Heinz who called the Granada 'your junk'? Must be. So we're on Pico, Barbara thought. And this is La Cienega just ahead. Familiar territory. At least it would have been familiar if so much of it didn't look as if it had been leveled by bombs. Barbara spotted the post office beyond the intersection, far ahead and off to the left.

  We're going the wrong way.

  'Mr Wellen?'

  He didn't respond. Nor did he slow down as they rushed into La Cienega. Car horns blared. A Porsche bore in from the side, straight at Barbara. 'Look out!' Barbara yelled. 'Oh, Jeez!' Pete blurted.

  The Porche missed, passing behind them. Somebody's not obeying the… The traffic signals at the far corners of the intersection were dark, dead. No lights, and he's taking us… You're supposed to stop and wait your turn! 'Wellen!' Earl shouted.

  A moment later, they shot clear of La Cienega untouched. 'Stop the car!' Pete snapped.

  Wellen picked up speed, weaving from lane to lane. Heading east on Pico. East. Barbara jerked her head around to glance at the 'He's taking us the wrong way!'

  Earl reached over the seatback. He smacked Wellen on the shoulder. 'Hey! Turn us around!'

  'Don't touch me again, punk,' Wellen said.

  'Mr Wellen,' Barbara said. 'Please! You've got to turn around and take us back to school. We need to get there. Please.'

  'I'll get you back to school,' he said, still hunched and peering through the windshield's hole. 'Just quit your whining. I've gotta check up on my kid.’

  'Your kid?'

  'Yeah, my kid. My daughter.' His head jerked Barbara. A quick, fierce, hateful glare. Then he turned to his windshield hole. 'Nobody stops me. Don't even think about it.'

  'Oh, great,' Earl muttered. 'Terrific. So where the hell you dragging us, you lunatic?'

  'Shut your face,' Wellen said.

  'Where is your daughter?' Barbara asked, trying to be kind and sympathetic. 'Saint Joan's.’

  'What?’

  'Saint Joan's.'

  'What's that, a church?' Pete asked.

  'A school,' Wellen said. 'A Catholic girl's school.' He glanced again at Barbara. This time, his eyes didn't seem so mean.

  'What grade is she in?'

  'She's not in any grade. She's a teacher. Ninth English.'

  At Fairfax, he slowed down only a bit. He drove onto a sidewalk to get past a line-up of waiting cars, bounced down from the curb, hit the brakes to avoid broadsiding a pickup truck, then gunned the engine and sprinted for the other side as cars in the way swerved and honked. When Barbara could breathe again, she asked, 'How far away is that high school where your daughter works?’

  'We'll be there pretty soon.'

  'We won't get there at all if you kill us!' Pete yelled.

  A tear was sliding down Wellen's face, alongside his nose. 'It'll be all right,' Barbara told him.

  'It's such an old school,' he said. 'I think it's been reinforced to meet earthquake standards, but… Dear God, look at all this. How could Saint Joan's possibly still be standing after…' He shook his head. He was weeping outright, his face streaming.

  'We're all worried about our families,' Barbara told him.

  'They've gotta be worried about us, too. If they're not dead.

  Don't even think about that. Mom and Dad are fine. They're gotta be.

  'Your daughter's probably just fine,' she said. 'I don't know, don't know.’

  'Where is her school?' He sniffed.

  'On Pico.’

  'Where on Pico?’

  'Normandie.'

  'Normandie. Earl cried out. 'That's downtown. That's miles from here.'

  'I'll drive you back to Rancho Heights. Just as soon as I've picked up Katherine.'

  'You won't be able to drive us back,' Pete said 'I'll get you back. Don't worry.'

  'Just let us off here,' Barbara said. 'Just stop and let us out. We can walk back.'

  Sobbing, Wellen shook his head. 'Can't stop. Almost there.'

  'Almost there, my butt,' Earl said. 'STOP THE CAR' he shouted, and he leaned forward and swatted the side of Wellen's head. A hard smack. The car lurched to the left in the path of a gray Mazda. braced against the dash. She squeezed her eyes shut. Instead of a collision, she felt a sudden jerk. She looked, saw they were back in their own lane for the moment, and glimpsed Earl's hand coming out, about to launch another strike at Wellen. She grabbed Earl's wrist. 'Don't! Leave him alone. Do you want to make him crash?'

  'Let go of me!' Earl wrenched his arm from her but he didn't swing at Wellen. Instead, glaring at Barbara he sank back into his seat. 'I could make him stop, you know. You're not so tough.'

  'You wanta see how tough am, just keep it up.’

  'Oh, I'm scared to death.'

  'Everybody shut up!' Wellen shouted.

  'If you don't like it,' Barbara snapped at him, 'stop and let us out.'

  'I'll let you out when I'm good and ready, young lady. I'm still the teacher around here. I'm still in charge. So everyone sit still and keep your mouths shut. Is that understood? As for you, Jones, you can look forward to criminal charges for assault and battery when all this is over.'

  'Oh yeah?'

  'Yeah.'

  Ahead, both eastbound
lanes were blocked by stopped cars. Wellen didn't slow down.

  'Hey,' Barbara said. And cried out, 'NO!' as he poured on the gas. 'Stop it! Are you nuts?'

  He cut to the left and they sped alongside the line of halted cars, straight toward the front of an oncoming RTD bus.

  ***

  'These'll come right down, right down,' Stanley muttered as he sidestepped between two of his mother's rose bushes. He hated them. He hated all of her rose bushes. They stood at the cinderblock wall like sentinels posted to keep him away. Though they couldn't keep him away, they never failed to draw his blood. No matter how often he trimmed back their thorny branches, no matter how much care he took to suck in his stomach and lift his arms above their reach as he eased through, their thorns always found him.

  He'd paid with stinging wounds for his many trips to the wall. Now, a nettle pricked the back of his shoulder. As he tried to escape it, another nicked his thigh. Both barbs snagged his pajamas and wouldn't let go. Stanley almost wished he'd left his bathrobe on; its thick nap would've given him some protection from the thorns. But he'd left his robe in the house. After all, why should he wear it? The morning was warm and luscious. Mother was hardly in any position to complain about his attire. Nobody was likely to complain, considering the circumstances. Hell, the house had fallen down. What could they expect Stanley to wear, a tux? He was glad he'd left the robe behind, he enjoyed being outside dressed in nothing except his moccasins and pajamas. He liked how the pajamas drifted lightly against his skin, caressing him. And he liked it that they were so thin; any woman he might meet would be able to see quite a lot of him through the lightweight fabric. The heavy robe might have saved him from a few scratches, but it would've smothered him, hidden him. After plucking his pajamas free of the thorns, he made it to the wall. He braced his hands against the cinderblocks, leaned forward and lifted himself on tiptoes to see Sheila's house. He moaned. Beyond the lawn, beyond the concrete patio, the house was down. It looked as if it had been kicked apart and stomped by a giant. All that remained was a mess of junk corralled by broken walls - a litter heap of splintered wood, tattered patches of roofing asphalt, red tiles, crumbled stucco and plaster and sheetrock, tendrils of pipe jutting up here and there, a few wires leading to nowhere.