Devolution: A Firsthand Account of the Rainier Sasquatch Massacre

Chapter 2

Last night we were invited to a “welcome potluck” in the Common House.

I realize I haven’t explained that building at all. Sorry. It’s like any planned community’s homeowners association shared space and laid out like a traditional Pacific Northwest longhouse. I googled “longhouse” last night. The images almost match this structure. It’s got a large, multi-use space with a bathroom and kitchenette on one side and a cozy cobblestone fireplace on the other. That fire gave off such a beautiful glow, mixed with the pine candles and the natural light of dusk. The Common House runs east–west, so all we had to do was leave the large, double front doors open for that spectacular view of the setting sun. I’m surprised how warm it was, certainly no colder than the nights in L.A.

It was such an idyllic setting, and the food! Black buttery edamame salad, quinoa with grilled vegetables, and salmon right from the nearby rivers! We started with this amazing soup course: vegetable soba made by the Boothes. They live two houses to the left of us. Vegan foodies. They actually made the soup, not just mixed and cooked it. The soba noodles were from scratch. Raw ingredients delivered fresh that day. I’ve had a lot of soba since moving to L.A. I’ve even had it at Nobu, where Dan and his onetime partners wanted to celebrate their company launch, and I’m pretty sure it didn’t compare to this.

“From our own hand.” That’s what Vincent says. I like him, and his wife, Bobbi. They’re in their sixties, both short and happy and look like your stereotypical aunt and uncle.

They also weren’t judgy about those of us who aren’t vegan. Does that sound judgy from me? You know what I’m talking about: all the vegans in Venice, especially the new ones. The way they’d look at Dan’s leather shoes or my silk blouse or how one of them called a fish tank a prison. Seriously, we were at someone’s house for a party and this guy totally went off on them about their koi pond. “How’d you like it if you were imprisoned in a tiny air bubble at the bottom of the ocean!” The Boothes weren’t like that. They were so nice. And Dan loved their housewarming gift.

Think of an all steel, upside-down T that you grip in the palm of your hand. The neck of the T extends through your fingers, a long, narrow, sharpened spoon tapering to a pointed edge. Bobbi explained that it’s a coconut opener, specifically for digging into the “pores.” That’s what those little black covered holes are called. Never knew that. I also never knew that coconut water is the best natural hydrator in the world. Vincent explained that it comes the closest to the liquid inside our own blood cells. Bobbi joked “not that we need homemade transfusions” but turned earnest when she explained the benefits of coconut water on a hike. They go hiking every morning and go through piles of coconuts in the summer.

“And I guess you can also poke someone’s eye out,” Bobbi added, watching Dan. He had the opener in his hand and was stabbing the air. He looked about twelve years old, and sounded like it too. “Dude, this is so sick! Thank you!”

I guess I should have been embarrassed at that point, but the Boothes just smiled at him like proud parents.

There were some actual parents there too. The Perkins-Forster family. They’ve only been here a few months and are the second to last residents before us.

Carmen Perkins is… I’m not sure she’s a germaphobe, I mean, I just met her. But the hand sanitizer. Using it right after she shook our hands, making sure her daughter used it, offering it around to everyone. She’s totally nice though. She kept saying how wonderful it was that we, Dan and I, “complete the circle.” She’s a child psychologist. She wrote a book on homeschooling in the digital age with her wife, Effie. Carmen kept calling her “Euphemia.”

Effie’s also a child psychologist, I guess. That’s how Carmen introduced her, at least. “Well, I’m not technically licensed—” Effie started to say but Carmen cut her off with a hand on her arm. “She’s working on her degree, and already a lot smarter than me,” she said, which made Effie blush a little.

I don’t know if Effie’s physically smaller than Carmen but her posture makes it look that way. Shoulders shrugged. Soft voice. Not a lot of eye contact. A couple times before answering one of our questions, she glanced quickly at Carmen. Permission? A couple times after. Approval?

Effie also spent a lot of time and attention on Palomino, their daughter. The name, according to Carmen, is a “place holder,” which they gave her during the adoption. I sensed a little bit of defensiveness, especially when Effie elaborated that a “place holder” name was something Palomino could change if she ever found one she loved more. Carmen explained that when they first met her in the orphanage in Bangladesh, she was clutching a worn and torn picture book on horses. I tried to ask her about horses, and Dan about how she liked living here. Neither of us got an answer.

You know that famous National Geographic picture of the Afghan girl with the green eyes? Palomino’s eyes are brown but have the same haunted expression. She just stared at us with those eyes and didn’t say anything for a second, then went back to her “fidgeter,” a little homemade beanbag. Effie gave her a hug and began to apologize. “She’s a little shy.”

Carmen cut her off with, “And it’s not her job to please us with conversation.” And went on to tell us about how the book was one of her only possessions, that and a loaf of bread in a plastic bag. When they met her, she didn’t know when she was going to eat again. Effie shook her head, hugging the girl again, and said she’d been so malnourished, all these vitamin deficiencies, mouth sores, rickets. She started to talk about what her people had gone through, the “Rohingya” minority (which I’ll have to google later) at the hands of the Myanmar government. Carmen shot her another silencing look and said, “But we don’t need to trigger her with those memories. What matters is she’s safe now, healthy and loved.”

That prompted Alex Reinhardt to comment on the deplorable state of many ethnic minorities in South Asia. Have you ever heard of Dr. Reinhardt? He looks like the Game of Thrones author, without the Greek fisherman’s hat. He does, though, wear a beret, which, I guess, he’s entitled to. I’d heard his name a couple times in school, seen his books advertised on Amazon. I think I might have caught the end of his TED Talk someone next to me on a plane was watching.

I guess he’s kind of a big deal. His book Rousseau’s Children was apparently “groundbreaking.” That’s the word Tony Durant used. Reinhardt gave a slight, almost embarrassed shrug at that, but went on to describe why it essentially launched him into the academic spotlight.

I hope I get this right. I’ll try to relate what he explained to me. Jean-Jacques Rousseau—not be confused with Henry David Thoreau as Dan did that night—was an eighteenth-century French philosopher. He believed that early humans were essentially good, but when humanity began to urbanize, separating themselves from nature, they separated from their own nature as well. In Reinhardt’s words, the “ills of today can all be traced to the corruption of civilization.” In Rousseau’s Children, Reinhardt proved him right by studying the Kung San hunter-gatherers of Africa’s Kalahari Desert. “They have none of the problems,” he said, “that plague our so-called advanced societies. No crime, addiction, war. They are the embodiment of Rousseau’s thesis.”

“And unlike Rousseau’s ideal, the women aren’t reduced to being virtuous sex slaves in a male-dominated society.” That was Carmen. She said it nicely, smiling, but with a sarcastic roll of the eyes. Effie giggled at that and Reinhardt, reaching for another helping of quinoa, looked like he might have been working up to a less than friendly comeback.

“Rousseau was human,” said Tony, “but he did influence countless generations in countless fields, including Maria Montessori.” That diffused the situation, that and his unbelievable smile. His eyes. They turned to me and I actually felt my forearms prickle.

“Alex here,” Tony said, and clinked Reinhardt’s glass with his own, “was the spiritual inspiration for Greenloop. When I read Rousseau’s Children, it codified my vision for sustainable housing. Mother Nature keeps us honest, reminds us who we’re supposed to be.” At that, Yvette, his wife, slipped a hand around his arm and gave this gentle, proud sigh.

The Durants.

Oh my God… or Gods!

It’s ridiculous how beautiful they are. And intimidating! Yvette—she looks like an Yvette—is angelic. Ageless. Thirty? Fifty? She’s tall and slender, and could have walked right out of Harper’s Bazaar. The honey blond hair, the flawless skin, the bright, sparkling hazel eyes. I shouldn’t have googled her beforehand. It just made it worse. Turns out she actually was a model for a while. A couple of older magazines called Cargo and Lucky. Figures. All these insane fairy-tale pictures of her on Aruba and the Amalfi coast. Nobody deserves to look that good in a bikini. And no one who looked, looks, that good should also be so nice.

She was the one who’d invited us to dinner in the first place. Right after I got back from my hike, all sweaty and gross with Dan sleeping on the couch and boxes of crap everywhere, the doorbell rang and there was this glamorous, glowing nymph. I think I said something eloquent like “um-uh” before she gave me a big welcoming hug (which she had to stoop down for) and told us how happy she was that we’d chosen Greenloop.

And if her light, upper-class English accent doesn’t already make her sound like a genius, she’s also getting her PhD in psychosomatic illness therapy. I don’t know who Dr. Andrew Weil is (one more thing I’ll have to look up), but she used to be his protégé and invited me to take her daily “integrative health yoga” class, which, of course, gets armies of online subscriber views a day.

Gorgeous, brilliant, and generous. She presented us with a housewarming present called a “happy light,” which is used to simulate the exact spectrum of the sun to dispel seasonal affective disorder. I bet she doesn’t need it, either for depression or for keeping her flawless overall tan.

Tony joked that he didn’t need one because Yvette was his happy light.

Tony.

Okay, I’m supposed to be honest. Right? That’s what you told me. No one but the two of us will read this. No barriers. No lies. Nothing but what I think and feel in the moment.

Tony.

He’s definitely older. Fifties maybe, but in that rugged, older movie star kind of way. Dan once told me about this old comic book—G.I. Joe?—where the bad guys took DNA from all the dictators in history to create one perfect supervillain. That’s kinda the opposite of what I feel like they did with Tony, only Clooney’s skin, Pitt’s lips. Okay, maybe Sean Connery’s hairline but that never bothered me; I mean, I tolerate Dan’s man-bun. And those arms, they kind of remind me of that guy Frank used to have a poster of in his room. Henry Rollins? Not as big and buff, but ripped and inked. When he reached out to shake Dan’s hand, I could see the muscles rippling underneath his tattoos. It was like they were alive, those tribal lines and Asian characters. Everything about Tony is alive.

Okay. Honest. It reminded me of Dan. How he used to be. Energized, engaged. How he used to effortlessly command a room, every room. That speech he made to our graduating class. “We don’t have to be ready for the world. The world better get ready for us!” Eight years? That long ago?

I tried not to compare, sitting there next to who he’d become, across the table from who he thought he’d be.

Dan.

Writing this now, I feel guilty about how little attention I paid to him during dinner, and how I didn’t even as a reflex reach out for him when the ground began to shake.

It was just the tiniest of jolts. The glasses rattled, my chair wobbled.

Apparently, that’s been happening on and off for the last year. Just a slight tremor they said came from Mount Rainier. Nothing to worry about. Volcanos do that. It reminded me of our first month in Venice Beach, when the bed started rolling, not shaking, rolling like a ship on rough seas. I’d heard of the San Andreas Fault but didn’t know about all the mini fault lines crisscrossing under L.A. I can see why so many easterners don’t survive their first earthquake. If Dan wasn’t so set on “Silicon Beach,” I would have totally packed it in. I’m glad I stayed, glad I realized the huge difference between a few shakes and the supposed Big One. That little tremor in Greenloop, less than a truck rumbling by, reminded me of what you said about the difference between denial and phobia.

Denial is an irrational dismissal of danger.

Phobia is an irrational fear of one.

I’m glad I was rational then, especially when everyone else didn’t seem to mind. Yvette even got this sympathetic smile on her face and said, “How unfair is it to leave California earthquakes for this.”

We all laughed, until the next tremor happened—the human one!

That was when Mostar showed up.

The old lady I saw in the window earlier. Not Ms. Or Mrs. or Mostar Something. Just “Muh-star.” She came in late, apologizing that she’d been distracted in “the workshop” and needed the extra time to let the tulumba cool. That’s what her dessert was called. Tulumba. A big plate of what looked like cut up churros under a syrup glaze. We already had desserts. The Durants brought them along with their salmon: some honey-dribbled apple slices right from their tree and gluten-free artisanal ice cream with local berries. I was looking forward to comparing it with my nightly fix of Halo, especially when everyone else had warned me how good it was. Mostar must not have gotten the message. Or didn’t care? Dan didn’t care that there was more dessert. He tore into the tulumbas. He must have had, what, five? Six? Chomping and moaning with each one. So gross.

I politely took one. I could already smell the fried dough. I don’t even want to think about how many calories. Maybe that’s why almost no one else took any. The Boothes said something about animal butter. The Perkins-Forsters mentioned Palomino’s gluten allergy. That was kind of inconsiderate of Mostar to do that. She must have known about all these dietary restrictions. Maybe that’s why Reinhardt only had one as well. I would not have expected that, given how he looked. Sorry. Body shaming. But seriously, given how he plowed through everything else, I figured he’d join Dan in a total snarf-off. Instead, he just nibbled at the edge of one. Polite and chilly. You could feel the room temperature drop.

“Eat.” Mostar plopped down at the end of the table. “Go on, put some meat on those bones.” She’s like this old-timey stereotype nana, right down to the foreign accent. What is that? Russian? Israeli? A lot of rolling r’s.

She’s really short, shorter than Mrs. Boothe, who I think only comes up to my forehead. Maybe five feet or less? And built like a barrel, like if someone threw a dress on a keg. Her olive skin is wrinkled, especially around the eyes. Wrinkled and dark. Raccoon-ish, like she hasn’t slept in a year. Is that mean? I don’t want to be mean. Just an observation. Her eyes were pretty though. Light blue accented by the dark circles. Her hair was silver, not gray or white, and tied back in a bun.

Her whole energy was really different from everyone else’s. Like if the vibe of most people in the room was slow, wavy lines, she’d have this hard, sharp bounce. God, I lived in SoCal too long.

But really, everything about her was hard, the way she moved, the way she talked. She kept staring at me, watching me peck at her dessert. Everyone else was looking at me. It felt kind of weird, like how I reacted to her tulumba somehow had this deeper meaning. I know I’m reading way too much into this. You told me to trust my instincts, but really, I started feeling so uncomfortable that I lost my appetite.

Tony must have sensed it, God bless him, because he rode to the rescue with a full intro of Mostar. “We’re so lucky,” he said, “to have a world-famous artist in residence.” Glass is her medium and she’s been sculpting in it for years. That was where he’d met her, at an exhibition at the Chihuly Garden and Glass in Seattle. Yvette added that she had been on her way to lead a “crystal yoga” session when they just happened to see her exhibition. Seamlessly, Tony wrapped up the story by explaining that he’d proposed an “epic collaboration” between the two of them: a full-scale model of her hometown, wherever that is, that would be completely 3-D printed.

That’s a big thing for Cygnus, perfecting a 3-D glass technology that is “leaps ahead of Karlsruhe.”[9] I thought I’d be bored by this conversation. Dan’s college phase taught me more than enough about 3-D printing. But Tony’s enthusiasm was hard to resist, the way he talked about Mostar’s project being a “game-changing win for everybody.” Cygnus displays their new breakthrough, Mostar gets to live in paradise rent free, and the world will eventually get to see a resurrected piece of history.

“Which is the subject of my new book,” Reinhardt cut in, “resource conflicts of the 1990s.”

Resource conflicts?

I wasn’t sure how that subject fit into what we were discussing, and why Mostar’s hometown needed to be “resurrected.” I also wasn’t sure if probing too deep was appropriate for the dinner table. I didn’t want to trigger Palomino. While I was wrestling with the choice, Mostar took it away by waving her hand at Reinhardt. “Oh, these nice young people don’t want to hear about all that.”

Then she turned to me and asked, “So how did you get here?”

I got a little nervous at that, my jaw muscles stiffened slightly. I thought maybe if I could distract her with just my story, she wouldn’t ask about Dan. I tried to talk about my job but it was just so boring. No, I’m not putting myself down again. I like what I do and I know I’m good at it, but who wants to hear about a CPA at a wealth management firm in Century City? I tried to focus more on my connection to this place. Everyone knew and loved Frank, and Mr. Boothe (who used to work with him) told me that he’d been the one to encourage Frank and Gary to move up here when the place was being built. Bobbi shook her head sadly when she said, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with them.” But then Yvette added happily, “But we got you in the conscious uncoupling.”

That lightened the mood again, until Mostar ruined it. I guess I can’t blame her. I mean, why wouldn’t you ask? She didn’t know. No one did. It’s just small talk, getting-to-know-you stuff. It’s the standard question. “And what do you do?”

My gut tightened when she turned to Dan. The words seemed to roll out in slow motion.

“And-what-do-you-do?”

Dan just looked up from his plate, got that squinty, lemon lick look. He talked about how he’s an “entrepreneur in the digital space.” That usually saved us in L.A., probably because nobody really cared about anyone else but themselves. Even here, everyone just nodded and seemed ready to move on. But Mostar…

“So, you don’t have a job.”

The whole room got silent. I could feel the skin of my face. What do you say? How do you reply?

Bless you, Tony Durant.

“Dan’s an artist, Mosty, just like you and me.” He smiled, tapping his temple. “How much of our process takes place up here, unseen, untimed, and definitely unpaid!”

Carmen jumped in with, “Did you get paid for all your sculptures before they were done?” which garnered a nod and meek “yeah” from her wife.

“There’s paycheck work and there’s project work.” Vincent shrugged, which prompted Reinhardt to talk about how Europeans have a much more balanced sense of identity than Americans. “Across the pond, who you are isn’t just what you do.” It was a little confusing given that he was actually saying this to a European (I think) but I really didn’t care. I was so grateful to everyone for coming in and saving the moment. Maybe a little too much, because Tony now swerved back to a more neutral stance. “Mosty’s just trying to understand Dan’s journey, albeit in her own unique way.”

And when he added, “And she is quite unique,” the room’s chuckles became laughter. Even Mostar seemed in it now, smiling with raised hands in this “you got me” gesture. It didn’t appear to bother her at all. Not an ally in the room and she looked totally okay with that. I would’ve died.

Not that I feel bad for her, though, especially when we said good night, and she gave Dan a sidelong glance. More like a smirk, like “I’m totally onto you.” I’m sure that’s why I couldn’t sleep last night. I tried to convince myself to read instead of re-watching The Princess Bride. I’ve loved that movie my whole life. It’s worth the melatonin-reducing light from the screen. I needed the familiarity, the comfort.

I feel…

I wish…

I can’t wait for our Skype session next week. Maybe I’ll call you and see if we can move it up. I really need it. Especially after today.

Dan and I didn’t talk about what happened at dinner. Why would we? When was the last time we really talked about anything? I could tell he was upset. You can always tell by the couch time. If he comes to bed an hour or so after me, he’s miffed. If it’s the middle of the night, something’s really under his skin. If I find him asleep in the morning, iPad on his stomach…

He’s there now. Awake, but not helping me. I think he can hear me unpacking upstairs. I’ve just been reassembling the shelves. Three of them, two large and one waist high, with long steel support poles. They’re heavy, and loud. He must have heard me banging them together. Maybe not with his music. Did I mention that you can sync different rooms for different devices? I guess it’s supposed to give everyone their own personal space, but since Dan’s claimed the living room and those are the biggest speakers…

I can hear it through the door. His early ’90s loop.

Goddamn “Black Hole Sun.”

Wow, I am really angry. I’m not used to feeling this way. I don’t like it. Maybe a walk later, hike the trail, clear my head.

I need it. The knot is back.

From my interview with Frank McCray, Jr.

Kate Holland’s brother has aged considerably from the social media photos taken barely a year before. His cherubic features have narrowed, his hair thinned and grayed. The former Cygnus attorney is intense, impatient, with an undertone of muted anger behind each word. As he reaches his right hand out to shake, I notice the other resting on a holstered Smith & Wesson 500 revolver.

We meet at his “temporary base camp,” a motor home parked at the end of a paved road at the foot of the Cascade Range. Before meeting in person, he warned me that there wouldn’t be too much time to talk. He reminds me of that fact again as he invites me inside. While neat, clean, and meticulously organized, the vehicle’s cabin is crammed to the roof with equipment. I see camping gear, freeze-dried food, the hard, black plastic case for a very expensive weapon scope, and several boxes of various firearm ammunition.

McCray ushers me to a narrow bench at the dinette, then sits across from me, next to a bulging backpack and sheathed hunting rifle. Between us sits a small, well used BioLite camp stove, the kind that uses thermodynamics to charge personal devices. McCray removes a stained bandana from his checkered flannel shirt pocket and resumes cleaning the stove. A cold north wind rocks the camper, a warning of the winter months ahead.

Before I get a chance to ask my first question, he launches in with:

It’s my fault what happened to them. Not the volcano, obviously, or how it drove those creatures right toward them. I didn’t set up the situation. I just put them right in the middle of it. “Oh no, you’re doing me a real favor, please. I can’t sell the house till the market recovers. Please come take care of it for a while. Too many memories for me to live there. I promise you’ll love it.”

That was me, always pushing, always thinking I knew better. I was so goddamn proud that I’d gotten her into therapy, and how she was just starting to make progress. Her need to nurture, her fear of abandonment. I think, with a little more time, she might have been ready to admit that she blamed Mom for Dad leaving us, and how that blame kept her enabling Dan. Just a little more time. But then Gary and I split, and the house needed a sitter, and I thought… I thought… if I could just nudge her a little closer to the truth, build up just a little more pressure…

He spits into the bandana, then attacks a particularly stubborn stain.

I mean… even if she blamed me at the time, she’d totally thank me later, after it all worked out one way or another…

The camper rocks in the wind.

I thought I had all the answers.