The Walk

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 myself and the children?

It wasn’t easy for her to make a judgment. She’d reached her limit of unexpected situations and difficult choices and was emotionally tapped out. Marty could sympathize.

“I’ll make it easy for you,” Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. “There’s no reason to be afraid of me. The only reason I’m here is to pick up one of the kids, Clara Hobart.”

She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you her father?”

“No. I’m a family friend.”

“Is something wrong, Faye?” a man’s voice called out from behind her.

“I haven’t decided yet,” Faye replied.

“Why don’t you decide back here where I can see you and whoever you’re talking to,” the man said.

She stepped aside and then, as an afterthought, held open the gate so Marty could hobble past her.

The large backyard had been turned into a playground. Three kids ran around a swing set and jungle-gym. The two boys and Clara froze when they saw the stranger come in and swallowed their laughter, their little stomachs going in and out as they tried to catch their breath.

Clara looked like her photo, but there was a difference he wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t the matching scrapes on her knees, or her braided pony-tail, or even her radiant blue eyes. She had a band of freckles over her nose.

Just like Beth. No, exactly like Beth’s.

He didn’t see that in the photo, or he would have fallen in love with Clara long before that instant.

There was no way he was going to leave without her.

The man who’d called out to Faye sat on a bench, his left leg in a crude splint made out of duct tape and two fence slats. He saw Marty looking at his leg.

“A bookcase fell on me, broke my leg like a twig.”

“I think the whole world fell on me,” Marty replied, noticing a jug of water and some paper cups on the picnic table.

“Looks like it, too if you don’t mind me saying so,” The man said with a friendly smile and a soft voice that reminded Marty of Mister Rogers. “I’m Alan Plebney, the headmaster of Dandelion Preschool; this is my wife Faye.”

“I’m Martin Slack,” he said, returning the smile. Things were getting off to a good start. “May I have some water?”

“Help yourself.”

Marty guzzled down four cups and half expected to see it all leaking out of the hole in his gut. Instead, the water flowed through him like an electric charge.

“Where are the other teachers?” Marty asked.

“I let them go home to their families. As headmaster, I have to stay until all the children are returned to their parents. Besides, I can’t go anywhere with this leg anyway.” He motioned to his wife and his eyes glowed with admiration. “My wife walked all the way here from Studio City to make sure me and the children were okay.”

Marty glanced at Faye, and saw her having a muffled conversation with Clara. The little girl looked fearfully back at him, a look that wasn’t lost on either Faye or her husband.

“How do you know Clara?” Alan asked protectively.

Marty decided to go with honesty. “I don’t.”

“Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Mr. Slack, besides having a couple cups of water.”

Marty reached into his pocket, took out the singed picture of Molly and Clara, and whispered as he showed it to Alan. “Her mother gave this to me. Just before she died.”

Alan glanced over at Clara, then back to him.

“She asked me to take care of her daughter,” Marty said. “That’s why I’m here.”

“Were you a close friend?” Alan asked.

“Not until that moment.”

Alan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t let this child go with a complete stranger, no matter how well intentioned he may be.”

“Is there any one else? Did Molly give you a name of someone she trusted as an emergency contact?” Marty asked, but he already knew the answer.

Alan shook his head. “She said she had to think about it. That was three months ago.”

Faye rejoined them, leaving Clara with her friends.

“You can’t let this man take her, Alan,” she said firmly, then lowered her voice so Clara couldn’t hear. “He could be a child molester.”

“Take a good look at me, Mrs. Plebney,” Marty said. “Do I look like I’m in any shape to hurt anyone?”

From the expressions on their faces, he knew he’d scored a point with that. Marty reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed them his driver’s license. “This is me. You keep it. If anyone else comes for Clara, you can tell them that’s who has her and that’s where she is. But we both know that’s not going to happen.”

Alan took his license and studied it, as if the answer to this problem was written on it in very fine print.

“I walked here from downtown Los Angeles, carrying that picture in my pocket. Along the way, I’ve been shot, poisoned, burned, impaled, and nearly drowned. I want to go home to my wife now, and I’d like to bring Clara with me. I don’t know if my house is still there, or if my wife is even alive. But I promise you, no matter what I find, Clara will be safe. I will take care of her.”

Alan and Faye Plebney stared at him, wrestling with the decision. And while they were, Clara came up and touched the picture in Alan’s hand.

“That’s my mommy,” Clara said. “Is she coming to get me soon?”

“She asked me to get you, Clara,” Marty spoke up quickly, before the Plebneys could answer. “My name is Martin.”

Clara looked up hesitantly at Marty. She wanted to believe him. “What’s the secret word?”

“Please,” he replied.

“No, the other secret word,” Clara said.

Marty had no idea what it was.

The Plebneys and Clara were staring at him, waiting. Like it was a challenge. Like they all knew he didn’t know.

Why didn’t Molly tell him? She had to know her kid would ask.

“She said not to go with a stranger who doesn’t know the secret word,” Clara repeated, just in case he needed reminding.

In a few seconds, Clara was going to turn against him, and then the Plebneys would follow suit. Marty couldn’t let that stop him, even if it meant calling in Buck and using force. Because if Marty didn’t leave with Clara, he’d be haunted for the rest of his life with that last image of Molly, holding that picture out to him, her eyes pleading, calling to him with her last breath…

And by remembering that, what didn’t make sense before now was perfectly clear. Molly did tell him.

“Angel,” Marty said.

Clara nodded.

“Is that the secret word?” Alan asked Clara gently.

“Yes,” she said, then looked up at Marty with big, wishful eyes. “Will you take me to see my Mommy?”

Marty looked at the Plebneys. It was up to them now.

Alan glanced at his wife, who gave her nod of acceptance, then he turned to Clara. “Martin is going to take care of you for a while.”

“Where’s my Mommy?” Clara asked, stuffing the burnt, wrinkled picture into her pocket.

The three adults shared an awkward moment of silence. None of them wanted to tell Clara the horrible news yet. Some day soon, perhaps even today, Marty would have to tell Clara that her mother was dead. And on another day, a long time from now, he would have to tell her how her mother died and all the things she said to him. Eventually, he’d have to hurt her and it was a pain he knew would never go away, for either of them.

“We don’t know,” Alan replied. “But we know that wherever she is, she loves you and wants you to be safe. That’s why she sent Martin to take you home.”

Faye gave Clara a kiss on the top of her head. “That’s from me and Mr. Plebney. You’ve been a very, very good girl. Now you have to be a good girl with Martin too. We’ll see you soon.”

Clara nodded shyly.

Marty held his hand out to Clara. “We’re going on a long walk, but I’ve got a problem. I hurt myself and I need someone to help me. Would you be my helper?”

She nodded and took his hand.

He squeezed her hand and let her lead him out again through the sideyard.

They found Buck pacing nervously out front, waiting for them. Buck flashed Clara his biggest, most winning smile.

“This is my friend Buck,” Marty said. “He’s going to walk with us.”

“So this is the beautiful princess I’ve heard so much about,” Buck said. “You are even more enchanting than I imagined, your highness.”

Buck did an elaborate bow. Clara didn’t say anything. She was obviously intimidated. Marty couldn’t really blame her.

“See those big shoulders? You know what they’re for?” Marty asked. “Giving beautiful, little princesses rides so they don’t get tired on long walks. Would you like him to give you a ride?”

She shook her head no. “You said you wanted me to help.”

“So I did,” Marty turned to Buck. “Sorry.”

Buck flashed his smile at Clara again. “Well, if you change your mind, your Highness, you just snap your fingers.”

The three of them walked in silence for an hour, working their way west on Ventura Boulevard as darkness fell. Marty was afraid to say anything to her for fear it would lead back to questions about her mother.

Silence was much safer.

Each step was more painful than the last, but feeling her tiny hand in his somehow made him feel stronger, that he could take on anything if that’s what it took to keep her safe. With just that touch, his own life took second place to hers.

Clara unknowingly emboldened him when they came to the inevitable moment when they had to cross the LA river again. He didn’t want to show any hesitancy or fear in front of her, so he simply hustled her across the overpass as quickly as he could without fainting from the pain.

If Buck sensed any of this, he kept quiet about it, but not silent. He whistled Disney tunes as they walked. Marty didn’t know if it made Clara feel better, but it helped him. He wished Buck had started whistling downtown instead of talking. The whole journey would have been a lot more pleasant.

The moon shone brightly over the frontier storefronts and wood-plank sidewalks of old town Calabasas, a collection of over-priced restaurants, antique stores, and real estate offices. The small street was designed to replicate the ambience of the stagecoach stop that existed there in the 1860s. Despite its genuine historical underpinnings, the street still looked like an abandoned movie set and, as it turned out, was about as sturdy. Against the quake, the buildings folded up flat like cardboard boxes. The wood planks of the sidewalk splintered violently, snapping with such force that torn boards were thrown into the trees, snagging in the branches.

But this wasn’t the real Calabasas, which was more appropriately symbolized a few blocks further west by a Mediterranean-style shopping center that boasted the world’s largest Rolex timepiece, mounted over a Ralph’s Supermarket that had its own full-time sushi chef.

They were so close to home now, Marty wondered if Beth would hear him if he screamed her name.

“We’re almost home,” Marty said excitedly.

Clara stopped. “You said you were taking me home.”

“I am,” he said.

“But I don’t live here.”

Marty looked at her and suddenly realized the terrible misunderstanding they had. They were so close to home, in a few minutes it wouldn’t have mattered. Why couldn’t he keep his big mouth shut?

“I’m taking you to my house,” he said as sweetly as he could.

“I want to go home,” Clara said, her little chin trembling, her lips drooping into a frown.

“I know you do. I’m sorry you misunderstood,” Marty said to Clara. “Your mommy asked me to take you to my house.”

“Why?” she cried.

He looked to Buck, who shrugged helplessly. This was Marty’s problem.

“Because she wants you to be safe,” Marty replied.

“I want to go home!” Clara jerked her hand away from his and marched off in a crying fury, stomping her feet.

Beth would know how to handle this better than he. She was great with kids. All he had to do was get Clara to go a few more blocks and it would all be over.

Marty turned and whispered to Buck. “Maybe you ought to grab her and carry her the rest of the way.”

“I don’t know how to carry a child,” Buck replied.

“You carry them like a bag of groceries.”

“So I hold her by the hair and swing her beside my leg?”

Marty was about to reply when he realized something. He didn’t hear Clara crying any more.

He didn’t hear her at all.

“Clara?”

Marty turned to see her standing absolutely still a few yards away, staring in horror at the tiger, a dead Labrador in its slavering jaws.