Much can be said for the mercy of forgetfulness, although I have actually forgotten very little of what I saw inside the Pampered Pet Palace, 1871 Red Tail Lane, Laguna Beach, at 2:35 p.m. on Wednesday, July 7. Forgotten, no, but… well, edited. Organized. Arranged.
I still own every detail of that scene, but they are far from useful in everyday life, in fact they are counterproductive. Occasionally, one detail-for example, the wall calendar in the lobby, picturing the July dog (a papillon) with a piece of human brain matter stuck to its surface, obliterating the dates 17, 18, 24, and 25-slips from its appointed place and I have to guide it like an escaped mamba back into the box. Sometimes-rarely, so far-they all manage to get loose at once, and I have a situation best described as untenable.
So bear with me now, if you choose, some of the particulars-trapped but relentlessly active-that I will carry to my deathbed, such as the body of a woman (Elsie Stein, fifty-one) strewn raglike in the lobby corner behind the desk, face gone, head open and emptied, the gold Star of David necklace still attached and dangling in a red-black pond that rippled in the currents of a ceiling fan, all illuminated by the desk lamp, still on; such as the lobby calendar marred with her brains and the comet of fluids that struck the wall around it; such as the first room on the left down the hallway, the door to which said vipooches only and contained in the very center of its floor an actual arrangement of small canine bodies stacked in opposing threes like firewood, the top row of poodle, miniature dachshund, and Pomeranian having slumped out of alignment and rolled off; such as the sweetish gag of urine and blood in that place; such as the room marked cat house, in which all six guests ended their six or fifty-four lives in one corner-two tabbies, Siamese, two calicoes, a black, draped with such feline grace as to appear asleep if not for the heads; such as the outdoor row of kennels, six on one side of a cement walkway and six on the other, over the gates of which hung the larger dogs, like towels, drying on the chain link, shattered, leaking audibly-each drop distinct and resonant-into the narrow drains that ran along the front of each row and deposited by invisible slope their contents through circular screens at the end of the row each drain clogged red and black and stagnant; such as the guest house beyond the kennel run, squatting quaint and yellow beneath the eucalyptuses, potted pansies, and carnations on the steps, this small cottage, door open, housing sprawled and naked in the bedroom Leonard Stein (fifty-six) facedown and still clutching a long-barreled. 38, a large, plump man with thin white legs bowed even at rest, the trail of black ants scintilla but orderly from his head to where they vanished cargo-laden through a corner crack in the floorboards; such as Dorsey, mixed-breed toy that had dodged the slaughter and wailed alone from the narrow space between the wall and the refrigerator the kitchen and had to be pried out, trembling, with a broom handle by none other than stoic Martin Parish, who announced in a voice almost a whisper that the sound was going to drive him crazy but that was understood by us others, given the context, as a brief escape from the helplessness of death to the terrified demands of the only thing left living there; such as, an hour later, the largely mute crowd that gathered at the crime scene tape suspended across the road between a crepe myrtle and a cottonwood, these faces bereft of everything but fear somehow fully understanding the scene behind the tape-old gray couple dispirited and solemn, a boy of perhaps ten who sobbed and inquired repeatedly after the condition and whereabouts of "Tiger," his mother with one hand pressed lightly to her face in an extended signal of tragedy while the other rested on the corn-silk pale hair of her boy: such as, almost astonishingly, the group of youngish women and older men arriving en masse, each bearing a walkie-talkie, each wearing the blue T-shirt marked citizens' task force and sporting the silk-screened face of Kimmy Wynn, each conspicuously aware of and silently acknowledging how unsuitable he and she had been to the task, how superfluous and minor and absurd they were, what a great and unintended insult was their presence-you could see the profound shame on their faces mixed with the one faintly redeeming conviction they had left: to stick this one out, at least do what they could, even if nothing more than to bear witness to their own gross ineffectuality and confirm the terrible lopsided rout in a battle that their God was supposed to help them with because they believed He would; such as the ashen faces of Winters and Wald; such as Karen Schultz on the steps of the rear porch, her head resting on her arms resting on her knees and her back shaking; such as the chopper fiercely cutting the sky to little effect on the vultures who simply lowered their orbit so their shadows met the ground clearly and you could see the dark shapes of wings gliding across the road and angling without effort up the walls of the old house and finally into the trees, only to circle and pass again; such as the Labrador I nearly tripped over at the far end of the compound where the small yard met the canyon scrub, an animal beaten but still breathing, very rapidly, too damaged to do more, his smooth old dog's teeth red in his panting mouth and drops of blood still shining around the base of a staunch native oak; such as the fact that I sat down near that oak finally because my legs felt aching and old, sat there for a long while because it was the only thing I was absolutely positive I could do, and do well.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Later, my legs still shaking and a storm of disgust brewing my heart, I walked into my house, to be greeted by Grace. She was wearing a kitchen apron belonging to Isabella, a T-shirt and a pair of shorts.
"Gad, Russell, your face is gray," she said.
I don't think I answered her. I poured a large whiskey over ice, took it into my den, and shut the door. I stared out the window. I fanned through the mail Grace had left stack on the desk: the usual assortment of bills and junk fliers-and rather serious-looking envelope from case manager Tina Sharp. I filed it, unopened, with the unpaid medical bills. It was half an hour before I could lay eyes on another human being again. I felt as if my soul had been dragged through a sewer. Final I went back out.
Standing there with her legs exposed beneath the apron and a wooden spoon in her hand, she looked like either advertisement for the spoon or an intro for some men's mag "sex in the kitchen" spread. Images of Elsie Stein flickered in my mind as I looked at my daughter, subliminal postcards from hell.
"What happened?" she asked.
"Some people and animals died."
"Is that why all the helicopters are out there?"
"Yes."
"It must have been horrible."
"It was truly horrible, girl."
I poured another large whiskey over ice and shut the door to my study behind me.
My father called to say that Amber had left without his permission. She claimed to have urgent private business. She was calm and apparently unafraid to be out alone.
"I'm sorry, Russ. I was on the pot when she drove off."
"It's okay for now. There's nothing you can do."