"Fine," he says, "I'll bring you a little bit of the candy."
On the way out of the home, holding the rest of the pie, Richard runs into the director. He confesses.
"That's why we don't like them to have visitors," she says. "I'll have the nurses check her sugar tonight."
"Thank you."
HE HAS TROUBLE getting home: the traffic is heavy, roads are closed because of the fire. It takes him an hour and a half, crawling.
The air is a yellowy acrid haze — the wind blows particles that stick in the throat.
He is cranky, thinking about Ben. What prompted him to go? Was he ready, or did she make him? Will Richard see him again? When?
"Earlier today, in some areas, canyon residents hid in their swimming pools, breathing through snorkels, while the fire blew over them," the radio reporter says.
"The thermal intensity is amazing, like something out of the Bible," a man adds. "A vacuum of flame, sucking things up, a fire tornado — I saw fire a hundred feet high."
"What's hard for even the most experienced of us to comprehend," the reporter continues, "is how rapidly this fire has spread. There are now thousands of acres involved, dozens of homes already lost. Will all of Los Angeles burn? I've got one of our county commissioners on the line."
"The good news," the commissioner says, "is that there's a natural extinguishing point — the Pacific Ocean."
"We'll be back with you shortly; meanwhile, if you want to donate bottles of water or sandwiches for the firefighters, please bring them to your local L.A. county fire department. The effort will be ongoing throughout the night."
Richard eats the dinner that Sylvia delivered a couple of days ago while watching the news channel. "Night is settling on Los Angeles, and firefighters hope that means that the wildfire which has been raging all afternoon will slow its fury. Earlier today, firefighters got themselves into a tight squeeze when a hill they were standing on shifted, opening a crevasse estimated to be a hundred and fifty feet long and twenty feet deep and four feet wide. Several of the men lost their footing, fell in, and were later rescued. And, in a strange twist, about half an hour ago firefighters working on a Topanga Canyon ridge spotted what they're describing as the infamous mystery cat— a large animal some believe may be the sole surviving saber-toothed cat. The company reported seeing the animal at the top of a hill; the hill then burst into flame — which is what this very dry brush will do — trees exploding before their eyes, and then the cat was gone. No one knows if it was some sort of visual phenomenon or the real thing. So, tonight, up in the hills, everyone is wondering. And, given the danger of both the fire and the animal at large, officials are urging people to stay put."
Malibu keeps going to the front door — scratching. Richard's not sure if it's because he's missing Ben or he senses something's up.
"That's not our door," Richard tells the dog. "That door goes to the highway; we go out the other door, to the beach. Do you want to go out?"
From the beach, looking back, the sky is glowing yellow, like the end of the world. The air smells like burned toast. Far down the road, at the intersection, he sees mobile news trucks parked, their satellites fully extended. He sees the amusement park at the pier — the Ferris wheel is stopped — everything is stopped. The winds shift, the smoke gets heavier.
He goes back into the house, rummages; on the floor of the closet he finds a gym bag that must have been the mayor's, it's got a red necktie in it, a thing of deodorant, and some glow-in-the-dark condoms — and an emblem on the outside says ROSE BOWL 2002 VIP. He packs a few things in case they have to evacuate: a leash, a plastic bag filled with kibble, chocolate bars, and a change of clothes. He puts the cell phone into the all-weather case Cynthia gave him and slips it into the bag.
Richard goes into Nic's. He opens the file cabinet and takes the manuscript — if he has to go, he's going to take it with him. He's stealing the man's book in an effort to protect it. He puts rubber bands around it in both directions, slips it into a plastic bag. He takes a deep breath — his lungs fill with smoke.
Far up the hill, embers glow like fireflies, waves of fire caress the hillside, flames jump and roll back. The wind shifts, pushing the fire forward.
IT HAPPENS in the middle of the night. At first he thinks a truck went off the road and crashed into the house. A roaring rumble, the walls shake, the floor is like Jell-O, the house shifts. He hears the front door burst open, breaking the frame. He stuffs Nic's novel into his shirt, grabs the bag, runs into the living room. The hill is rolling in; there's the splintering crack of wood giving way, the deep bellowing of walls caving in, rubble crashing through, propelling him out of the house, over the deck, along with everything that was the dining room. Richard is spilled into blackness. He is thinking this is the end, this is it, this is all there is. He is dumped into the ocean, splashing and sputtering. Something is coming towards him, bumping against him — the dining-room table. He grabs it, hoists himself up. Malibu, dog-paddling, scratches his way on board. The table floats. Richard remembers Billy telling him not to put anything hot on the table — it was a prop made for a movie — a prop made of Styrofoam.
He plucks a piece of the wooden deck out of the water, and uses it as a pole to push debris away from his raft.
He remembers Nic telling him, "It's not the wildfires that are going to get you; it's the secret of Malibu — the septic tanks. The hills are filled with leaking septic tanks dumping 'water' into the ground and at some point it's gonna give. It's a river of piss and shit that'll wash us all away," Nic had said. "Malibu is the last of the Wild West: it's every man for himself and then some."
Richard lies on the table, taking a kind of inventory: arms, legs, everything is intact. He lies on the table, rolling with the waves, thinking of the story Joseph told about a man whose house was taken by a flood and he was left floating down his street, which had become a river — on top of a door — and all the man wanted to do was open the door. What did he think he would see, where did he think it would lead? Finally, the man couldn't stand it anymore; he positioned himself on the frame, pulled the knob — the door opened, he fell in and drowned.
Was there some larger meaning — was it a parable, an allegory, or just a story?
He is floating, drifting, and he is breathing and watching his breath and watching the sky. The orange-yellow of the wildfire is giving way to the orange-yellow of dawn. The sun is rising, the air straightening up, pulling tight.
He takes the cell phone out of the weatherproof case and pushes the "power" button. The phone lights up, shows good signal and a decent charge. Richard unzips the mayor's gym bag, opens a condom, rolls it over the phone, and ties it off.
He floats.
There are surfers in the water — tiny and far away. He is out farther than he thought. The ocean, which was so stirred last night, is glassy, calm. He gives the dog breakfast, eats some chocolate, blows air into the Ziploc with Nic's manuscript just in case, and they wait. Richard tells himself not to fight it; for the moment he is safe and should accept what is. The sun is bright on the water, a golden streak; dolphins jump nearby. He is going out to sea.
Just after dawn, his cell phone rings — muffled, distant. He puts the condom phone to his ear. "Hello," he shouts.
"Don't be mad," Ben says. "I told you I couldn't say good-bye."
"Is your mother there?" Richard says.
"She's here."
"How's her leg?"
"It's OK. Are you sure you're not angry?"
"Can you find her for me?"
She picks up the phone. "Richard, I'm on my way out, I have to go and get another damned rabies shot on my way to work."