Maybe Sheila wasn't inside when it went down, Stanley told himself. Anything could've happened. Maybe She'd decided to run an extra mile or two. Maybe she'd gone on an errand. Maybe she was inside, but she's still alive, and if save her, she'll be so grateful to me that… If she was inside the house when it fell, she has to be dead. Stanley squeezed his eyes shut.
'She's not dead,' he whispered. 'She's not. She's just fine, and I'm gonna help her.'
Opening his eyes, he clapped his hands down on top wall and jumped. He shoved himself higher, belly and thighs scraping against the rough blocks. He flung a leg up sideways and hooked the top with his foot. Seconds later, he was standing upright on the wall. Nothing to it! Should've done it months ago! Should've climbed over the wall and enjoyed some close-up views. But he'd never dared. Afraid of being caught. By Mother. Or by Sheila's husband. So he had never done more than peer over its top. At night after Mother had gone to bed. During the day, those occasional times when Mother was away from the house without him. He'd seen a lot, but never enough. Never near enough.
From now on, there would be no Mother in his way. He could do whatever he pleased. But now it was too late. The quake had seen to that. It just isn't fair, Stanley thought. From his height above the wall, he could see that the houses on both sides of Sheila's place still stood. They had broken windows, some cracks in the walls, and they might've sustained some serious damage beyond Stanley's view. But they hadn't collapsed. Why her place? Nobody even lived in the house to the left. It had been vacant for two months, a FOR SALE sign in the front yard. And the young couple who lived in the house to the right both held full-time jobs. So they probably weren't even home when the quake struck. Nobody home at two out of three. The quake had dropped the only house with a person in it. Not just any person. Sheila. My Sheila.
Stanley leaped. In midair, he realized he should've lowered himself down from the wall instead of jumping. But it was a bit late for that. His feet pounded the ground. Pain shot up both his legs. He stumbled forward, leaving one moccasin behind, and fell. He landed on his knees, dived from there, and skidded headfirst over the grass. The grass felt thick and soft and very wet. Stanley lay motionless on it for a few seconds, then got slowly to his feet. The front of his pajamas clung to him. Where the pale blue fabric adhered to his skin, it looked nearly transparent. He went back for his moccasin, slipped his foot into it, then headed for the ruin of Sheila's house.
The sunlight on the concrete patio made him squint. The patio looked fine. Normal. Just the same as always. There was the Weber grill that often sent such wonderful aromas into the evening. There was the picnic table, a flower pot in its center, a long bench on either side. There was the lounger with its faded, green cushion. Four times during the past few weeks, he had gazed over the wall and found Sheila stretched out on this very lounger. She had worn a skimpy white bikini. She'd rubbed her skin with oil, but hadn't been able to reach the middle of her back. Only twice had he seen the daughter come out to sunbathe. Her bikini was orange. Compared to Sheila, she looked scrawny. Skin and bones. Cute, but not in the same league as her mother. As if anybody could be. Last Wednesday, Louise Thayer had gone to a bridge party and Stanley had visited the wall. Peering over the top, he'd spied Sheila sprawled belly down on the lounger. She wore a baseball cap and sunglasses. She read a book. bikini top was untied, leaving her bare and glossy all the way down her back. A small white triangle draped the middle of her rump. A white cord crossed her hip. Except for that cord her side was nothing but sleek skin all the way down from her shoulder to her foot. Stanley had gazed at her, aching. She's got to move sooner or later, he'd thought. She'll get up. And maybe she'll be careless about her top. Maybe she'll lift herself up, and it'll stay down there on the cushion. Maybe she'll even turn over onto her back without it! Yes! She might! She just might! And Stanley had suddenly remembered the binoculars in his bedroom closet. He couldn't take a picture of her, thanks to the Bitch, but he could damn sure get a good close-up look with his glasses.
So he'd hurried away to get them. Hurried so fast that he'd ended up with three nicks from the rose bush thorns. No more than four minutes later, he'd returned to the wall, binoculars in hand, ready and eager. No Sheila. She was gone. Her book was gone. Her plastic bottle suntan oil was gone. She had gotten up, and he would never know whether or not she'd been careless about her top. He'd missed it. Gone for the binoculars and missed it! In a rage, he had slammed the binoculars against the wall. Pounded them, smashed them.
Now, he realized that he had missed more than a chance to see Sheila rise from the lounger, possibly revealing her breasts. He had missed his last chance. Because now she was somewhere under all that rubble. Crushed, ruined, dead. Stanley walked over to the lounger. Its green cushion, faded in places so it was almost white, showed yellow and brown stains in the rough shape of a body. Run-off from Sheila, he thought. Some from Barbara, too, he supposed. Crouching, he sniffed the cushion. Its dry, sweet aroma whispered to him of long summer days and sweltering beaches, the squeal of gulls, the rush of combers washing over the sand. It's her suntan oil, he realized. Suntan oil and sweat. He pressed his face into the cushion. Eyes shut, he felt the warm fabric against his lids and against his lips as he sucked, filling himself with the air from the cushion. Sheila was right here. He licked the cloth. And sucked.
And thought he heard a voice. The voice didn't startle him, didn't worry him. It hadn't come from someone near enough to observe what he was doing. He hadn't been caught. And he didn't intend to get caught, so he raised his head. A dark patch of wetness on the cloth showed where his mouth had been. Glancing all around, he saw no one. He heard no voice. Maybe he hadn't heard a voice at all. It might've something different. No telling what he had really heard through the awful clutter of noises: the wailing, hooting alarms from cars or houses; the sirens nearby and far away; the car horns beeping over on Robertson Boulevard; the whup-whup-whup of a helicopter that was out of sight but not very far away; the bangs and pops and blasts, some alarmingly loud that might be backfires or slams, but were probably gunshots; a scream of car brakes; the sound of a crash; various other clamors and roars. A regular chaos of noises.
Stanley heard such noises every day, but not so many of them, not all at once. One of the neighborhood's normal sounds was missing, though. Probably the worst of all. The leaf-blowers. This morning, they were silent. All the little crews of lawn workers must've decided to take the day off on account of the Big One. Just three days ago, Mother had demanded that Stanley 'do something' about the Mexican gardeners who'd shown up across the street at seven-thirty and demolished the morning peace. First, they'd slammed the tailgate of their antique pickup truck. Then they'd gone into action with the power mower and the leaf-blower. The din of the blower had destroyed the last of Mother's restraint.
'You go out there right this minute and do something, Stanley!'
'What am supposed to do?'
'Have a word with them. They've no right, no right in the world, to be raising such a Godawful racket at an hour like this.'
'They'll be done in a while.'
'Stanley!'
'It won't do any good, anyway. They won't understand a word say.'
Behind her glasses, her eyes narrowed. 'I suppose you're right. Damn wetbacks. They've got no business coming to this country if they can't learn to speak…'
'I know, know.'
'Call the police.'
'The police? I'm not gonna call the police about a leafblower.'
'I will.' Scowling, she had wheeled herself toward the telephone. After passing Stanley, she'd looked back at him. 'You're totally worthless, do you know that? You've got no balls at all. Your father was a complete pervert and a moron, but at least he had balls. But not you. I've never seen such a worthless excuse for a man.'
Remembering, Stanley smiled. Had the balls to bust your head in, Bitch. As he thought that, he heard a voice again. This time, it seemed to find its way through a gap in the tumult of no
ise. A woman's voice. It called out, 'Hey!' From somewhere in front of Stanley. From somewhere in the rubble. He felt an explosion of wild hope. He shouted, 'Hello!’
'Help!' the voice called back.
'Helllllp!'
He stepped to the very border of the debris. Off to the side a portion of the chimney rose out of the mess. The mantel itself was buried, but a seascape still hung on a wall above the mantel. The painting looked only a crooked. No other artwork was visible. Nor could Stanley spot any piece of furniture, any book or garment, utensil or knick-knack. Except for the lone painting, the only signs that the house had been inhabited were the refrigerator and oven that still stood upright in what must have been the kitchen - near the right front corner. Every other possession of Sheila and her family was apparently entombed beneath the fallen walls and ceiling and roof. The scatter of mounds and slopes, he supposed, showed where there might be hidden sofas, beds, dressers, counters. Under one of the piles might be Sheila herself.
'Where are you?' Stanley yelled.
'Down here!'
The sound seemed to come from an area somewhere ahead and to his right - near the oven? At the time of the quake, he had pictured her taking a bath or shower, but maybe she had been in the kitchen.
'I'm on my way,' Stanley called. He reached out and planted his foot atop of a tilted slab of stucco, wondered for moment if it would hold him, then stepped aboard. The stucco wobbled, but he kept his footing. From there, he surveyed the area ahead. The tumbled remains of the house bristled with shards window glass, with rows of nails. The thin leather soles of moccasins might save his feet from cuts, but… Just don't step on a nail, he warned himself as he risk another stride. And for God's sake don't fall. He spread his arms for balance. He picked his route carefully and moved slowly, trying to avoid slabs or chunks or boards that didn't look stable. Some broke apart anyway. Many teetered. A few flipped and dropped him ankle-deep into laths or plaster.
'Are you there?' the voice called.
It had to be Sheila's voice. Though it sounded louder, more distinct than before, it was still battered by conflicting noises. Besides, he'd only heard her speak a few times. He couldn't be sure this was Sheila.
Must be, he thought, it's her house. Who else could it be? 'I'm coming,' he answered. 'Are you hurt?'
'I think I'm okay. But I'm trapped. can't move.'
Her voice didn't actually seem to be coming from the kitchen area - from that general direction, but not from that distance. Sheila was not so far away. Maybe ten or fifteen feet this side of the oven. He couldn't see her, though. Between Stanley and the place where Sheila seemed to be, there stood hills of rubble and the low remains of a few interior walls. Heading that way, he called, 'Was anybody else in the house?'
'No. Just me.'
'What's your name?'
'Sheila. Sheila Banner?'
'Yes!'
'I'm Stanley Banks. live in the house behind you.'
'Sure am glad you showed up, Stanley.'
'I was checking around the neighborhood and saw the condition of your house.'
'You mean they didn't all go down?'
'Nope. From what I've seen so far, maybe one out of three or four got leveled.'
'My God!'
'Could've been a lot worse.'
'I just hope to God the school's okay.'
Careful, Stanley thought. 'Do you have a child?'
'Yeah. She goes to Rancho Heights High. Have you heard anything - any news?'
'None. It must've been a hell of a quake, though.'
'They always said we'd get it.'
'Yeah.' He began to climb a slope of wreckage. Until now, he had avoided anything so high. He could've detoured around this one, but knew there would be a good view from its top. If can just get there in one piece. He made his way upward slowly, crouching, open hands down low so that he might catch himself if he should slip. 'How about your house?' Sheila called.
'It got…' His left foot suddenly triggered a small avalanche. He scrambled higher and found solid footing. Hunched there, he panted for breath. He was shaking, drenched with sweat. His pajamas felt sodden. His moccasins felt gooey inside, as if they'd been lathered with lard.
'Stanley?'
'Yeah?'
'Are you all right?'
'Fine.'
'Are you sure? Did you fall?'
'Some stuff…, gave out under me. I'm okay.'
'Be careful. don't want you hurting yourself.'
'Thanks.' Slowly, he straightened up. With a damp pajama sleeve, he wiped his face.
'What about your family?' Sheila asked. 'Are you married?'
'My wife died last year.' He resumed climbing.
As he gained the summit, Sheila said, 'I'm very sorry about your wife.'
'I appreciate that. Thank you.'
'You sound a lot closer.'
'Yeah, I…' He had been gazing at the debris under his face while he climbed. The moment he lifted his eyes, he saw the blazing house. And the handful of people gathered to watch it burn. They were the only people he saw. The burning house had apparently drawn every available spectator, leaving none to notice Stanley.
'What is it?' Sheila asked.
'A house fire. Over on the other side of Swanson. At the comer of Livonia.'
'Is the fire department there?'
'No. Not yet.'
'Police?'
'Afraid not. Just a few neighbors'
'My God. What if it spreads?'
'Its pretty far away.'
'Oh God.'
'Don't worry.'
'I'm trapped.' Though the voice came to him along with a confusion of overlapping noises, he heard Sheila's fear. 'I don't want to burn up.'
'I'll get you out,' Stanley said. 'I'll save you. promise.'
'Hurry? Please?'
'I'm coming.' Moving as fast as he could without reckless chances, he descended to the bottom of the without trouble. From there, he could still see the thick black smoke curling into the sky. But the burning house and the spectators were out of sight, blocked from his view by remnants of Sheila's walls.
I can't see them, they can't see me. He liked that. If they can't see me, they won't be coming over to snoop. 'Sheila?'
'You sound very close.'
He looked toward the sound of her voice. It seemed to come from straight ahead - no more than a few strides away. But he could see only more tumbled, broken ruins of the house.
'I can't see you.'
'There's a bunch of stuff on me.'
He took a step. Another step. Halting, he studied the debris. 'Where are you?' he asked.
'You're almost on top of me.'
On top of you. Yes. Oh, yes! 'Can you see me?' he asked.
'Too much in the way. But you sound like you're somewhere above my feet.'
How could that be? The rubble in front of him looked fairly level and close to the floor. Unless Sheila'd been mashed but she claimed to be unharmed. And she sounded fine. Scared, but not in pain.
'I don't get it,' he said. 'Where are you?'
'I think I'm in the crawlspace.'
'What?'
'The crawlspace. Under the house. felt the tub drop. All this junk came crashing down, and the tub dropped out from under me. We must've landed in the crawlspace.'
'You're in your bathtub?' Stanley asked.
'Yeah. The luckiest break I've ever had.'
Me, too, Stanley thought.
'The stuff would've mashed me. But it's all across the top. Too much for me to budge.'
'Well, I'll start clearing it away.' He took off his pajama shirt. It felt good to be free of the wet, clinging fabric, to feel the air against his skin. He wanted to remove his pants, as well. We'd both be naked. Yeah, and what if somebody comes along? And what'll Sheila think? She'll be able to see me as soon as…
'How's that fire doing?' she asked, interrupting his thoughts.
Stanley twisted around for a look. Nothing had changed much. Black columns of smok
e still climbed the sky. 'It isn't getting any closer. Don't worry about it. We've got all the time in the world.'
***
Wellen had only avoided a bead-on collision with the RTD bus by steering even farther to the left, two lanes away from their proper side of the road and into the path of a gray Mercedes. He swerved right. Filled in the space between the rear of the bus and the front of an oncoming Ford. Then again to the right, abandoning the westbound lane with an instant to spare. And it had gone on like that. Bursts of speed, lurches from side to side, skids and abrupt halts, near misses one after another. It seemed that Wellen would no sooner save them from a crash than still another car or bus or delivery truck would be rushing straight at them. Barbara, belted into the passenger seat, sat rigid and squeezed her thighs and tried not to scream. Heather, in the backseat, screamed plenty. And sobbed and pleaded. Earl and Pete shouted. Barbara barely noticed anything that wasn't a direct threat to their Nova. She was only vaguely aware of what they passed: collapsed buildings, fires, wrecked cars, sheared off hydrants spouting white geysers into the air, people sprawled on the sidewalk, all bloody, or hurrying somewhere or stumbling along like zombies. Such sights hardly register on Barbara's mind. They didn't matter. They were background. They weren't real. Only the ride was real - the Nova piloted on its suicidal course by the driver's education instructor. On and on and on he sped with his students. Putting their lives at risk with every turn of the wheels. Taking them farther from school and from their homes with every second.