Lee Goldberg: The Walk

“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.