A. Homes - This Book Will Save Your Life

"Getting quite a crowd. And you?"

"We're just about to come over the ridge. Is the vet there?"

"Roger."

"Can he give the horse a sedative and put the ear plugs in? Also, have the police clear the road above the hill. Once we pick the horse up, we need to put him down somewhere."

"Roger."

Just as the helicopter comes over the edge of the hill, the vet stuffs the socks in Lucky's ears and gives him a shot. Lucky doesn't like any of it, including the sound of the helicopter; he does a lot of stomping. "It's going to take a few minutes to kick in," the vet says.

"Pull back, pull back, the horse isn't ready yet."

Richard isn't ready either; he's nervous, excited, almost overwhelmed, it's too much stimulation — maybe the vet should give him a little shot as well.

The chopper pulls back, and a few minutes later they come in again and lower the harness. The girl is the only one that Lucky will let in close enough.

"OK, honey, I'm going to talk you through it." The movie star has the stunt coordinator from Paramount with him in the chopper.

"I'm not your honey," the girl says to the stunt man.

The horse is settling down, looking glassy-eyed, stoned. The harness is a huge canvas sling, like a strait jacket. As soon as it's on and the cable is attached, the girl scrambles out of the hole. On the top of the hill, the television cameras are rolling — there's a line of TV trucks, satellite dishes up, antennas extended. The movie star manages to look directly at the cameras and give a big wave, just before the signal goes out to lift the horse.

It happens quickly: the harness pulls taut, the horse's feet are off the ground, and he's rising out of the hole. He's free and he's flying. Everyone cheers. Richard bursts into tears. Will he cry every day now? And is this something to be concerned about? Lucky is flying. The sight of a horse hovering overhead, a horse in a sling, tethered to a helicopter, is something you'd never imagine.

"This is the dicey part," the stunt director says over the walkie-talkie. "We have to land him gently. The second the horse has all four legs on the ground, he's going to want to bolt. You have to get the cable off so he doesn't drag us. You have to get the cable."

Richard talks Lucky down, fifty feet, fifteen, ten, seven, three, two; the vet has a hand on him. Lucky's feet are on the ground, the vet detaches the cable, the harness goes slack.

"Go, go, go," Richard shouts into the walkie-talkie, and the chopper pulls back. The movie star makes a salutory dip in the chopper and flies over the hill.

"Over and out," he calls.

The harness falls to the ground like an enormous canvas dropcloth. Lucky shakes his head, trying to get the ear-plug socks out.

The girl and the vet lead Lucky up the hill towards home — feet stomping as if in protest at the indignity of it all.

The camera crews lower their antennas, and the crowd begins to dissolve.

"Is everything all right?" the girl's mother asks, arriving after the fact. "I was in the Valley, the traffic was horrible."

"Fine," Richard says, wiping his eyes. "Everything is fine."

"Well," Bob says, "there's really not much I can do at this point. We don't repair sinkholes, we just track them. We stand back and let nature take its course."

"Do you know who that was in the helicopter?" Richard asks, bending to look at what is growing on the ground.

Bob shrugs. "Not really."

Richard whispers the movie star's name. He plucks some of the greenery and rubs it between his fingers. Mint. It's deliciously mint.

"You're kidding; I had no idea."

"Who did you think it was?" he asks once again, bringing his fingers to his nose, breathing the scent.

"I figured he was your boyfriend and maybe the girl was your daughter."

"We're neighbors, we're all neighbors."

"That's nice," Bob says, getting back into his white government sedan. "You don't see much of that."

Richard goes into the house. Cecelia is in the kitchen, wearing his headphones, making lunch.

"Did you see it?"

"What?" She takes the headphones off. "I can't hear you."

"You missed the whole thing?"

"Missed what?"

He turns on the television. They're showing the footage of Lucky being lifted up into the air with the red "Breaking News headline just beneath.

"Is that right?" Cecelia says, putting the headphones back on. "I love these." She yells in the way that people yell when they can't hear how loud they're talking. "I'm going to get a pair for myself. Can't hear anything."

AN HOUR LATER, there's a knock on the door. "That was really great," the movie star says, standing in the doorway. "Thanks for thinking of me."

"Well, I just thought the part might appeal to you; it seemed like your kind of role."

"Maybe I'll even get a nomination."

"It wasn't really a movie," Richard says, worried that the guy doesn't know the difference.

"I was thinking of good citizenship — I always used to win that one. By the way, I didn't get your name?"

"Novak, Richard Novak," he says, extending his hand.

"Pleasure to meet you. And, really, thanks for ringing my bell; it doesn't happen every day."

"It's been all over the TV," Richard says, leading him in, pointing to the screen. "You looked pretty good in that helicopter."

The movie star laughs. "I'll tell you a secret," he says. "But you have to swear not to tell anyone."

Richard nods.

"I don't own a TV."

HE IS STANDING at the glass, looking out. The hole is deeper still. Between the footprints, the crime-scene tape, the heavy traffic, the hill is a disaster. He looks out the window at the distant palm trees like the spines of an ancient fan. Just below are yellow and orange wildflowers, the purple ice plants, the scruffy brown-and-green scrub, chaparral, mint, and flowers he can't name. While he's watching, the coyote returns, sniffs the ground tentatively, then goes into the hole and scurries out with something in his mouth — the jelly donut.

It is noon, and everything has come to an end.

The day is bright, the sky blue, the sun shining. Up the hill, the one-hole golf course is complete, a perfectly groomed twenty-by-forty-foot rectangle of phosphorescent green. The bougainvillea is in bloom.

EXHAUSTED, Richard breaks yet another of his rules and lies down on his bed. His clothing smells like mint. He smiles, imagines dipping himself in iced tea, imagines himself in a pool with the woman in the red bathing suit. She is swimming; he is drifting, dreaming.

He sleeps. It is the sleep of exhaustion, of enormous change. He is sleeping so soundly that when the masseur comes, he and Cecelia decide not to wake Richard. They turn off the television and tiptoe out of his room. He sleeps so soundly that when Sylvia the nutritionist comes, Cecelia and Sylvia stand in the bedroom doorway, their heads bobbing to the rhythm of his sonorous snoring.

"Is he all right?" Sylvia whispers.

"It's been a hard week."

Sylvia leaves his meals, his cereal, his sachets, his supplements, and her cell-phone number. She tells Cecelia to get some cranberries, apricots, and blueberries, and more tomatoes, more cancer protection. She leaves an extra supply of low-carb vegan brownies.

"He'll like that," Cecelia whispers, "he's got a sweet tooth."

He sleeps so soundly that when Cecelia is done for the day, she lays a nice blanket over him and locks the door behind her.

HE DREAMS of falling through space. He dreams he is pulled towards a spherical surface, a horizon, a boundary. He realizes that once you cross the boundary there is no escape: it is destiny, there is no way out.

A crack of lightning wakes him up. It is night. It is raining. He hears it on the skylight in the bathroom, the plinkety-plink of raindrops. He walks around the house to make sure everything is OK. The kitchen clock says 4:00 a.m. Seven a.m. in New York; he automatically does the math. He always does the math. He always imagines what they are doing. Ben — still sleeping. Her — on the treadmill or in bed editing. She always used to edit in bed. She would prop herself up, leaning back against an enormous teddy-bearish pillow — she called it her husband — manuscript in hand.