Paul Kolsby - Ear to the Ground

“Why not now?”

Emma stood up and began rummaging for a coffee filter. “Would you like a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“Thanks,” Baum said.

She turned on the tap and began measuring out the water, a gesture so ingrained it took no thought. Thirty years in this kitchen. Thirty years. As she poured in the grounds, she couldn’t help considering another little girl, who bore her own name and face. She thought of her mother telling her a bedtime story in the room where her daughter now slept; and her father, in dirty work clothes, sipping beer and watching the Dodgers on television. The memories were like little films to her. And if she left this house, they would stay behind.

“I don’t know what I want to do,” she said.

Baum smiled. “Where did your next door neighbors go?”

“Tucson.”

“I have a nephew in Tucson. In construction.”

“My husband’s in construction.”

“Yeah?” Baum took a sip of his coffee. “My nephew’s doing very well. Your husband should give him a call.”

“I should talk it over with him first.”

“Why? You own this house, don’t you, Mrs. Grant?”

“How do you know that?”

Baum gave her a teasing smile and went to his briefcase. Two chrome latches slapped against the leather. He withdrew a piece of paper and placed it on the table in front of her.

“OK, Mrs. Grant,” he said. “This is a bill of sale. One house at 1939 Topeka Drive, in exchange for a cashier’s check in the sum of twenty thousand dollars.”

“I …”

“You want to sell this house, Mrs. Grant. Your neighbors have all moved away.” He leaned in close across the table. “And your child was hurt in the last earthquake.”

Emma felt the air explode from her lungs like someone had kicked her in the solar plexus. For a moment, she thought she was screaming, but then she looked around her and saw Baum nodding at her from across the table, while Dorothy continued to play in the backyard. The only sound was that of the kitchen faucet, dripping as it had for years.

Frank Baum took a check from his briefcase. Emma could make out her name, printed clearly, along with the dollar amount.

“This offer might not be available tomorrow,” Baum said. “Tomorrow might be something else again.” He pushed his gold pen across the table. “So, Mrs. Grant. What do you say?”

IF CHARLIE RICHTER WANTED TO SAVE LOS ANGELES, HIS margin of error stood at less than one-tenth of a percent. Yet every time he thought seriously about his plan, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.

On Tuesday night, Charlie would fly into Honolulu, where he would pick up plastic explosives before chartering a plane to the tiny island of Lui. There, he would use his rusty surveyor’s skills to find the location his calculations had pinpointed: latitude 155.0357 degrees, longitude 19.8381. Two centuries earlier, a small volcano had anchored the spot, and Charlie hoped there were still some vestiges of rock and earth to mark it. If not, he thought, his face twitching into a grimace, I’m fucked. And so is L.A.

Charlie wished he didn’t feel so isolated, but he was now, undeniably, on his own. CES was a joke, a mere arm of Warner Brothers, with Caruthers feeding information to the Ear to the Ground marketing machine. The CES director had grown so fond of the camera that he’d become a regular commentator on Ricki Lake, reassuring anxious citizens that a temblor was nothing to fear. He had allowed hype to overtake any sense of scientific responsibility, seduced by Hollywood into believing that seismologists were fortune tellers and the study of earthquakes nothing but a parlor game.

The whole thing made Charlie wonder if the City of Angels was worth saving, or if it was more noble to let it be destroyed. Then he looked out his window and saw two kids playing across the street. One wore an oversized flannel shirt so large it came down below his knees. At that moment, Charlie realized that, no matter what else happened, he had no choice but to try.

Grace Gonglewski hated spending Saturday morning on the phone, but she’d allowed Bob Semel’s promises of money and power to overwhelm her better judgment. Having tripled Grace’s salary, the president of the studio seemed convinced he owned a piece of her soul. At least that’s what he’d told her at 7 a.m., when he called for his daily status report.

Grace had seen the ad in the Los Angeles Times . A full page in the Calendar section, featuring a photo of a crowded downtown L.A., split down the middle by the slogan: “Get Out Before It’s Too Late!” As she twirled a strand of hair around her finger and waited on hold with Ethan Carson, Grace thought how appropriate that tag line truly was. With Ear to the Ground opening in three days, five hundred prints were said to be faulty and in need of recall. Bob Semel wanted answers, and the theater owners were going wild. Last night, Grace dreamt of empty movie screens and crowds rioting on Hollywood Boulevard in front of Mann’s Chinese.

Fuck it, she thought, and lit a cigarette. Lately, she’d felt like writing again, felt scenes begin to articulate themselves slowly in her head. Partly, she guessed, it was due to Ian’s success; partly the fact that she lived each day like a rubber band stretched to the breaking point.

This time, however, she wasn’t thinking about writing a script — the fragments she jotted down were prose. She hadn’t told anyone about it, not even Charlie, and she wasn’t sure if it was delusion, or something that would one day take shape. But as she puffed on her cigarette, she could feel whatever it was starting to grow.

Charlie sat back in his chair and knitted his hands behind his head. Next to the computer, his recorder stood like a wooden sentry, fingerholes straight as coat buttons, mouthpiece a small, impassive head. How long had it been since he’d played? When he picked up the instrument and started to blow, its reedy tone was mournful as a Santa Ana wind.

The sound brought back the afternoon he had performed for Grace. The music was high and clear and full of hope: a sweet madrigal evoking the sustaining power of love. Five and a half months ago, he thought. It might as well be centuries. He felt ancient now, as if the weight of everything was laid across his back. Lately, he’d noticed tiny lines around his eyes and had become convinced he was growing old before his time.

On the computer screen, a simulated image of Lui sent waves of energy out into the Pacific. As Charlie watched, he pictured himself there with Grace. It was just a flash, gone as quickly as it appeared. But it left behind a sliver of anticipation, and, for the second time that morning, the certainty that he should seize the day.

So Charlie put down his recorder and headed for the stairs. On the second-floor landing, he knocked at Grace’s door. For an instant, there was no sound from within. Then the door swung open, revealing Grace, phone in the crook of her neck, looking as if she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Oh, hi,” she said, eyes coming alive at the sight of his face. She waved him inside, and mumbled a hurried goodbye into the phone.

“Hi,” Charlie said, and took a step toward her. “I think we need to talk.”

ON TUESDAY, DECEMBER 26, THE UNITED STATES ARMY sent double-rotored helicopters into the Los Angeles basin to monitor distress. Throughout the Southland, it was as if Christmas had never happened. In its place was an eastward stream of packed station wagons and moving vans that had now become a deluge. An ordinance had made it illegal for employers to penalize workers for leaving town and, as a result, most businesses were closed until after the first of the year.