7
T he next morning, Dillon woke to the sound of children’s laughter. The sound was so unexpected, he thought perhaps it was part of some dream he had carried from sleep. Then a child sang a few notes, followed by more laughter. It filled the empty back cell where Dillon lay, clear as the California sunlight he suspected he would not see that day.
He lay there, alone in the station’s drunk tank. The floor canted ever so slightly toward a drain in the room’s center. Dillon had set his mattress so his feet were by the drain and his head by the metal shelf running along the back wall. It was a very odd place to feel as complete as he did now. Perhaps it was simply because he had slept well for the first time since leaving his former home in Philadelphia. Yet as he lay there, staring at the concrete ceiling, he recalled the previous day. Helping Olivia find her way to some semblance of a new beginning. He had no idea what had drawn her back to Miramar in such an unwelcoming season. But there in the shadows she carried, he had sensed a similar tale to his own.
Watching Olivia photograph the family and prepare the portrait had carried seeds of hope. Fragile and tiny. But there just the same.
Dillon lay on his back, fingers laced behind his head, and allowed his mind to roam. Something he rarely did. His previous existence had been too full, too fast, too focused on everything that filled his days. All that was gone now. It was far from pleasant, looking back. Just the same, it felt right. Lying here in his solitary cell, remembering.
Soon after Dillon turned eleven, his hippie mom left his hippie dad. One day she was there, and their homelife was okay. Not great. More like, what passed for normal. Then one night she had declared that she was so bored with her existence it felt like her soul had entered hibernation. Three days later, she was gone.
His father’s response was to lose himself in smoke. Weed intake went up tenfold. Dillon’s old man checked out so far and so fast he could go days without even speaking. His only remaining interest was tending his crop of weed. Certainly not his son.
Dillon’s grandparents had insisted he live with his father and effectively babysit the stoned loner. But they sheltered their grandson in so many ways. Every few evenings he joined them for dinner. His grandmother then sent Dillon home with food to tide them over. His grandparents started treating him as a newly forged adult. One they could trust to keep things together, both for himself and his childish dad. Later that year his grandmother arranged Dillon’s unofficial job at the motel. Dillon discovered a genuine passion for work, and doing a job well.
The jail’s regular showers and facilities had been sealed off. Instead, the station’s new guests used the bathroom next to the chief’s office. Two handmade signs hung to either side of the door. The first was a circle with an arrow that swiveled, pointing to either M ALE or F EMALE . The second sign simply said, B EHAVE .
Dillon showered and dressed in wrinkled but clean clothes, then followed his nose toward coffee and breakfast. Two officers served duty by the front reception desk. Chief Porter leaned over Maud’s shoulder and studied a file, while she quietly pointed her way down the page.
The six families who had spent the night in the cells were clustered around a pair of desks adjacent to the kitchenette. Older kids played a board game while the twins stood to either side of Olivia’s chair, wearing police hats and clutching stuffed animals and vying for her attention. Olivia’s family portrait now hung on the wall behind them.
Dillon accepted a plate of overcooked eggs and ate staring out the front window. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained a leaden gray. He returned his empty plate to the kitchenette, refilled his mug, and headed over. Olivia told him, “The twins think they’re leaving today.”
The girl with the misnamed bunny announced, “Mommy says tomorrow. Daddy says now.”
Olivia went on, “Porter says the dozers have been out this morning. The roads to our homes have been cleared. He can’t say for how long. The hillsides are just waiting for an excuse to send down more rubble.”
“Which is what Daddy told Mommy,” the twin reported. “Six times.”
Dillon said, “We could drive up together, if you like. Me and you. Just take a look. Not even go inside unless . . .”
“That’s why I’ve been sitting here,” she replied.
“Hoping you’d say that.”
Dillon had a rental car that might get them there and back. Ditto for Olivia’s Honda. But just as likely either vehicle would leave them stranded somewhere that turned awful when the rains resumed. He walked to where Porter continued frowning over a form Maud held and asked, “Can I have a word?”
“Anything to get me away from this mess.”
Maud said, “Our chief suffers from a severe case of formaphobia.”
Porter turned his back to the room, lowered his voice, and said, “I was hoping Olivia would do pictures of my family. Our daughter’s grown up. This may be her last Christmas at home.”
Maud rose and planted herself alongside Porter. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I’d love one of the grandkids.”
“We can pay,” Porter said.
“We see the state she’s in,” Maud said. “We were wondering what you thought of the idea.”
“I imagine Olivia will agree,” Dillon said. “But first we need to borrow somebody’s four-wheel drive.”
* * *
There were worse ways to travel inland, Dillon thought, than in the chief’s own pickup. Town shields on the doors, lights and sirens discreetly tucked away but there in an emergency, three antennas and a radio that could probably reach Mars, massive lights on the roof, four-wheel drive, six-liter diesel kicker. All the comforts of home.
The rain had stopped, but the sky remained a dismal gray. Olivia rode curled in the manner of a teen, shoes kicked off, seatbelt loose around her middle, heels propped on the seat, arms wrapped around her legs. They did not speak for a time, taking the main road leading east. Past the grocery store and the new strip mall beyond, into the largest of Miramar valleys. Like so many drives before, back in the bygone days when all they could think of was how to escape.
He knew her so well. The looks she cast. The questions she didn’t ask, because she didn’t want to pressure him into speaking about what hurt. Which it did. Even staying silent burned his throat and heart. So he decided he might as well get it over with.
He started with a statement. “You know about Wharton.”
She straightened in her seat. The ease gone now. It no longer suited what was happening. “Of course I know.”
Dillon had skipped his junior year, which meant they graduated high school together. They had both won partial scholarships to UC Santa Cruz, close enough they could commute for the first two years. Then Olivia’s photography began winning prizes, and UC Santa Barbara’s art department reached out, offering a full ride. UCSB’s art school was considered a gateway to greatness. Of course she went, and their relationship became defined by weekends in Miramar. Olivia racing toward her exit, Dillon plodding stolidly along. Until Wharton.
“After you left for Santa Barbara, I started working on a double major,” he told her. “Econ and accounting. Honors in both.”
“Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“Don’t give me that. You know perfectly well why.” She leaned her head back against the headrest. Sighed. “I know.”
Their weekends reached a fever pitch, the good times flaming with a unique brilliance, the bad times wreaking havoc and destruction. Olivia’s mother had repeatedly warned they were playing with fire, hurting along with them, fearful for how they both seemed almost eager to find the exit.
Which, truth be told, was how Dillon had seen it all too often. Driving back to Santa Cruz, molten with fury over whatever slight he felt able to carry away from their latest quarrel. Severing one cord after another. Letting go.
Olivia brought him back with, “Wharton.”
“It was everything I’d hoped for and more,” he said, remembering. “I didn’t know how lucky I was until I got there. My accounting prof had urged me to apply, and she was totally right. There was none of the snobbishness, none of the country-club attitude that defined other top-tier business schools. Wharton brought in a lot of kids like me. We competed, we fought, we learned.”
She said quietly, “You found a home. At long last.”
Being understood should not have hurt like it did. “Four months before graduation, I was recruited. The thrill of having several groups compete for me was something I can’t describe. I went with a boutique investment fund, they specialized in high-tech start-ups. Solid returns.” He went quiet. Remembering.
“Problems?”
“I assumed Wharton’s level playing field would exist in the real world. I was wrong. I lost out to Yalies on promotions I deserved. Twice. The third time, I left. I started an investment advisory group with five others from our group who also suffered from this unlevel playing field. Our former employers accused us of stealing clients. Which was true and not true. The clients didn’t withdraw anything, they simply gave their next tranche of funds to us. Our former group threatened us with a court action, then they went silent.” A pause, then, “I thought we were in the clear.”
The valley narrowed. The road went down to one lane, the other blocked by piles of rubble. They passed scrapers gathering piles and pouring them into gravel trucks. The noise was fierce. Going was slow enough for Dillon to become mired in memories.
When they were past and the going quieter, Olivia pressed, “What happened?”
“I thought I had discovered a major new investment opportunity. It seemed almost too perfect. Which, it turned out, is exactly what it was.”
“They set you up.” She reached across the divide and settled her hand on his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”
Her hand threatened to brand him. “We went all in. Urged our investors to do the same. They trusted us. I lost everything.”
They reached the narrow road leading up to their homes. Piles of rocks and debris rose like prehistoric grave mounds to either side. The latest storms had loosened more rubble. Dillon moved forward at a crawl. Tempted to go quiet. Pretend it was over. But he knew it wouldn’t work. If he didn’t finish the telling, the unspoken final chapter would keep burning. “Top investment funds form a pretty tight niche. My former company spread rumors that I didn’t just fail my investors. I stole funds. Making sure I could never go back. Three and a half weeks ago, I gave up. Declared bankruptcy. Selling everything and wrapping up my former life took until this week.”
There was really nothing to be said after that.
Dillon pushed the four-wheel drive over gravel and loose boulders, climbing steadily. All the while, Olivia remained curled in her seat, facing him, holding his shoulder, saying sorry in her own uniquely silent manner. Just like the very best of their former days.
When they reached her drive, Dillon asked, “Ready?”
She slipped her hand back, swung around, straightened in her seat. “Absolutely not.”
He pressed on the gas. “Here we go.”
* * *
Dillon pulled through the sycamores that flanked the entrance and stopped. When Olivia did not move, he said, “Let me do this.”
Olivia remained silent.
He went on, “There’s no need for you to go in. Not today. I’ll check things out, make sure it’s as safe as it can be. We’ll head back to town. Leave this place in our rearview mirror.”
Olivia responded by reaching for her purse. She handed over a set of keys and said, “Thank you, Dillon.”
He carefully tread through the muddy terrain. The cottage stood on a tiny knob, and the flow of mud and debris had flowed along a shallow defile on the hill’s opposite side.
Throughout his childhood, farms and hillside homes had gradually been bought up by wealthy outsiders and turned into weekend retreats, retirement homes, investment properties. His and Olivia’s families were holdouts.
The hilltop formed a trio of descending levels. His father’s ratty home and marijuana garden occupied the next property, while his grandparents’ home and vineyard crowned the gentle slope. The storms had carved a muddy furrow farther north. From where he stood, Dillon could see how old-growth trees and the vineyard’s retaining walls had acted like a dam, mostly protecting the three homes. But a minor segment of the mudslide had crossed behind Olivia’s cottage, shoving it partly off the foundations.
He climbed the front porch and took a moment to examine the home’s exterior. It looked to be fairly intact, but weathered by seven years of renters. He unlocked the front door, then used both hands and some very hard effort to pull it open.
The home was a weary shell. The power was off, and water from a burst pipe had stained the living room carpet. The hardwood floors were scarred and dirty. Dillon forced himself forward, hurting for the lady waiting in the pickup.
He swiftly made his way through the two bedrooms, the baths, the hall, the indentation where the dining table once stood. Most of the walls were riven by new cracks, some so large he could see daylight. The kitchen floor had crimped up, sealing the door leading to the rear veranda.
Dillon confronted memories everywhere. Olivia’s mother did not so much raise wildflowers as invite them to grow. She bundled them, selecting as much for fragrance as colors, and hung them around the veranda’s high beams. Out where the river of mud had erased the rear garden, she had raised vegetables and kept two dozen hives, producing honey she sold in town. There had been money from somewhere; Olivia’s mother never spoke about the life or family she had left long ago. The only family Dillon ever met was Olivia’s aunt, a big-boned woman whose size had astonished him. She had a laugh so huge a younger Dillon had wondered if maybe someday she might boom so loudly she would blow out the windows.
He walked back through the kitchen and the parlor. Stepped onto the front porch. Shoved hard on the door, jamming it shut. Pocketed the key. Started down the front steps. Crossed the yard. Olivia watched in silence as he opened the driver’s door, slid inside, and started the motor.
Dillon took it easy turning around, carefully forging a path through the slick debris. Beyond the front gates he turned right and gunned the engine, pushing the truck up the incline. Toward home.
Now that they had left her cottage in the rearview mirror, Olivia released a long breath and asked, “How bad was it?”
“I’m no expert. But it wasn’t good.”
Another breath, then, “I can’t live there, can I.” “Not without a lot of work.”
“Which I can’t afford.”
Dillon had no idea how to respond, and remained silent.
The entry to the home where Dillon had grown up was blocked by debris. But their view from the road showed him all he needed to see. The debris-flow had come closer to the house and the damage was more severe. Much of the garden was gone. One corner of the home’s foundations had been eaten away, so that the house tilted at a severe angle. A single breath, a finger’s touch, and it would join the muddy descent. From inside the truck he could see loose foundations, the cracked walls, the shattered glass.
Olivia said, “I’m sorry, Dillon.”
He drove on. “Don’t be. It was never much of a home.”
“How often did you come back?”
“A couple of times each year, never for very long. Then my grandparents passed away two years ago. There wasn’t much reason after that. You?”
“Not since I married Gavin. Mom moved to Phoenix and lived with my aunt. She claimed it was too lonely up here without me. She rented out the cottage and lived from the proceeds. The cancer took her three years ago.” A trace of a smile. “To say she and Gavin didn’t get along is the understatement of the century.”
“So she never visited you in LA?”
“Once. After I miscarried.”
“I’m so sorry, Olivia. I didn’t know.”
“No way you could have.” A silence, then, “I’m glad Mom isn’t around to see what’s happened.”
Dillon nodded. “She loved that old place, sure enough.”
As Dillon turned off the road and climbed the graveled track, he remembered running back and forth between the homes, taking trails through stands of California sycamore, arroyo willow, bay laurel, and oak. He was glad to see most of the trees had survived the storms, anchoring the property. He rounded the final bend, stopped the truck, and squinted through the rain-streaked windshield.
Dillon’s grandfather had been passionate about everything that grew on his land. The otherwise silent man sounded almost lyrical when he talked about his trees, his garden, his vines. The gentle slopes pointing west and south had held almost four acres of vineyards, producing what locals had claimed was the worst wine in all California.
Olivia said, “It looks okay.”
He nodded agreement. In truth, he thought the home looked more or less intact. This high up, the mud flow had not been so powerful, and the glade of old trees had firmly anchored the home and barn. Even the low wall surrounding his grandmother’s vegetable garden looked intact.
Olivia asked, “Do you want me to go inside?” “Not unless you want to.”
“In that case, I’ll stay right here.”
Dillon made a fast circuit, lingering just long enough to ensure the place was habitable. Once the power and water were back, he had a place to live. If he could manage to endure the memories. And the regret. He returned to the living room, breathing in the cold dusty aroma of his grandfather’s pipe. He had fought so hard to leave this place. And look where it had gotten him.