Chapter 12
The fact that she was safely in my home seemed to be of little consolation to her.
After getting instructions from me on how to use the television remote, she said she was parking herself in front of the wall-to-wall coverage on the local channels and hoped there would be a home for her to go back to in the morning.
My daughter checked in from Hawaii as news of the fires spread far and wide. I told her that her mother was safe and that all we could do was wait it out and see what the morning brought in terms of wind and damage.
We crested the Tehachapi Mountains on the Grapevine, and as we traversed the Santa Susanas down into the basin of the San Fernando Valley, we could see the glow of fire on the ridgeline up ahead.
The Santa Monica Mountains cut through the heart of the city, separating the Valley from the Westside. I had a bad feeling in the pit of my stomach, knowing that homes were burning on the other side of the mountain chain.
“Holy shit!” McEvoy said. “That’s gotta be the Palisades burning.”
I just nodded. There was something almost biblical about the firestorm.
The newscasters we had listened to referred to the Santa Ana winds that were feeding and spreading the fires as the “devil winds.” A commentator on Fox likened L.A.
to Sodom and Gomorrah. I wondered about the retreat humans made to religion in the face of natural disasters.
We shifted from the 5 freeway to the 405, which cut a line down the middle of the Valley toward Sherman Oaks, where I would drop off McEvoy.
He killed the radio and we drove in silence and awe at what we were seeing up ahead.
It made me think of a Dave Alvin song I had heard a long time ago.
I couldn’t remember the tune anymore but the lyrics I could never forget.
California’s burning
There’s trouble in the promised land.
You better pack up your family
And get out while you can.