Mackenna on the Edge Page 5

  Thanks a lot, Camille, Mackenna thought. She could use a cigarette herself, but she was only able to stave off her craving as long as she didn’t think about it—and now Camille had gone and planted the forbidden idea in her head. Damn.

  6.2

  Weary of Mackenna’s reprimand, Camille immediately switched back to the subject at hand. She continued to describe the aftermath, as much as was known so far, of the horrific earthquake that had jolted all of the sleeping Los Angeles out of bed at four-thirty-one that morning—just twelve hours earlier—the morning of the Martin Luther King, Jr. holiday. The quake was thought to be centered in the Los Angeles city of Northridge, rated at least 6.6 on the Richter scale, and possibly even stronger.

  A seemingly endless stream of aftershocks followed, some as strong as 5.0, and powerful in their own right. Fires, broken gas and water mains, the actual collapse of at least four major freeways, and an apartment building at the epicenter in Northridge where at least twelve people died, had dominated the news all day.

  With non-stop coverage of death and destruction, Camille was getting extremely anxious, and perhaps even a little depressed, and the news reporters hadn’t even gotten to her neighborhood in the small community of Brentwood. She wondered how many other areas were being ignored. Could it even be worse than they already knew? And then she worried, along with most of the inhabitants of the L.A. Basin, how could she possibly get around town with all those freeways demolished, especially the Santa Monica, the one she found herself on at least two or three times a week to take her to important meetings for her clients. And who knew exactly how many more were going to be shut down? Not that she was particularly inclined to ever venture outdoors again, given what was happening all over the southern half of the state. What a nightmare, she thought.

  Camille, like most Los Angelenos, spent a good portion of her life driving, and practically had an affair going with her car. At times it seemed as if she put more effort into her relationship with her vintage ’73 Mercedes 450SL than with people. It appeared that way, anyway. You had to. Not only was it important to be comfortable, considering the amount of driving done on an average day (actually more sitting in traffic than actual driving), but without the completed comprehensive public transportation system, it was also the only reliable way to get around the expanse of Southern California. There was also that ego and status thing they had going—their social and professional success were sometimes judged solely by the car they drove—the epitome of the LA status symbol. Crazy and kind of sad, Camille thought, but in this town it was so true.

  Mostly, Camille worried about “The Big One,” and the frightening possibility that this major quake was just a foreshock and not just a renegade fault misbehaving. She just didn’t trust the seismologists. To her, they seemed to be fabricating hypotheses as to the origin and importance of the violent temblor that so rudely tossed her from her comfy bed and luscious slumber onto the floor. Their calm faces on the news seemed just a little too calm to her. She knew faces—a large part of her business required her to read faces and make important contract decisions based on what she saw in them—so she felt certain the newscasters weren’t being entirely truthful.

  The experts were probably being squeezed by government officials in order to put a cap on any dire predictions and stave off the possibility of mass pandemonium, followed closely by mass exodus. She didn’t trust scientists, and she certainly didn’t trust bureaucrats. And what about that asshole governor—if he wasn’t the political re-incarnate of Reagan she didn’t know. And as a governor, he sucked, too. They both sucked. Just watching him standing there on the news all day looking, oh so sorrowful for all the destruction, when you just knew all he cared about was getting re-elected.

  It wasn’t difficult to see his sorrow was more for the many disasters he’d had to deal with in the last couple of years that might ruin his political aspirations, than for the people who were suffering now from the earthquake. One didn’t have to wander too far from Sacramento to find an excellent example of a similar political failing, and it was preposterous to imagine Governor Wilson wasn’t in any way influenced by Art Agnos, the former mayor of San Francisco, and his political health following the ’89 quake. It was so clear… everything, everything, and everything The Governor had done since he was sworn in smacked of…

  “Oh gosh…” Mackenna abruptly interrupted Camille’s mental political tirade as her house suddenly lurched. The oversized plaster bust of Hermilio Martín leapt off its perch, high up on the fireplace mantel for more than thirty years, and plunged to a violent, shattering death onto the marble hearth below.

  “What’s the mat —” Camille suddenly dropped the phone’s handset, flinging over the side, and held onto the edge of her mattress for dear life as her bed began to rock wildly beneath her, to and fro, throwing half of her “survival” items to the floor as the latest and most violent aftershock rumbled its way through her house and off into the Pacific Ocean. Naked Oreos littered the bed and floor, commingling—some crushed, but most intact—with her now strewn, prized possessions.

  “Holy cow, Camille, did you feel that?” Mackenna’s heart raced as pure adrenaline pumped through her body. “Camille? Are you all right?” She strained to listen to the other end of the phone where indecipherable sounds garbled through her handset. “Camille, is that you? Are you there?”

  Camille allowed herself a moment for her stomach to return to its rightful place before she flung half her body over the edge of her bed and groped around the floor for the elusive phone. “Hold on… I’m here but I can’t find you…”

  “Camille?”

  “I can hear you… but I don’t…”

  “Camille?”

  “Aha! Gotcha, ya little fucker!” Camille fished the phone handset off the floor by it’s coiled cord before pulling herself back up onto the bed. She exclaimed breathlessly into the phone, “My god, that was a good one, wasn’t it? I think that one had to be at least a six, don’t you?” Camille searched the bed for damage and discovered her pile of Oreo remains lying on the floor. “Oh, sonofabitch… I lost my cookies! Christ!” She leaned carefully over the side of the bed so as not to disturb the treasures piled between her legs, stretching her arm to retrieve her fallen treats with one hand while struggling to keep the phone to her ear with the other.

  “What? Lost your cookies?” Mackenna asked with suspicion. “Camille, you’re not still eating Oreos, are —”

  “What? No!” Camille sat up quickly, her free hand clutching several naked cookie halves. “No, no…” She feigned calm and spoke slowly while she frantically searched her mind for a suitable lie. “Um, I said… sonofabitch… um…”

  “Camille…”

  “What I said is, I nearly ‘tossed’ my cookies. God, you’re so suspicious, Mac.” Whew! Camille wiped her brow and mentally congratulated herself for a great save. “That was a helluvan aftershock, though, wasn’t it? Are you okay?” She asked with gravity and slyly changed the subject.

  “Whatever,” Mackenna answered hesitantly. She was momentarily distracted by Camille’s fishy explanation, but shrugged it off realizing she didn’t really care, and allowed herself to again be pulled into conversation. “Well,” she began. “Let’s see… my great-great grandfather Hermilio just bit the dust, so-to-speak, but that’s about it—at least that’s it here in the library. I’m fine…” Was she really? “I just wish they’d get us some power. Do you have power? Oh, yeah, that’s right; I forgot… you must since you’ve been watching the news all day.”

  “No, mine’s out, too. I’ve been watching my little Watchman all day. Lucky for me, I just stocked up on batteries last week. Don’t ask me why, but thank goodness, right? I even got a couple of spares for my laptop… I guess I had a feeling I’d need them. Maybe I’m psychic, eh? Anyway, thank God. Come rain, sleet, snow… and earthquakes, a girl’s gotta work, eh?”

  “You’re a spooky woman, Camille.”

  “Yeah.”


  6.3

  Both women were silent as they each grappled with their own fear and stress issues yanked to the surface from the recent aftershock.

  “You know,” Camille continued, suddenly overcome by an overwhelming sense of doom. “They think there’s a real possibility of some really strong aftershocks and I wonder if you’re worried… you know, about… you don’t think we’ll have anything bigger than this morning, do you?” Camille’s voice betrayed her fear, and set up a conflict within Mackenna. “Do you?” Camille urged Mackenna for an answer.

  Mackenna battled inwardly while her friend waited for words of reassurance from her; but she wasn’t really interested in talking to Camille, or anyone else, for that matter. The earthquake was a distraction, but an unexpected one keeping her from her writing and self-analysis. If she inquired about Camille’s state of affairs she was encouraging more distraction. Yet, Camille was her dear friend. Stilted, Mackenna reluctantly invited Camille to share her own feelings. “No. I don’t. But what about you, Camille… are you surviving all right?”

  Camille sighed, welcoming the invitation to talk about the nightmare she’d been living all day. Several hours after the initial shock and after her own frightening first-hand experience dealing with the overwhelming losses of her neighbors, Camille retreated to the sanctuary of her bedroom, her phones, her television and her large, much-beloved one-of-a-kind twig bed. However, with phone calls heavily restricted in the area, Mackenna was the first person she’d been able to get through to after nearly a whole day of trying everyone she knew. By then, Camille was in dire need of a severe dose of commiserating.

  With each passing hour and every aftershock, Camille’s perception of the disaster grew more morose and apocalyptic, fueled by an extreme overdose of local news coverage and the inability to contact anyone she knew in the quake-zone. Mackenna’s reluctant query opened the door to conversation wide open and Camille ran in, screaming.

  “Oh, well,” Camille said. “You know me and earthquakes… I can definitely do without them, but this one… Ohmagod, you should see my house, Mackenna! I don’t know how I found my way out of my bedroom… looks like a demon came in, emptied every drawer onto the floor, ripped everything out of the closet and just hurled it.”

  Immediately regretting having invited further exchange, Mackenna responded with dull sarcasm, hoping to squelch the conversation. “Camille, I’ve seen your closet, so, um… what exactly is it that the earthquake did to it?”

  “Oh, you are such a funny person…” Camille huffed.

  The hurt evident in Camille’s voice touched Mackenna. She waited in conflicted silence; half wishing Camille would just hang up, yet, also hoping she wouldn’t.

  Overly emotional and equally sensitive, Camille responded to Mackenna’s sarcastic reply with a hint of embarrassed indignation laced with a plea for understanding. “I know this is difficult for you to believe, Mackenna, but I am not a slob.” She couldn’t help it she could never find anything to wear straight out of the closet. Camille had to see everything out in the open to make the right decision. Despite the fact that Mackenna had only ever seen her room after dressing for an event, she was really quite organized.

  The hurt in Camille’s voice was evident, and Mackenna immediately felt terrible. Though she had managed to successfully avoid Camille for over six months, it wasn’t because Mackenna didn’t care for her. Mackenna loved her like a sister, but Camille was also her agent. Sometimes it was a difficult line to walk. Most of the time she was successful at it, but Camille represented a pressure Mackenna simply could not deal with at that moment—especially since she wasn’t producing any work of significance. But more than work issues, Camille knew her—too well—and Mackenna didn’t care to share her angst with her or anyone.

  “Just pulling your leg, Cami,” she said finally.

  “Sure, sure, okay.” Camille replied, slightly offended, yet completely undaunted. “Anyway, the house seems fine. Like you said, it’s really hard to tell right now, but I’ve got a few little cracks here and there, and—oh, and you can just keep your little comments to yourself, Mackenna.”

  “What?” Mackenna feigned ignorance. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “No wise cracks about my little cracks, that’s all,” Camille warned.

  “I didn’t say anything.” Mackenna grinned slightly at Camille’s justified paranoia.

  “Well, I’m just saying…” She is so predictable, Camille thought, and then stubbornly continued. “Anyway…”

  Oh, she knows you too well, Mackenna thought. She settled back into the chair, reluctantly admitting to herself that it was actually rather calming to talk to Camille given the immediate circumstances. If she only had a cigarette. Mackenna began to rifle through the desk for the just-in-case pack she hid the last time she quit. When she couldn’t find them she remembered she had thrown them out a little over two weeks earlier to avoid all temptation—her New Year’s resolution. Slightly agitated, Mackenna settled back into the chair and grudgingly invited Camille to continue her story. “Go on, Cami, so you’ve got some little cracks.” Mackenna smiled to herself as she played with the coils of the phone cord.

  “Right… As I was saying, on the inside of the house there are some little cracks but nothing much else. But you know what? I’ve decided I’m just not going to deal with anything more today. I cleaned up broken glass and moved stuff I might trip on as I run out screaming during every aftershock, but beyond that… I’m over it, girl. I’m telling you—I am over it,” she repeated, emphasizing “it.”

  Camille briefly surveyed the conglomeration spread about her bed and sighed heavily. “I’m in my bed and I’m staying here until I don’t know when. I have everything I need right here and that’s it. I’m not going to deal with anything. And no one better try and mess with me or try and take my stuff because I’m loaded for bear!” She impulsively grabbed the .38 revolver out from under her pillow and waved it at the room. The gingerly balanced, stacked pile of Oreo skeletons tottered precariously on her thigh. “I swear… I really am! Mess with me or my stuff and… ka-boom!” Camille’s cookies toppled over.

  “That sounds pretty serious, Cami,” Mackenna said without enthusiasm.

  “I know. I tell you, Mackenna… it’s just a nightmare…” Camille’s voice trailed as she suddenly lost her momentary burst of energy and slumped back against her pillow, dropped the .38 at her side and began lifelessly stacking the cookie halves. “Well, you know me,” she said softly. “I don’t mess around when it comes to my stuff. It’s not pretty, I know. But I guess that’s what happens when you grow up poor—you probably can’t relate, but…”

  “Mmm, I think I can…” Mackenna replied with quiet confidence, remembering picking bottles up off the street to buy groceries, eating her friends’ leftovers when they ate at the local taco shop—what she refers as her Top Ramen days of independence from her parents’ money—long before her own success.

  “Anyway…” Camille slumped further into her bed. “I can’t bear to think about my life one more second, so tell me about your house.”

  “My house…” Mackenna drew a blank.

  “Yeah,” she urged. “Like, what’s going on up there? Is everything okay? You know…”

  “Oh, yes, right.” Right… more idle chit chat. Mackenna drew a silent heavy sigh and continued without enthusiasm. “Well… of course there’re some cracks in the walls and… uh… let’s see… a couple of ugly antiques went down the entry stairs tail over tea kettle… smashed to smithereens.” Good riddance. “And, um…” Mackenna’s fingers drummed impatiently on the desk as she took a mental inventory and imparted information in a fairly business-like fashion. “Overall, I think the library and the kitchen are really the worst with books and dishes everywhere, but nothing of real value was destroyed… none of the good antiques. I’m thankful for that… so far, anyway. But everything, you know, is on a ‘so far’ basis. I’m cautiously optimistic.” Cautiously optimistic? Jeez, she
thought, I sound like some cheesy talking head.

  “Cautiously optimistic… that’s good, Mac. You’re doing much better than I am… I’m just hideously hysterical. Anyway… Back to you. What’ve you and your gang been doing all day?”

  “My gang…? Would be… who?”

  “You know, your staff.”

  “Oh, right, I see.” Mackenna had never heard the household staff referred to as a gang before, and since returning to the mansion after her parents’ deaths she never thought of the people who took care of her and the household as anything other than family. Most of them literally were family members, second and third cousins or friends of the family, who were brought over from Ireland, Spain and Cuba by her parents before she was born. “They’re not staff, Camille, they’re my family.”

  6.4

  All those years ago, the so-called “staff,” who were initially sponsored by her parents when they immigrated, began working for her parents as domestics and never left. They were completely devoted to Mackenna’s parents. When her parents died, each inherited enough money to retire very comfortably—but not one of them left, choosing instead to continue to care for Mackenna and their home. They were family—her family. She smiled as the very thought of them always gave her a wonderful sense of comfort.

  “Well, we’ve been taking down whatever was left hanging on the walls, and stashing them in a relatively safe place… and anything else that’s just sitting around that could be damaged from a strong aftershock. Sadly, we didn’t get to Hermilio in time.” Mackenna relaxed all the way back into the chair, gently swiveling back and forth, cradling the phone on her shoulder. “That’s about it. We’re just trying to keep busy.” Not busy enough, she thought. Never busy enough. Even a natural disaster isn’t enough.