| Chapter 3 - Mr. Wright |
| I sat down in the dirt. Jon latched a finger into a belt loop on my jeans. He�d become permanently attached to me. He looked up at my face. �What are we gonna do?� he asked. �Let me think a minute.� �What do I know? I�m only a teenager�. Suddenly it started again. I heard the rumble and roar. I grabbed Jon and hugged him to me. Josh fell to his knees. We shook. The house groaned. The trees cracked and swayed. More apples bounced. Somewhere across the canyon I heard another BOOM and knew that another propane tank had blown up. Then just as suddenly, it stopped. It wasn�t as bad as before. An aftershock. I let go of Jon. But he held on. My father was at Candlestick Park for the third game of the World Series. He was so far away, maybe they hadn�t even felt the earthquake. Or if they felt a little shaking, would they realize what had happened here? Or if it had shaken just as badly there as it had here, would the stadium have collapsed? Would he be dead? Jon must have been thinking the same thing. He asked, �Is Daddy dead?� �No.� I didn�t know if it was true, but it was the right answer to give just then. That is. I hoped it was. What did I know? Even if they felt the quake, if he weren�t hurt, if he left right away, it would take more than an hour to drive home. As I looked out over the canyon, I saw plumes of smoke rising into the brown cloud of dust that hung in the air. Smoke meant fires. Houses on fire. I wondered if the fish felt the quake in the ocean. I wondered if there was going to be a tidal wave. Of course, living on a mountain, a tidal wave was the last think I needed to worry about. Which didn�t stop me from thinking about it. �What do they say on the radio, Josh?� �They say the power�s out all over the place. They�re like: you should stay indoors. Then they�re like: don�t go into your house. They�re trying to sound calm, but you can tell they�re totally freaking out.� My father had said that if we needed advice, we could call his sister, Aunt Debbie, in Cupertino. But the phone was dead. My father had also said that if we needed to, we could go over to Mr. Wright�s cabin. He�d be home. But Mr. Wright�s cabin had slid down the hill. Oh my gosh. Was he inside? �Jon. Josh. We have to find Mr. Wright. He may be hurt. He may be trapped in his house.� �First,� Jon said, �you have to find his house.� I was surprised he could sound so sensible when he looked so scared. Did I sound sensible, too? I moved as fast as I could with Jon holding on to my pants pocket. With his other hand he carried the red parrot, which had a blue bandanna tied around its neck. Josh followed, listening to his headphones. �Tell me if you hear anything useful.� I said. He nodded. He said, �The Bay Bridge is closed. There�s a hole in it. Some cars fell through.� So it wasn�t just us. They�d felt it way up there, fifty miles away. Not just felt it � it had been strong enough to knock a hole in the Bay Bridge. If it broke the Bay Bridge, what did it do to Candlestick Park? My dad was dead. Josh�s mother, too. They were buried, crushed in the concrete rubble of what used to be a baseball stadium. I knew it for a certainty, felt it with a sudden tight, hard chill. How would I tell Jon? Would he make a joke? What would we do without parents? We�d be orphans. Of course we�d still have our mother, but it wouldn�t be the same. She left us. Abandoned us. Dad cared. Now he was gone. I didn�t stop what I was doing. I didn�t give a sign that I knew they were dead. I was beginning to stop feeling. It seemed as if I were watching myself from a distance. There go Justin. His dad is dead. He�s going to look for Mr. Wright. There�s his little brother carrying a parrot. There�s his former best friend, blood drying on his neck, listening to the radio. Josh said, �A freeway collapsed. In Oakland.� Oakland! Way over there! Were all the roads closed? Even if our parents were alive, could they get home? Somehow, strangely, the thought gave me hope: They could be alive. My feelings weren�t logical. I could observe them from a distance: There goes Justin. His dad my not be dead after all. He�s being irrational. He�s upset. What can you expect? He�s only a teenager. In the road just beyond out house we came to a gap, a crack in the earth. Where there had been solid rock, now there was a separation of about four feet with ragged edge as if giant hands had ripped it apart. The crack was about six feet deep and went from one side of the road to the other, across the shoulder, and into the woods. We could smell the raw earth. Still, there wasn�t a sound � not one birdcall, not one dog barking. Again, Jon seemed to read my mind. �Where�s Greta?� he asked, staring into the pit. If he could read my mind, I could read his. We were both staring into the gash in the earth, imagining a similar gash opening under Greta, swallowing her, closing and sealing her: buried alive. �We�ve got to find Greta,� Jon said. �Yes. After we find Mr. Wright.� Maybe I could jump across the gap, but Jon couldn�t. We could climb down into the crack and then up the other side � but what if it closed? What if the same forces that had ripped the earth open came back and pushed it shut � with us inside? We walked along the edge of the crack, following it into the woods. It became narrower just beyond the road, and a tree had fallen across the gap. We used the tree for a bridge. The forest almost overwhelmed me with the scent of fresh pine from all the trees and branches that had broken � a wonderful smell, usually, but now so powerful that it could have been a bathroom cleanser. Mr. Wright�s mailbox still stood on a post by the road with the lettering on its side: JOHNNY WRIGHT PHILOSOPHER The rocks still smoked from where his propane tank had exploded, but the bush had burnt up without spreading the fire. The door to his chicken coop had flown open, and two hens were scurrying around with now idea where to go. All that remained of the cabin were some pier blocks and scattered pieces of lumber, twisted pipes sticking out of the ground, some firewood that had unstacked itself, and a Volkswagen lying on it�s side like a dead insect. �Everything�s like totally gnarfled,� Josh said. �Yes,� I said. I�d never heard the word gnarfled before, but I knew instantly what he meant. In the old days Josh had always made up words � or grabbed them from television � and I�d always understood. I even knew how he�s spell it. We headed downhill following the slide marks of the cabin. It was easy to track. Through what had been a carpet of wildflowers the house had gouged the ground like a glacier, leaving rocks and raw dirt. The hillside was so steep that we had to hang on to roots and the broken bottoms of bushes � the house had sliced off the tops. Where the ground leveled off, there was the cabin � only it wasn�t a cabin anymore but a messy pile of lumber. �Mr. Wright?� I called. �Are you there? Can you hear me?� No answer. Again a strange detachment settled over me. I climbed over two-by-fours � and watched myself from a distance � lifting handfuls of roofing shingles, throwing them to the side, cutting my fingers on rusty nails, calling over and over: �Mr. Wright! Can you hear me?� And then we heard something: a voice, Mr. Wright�s voice, sounding weak and far away as if he was buried way at the bottom of the pile. We heard it again. �He�s up there,� Jon said, pointing uphill. We scrambled up the hillside, which was much harder than going down, slipping, rocks giving way under our feet, grasping at broken stalks. Back where the cabin had been, I still didn�t see him. Then something groaned. Some clothing was sticking out from under the car. I ran to the driveway and found that the clothing was Mr. Wright, sprawled on his back on the ground under the car with blood oozing out of his forehead, eyes shut. He head turned sideways and with the side vent window resting on it. �He�s dead,� Jon said, and he hugged the red parrot. �I ain�t,� Mr. Wright said, and he opened his eyes. �Are you stuck?� Jon asked. �I�m sort of� inconvenienced.� Now my detachment was complete. I heard myself tell Josh and Jon to help. I watched us as we kneeled next to the car, put our hands under the rain gutter at the side of the roof � and lifted. We straightened out backs and lifted, and rose off out knees and kept lifting, and shifted out weight as the car arched backwards from us and kept lifting, and then the car took on a life of its own and fell back from our hands and thumped upright. Mr. Wright didn�t move. We lifted a Volkswagen. I can�t say that we did it so much as I saw us doing it. The thumping of the Volkswagen seemed to jar me back into my head. My hands were shaking; my fingers were sore. I couldn�t believe what we had done. Mr. Wright was wincing. �We�ll help you get up,� I said. �Don�t,� he said, not moving his head. �What�s the matter?� �Something�s broken. Hip. Leg. Something.� �What happened?� �I was washing dishes. First thing I knew, the water came up out of the sink and splashed me in the face. Next thing I knew, I was flying through the window.� �Was it open?� Jon asked. �I opened it,� Mr. Wright said. �The hard way.� �Are you okay?� Jon asked. I couldn�t believe it. The man had been thrown through his kitchen window, his face was bleeding, a car had fallen on him, his leg or hip or something was broken, his house had disappeared, he was probably in incredible pain, and Jon wanted to know if he was okay. Mr. Wright looked at Jon clutching the red parrot with a grip that would strangle a real animal and he must have known what Jon needed. �Yeah.� Mr. Wright closed his eyes.� I�m okay.� Jon loosened his grip slightly on the parrot. �We found your house. Mr. Wright,� Jon said. �Thank you, Jon,� Mr. Wright said. He grimaced. He was in pain. His eyes were still closed. �Get help,� he said. I wished I knew what to do for Mr. Wright�s bleeding head and broken body. I wished my father were here. He wasn�t a medic anymore � he worked for a biotech company � but still, he�d know exactly what to do. Josh kneeled down next to Mr. Wright. �We need to stop his bleeding,� he said. �I need a bandage. A clean cloth. Something. The parrot�s bandanna. Jon. Give me Squawk.� Without a word, Jon handed the red parrot to Josh. Not his normal behavior, doing what was asked. But today was not a normal day. Josh folded the bandanna and pressed it over the cut. He seemed to be taking care not to let any blood come in contact with his body. �Does that hurt?� �Naw.� �Can you hold it there? Keep the pressure on? It�ll stop the bleeding.� �Okay.� Mr. Wright put his hand on the bandanna. Thank you, Josh. You can visit me anytime we have an earthquake. While I stand around in confusion, you know exactly what to do. And calmly, coolly, you do it. �You were always there for my Josh. Whenever I needed help, you were there. You would drop anything and be right there. No wonder I love you. WHAT?! Ok, Justin you didn�t just think that. You�re just confused. Yeah, that�s it. I�m just confused.� Mr. Wright�s shivering body brought me out of my phase. It was a hot day, but he was lying on the ground, and evening was coming. �You�ll need a blanket,� I said. �I�ll find one,� Jon said. He ran � and slipped � and tumbled down the hill toward the remains of the house. I didn�t think he could find anything in that wreck. I couldn�t have found a bed, much less a blanket. In a minute, though, Jon came climbing back dragging a yell window curtain. We shook it out and spread it over Mr. Wright. �We�ll get help,� I said. �Do that,� Mr. Wright said. �Can we make you more comfortable?� �No.� �Will you be all right?� Mr. Wright closed his eyes. �I�ll have to be,� he said. |