Chapter 5
“Honey? You're calling collect?" Liz, sounding surprised. And worried.
"Mom, where are you?"
"Stuck in traffic. We got off at Wilshire when the freeway backed up. We're trying to take the back route. But we're stuck at Barrington. Apparently, everybody got off at Wilshire with us. It's a toss up as to whether or not we'll make the presentation on time. The fire has everything and everybody operating at maximum panic. Where are you?"
"Don't freak out. I'm in the lobby at UCLA Medical Center. There's been a slight accident--but I'm not hurt."
"Donica? You're hurt?"
"I just said I'm not."
"You're hurt. I can hear it in your voice. Did you think you could hide it from your mother?"
"No, Mom. I'm fine. I'm ..." The damn broke. It was just something to do with calling Mommy with a boo-boo. Tears to cleanse the soul from the pent up fears of the terrible and frightening events of the immediate several hours leading up to the phone call to Liz. To Mommy.
"That's it," Liz said. "We're turning around. We'll be at the Medical Center in a few minutes, honey. Go get yourself a cup of hot chocolate and wait for me in the cafeteria."
"Mom--"
But the connection was gone. Liz. Abrupt. A woman of action. A force. A Mommy. Forever and always.
Donica found her way to the cafeteria and ordered a cup of the prescribed hot chocolate. And saw the stares of the few people in the place. Who stared at her and turned away. In a way she'd never before experienced. Turned away as though she did not exist. But first dosed her with a stare filled with something indefinable. Until she realized what it was. Total pity. Pity denuded of any other sentiment. Raw and uncut.
In response to the wonder of what they were pitying, Donica searched for something in which to view herself. And sucked in her breath sharply at the first image, the first sight of herself reflected in the sneeze rails which protected the salad from the occasional poisonous nose mist of a germy patient come 'a eatin'. A face which hovered over the fruit salads like a translucent demon, a pale visage in two colors, half sunburn red, half milk white. A face more dead than alive, lacking in energy, the two-tone amorphous blob topped off by a scalp licked clean by an explosive high octane vapor cloud of burning gasoline. Licked clean all except for the bizarre hank, more of a gob, really, of partially fried hair .
Realizing at the sight that the shock she'd been in up to now had been deep, and protective, and allowed her to function as though she was somebody else, as in a dream, without coming completely to pieces, or recognizing the true seriousness of her situation, the shock being somewhat diminished by the tears of the phone call, and now, as her true consciousness began to reassert itself, she felt the first stirrings of horror at what she had almost become. A woman with a burned off face. Had not become that. God be praised. Had become something saved, but with a price, the wastage of what had formerly been one of the better heads of hair in town. Thick and luxurious and full crowned and blonde. Her pride since youth. Taken away in a single breath of burning gasoline from an exploding primer gray Ford Pinto. The rickety chariot of a very big man, a man who'd endangered her life and then saved it, thought nothing of it afterwards, even to the point of rambling into a fire-filled canyon with an eye to saving it from a blaze which, if left unchecked, could without much effort ruin the lives of thousands of canyon residents. A big man, beside which she felt positively petite. A man, she felt sure, who was alone. Who had nobody special in his life. She simply felt sure of that. Because she felt sure of one other thing. That it was a meeting arranged by God. There was simply no other explanation that would satisfy.
John Knock was single. That's why she was sure it was an act of God that they'd met. She understood it all now. The scientists were wrong. There'd been no Big Bang, no random combining of hydrogen atoms until the universe finally by chance deposited her in the Laurel Tree. Poppycock. She understood it now. Darwin was a complete idiot! Merely the first scientific fool off the cliff, followed closely and eagerly by a legion of similar fools with high degrees and low spirituality. They were wrong! The universe was planned. Meticulously and down to the last detail. Her meeting with the tall stranger was absolute proof of this. She'd needed a very special man, one who would not be intimidated by her size, one big enough to allow her to expand in new and unexplored ways. Next to whom she could feel feminine and free. A man who Fletcher could scratch all he wanted and never be reprimanded. And God had finally heard her many groanings and complaints. God planned a way for her to meet her man. Introduced them on Laurel Canyon. In an unforgettable way. The man was even now working on her behalf, seeking to save a lost cat.
Image. The three of them at L'Orangerie. He holding a shrimp fork with a delicate acrobacy which belied his otherwise massively fierce appearance. Fletcher demurely licking heavy cream from front paw. She sipping perfect white Zin.
But now this. Her hair was gone and she looked absolutely ridiculous. Like a Westwood street freak taking a hot chocolate break after a busy morning busking the summer queues of rubes from the Midwest. A two-toned bald freak in a ridiculous red pants suit, like a devil's parody of the former First Lady, H. R. Clinton. All she needed was a raised eyebrow and a look of disbelief upon hearing from the general public the news of the latest infidelity. Or a smug look following a little troopergating of her own, but with lady cops? Did all Clintons love women? Not. The raised eyebrow seemed best. Not possible, not according to the image reflected back at her in the sneeze rails.
Because the eyebrows were gone, too.
"Ma'am?" The counter clerk said. One of those ubiquitous little brown men from India. Where did they all come from? Apparently, there was an inexhaustible supply. "Ma'am?" He looked a bit put out.
"What!"
"It's one dollar twenty-five."
"What is?"
"The hot chocolate."
"Oh." Donica's mind fritzed. She was no longer something acceptable, someone who could stand in front of someone else for any period of time. She was now something to be interrupted in mid-inner reverie to be harassed over the price of a foodstuff before being verbally snapped-to prior to dismissal.
"Oh. I have no money. Because I was in an accident. As you can see. But I will pay you for the hot chocolate. Any minute now. My mother's coming. She'll pay. I'll just sit over here until she comes."
A statement almost unprocessable by the clerk. This was UCLA Medical Center. In the southern foothills bordering Westwood Village. A place where money practically sprouted underfoot. Even the worst drunk who occasionally wandered in had a ten-spot in his filthy sock.
"Yeh. Well tell your Mo-ther (this with something of a long exhalation), it'll be a dollar twenty-five. When (another exhale) your Mo-ther gets here."
"Listen you. You badmouth my mother one more time and I'll show you some things you've never seen before, even if you do come from the streets of Calcutta. Things you won't find to your liking. And you might ponder this--I'm a successful interior designer of prestigious law firms. Why only this morning my mother and I have a presentation at The Mark Carson Law Firm. In Century City. So stop with the attitude. Or we'll have Mark Carson call his friends in Immigration and send you back to Bombay, or wherever it is you people come from." There. It all came out. And it felt horribly, terribly good.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to be so uppity. It was a little rough getting my usual bus out of the pit of hell this morning, where us people are kept until needed for subservient work you better people don't want to do." This said with a dripping insincerity.
"Mister, you don't know from hell. I'm sure you don't even believe in the place. But trust me, if you're not careful, you'll wind up there. And they don't do flames any more. It's all microwave. And daily proddings with a very sharp stick."
"Hey, lady, I think you're a little whacked, you know that? Hey,
I went to the best Catholic schools. FYI, my uncle is a neurosurgeon here. Which from the looks of you is something you might be needing in the very near term. Right after your brain explodes. And I'm not from Bombay. I'm Punjabi and proud of it."
Where was it going to end? Watch it. Watch it. The racism was showing. Donica was aware she had a slight tendency in this direction. Not that it had been modeled by her parents. It was something which was just there. Perhaps was something which was just there in everybody, should they take the time to look for it. A tiny bud of prejudice. Which given provocation grew quickly. Five white guys is a group or club. Three brown or black guys were a gang. Even with no eyebrows, she felt that noxious little emotion surfacing which whispered, You're just a tiny bit better than those people. Those people. They serve your hot chocolate and take your guff, even on days when your hair is burned off and your eyebrows gone. Even on days when you look like a Westwood street hustler.
Donica scurried to her appointed table to await Liz. Ashamed of her prejudice. Sorry she'd provoked the cashier. Sorry for the stirrings of the flesh which, multiplied over countless generations in uncountable counterparts had caused so much suffering over the centuries when left unchecked or allowed to run free unfettered.
She took a sip. The cashier had won in the end. The hot chocolate was cold, with a slight skin forming on the top. And she couldn't take it back and demand a fresh cup. Not after that little performance. But she could shout her displeasure.
"I'm not paying for this! It's cold."
The little man said nothing. Had a sense of what a thing was worth. Or knew darn well it was cold, and that he'd won a small but important victory. I saw this woman today. Big lady with all her hair burned off and a fake neck brace. Probably wears it for some kinda insurance scam. Wears a perfume that smells just like gasoline. Only in L.A. do you see people like this woman. They let them walk around the streets like it was nothing. She gave me some attitude. I told her my uncle was a neurosurgeon and she believed it. You should have seen her face when I said that. I served her hot chocolate left over from two week's ago. Ice cold.
There was a noise, and a bustling and a sense of might and mien converging. Liz had arrived. A mountain in red. There was a shriek. Followed by a profound silence. Mommy. Descending upon the fallen daughter. Mommy, a fountainhead of compassionate agony. Covering her, smothering the bald clown head with tender kisses, and careful probings, taking in the measure of her, soul and body, and making a decision.
"I'm taking you to the Plaza," she said. "We'll take a suite and start putting you back together again."
"I met someone," Liz said. "I need you to take me back to Laurel Canyon. It's someone I can't let go out of my life. Mother--do you believe in destiny?"
"What in God's name do they have you on?"
"Mother?"
"You're babbling. Which doctor did you see? I'm going to find out what they gave you. And you absolutely reek of gasoline."
"I didn't see the doctor. Because while I was waiting, I remembered what Jesus showed me when I went through the golden door. He showed me with this man."
"What man?"
"John Knock. The man who saved me in the tree. He's out looking for Fletcher. I must go to him."
"Can you walk?"
"Mother, I'm fine."
"Come on, then, Donica. We're getting you out of here. I'll call Dr. Lerner and have her come to the hotel and see you there. And I'll call Vito. Maybe it's not too late to do something about your hair. I'm sure it must be bothering you. And I've got to call Mark Carson and reschedule. If we work fast, I think we can pull you back together before it all unravels."
"Mother, did you hear me? I met someone. By the hand of God. I've got to get back to the canyon. He's somewhere out there in the mountains. He may be facing some drug dealer with a shotgun, or perhaps a pack of pit bulls from the Crenshaw District. His name is John Knock."
"Yes, Donica. I heard you. His name is John Knock. You're Donica. I'm Liz. Your cat's name is Fletcher. Okay? Now c'mon baby. Mommy's here. It's going to be all right. Just let's get you up."
"Mother, before we go ..."
"... Yes?"
"Pay that obnoxious little man his dollar twenty-five. Even though you shouldn't because he served the hot chocolate cold with a skin over the top. Pay him even though he did that, served it cold, because we don't want to risk him telling his uncle the neurosurgeon. We don't want to risk that. Even though he made fun of you."
"He what, dear?"
"Made fun of you."
Liz marched up to the server and said something to him in a whisper. The man blanched, insofar as it was possible for him to do so. Perhaps it could be better said that he quailed, and continued to quail even after Liz had dismissed him and returned to her precious one.
"Let's go, honey."
"Mother, you didn't pay him."
Liz smiled. "Oh I paid him, all right. Only not in traditional money. I paid him in the currency of quite another realm."
"Mother?"
"The young man now understands the error of his ways, dear. He'll be a better person for the lesson learned. And will be slow to make fun of a Kelly anytime in the near future. Now let's be off and we'll say no more about it."