Sure, I am a lot of things.
The cave’s speaker system hissed for a minute before “Chariots of Fire” began to play at top volume. This was the song that played when the second three-hour session had ended, signaling to us in the cave that the park was closing for the day. The human body can only take so much radon and use it for healing purposes before it starts to turn sinister. Each cave dweller was allowed no more than thirty hours of radon per year. Three hours per visit was the permissible business model time frame. This was one hundred and seventy-five times greater than the national standard exposure numbers, but those were numbers that owner Don Gannon simply called jealous math. Mr. Gannon wasn’t your stereotypical rancher, stomach lapping over his belt, jeans suspendered up. There was no ten-gallon anything. Mr. Gannon was a thin man in his seventies, who always wore a long-sleeved shirt and shiny polyester vest, no matter the temperature. He had a deep tan that he said was his Chippewa blood rushing to the surface for a fair fight. The creases in his jeans were clean and spoke to the business side of shit-kicking. If it weren’t for the two missing fingers on his right hand, I would guess he never spent much time wrangling anything.
He greeted every cave dweller. He helped the abuelitas to their feet and knew them by name: Ah, the hair on you, Señora Nuanes. Ah, the most beautiful ojos, Señora Boullosa. He loved the food they brought him during the day, the roasted green Hatch chile and pork, the mole and tamales, the menudo that he said took some getting used to, but he could imagine a day when he wouldn’t be able to go without it. He always gave them back their empty dishes washed. During holidays, he’d buy them brand-new sets of Tupperware. The women would trade the different colored containers among themselves. The men gripped his three fingers and shook his hand like the old friends they had become, always patting his back as they walked past. Mr. Gannon smiled at Isabel and reached out to escort her from the cave.
“Isabel, right?”
“Yes, Mr. Gannon,” she said.
“Don will be fine.”
I jumped Isabel’s conversation. “How do you explain the river emptying out the way it did?”
Mr. Gannon sized me up. He excused himself to help the last of the cave-dweller viejas negotiate the muddy exit. He guided them to the single-track path that led to the parking lot. Isabel gave me her look, similar to the look I got the morning after the quinceañera. The sun was dropping down behind the Montebello foothills. The oil pumps on the horizon were mechanical horses with rusted joints that dipped their heads to drink from a mile down, then barely up again. Isabel and I watched them until the sun filled the space between their legs and sank away.
“Maybe he can tell us what’s happening here,” I said. “That’s all.”
“Let’s just get our things and go.” Isabel rolled up her towel.
Mr. Gannon stood at the cave entrance with a clipboard, making small checks on a two-page list. He had to account for each client to be sure no one hid under a tablecloth or behind a bookshelf to steal that bonus fourth hour of radon. I told Isabel to take a seat on a nearby bench, to give me a minute and then we’d leave. I helped Mr. Gannon straighten chairs and put away the Battleship games—the Bermuda Triangle had taken out the Pacific Fleet. Monopoly had Lego blocks instead of silver treasure pieces.
“There’re thieves among us,” I said. I held out my hand. “My name is Martin. I’m with Isabel.”
“You can’t expect to have a cave full of desperate people and not be missing game pieces. Things come and go from the cave,” Mr. Gannon said. “It’s a funny thing around here. When people feel better, the game pieces come back. Missing books find their way to the empty shelves. Or they don’t. There’s always something else to use. You ever go to the beach and pick up a seashell, or on a hike and pocket a shiny rock? It’s the same thing, Martin. They’re reminders of place.” He pointed to the six empty tables like he was addressing a room full of ghosts. “You won’t find more resourceful people than this group.”
I wet my towel against the cave wall and wiped down the tables.
“You were saying something about the water here?”
“Where did it all go?” I asked.
Mr. Gannon grabbed a rake and ran its teeth across the dirt floor, pulling out the debris of the day—some trash, but not enough trash that you might say the cave dwellers were trashy people. Orange peels. The pattern on the floor reminded me of the Zen garden kit I had bought Isabel after she was diagnosed. I had told her it would calm her anxiety about being sick, that all she had to do was make patterns in the sand that resembled ocean water and wind. I bought it the week after I had slept with Yolanda, thinking it might help me focus, to get me back on track. But it was as though she sensed my deviation in our course, away from the us that had been taking a beating day after day with no end in sight. Instead, Isabel took up smoking for the sole purpose of using her Zen garden as an ashtray. Cigarette butts raised up like mighty Zen-smoked bamboo from the sand instead. The tiny tools and smooth rocks included in the kit were nowhere to be found. It was her commentary on the state of things. I never said anything to her. I assumed it was how Zen worked, and I swore that, in the background of it all, I could hear the sound of one hand clapping.
“Everyone knows we are at the end of an ice age,” Mr. Gannon said. “If you look on a radon potential map, we are in what’s called a Mesozoic basin—that is to say two hundred million years of dinosaur fossils were packed into the sedimentary rock around these parts.”
“Ha, dinosaurs!” said Isabel.
“All over these parts. And, over an eon, their rotting bodies gave way to the breakdown of the uranium that off-gasses radon. At some point, that ice age clock has to wind itself back up and start its slow freeze all over again.”
“I suppose you only get one shot in a lifetime,” I said. “That doesn’t explain how an entire river valley turned up dry overnight.”
“I suppose lava tubes are to blame,” Mr. Gannon said. “All that supercooling and superheating. Lava flows and then cools into rock when it hits water. It forms tubes where the lava still flows inside until they empty out and leave a whole maze of tunnels. It’s likely one cracked open during a quake. Or just broke apart. The water just found the easy path out.”
“Seems you’ve bottled a miracle, Mr. Gannon. Our Lady of Guadalupe stuffed into your bank account.”
“Not gonna lie. The ice ages have made me a rich man.” He smiled. “But that’s the course of all things.”
“That’s enough, Martin,” Isabel said. “Tell him, Mr. Gannon. That radon gas healing is scientific.”
“True, it’s scientific. Human science, that is.”
Isabel smiled her smile. “See?”
“Then why do you call it Saint Jude’s Hands of Healing Caves?”
“So you Mexicans will come,” Mr. Gannon said. “Respectfully. You tell me who else would believe in something you couldn’t smell, see, hear, or touch. It goes against everything we know as humans. But you do. This community does. And I admire that. I’ll tell you this much, it’s a damned good business, and likely as close to a miracle as you’re gonna get. There are realities that human knowledge cannot wrap its head around, and that leaves faith to explain. That is the one thing my clients bring, the one thing I can’t provide.”
“I’ve only ever seen it the other way around,” I said. “The miracles.”
“Human science,” said Isabel.
I shrugged her off.
“I’m careful to include in the brochure that this here gas is pure poison, so to speak. It will take its toll if you swallow a whole mess.” He looked to Isabel. “The tricky thing is, it works.” He helped Isabel to her feet. “I’ve been in the radon business since before both of you were born. I’ve seen all kinds of pain disappear, hands like mummified claws open again. Useful hands.” Mr. Gannon pocketed his three fingers into the open slot in his vest. “That’s all anybody wants—usefulness. Dogs want to run in an open field. It brings people together. The
re’s no stopping that.” Mr. Gannon looked out over the dry and heavily rooted riverbed, the lighted skyline of Pico Rivera to the southwest, the rush of the 60 over his shoulder. “I’d be lying to you if I told you I thought this business would ever bring me to Los Angeles.”
Mr. Gannon picked up a rock and threw it into the overgrowth alongside the bank. “Reminds me of my childhood.”
Isabel and I both must have looked confused because Mr. Gannon started to laugh.
“Tarzan,” he said, pointing toward El Monte. “Tarzan lives down that way.”
Isabel grabbed my hand as though we were dealing with a straight-up crazy man who might have fooled the world. “I’m not sure what you mean, Don,” she said.
“The first Tarzan movie was filmed a few miles from here, upriver where there used to be a lion sanctuary. They had a show in the old days where a pretty girl like you would stick her head in the lion’s mouth. I bet Tarzan would swing right in here and make you his Jane.” Isabel would turn the world on its head to be Tarzan’s Jane. Even in the faded light, I saw the strawberry blush hit her cheeks.
Mr. Gannon took out his flashlight and pointed its beam into the trees. “They filmed all the Tarzan movies right here in the 1920s. This area was Africa’s doppelgänger back in the day. The origin of man right here in the San Gabriel riverbed. So, when this land came up for sale, with radon stamped on it like a personal invitation, there really was no choice but for me to buy every square inch.”
“I had no idea,” I said. “This has always just been Marrano Beach.”
“Pig Beach,” Isabel added.
“A shitty watering hole that our grandparents were forced to come to way back when.” I turned to Isabel, who seemed genuinely fascinated. “Who knew this was our birthplace.”
Lights from a vehicle above us in the parking lot cut across the tops of the trees. We heard two men cursing, then the sound of metal slamming down on metal.
“What was that?” I expected to hear the breaking of glass and quickly took inventory in my head as to what I had inside my car. The voices quieted. The vehicle drove away.
“I was afraid that might happen,” Mr. Gannon said.
“What?” I asked. “That what might happen?”
“City vehicle. They locked the parking lot gate.”
Isabel started to shiver. We hadn’t packed for an evening out. I pulled a red-and-white checkered tablecloth off a card table and draped it over her shoulders. I ran up to the parking lot. Mr. Gannon was already at the gate, giving the padlocked chain a good tug. Finally he gave up and shook his head at the eight-foot chain link fence. “You are welcome to stay here for the night,” he said. “The cabins aren’t finished, but they got what you’ll need for the night. The mattresses were delivered yesterday, so there’s that. Still covered in plastic.”
“I think we should probably call someone,” I said. “I’m sure there’s a number.”
“City hours,” said Mr. Gannon.
“I want to stay,” Isabel said. “Why not?”
I could easily think of a thousand reasons why not to stay. It seemed I was always shining a light on Isabel’s sickness, giving it too much room for its song and dance on what was supposed to be our stage.
“It’s so quiet, like we’re in the middle of nowhere,” she added.
She said we should try.
Mr. Gannon brought out a laundry basket full of clothing. “Lost and found,” he said. “There’re a few coats here to choose from.” He tapped the toe of his boot near Isabel’s sandaled foot. “Pair of tennis shoes at the bottom. Put them on.” He looked me over. “Get yourself something.”
“I’m fine,” I said, while dressing Isabel. “You get as many layers on as you can,” I told her.
Mr. Gannon closed the cave for the night. He closed the custom-made welded rebar gate that fit the exact dimensions of the cave’s mouth. He turned off the industrial lamps strung up along the cave wall. They clicked off hard like they had an opinion on all things from the day. The blackness of the riverbed overcame us all, and we were reduced to voices until our eyes drew in the faint shine of the moon and city lights.
“Let me get you two in for the night,” said Mr. Gannon.
The cabin was nothing more than an unfinished garden shed. The kind you might store a lawn mower or table saw inside. The roof had a slight pitch to keep the rain from pooling. Only the door had a window, and much like inside the cave, the floor was dirt. Mr. Gannon wheeled a small backup generator to the entrance. He checked the gas with his finger, then topped it off. It wasn’t uncommon for city electricity to go out for no reason. If you lived in Montebello, you knew that streetlights and signals picked the least opportune time to take a smoke break, usually during rush hour or on a long walk home down Washington Boulevard at two in the morning. He flipped the light switch on and off several times before he was satisfied. The mattress lay in the middle of the shed, propped up on two sawhorses.
“I was hoping to get the floors finished by now.”
“This will work fine,” I said. Isabel and I lowered the mattress to the ground and peeled away the plastic on one side. “I hope that’s okay.”
“The maiden voyage,” Mr. Gannon said. He handed me the key and winked like he had just checked us into the Saint Jude’s Hands of Healing Caves honeymoon suite. “If you need anything, I’m in the beat-up Airstream at the top of the trail.”
“You’re a kind man,” Isabel said.
“Okay then. Make yourselves right at home.” The beam from Mr. Gannon’s flashlight bounced along the trail as he made his way back up to the parking lot. Isabel and I stood in the starlight and stared at one another. I tried to take her hand, but it seemed as though the excitement of the day was falling behind us. She was tired again and reminded that we weren’t in this place for a vacation, that no matter the distractions of the day, the fact was she was broken in places that would take an eternity to heal—or yes, a miracle. But the simple fact was that she has always been whole, and I have been the puzzle broken into a thousand pieces. And I am not sure if some of those pieces just might have been lost under the couch somewhere. I was the last person to have seen the complete version of me. I needed to start putting me all back together again, starting with the outside edge.
The cabin had the smell of a bunch of power tools left in a room for a long time. That is to say it smelled electrical. Isabel shuffled across the room and kicked up a plume of sawdust. She sat on the edge of the mattress, staring at the bare studded wall like it was a Picasso. It was warm enough inside that I considered taking off the extra clothing. Isabel pulled her lost-and-found pea coat up around her chin and buttoned the neck collar.
“Here,” I said, holding out my jacket. “You can have mine if you’re too cold.”
“I don’t want to stay in here,” said Isabel.
“We could’ve called someone by now, but you—”
The plastic under the mattress crackled as Isabel leaned across to put her finger on my lips. “I want you to take me back inside the cave.”
Look at her look at me. I am the one.
Mr. Gannon had one small light on at the far back of the trailer, in the space I imagined he slept. He couldn’t see down into the wash to the cave entrance from where the trailer sat at the edge of the parking lot. But it wasn’t Mr. Gannon’s line of sight that worried me. It was his intuition that held me in place at the top of the riverbank, looking for any movement. I only blinked when Isabel pulled on my shirt and flashed a light in my eyes.
“Look what I found in the toolbox,” she said, handing me a penlight.
“Be careful with that.” I pulled her hands down to her side. “Keep it in your pocket.” I looked back to the trailer that was now dark.
The rebar gate to the caves didn’t take too much undoing before it opened. It dragged along the sandy riverbed, leaving a small trench behind its swing. The cave was darker than I had expected. And standing in place a few moments made no difference. We c
ouldn’t see much farther than a few feet beyond our reach. “Are you there?” Isabel searched the open black space around her.
“Your light,” I said. Isabel tested her light on and off before handing it to me. It read Manuel’s Automotive on its side. I bet Manuel would get a kick out of us using his light right now to sneak into a cave full of radon gas under the cover of night. “Remind me to call Manuel.”
“Who?” Isabel asked.
“Your guardian angel.” I showed Isabel the side of the light. Without the cave dwellers, Saint Jude’s Hands of Healing Caves was just another hole in the ground, and graffitied much like the pillars under the San Gabriel Bridge. It was wet everywhere—under our feet, above our head, and the walls seeped out more cave water than I had remembered. The air even felt wet, and when I breathed in, my lungs expanded heavily and pulled down in my chest like water balloons hanging from a spout.
“Can you feel the air?” I asked Isabel.
She took in tiny gulps. It looked like she was trying to separate the water from the radon from the air. “That’s healing,” she said.
“Why are you breathing like that?”
She cupped her hands under her armpits. She pressed against her sides as she inhaled. “I love feeling the heavy air inside me.”
“It’s so humid in here.”
We walked down a makeshift ramp toward the back of the cave, where Mr. Gannon stored extra wheelchairs donated to him by Beverly Hospital. Most of the chairs had a squirrely wheel or ripped seat padding, but nothing that kept Mr. Gannon from knowing a good deal when he saw it. They were well cleaned. And probably run through a ten-point inspection. A cable ran through the spokes of the wheelchairs and locked into an eyebolt drilled into the cave wall. Isabel sat down in the last chair next to the chicken wire fencing.
Dodger Blue Will Fill Your Soul Page 14