The Walk

by Lee Goldberg

  “Sometimes it takes longer. Instinctively, she wanted me. She couldn’t hide it. But making her realize it would have taken too much time. I’ve been through it before. It’s hard work, but in the end it’s worth it. There’s nothing hornier than a freed lesbo. Bottom line is, no matter what they say, they all want dick.”

  “Specifically, your dick.”

  Buck leaned over the edge of the embankment and gave him a cold look. “You’re mocking me.”

  Marty looked up at him and smiled. “Yep.”

  “Do you know why you’re mocking me?”

  “Because it’s fun and it distracts me from my pain?”

  “Jealousy, inadequacy, and rage.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “You wish you were as masculine as me and as capable as me and you’re pissed at yourself because you know you can’t be.”

  Buck was obviously trying to deflect the conversation away from his defeat, but Marty was determined not to let that happen.

  “You’re partly right,” Marty replied. “I know I will never have your ego or arrogance. But here’s where you’re wrong: I don’t want it. I don’t want to intimidate or offend everyone I meet. I’d like to have some friends.”

  “Like that producer guy we met?”

  “That was an unusual situation,” replied Marty defensively, knowing his argument was slipping away from him and, with it, the fun he was hoping to have. Suddenly Buck wasn’t on the spot any more; he was. That had to be reversed, fast.

  “The point I’m making,” Marty said, “is all you think about is overpowering people, whether verbally, physically, or with a gun. You get off on intimidation.”

  “And you don’t? You were afraid if that cook saw you in your filthy clothes, some day he’d stick you at a bad table and you’d wouldn’t be able to intimidate people into listening to your stupid fucking notes anymore. The difference between you and me is people listen to me because I make ’em, not because some burger flipper tells them to. That’s what you envy. You’re second-in-command of your own fucking life.”

  “Allowing other people to have some impact on your life is what gives you a life.” Marty said. “That’s why you spend your nights alone in bars, collecting napkins to decorate your bathroom with, while I go home to a woman who loves me.”

  Buck snorted derisively.

  “Is that what you think the difference is between us? A woman? Anybody can get a woman. That doesn’t mean shit. Being able to be alone, and comfortable with yourself, is a hell of a lot harder. Can you look me in the fucking eye and tell me you’re happy with who you are?”

  Marty wasn’t falling for that one. “Nobody can.”

  “I can.”

  “Then you’re fooling yourself. You honestly think there’s nothing missing from your life?”

  “There sure as shit is,” Buck said. “A couple thousand cocktail napkins, numerous appliances, a big screen TV, a pristine Mercury Montego, a dozen firearms, and the best fucking dog there ever was.”

  “Don’t you ever get tired of it?”

  “Tired of what?”

  “Your tough-guy posturing. You know, that guys look at you and tremble in fear or envy. That every woman wants to fuck you, including nuns, grandmothers, lesbians, and the clinically dead. That you’re so tough you eat live scorpions for breakfast and wash your mouth out with battery acid. That shit. Did I forget anything?”

  “Did it ever occur to you that I’m telling it to you exactly the way it is? There’s no fucking mystery who I am. What I put out there is it. You’re the guy who’s full of shit, but I think we’ve already established that more than once.”

  “Yeah, I guess we have.”

  That was the last time Marty was going to try and bait Buck, at least until he could figure out a safe way to do it. So far, the conversation always ended up turning around and biting Marty in the ass instead, and that was certainly no fun. Buck was like Beth in that way. It was like they took the same “How to Neuter Marty Slack” course.

  They walked for a few minutes in silence, except for Marty’s occasional moans and groans. Then Buck cleared his throat and spoke.

  “Your feet still hurt?”

  Marty was holding his guts in with his hand, and Buck was worried about his blisters? But he knew what the remark was really about. It was about apologizing for trashing a guy while he was down and letting Marty know that Buck cared about him.

  “Not as much,” Marty replied.

  “I guess the new shoes helped.”

  Marty glanced at his sturdy new shoes, now splattered with blood. “I think so.”

  Buck nodded. “A man needs a solid pair of shoes.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Valley Girl

  6:26 p.m. Wednesday

  As Martin Slack sat on the weedy river bank in Balboa Park, packing a mixture of mud and leaves into his wound, he saw he wasn’t hurt quite as bad as he’d imagined.

  Marty was afraid he’d have to stuff his oozing intestines back into some gaping, gory hole in his stomach. Instead, it looked like the rebar left a clean puncture about a half-inch around, swollen and red, straight through one of his “love handles.” He didn’t have to shove a perforated kidney or some other internal organs back into place after all. Then again, for all he knew, birds were fighting over meaty chunks of his appendix in the river bed right now.

  The cool dirt made his wound feel better, and staunched the bleeding, but he couldn’t help wondering if it was promoting an infection at the same time. It was dirt. Weren’t you supposed to keep that out of open wounds? Then again, infection was hardly his immediate concern. All he really wanted to do now was stop the bleeding and diminish his pain so he could get home. So far, there were noticeable improvements on both fronts.

  Buck studied the poultice and nodded with approval. “That’s gonna make for one manly scar.”

  “Something to go with the bullet wound,” Marty said.

  “Now that you’ve got some hard-living on your doughy flesh, you won’t look like such a wimp anymore. You may have to consider a new line of work.”

  “I already am.”

  Buck grinned. “I don’t usually take on apprentices, but I can make an exception in your case.”

  “That’s a nice offer, Buck. But I was thinking of something more sedentary.”

  “You want to be a gardener?”

  “I said sedentary not sedimentary,” Marty replied. “I’m going to be a writer.”

  “A writer would choose his words more carefully to avoid confusion,” Buck said. “Maybe you ought to look into a field that already matches your skills. You know, like car salesman or telemarketer.”

  Marty ignored the remark. He picked up a sturdy tree limb he’d found on the bank and, using it for support, lifted himself up into a standing position, gasping with pain. It felt like his back and his side were competing with each other to be the most agonizing.

  Now that Marty was standing, he could see the mass of earthquake refugees that surrounded the man-made lake in the center of the park on the other side of the river. It looked like they’d gathered for an outdoor rock concert. And, in the distance beyond them, he could see thousands more people filling the public golf course, which every few years would flood so suddenly and so completely, stranded golfers had to be plucked out of the trees by helicopters.

  “I sure could use something to drink,” Marty said. “My throat feels as dry as that river.”

  Buck motioned to a Red Cross tent in middle of the flood of people. “They’ve probably got water.”

  Marty considered the distance, and the complications that would arise if the Red Cross workers saw his wound, and shook his head no. “I’d rather use the energy to get closer to home. Besides, we still have one more stop to make. C’mon, let’s go.”

  “You sure you can make it?” Buck looked at him skeptically. “Maybe you’d be better off quitting and flopping on a cot in that Red Cross tent.”

  “I’ve been quit
ting and flopping for too long already.” Marty hobbled off grimacing towards Victory Boulevard, leaning heavily on his walking stick.

  Buck looked after him thoughtfully for a moment, then fell into step beside him.

  6:50 p.m. Wednesday

  After World War II, service men flush with GI loans all wanted their square footage of the American dream and came looking for it in the San Fernando Valley. Developers manufactured the dream with assembly-line precision, economy, and sameness, coating the valley with ranch-style homes that offered easy-living in harmony with nature, what little of it hadn’t been graded and paved over.

  Every home Marty and Buck passed looked the same, with their plywood siding and low-pitched, wood-shake roofs, bird houses built into the over-hanging eaves or perched on top like little cupolas to add that extra touch of prefabricated charm. On many houses, the roofs stretched to detached garages or carports, creating breezeways which, in later years, were widely converted into cheap additions by amateur carpenters.

  Dandelion Preschool still looked like the rambling, free-flowing ranch house it once was, only with several room additions and a high cyclone fence surrounding a broad front yard long since turned into a parking lot.

  The school’s plywood sign, decorated with bad renderings of famous cartoon characters, dangled from the collapsed front porch, and a crack ran around the house where it met the raised foundation. But beyond that, and other superficial cracking, the house appeared to have come through the quake fairly well, raising Marty’s hopes that Clara might be alive and unhurt.

  Marty stood out front, gathering his courage, trying to think of what he was going to say to Clara and the teachers inside. But he was so tired, and hurt so much, he was finding it difficult to concentrate. The only thing he could think of doing was asking for some water and a place to lie down.

  “Maybe I ought to handle this,” Buck said, studying Marty’s haggard face.

  “This is my problem.”

  “Yeah, but I have a better chance of walking out of there with the kid.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Look at you, Marty. You’re a fuckin’ nightmare and you smell like a bucket of shit. You’re gonna frighten the teacher and the kid,” Buck explained. “Besides, if the teacher doesn’t cooperate, I’ll just snatch the kid. I’m big and I’m armed. You couldn’t stand up to a puff of air.”

  Marty knew that logically Buck was right but it didn’t make any difference to him. “I have to do this, Buck. Alone. If I don’t come out with Clara, we can have another discussion.”

  “Fuck that, you don’t come out with the kid I’ll go in and get her.”

  Marty decided to conserve his energy and fight that battle with Buck when, and if, it was necessary. So he just nodded, opened the gate, and walked around the side of the house to the back yard.

  The narrow pathway led to a weather-beaten, wood fence and was clogged with discarded playground toys: building blocks, balls of all sizes, tricycles, pedal cars, plastic buckets, and shovels. Working his way through the mess and trying not to stumble was killing him. Each twist around an object or big step over one felt like he was getting speared again.

  He stopped to ride out a wave of pain and heard the laughter and squeals of children playing, which both surprised and enchanted him. It was odd, and yet magical, to hear such gaiety amidst such a disaster. He moved toward the sounds, drawn almost hypnotically, and in his haste, slipped on a tiny toy fire engine.

  Marty yelped in pain and fell against a plastic slide, which sent a tricycle careening into the fence with a noisy clatter.

  A woman rushed over from the back of the house, threw open the gate, and just stood there, clearly unsure what she should do next. She was about forty, wore shorts and a wrinkled Dandelion Preschool t-shirt, and regarded him with cried-out brown eyes that were underscored with deep, dark circles of worry and fatigue. Marty saw the questions passing across her weary face. Do I run away? Do I help him? Or do I find a weapon to defend myself and the children?

  It wasn’t easy for her to make a judgment. She’d reached her limit of unexpected situations and difficult choices and was emotionally tapped out. Marty could sympathize.

  “I’ll make it easy for you,” Marty groaned as he struggled to his feet. “There’s no reason to be afraid of me. The only reason I’m here is to pick up one of the kids, Clara Hobart.”

  She eyed him suspiciously. “Are you her father?”

  “No. I’m a family friend.”

  “Is something wrong, Faye?” a man’s voice called out from behind her.

  “I haven’t decided yet,” Faye replied.

  “Why don’t you decide back here where I can see you and whoever you’re talking to,” the man said.

  She stepped aside and then, as an afterthought, held open the gate so Marty could hobble past her.

  The large backyard had been turned into a playground. Three kids ran around a swing set and jungle-gym. The two boys and Clara froze when they saw the stranger come in and swallowed their laughter, their little stomachs going in and out as they tried to catch their breath.

  Clara looked like her photo, but there was a difference he wasn’t prepared for. It wasn’t the matching scrapes on her knees, or her braided pony-tail, or even her radiant blue eyes. She had a band of freckles over her nose.

  Just like Beth. No, exactly like Beth’s.

  He didn’t see that in the photo, or he would have fallen in love with Clara long before that instant.

  There was no way he was going to leave without her.

  The man who’d called out to Faye sat on a bench, his left leg in a crude splint made out of duct tape and two fence slats. He saw Marty looking at his leg.

  “A bookcase fell on me, broke my leg like a twig.”

  “I think the whole world fell on me,” Marty replied, noticing a jug of water and some paper cups on the picnic table.

  “Looks like it, too if you don’t mind me saying so,” The man said with a friendly smile and a soft voice that reminded Marty of Mister Rogers. “I’m Alan Plebney, the headmaster of Dandelion Preschool; this is my wife Faye.”

  “I’m Martin Slack,” he said, returning the smile. Things were getting off to a good start. “May I have some water?”

  “Help yourself.”

  Marty guzzled down four cups and half expected to see it all leaking out of the hole in his gut. Instead, the water flowed through him like an electric charge.

  “Where are the other teachers?” Marty asked.

  “I let them go home to their families. As headmaster, I have to stay until all the children are returned to their parents. Besides, I can’t go anywhere with this leg anyway.” He motioned to his wife and his eyes glowed with admiration. “My wife walked all the way here from Studio City to make sure me and the children were okay.”

  Marty glanced at Faye, and saw her having a muffled conversation with Clara. The little girl looked fearfully back at him, a look that wasn’t lost on either Faye or her husband.

  “How do you know Clara?” Alan asked protectively.

  Marty decided to go with honesty. “I don’t.”

  “Then I’m afraid I don’t understand what you’re doing here, Mr. Slack, besides having a couple cups of water.”

  Marty reached into his pocket, took out the singed picture of Molly and Clara, and whispered as he showed it to Alan. “Her mother gave this to me. Just before she died.”

  Alan glanced over at Clara, then back to him.

  “She asked me to take care of her daughter,” Marty said. “That’s why I’m here.”

  “Were you a close friend?” Alan asked.

  “Not until that moment.”

  Alan took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “I can’t let this child go with a complete stranger, no matter how well intentioned he may be.”

  “Is there any one else? Did Molly give you a name of someone she trusted as an emergency contact?” Marty asked, but he already knew the answer.
/>
  Alan shook his head. “She said she had to think about it. That was three months ago.”

  Faye rejoined them, leaving Clara with her friends.

  “You can’t let this man take her, Alan,” she said firmly, then lowered her voice so Clara couldn’t hear. “He could be a child molester.”

  “Take a good look at me, Mrs. Plebney,” Marty said. “Do I look like I’m in any shape to hurt anyone?”

  From the expressions on their faces, he knew he’d scored a point with that. Marty reached into his pocket, took out his wallet, and handed them his driver’s license. “This is me. You keep it. If anyone else comes for Clara, you can tell them that’s who has her and that’s where she is. But we both know that’s not going to happen.”

  Alan took his license and studied it, as if the answer to this problem was written on it in very fine print.

  “I walked here from downtown Los Angeles, carrying that picture in my pocket. Along the way, I’ve been shot, poisoned, burned, impaled, and nearly drowned. I want to go home to my wife now, and I’d like to bring Clara with me. I don’t know if my house is still there, or if my wife is even alive. But I promise you, no matter what I find, Clara will be safe. I will take care of her.”

  Alan and Faye Plebney stared at him, wrestling with the decision. And while they were, Clara came up and touched the picture in Alan’s hand.

  “That’s my mommy,” Clara said. “Is she coming to get me soon?”

  “She asked me to get you, Clara,” Marty spoke up quickly, before the Plebneys could answer. “My name is Martin.”

  Clara looked up hesitantly at Marty. She wanted to believe him. “What’s the secret word?”

  “Please,” he replied.

  “No, the other secret word,” Clara said.

  Marty had no idea what it was.

  The Plebneys and Clara were staring at him, waiting. Like it was a challenge. Like they all knew he didn’t know.

  Why didn’t Molly tell him? She had to know her kid would ask.

  “She said not to go with a stranger who doesn’t know the secret word,” Clara repeated, just in case he needed reminding.