Away for the Weekend (23 page)

“No trouble,” says Ivan Zokowski. “We were just doing our job.”

But as soon as the patrol car moves back into traffic, all traces of empathy and concern vanish faster than an ice cube tossed into a volcano. “Why did you wander off like that?” demands Professor Gryck. “What in the name of God were you thinking?” Now her expression is as dark as the inside of the barrel of a gun. This is yet another thing that has never happened to Professor Gryck before.

“We’re really sorry, Professor Gryck,” says Gabriela. “But we did have a good reason.”

“That’s right,” Delila chimes in. “There were seriously extenuating circumstances.”

Sadly, Professor Gryck doesn’t believe their story any more than Taffeta Mackenzie believes Beth’s.

“Your aunt?” Professor Gryck’s voice is sour with doubt. “
Your
aunt was hiking through Beverly Hills?”

“No, it wasn’t my aunt,” repeats Gabriela. “I just
thought
it was my aunt.”

“Like you thought you helped a jogger who sprained his ankle?”

“How could he answer the door when he couldn’t walk?” argues Gabriela.

“And anyway he probably fell asleep right away,” adds Delila. “From the shock.”

“I’m surprised
I
haven’t fallen asleep from the shock,” mutters Professor Gryck. So far, the weekend hasn’t gone according to plan. Not according to
her
plan. The competition and all its fanfare and publicity were supposed to add a contemporary, media-wise coda to the distinguished book that is her academic career, but it’s turning into a Three Stooges movie. Or it would if she allowed it to. Which she won’t. From now on, Cybelline Gryck, PhD, isn’t taking any more chances. “Nothing can go wrong tomorrow. And by ‘nothing’, I specifically mean nothing that has to do with
you
, Beth Beeby. You won’t start a food fight. You won’t set off alarms. You won’t go wandering around private property.”

Tomorrow is the awards ceremony. The distinguished academics and writers who judged the competition will, of course, be attending, but the very large and rare feather in Professor Gryck’s literary cap is the fact that she has persuaded one of the greatest and most reclusive figures in American literature to present the prizes. No one knows about this except the organizers; if news leaked out, there would be a tent city of reporters and photographers and slightly rumpled-looking, intense young men outside the hotel in a matter of minutes. Professor Gryck has not worked so hard for this coup, and to keep her secret, to have the day ruined by a high school student. “I’m going to be watching you as if I’m a broker on the verge of bankruptcy and you’re the stock market, is that clear? The only time I won’t have my eyes on you is when you’re sleeping.”

With some effort, Gabriela manages not to bang her head against the side of the bus. This day just gets better and better.

Outside a small taqueria on the busy boardwalk, a couple sit at a table with a view of the ocean, paper plates of food in front of them.

“Look at you, eating Mexican!” crows Remedios, as though this is a personal victory for her. “I thought you said Mexican food’s the revenge of an oppressed and conquered people.” She scrunches up her face in horror and distaste. “All those nasty chillies.”

“I’m hungry.” Otto’s run around so much today you’d think he was a racehorse, not an angel. And then, of course, there was all the palaver on the bus – dogs … snakes … hysterical women … police officers … “And in any case, I didn’t call you here to discuss my diet, Remedios. We have more pressing concerns.”

Remedios watches him, amused. “You know, I’ve never seen anybody eat a burrito with cutlery before…”

“Don’t try to change the subject.” Otto points his plastic fork at her. “I want to know what happened. I did my part. All you had to do was get Gabriela on the same piece of sidewalk as Beth at the same time and swap them back. What was so hard about that? That was our understanding.”

It was his understanding, not hers. Remedios bites into her lunch in a non-committal way.

“However,” Otto continues, “for some twisted reason of your own, you didn’t do that, did you?” Otto cuts his food into remarkably even slices. He may be upset, but he’s still neat. “You just sat there and watched them charge off in opposite directions as if they were being chased by rampaging Cossacks.”

“I don’t know why you’re blaming me. I am not responsible for the unpredictability of humans, Otto. Beth just bolted for that bus like a frightened horse.”

“You could have stopped her.” He pops a slice of burrito into his mouth.

“I’m so sorry, Otto.” Remedios is the voice of sweet reason. “But if you recall, you told me very specifically to look after Gabriela. Not Beth.”

He flaps his fork at her. “You didn’t stop her either!”

This, of course, is true. And because it is true, Remedios takes another bite and chews slowly. “You know, humans may have invented guns and nuclear weapons and drone bombers, but they also came up with the black bean burrito – and the black bean burrito’s really good.”

“You could have stopped Beth,” repeats Otto, “but you didn’t. You sat there and watched her go off on that bus like a lamb to the slaughter.”

“She didn’t go off to the slaughter, Otto. She went downtown. It’s not the same thing at all.”

“That’s what you think. That bus was almost literally Hell on wheels. What is it with this city? It’s usually only religious wars that bring out so much insanity.”

“She wasn’t hurt, Otto. Everything turned out just dandy.” Remedios reaches for the salsa verde. “And just for the record, since you seem to think everything’s my fault, I’m not the one who caused a major international incident.” She smiles at him as she scoops up a spoonful of sauce. “That would be
you
.”

And that would be why he’s changed his clothes again. Just in case the police are looking for him.

“I wouldn’t call it major, Remedios.” He forks another piece of burrito. “It was just one bus.”

“It’s all over the news already.” An angel would never gloat, of course, but she can’t resist a slightly smug smile. “By tomorrow it’ll be in every paper on the continent.”

“I think that’s very unlikely.” He certainly hopes that it is. Even though Otto holds her completely responsible for everything that’s happened, he can see that it might not appear that way to everyone. “Things like that must happen here all the time. And, in any event, it’s a national – not an international – incident.”

“That woman from Tokyo had to be sedated.”

“That wasn’t because of me.” He wipes hot sauce from his mouth with a yellow napkin that says
The Whole Enchilada
in red lettering. “That was because of the snake. And the dogs.”

“It wasn’t the snake or the dogs that made the bus go the wrong way. For
miles
.” She points the salsa spoon at him. Accusingly. “I heard that the driver may never recover. He keeps repeating, over and over, ‘How did it happen? How did it happen?’”

“Oh, he’ll be fine.” Because human emotions are so undependable (they cry at weddings, but bomb whole cities without blinking back a single tear), they are also irksome and exhausting. You never know what insignificant incident is going to set them off. “There was a lot of screaming towards the end. It probably jangled his nerves.”

“The screaming, of course. How silly of me. Driving like a zombie and finally being stopped by the cops had nothing to do with it.”

Otto slips another slice of burrito into his mouth. “I only did what I had to do.”

“And that’s what I did.” She picks up her burrito and takes a bite, a noticeable amount of the stuffing falling back onto the table and her paper plate. “What I had to do.”

“Putting Beth on that bus? That was what you had to do?”

It’s not easy to sound indignant with a mouth full of rice and beans, but Remedios manages heroically. “Excuse me, Mr Wasserbach, but I thought we’d been through that. I didn’t put her on that bus.” Though she did, of course, make the bus available. “She got on all by herself.”

He picks up a pepper. “And you expect me to believe that?”

“It happens to be true.” If only technically.

Otto watches her closely for the slightest shimmer, but much to his chagrin, there is none. And yet he’d be willing to wager that she isn’t telling the truth. Not Remedios Cienfuegos y Mendoza, the DIY angel.

“And in any case, you’re the one who’s looking after Beth,” says Remedios. “Not I.”

“But that doesn’t change the fact that you were meant to switch them on Sunset. Beth was standing right there at the kerb. Gabriela crossed the road. Everything was perfect. I was all set to pick you up, check out of the hotel and go home. But, no. Next thing I know, Beth’s going west and Gabriela’s disappeared. How could you have botched that? What went wrong?”

“Beth got on the bus; that’s what went wrong.”

“And Gabriela? What happened to Gabriela?”

“Gabriela’s on the tour bus with old Dragon Breath.” Still not even the shadow of a shimmer. “Where do you think she is?”

“Well, how would I know?” One minute he’s as good as shaking the sand of Los Angeles out of his shoes and the next there’s a snake hissing at him and a dog bouncing off his knees. “I just hope you don’t lose track of her again.”

Remedios licks sauce from her fingertips. “Otto, what difference would it make? We can switch them back in Jeremiah.”

“What? After you’ve ruined their lives?” He pushes his empty plate away. “Because that’s what you’re doing, you know. I, for one, certainly don’t imagine that Gabriela’s doing a better job of being Beth than Beth is of being Gabriela. Or are you going to tell me that she is? That she’s going to emerge from this weekend triumphant and covered in laurels?”

Remedios, too, pushes her empty plate away. “She’s doing a great job.”

Unfortunately, because of the sunlight reflecting off the ocean and the hazy quality of the air, he still isn’t sure whether or not he caught a shimmer.

Despite appearances, things continue to go downhill faster than a car without brakes

Crying
usually helps. At least in Beth’s experience it does. It helps you get through the worst day or the bluest mood or the longest, darkest night. Indeed, Beth spends a lot of time by herself; and a lot of the time that she spends by herself is taken up with tears. How many days has she sat in the corner stall of one of the school’s girls’ rooms, weeping because of a poor grade or a spotlight of laughter following her down a hall? How many nights has she lain awake with her cat, Charley, curled against her humming like a small motor, worrying about all the things that might go wrong tomorrow, or the next day, or ten years from now? How many weekends has she sat in her room, poor-me drops splashing onto her homework because everybody else is at a party or out on a date? Almost too many to count. But a good cry is like a spring cleaning of the soul; afterwards she feels, if not better exactly, at least refreshed.

And that’s how she plans to spend the rest of the afternoon once she gets back to the hotel and is finally alone: sobbing her heart out. God knows she has enough cause; she could cry a river the size of the Rio Grande and no one would blame her. Besides, what else does she have to do? She can’t even call her old room – call herself – because there won’t be anyone there. They won’t be returning to the hotel till after the play. Just the thought of what she’s missing nearly gets her started; she’d been looking forward to seeing a play that wasn’t performed on the stage of the high school auditorium by kids she’s gone to school with most of her life.

The cab driver, however, has other plans. He is a gangling, beaming man with an unpronounceable name and the personality of a Labrador pup. As soon as she shuts the door he starts talking.

“Are you a model?” He grins at her over his shoulder. “I get a lot of models. There’s almost as many models in this city as actors. I get a lot of them, too. Always in a hurry. Rushrushrushrushrush. But you can’t go faster than you can go, you know? That’s just a fact. And I say to them, God didn’t make all the beautiful things in the world so you could keep looking at your watch, you know?” He more or less throws the cab into traffic. “So are you?” he goes on. “Are you doing a show at the college?”

Able to tell the truth for the first time all day, Beth says no. “No, I was just— I was just visiting the school with a friend. Actually, I’m a writer.” And she explains that she’s in LA for the weekend because she’s a finalist in a national competition.

“A writer? Now that is something.” He glances into the mirror, a colourful collection of talismans and chotskies swaying gently below it. “I’d never guess that. You don’t look like a writer.” He laughs. “But a book doesn’t look like its cover, you know? What do you write?”

“Short stories. But some day I want to write a novel.” Barefoot and no longer bashful. “That’s what I really want to do.”

“A novel! Now that is a thing to want!” For some reason his laugh makes her think of cinnamon. “You know what you should do? I’ll tell you. You should write about me!” With one hand he cuts into the next lane and with the other he thumps himself on the chest. “You wouldn’t believe the life I’ve had. It would be a bestseller.” And while he weaves rather recklessly through the traffic, rarely looking at the road, but frequently shouting good-naturedly at drivers who are even worse than he, he tells her the story of his life. Which, at a rough estimate, contains enough material for a dozen novels, each of them marked by hardship and struggle, and quite a lot of
joie de vivre
. He laughs again. “Everything but the kitchen sink, you know? And every word is true.” He sounds his horn as a man in a Humvee comes close to ending the story once and for all. “And then I came to this country,” he finishes up. “Where anything can happen, you know?”

“Yes,” says Beth, “I know.”

The cabbie comes from a place where you might also say that anything can happen, but most of it is unpleasant. “Here, I have a chance. I can make the best of things, you know? Nothing’s perfect, but you can make the best of things.”