Calif.

2. Home

The house smelled of my family and the eucalyptus in the backyard. It smelled of my father. He’d been gone for more than a year; his death a feeling I harbored everywhere but here. Here, he still had a presence; I wouldn’t have been surprised to find him sitting in the lawn chair, looking out over the Valley.

The house was as I’d left it, Johnny Mathis’ Greatest Hits leaning against the stereo console, the bread on the counter with the mail and the Nestle’s Quik. Three months had passed, and nothing had changed.

There was joy at my return; my kid sister, Anna, was filled with a delight that faded again when she realized I wasn’t staying. “You’re going, then?” my mother asked. “Stay. A couple days. Just stay and relax. Get reacquainted with your sister.” It was Hadley who said we should.

“It’s nice here. I’d like to see L.A.” It wasn’t the plan.

We hadn’t eaten anything since Barney’s Beanery, so my mother made us grilled-cheese sandwiches. When she put the plates before us I touched her hand and said, “For a little while.”

In the morning, I carted everything out of the van and threw my clothes in the wash along with Hadley’s. The washer was in the kitchen with a round glass door that looked like a contact lens, and amidst the soap suds and churning water, our clothes comingled, her t-shirts wrapping their arms around mine, a dress drawn up and panties swept aside.

I washed the van and vacuumed and arranged the magnets of the states on the dashboard. I had on my jeans and a pair of zorries and no shirt and Farmgirl came to the front door in my striped Hang Ten t. I had on my transistor radio and The Beach Boys were bursting with good vibrations.

“No one home?” she shouted. I shook my head.

“There’s coffee. Sleep okay?” She didn’t answer, then I heard the stereo. She was flipping through the dial. Amidst the static and the flutter, I heard Anne Murray’s “Snowbird” and “I’ll Never Fall in Love Again,” and then she stopped at “Honky Tonk Woman.” I could see her through the window, dancing.

I put the clothes in the dryer and got us each a big mug of coffee. I nodded my head toward the backyard and we sat under the eucalyptus tree. She said, “This is nice.” It was. Nice just to sit under a tree and look out over the Valley, the smog settling down into the basin, eradicating the silver San Berdoos, the mountaintops peaking up over the ashen mire.

I kept my stash in an old Beech-Nut Chewing gum tin and lit up a joint. The leaves of the old eucalyptus were gray on the underside and the wind would pick up and they’d be green, and gray, and green and they’d rustle together. Hadley stretched out her arms and her t-shirt hitched up and I took a sip of my coffee and I noticed: her pussy, which she’d shaved of all things, was so beautiful; just a little line; how could just a little line be so beautiful? And she looked at me and sang, “Oh no, oh no. Oh no no no no no,” and she wagged her finger. “I’m gonna get dressed.”

My mother took us to Chris and Pitts for dinner. It was my father’s favorite. I liked it too. The floor was red cement and they threw down sawdust. There was a counter at the front like a diner and Remington paintings and old brass, and outside was a big neon sign that said “Bar-B-Q Now Open.” It cast a warm red glow into the restaurant. She told a story about my father; the one she always told, about how he could eat a rack of ribs and use just one napkin. It was a skill he had of which she was proud. Hadley ate three pieces of garlic bread and my mother asked where she put it.

Later that night Farmgirl and I went to the Whiskey to see the Velvet Underground. It wasn’t crowded. L.A. didn’t take a shine to New York, like there was some kind of resentment, but we got to stand at the front under the cage with the go-go girl, and that was a plus. It was kind of raw; the guitars had a heavy wail, kind of tinny, and there was discordance despite the music’s simplicity. The first song was called “I’m Waiting for the Man;” a simple story about a guy on Lexington and 125th Street waiting for the pusherman. People hassle him and he blows them off. When the dealer fixes him up, he goes home and his girlfriend’s all mad because he’s loaded, but he’s like, “What the hell, I feel good.” It was pretty heavy, and maybe it explained the animosity; like L.A. was all la-de-dah and psychedelic and Orange Sunshine, and New York was dark and high and evil.

Afterward, we went to Ben Frank’s and had coffee. We sat there for hours. Hadley said, “I think the whole act is like a parody, self-aware of how limiting and pathetic the life of a junkie is.”

“Wow. Sometimes I forget how smart you are.”

“Cause I’m off the farm.”

“Yeah.”

Suddenly friends arrived, and it was awkward. The girl’s name was Paris Smith. It struck me how strange it was to have a name at once so odd and so plain. With her was Lane who’d slid his motorcycle under a tractor trailer, and although he’d come a long way, his feet still dangled a half-pace behind. He had those forearm crutches with the cuffs and he sidled down the aisle behind Paris. He slid into the booth next to ours. It was awkward because I’d slept with her after the accident. I knew just how miserable she was, but she’d stayed at his side out of guilt or duty. It was remarkable and sad. As soon as I saw Paris come in the door I put a ten dollar bill on the table and called over the waitress. Then we made our excuses and left.

In the car, she said, “So, you slept with her; and you feel guilty about it.”

“What do you want me to say?” I don’t know how she knew.

“Nothing. You don’t have to say anything. There’s just no reason for anyone to feel guilty about making themselves happy. It’s a disservice not to be self-serving. Heck, I mean, look at that girl. She’s unhappy; she’s throwing her life away for this guy. Out of what, out of guilt?

“When I was little,” she said, “my parents put me on a plane so I could see my grandmaw. When the stewardess went over the safety guidelines and all, the thing that stuck in my head was you’re supposed to put on your own oxygen mask first. You can’t help people if you can’t breathe.”

She looked at me. “That girl can’t breathe. You can’t make people happy if you’re not happy yourself. She ain’t makin’ him happy, and the reality is, nothing’s going to. Ever. It’s too late, and she’s caught up in it.”

“I don’t know; that’s a little mean.”

“It’s not mean. It’s just life. He’ll remain bitter and unhappy and ruin her, and she’s so pretty.”

When we got home she said, “I’m kinda hungry.” I made her toast. She loved toast. I don’t know where she put it.