A Thousand Steps

49

Back in his private Eden, Matt cleans the halibut and cuts it into big steaks. He’s still shivering. His knife is a good one, given to him by his father many years ago, and Matt keeps it as sharp as possible.

In minutes, he’s bagged and packed most of the fish into the two baskets on the Heavy-Duti, two layers of upright steaks, tight as books on a shelf. The last eight go into two plastic bags that he hangs on the handlebars. The skin, skeleton, and head go into the sea. He rinses his knife and himself thoroughly and packs the knife back in his tackle box. Lashes his rod to the rear basket with the bungee.

Very slowly he pushes and pulls the heavy-laden Schwinn over the Moss Point rocks toward Coast Highway. Rests twice. Shivers again. His bare feet hurt. By the time he hits the steps he’s too tired to get the bike up to the sidewalk, but a couple of kids help him.

“Your feet are bleeding, mister.”

“Okay.”

Finally, he’s on PCH, pedaling weakly north for Dodge City and his mother’s freezer, a good four miles away.

He’s expecting Furlong to pull up behind him in Moby Cop, throw him and his bike and fish in, and haul them off to the Youth Leadership Center. Dr. Hamilton would get possession of him and his bike, and Furlong would take his fish and probably tell people he caught it. Again Matt considers the Bat Cave for hiding, but no: Furlong will be looking hard for him at MAW, and there’s not nearly enough refrigerator freezer space for the epic halibut. No, he’d rather fight Furlong for his bike and his fish than let him claim them.

Matt lets himself into his mother’s barn on Roosevelt Lane. Inside he feels the closed-up heat of summer so he opens the windows and leaves the front door wide and the screen door closed. Of course, her refrigerators are all but empty. The halibut steaks fill the entire Grateful Dead Frigidaire freezer and some of the other.

He looks for the dragon balls that his mother alleges to have thrown away and finds not one, not even a foil wrapping. Ashtrays clean. No pot or pills, just the old open pack of Benson & Hedges Julie kept as a reminder of her quitting cold turkey just after Kyle was born. And some Mateus in the newer fridge.

He takes a hot bath in the deep tub, the shivers melting away. Washes and shampoos twice to get the fish slime and blood really off him. Drains and refills the tub, and soaks again. The soles of his feet are crisscrossed with short clean nicks but done bleeding. If Furlong finds him here he’ll be naked, defenseless, and unable to even run.

He hears the front door fly open and slam against the wall, and thinks: I’m busted.

Little voices and laughter.

The feral boys burst into the bathroom and stand around the tub, studying Matt. There are six of them. Dirty faces, swimsuits, and T-shirts. Sneakers and bare feet, a skinny redhead wearing suede moccasins that reach his knees.

“What do you little shitheads want?”

“You’re naked.”

“You should knock first.”

“Sorry, mister. How’s your mom?”

“Great. Dinged up a little from the fall.”

“She’s a stone fox,” says the redhead. “I saw it happen.”

“Liar,” says another. “Me and Jason are the only ones that did. You drank all that acid orange juice and thought you saw it happen.”

“Did see it.”

“Have any food?”

“There are some halibut steaks in the fridge, but you have to cook them.”

“My mom’s a great cook.”

“Mine’s terrible.”

“You can have one big steak each, but that’s all. The rest are mine to live on.”

“Where did you get them?”

“I caught the fish and cut it up.”

“My dad surfs.”

Matt briefly studies each face. They remind him of an old photograph, something black-and-white or sepia, the Old West maybe, or refugees at Ellis Island.

“Are there people in the Living Caves?” he asks the redhead. The Living Caves is local slang for the sandstone caves up near Top of the World. They’re impossible to get to except on foot or a dirt bike. For decades they’ve been a stopover for hobos and vagrants, migrants and drifters, now hitchhikers and hippies.

“Some. The cops can’t get up there without getting seen and everybody has noisemakers and firecrackers and dogs.”

“How many people are there?”

“We can take you there if you want.”

“I know where they are. I need a place to park my van where Furlong won’t find it.”

“We got a garage that’s empty. Mom won’t care. It’s the brown house on Victory with all the surfboards on the porch. Mine’s the red twin-fin.”

“Thank you.”

“We saw your mom’s gun. And the ammo.”

“You idiots,” says Matt. “Did you touch it?”

“We passed it around and put it back. Is it loaded?”

“You’re damned right it’s loaded. Don’t you ever come into this house again. Ever! You promise me right now, all six of you.”

The boys mumble promises, some rolling their eyes, none looking directly at Matt.

“Good. Someone hand me that towel off the door and all of you get out. Don’t say anything about me being here.”

He dries off and puts a clean T-shirt and jeans on. The feral boys have moved on, leaving a refrigerator door ajar, and dusty footprints across the white and purple fleur-de-lis linoleum floor.

He finds the good skillet and cooks up the biggest halibut steak he can find. Blackens the outside and leaves the middle cool and dumps a jar of canned stewed tomatoes onto the plate to go with it. He sends the plastic-wrapped LSD “prize” down the garbage disposal, wondering how long it will take Furlong to track him down. Or just blunder into him. It’s a small town.

He parks the Westfalia in the Victory Walk garage of Hallie Tingly, who says no problem and offers him a hit off her bong as she breastfeeds. Matt averts his eyes and politely declines.

Forty minutes later he walks into the campfire light and dope smoke at the Living Caves. He has surprised the dogs, which now circle him closely. He’s got his sleeping bag, his backpack with sketchbook, charcoals, and a plastic jar of peanuts inside, and a canteen of water slung over a shoulder. Wyatt Earp’s loaded .45 rests at the bottom of the pack like an anchor. He couldn’t leave it there for the boys.

The hippies regard him without getting up from their beach towels and sleeping bags and their Mystic Arts World Afghan rugs. Flame shadows move on their faces and their cheeks hollow when they hit the joint. They’re hairy and young and dressed for a different age — the Medieval maybe, Matt thinks — or maybe a whole different planet.

Two of the men are older than the others and they have sharp, un-stoned eyes. They remind him of Longton, his Diver’s Cove mugger.

“I’m Matt. I’m going to sleep on that flat spot over there tonight. I don’t want any trouble.”

“Then just don’t bring any. Basic Karma, bro.”

“Hi, Matt.”

“Peace, Matt.”

“You look too young to be a narc, Matt.”

“I am too young for that,” he says. “It’s been a long day. Good night.”

He climbs a gentle rise and settles onto the flat spot. Unrolls his pad and sleeping bag and wads up a jacket for a pillow. He’s got a good downhill view of the canyon and Dodge City and Laguna Canyon Road. He can see the cars backed up near the Festival of Arts grounds and the Irvine Bowl amphitheater and he thinks about how long ago it seems that he was perched in the eucalyptus tree, eating peanuts and gazing down on Laurel in her tableau. He knows she was crushed when his father removed her from the Jazz Anthony search posse that Laurel had helped create, but Matt couldn’t see then — and still can’t see now — how having her around Bruce and his gun and three probably dangerous kidnappers would be a good idea.

Turning to look behind him he sees the lights of Top of the World and the houses scattered on the upper flank of the canyon and the blue-domed bell tower of the Vortex of Purity rising well-lit in the night.

Matt hears a boom like artillery. A white firework rises into the western sky and bursts, reaching mightily into the black, then the million sparks arch and settle into the ocean. Another big thump, then a red explosion, suddenly overlapped by an enormous blue blossom that hangs in the sky for a few seconds before melting. Matt watches, wishing he could get some of that beauty onto his sketchbook but knowing he probably can’t. Maybe someday, he thinks, when he’s a master of color like Van Gogh, and has the best paints and brushes money can buy.

He lies back on the sleeping bag and adjusts the jacket/pillow. To keep his soaked wallet safe from nighttime thieves like the Longton-esque creeps around the campfire, he pushes it all the way down into the front pocket of his jeans. Since getting three gallons at the Chevron on PCH, his wallet now contains three dollars and sixty-five cents, his driver’s and first fishing licenses, and high school grad shots of Kyle and Jasmine. He figures the pictures might be ruined but the rest will dry out in time.

When he closes his eyes he feels the rise and fall of the ocean he spent nearly an hour in today. Hears the whump and pop of fireworks. A cold eddy ripples down his back. He knows he was foolish to follow that fish but he’s glad he did it and he’d do it again, though maybe not in the near future. He has enough fish to last two weeks, even sharing it with Laurel and his dad.

He thinks of Hamsa Luke, and if Luke was really a drug kingpin and even if he was why they had to shoot him. He was trying to escape? Don’t they always say that? Darnell would know how it happened. She might tell him if he called. But how long can you talk to a cop before they trace the call and bust you?

He’s more tired than he can remember. More tired than mumps. More tired than doing his paper route with a cold so bad he could hardly breathe, coughing in pain on a winter afternoon that was dark at five o’clock. More tired than hauling eight thousand pounds of logs up- and downhill eight hours straight for Sara Eikenberg.

Again he feels that great ocean lifting and lowering, inhaling and exhaling, and the pitch and roll of his body within it. Remembers from freshman biology that his blood is fifty-four percent salt water. He feels the wild fish inside him and knows he’ll wake up strong in the morning.

Jazz.

Laurel.

Sara.

Mom.

Donuts with Dad at six.

Only a few more doors to knock on...