7
The next morning, Dillon woke to the sound of children’s laughter. The sound was so unexpected, he thought perhaps it was part of some dream he had carried from sleep. Then a child sang a few notes, followed by more laughter. It filled the empty back cell where Dillon lay, clear as the California sunlight he suspected he would not see that day.
He lay there, alone in the station’s drunk tank. The floor canted ever so slightly toward a drain in the room’s center. Dillon had set his mattress so his feet were by the drain and his head by the metal shelf running along the back wall. It was a very odd place to feel as complete as he did now. Perhaps it was simply because he had slept well for the first time since leaving his former home in Philadelphia. Yet as he lay there, staring at the concrete ceiling, he recalled the previous day. Helping Olivia find her way to some semblance of a new beginning. He had no idea what had drawn her back to Miramar in such an unwelcoming season. But there in the shadows she carried, he had sensed a similar tale to his own.
Watching Olivia photograph the family and prepare the portrait had carried seeds of hope. Fragile and tiny. But there just the same.
Dillon lay on his back, fingers laced behind his head, and allowed his mind to roam. Something he rarely did. His previous existence had been too full, too fast, too focused on everything that filled his days. All that was gone now. It was far from pleasant, looking back. Just the same, it felt right. Lying here in his solitary cell, remembering.
Soon after Dillon turned eleven, his hippie mom left his hippie dad. One day she was there, and their homelife was okay. Not great. More like, what passed for normal. Then one night she had declared that she was so bored with her existence it felt like her soul had entered hibernation. Three days later, she was gone.
His father’s response was to lose himself in smoke. Weed intake went up tenfold. Dillon’s old man checked out so far and so fast he could go days without even speaking. His only remaining interest was tending his crop of weed. Certainly not his son.
Dillon’s grandparents had insisted he live with his father and effectively babysit the stoned loner. But they sheltered their grandson in so many ways. Every few evenings he joined them for dinner. His grandmother then sent Dillon home with food to tide them over. His grandparents started treating him as a newly forged adult. One they could trust to keep things together, both for himself and his childish dad. Later that year his grandmother arranged Dillon’s unofficial job at the motel. Dillon discovered a genuine passion for work, and doing a job well.
The jail’s regular showers and facilities had been sealed off. Instead, the station’s new guests used the bathroom next to the chief’s office. Two handmade signs hung to either side of the door. The first was a circle with an arrow that swiveled, pointing to either MALEor FEMALE. The second sign simply said, BEHAVE.
Dillon showered and dressed in wrinkled but clean clothes, then followed his nose toward coffee and breakfast. Two officers served duty by the front reception desk. Chief Porter leaned over Maud’s shoulder and studied a file, while she quietly pointed her way down the page.
The six families who had spent the night in the cells were clustered around a pair of desks adjacent to the kitchenette. Older kids played a board game while the twins stood to either side of Olivia’s chair, wearing police hats and clutching stuffed animals and vying for her attention. Olivia’s family portrait now hung on the wall behind them.
Dillon accepted a plate of overcooked eggs and ate staring out the front window. The rain had stopped, but the sky remained a leaden gray. He returned his empty plate to the kitchenette, refilled his mug, and headed over. Olivia told him, “The twins think they’re leaving today.”
The girl with the misnamed bunny announced, “Mommy says tomorrow. Daddy says now.”
Olivia went on, “Porter says the dozers have been out this morning. The roads to our homes have been cleared. He can’t say for how long. The hillsides are just waiting for an excuse to send down more rubble.”
“Which is what Daddy told Mommy,” the twin reported. “Six times.”
Dillon said, “We could drive up together, if you like. Me and you. Just take a look. Not even go inside unless . . .”
“That’s why I’ve been sitting here,” she replied.
“Hoping you’d say that.”
Dillon had a rental car that might get them there and back. Ditto for Olivia’s Honda. But just as likely either vehicle would leave them stranded somewhere that turned awful when the rains resumed. He walked to where Porter continued frowning over a form Maud held and asked, “Can I have a word?”
“Anything to get me away from this mess.”
Maud said, “Our chief suffers from a severe case of formaphobia.”
Porter turned his back to the room, lowered his voice, and said, “I was hoping Olivia would do pictures of my family. Our daughter’s grown up. This may be her last Christmas at home.”
Maud rose and planted herself alongside Porter. Her voice was scarcely above a whisper. “I’d love one of the grandkids.”
“We can pay,” Porter said.
“We see the state she’s in,” Maud said. “We were wondering what you thought of the idea.”
“I imagine Olivia will agree,” Dillon said. “But first we need to borrow somebody’s four-wheel drive.”
* * *
There were worse ways to travel inland, Dillon thought, than in the chief’s own pickup. Town shields on the doors, lights and sirens discreetly tucked away but there in an emergency, three antennas and a radio that could probably reach Mars, massive lights on the roof, four-wheel drive, six-liter diesel kicker. All the comforts of home.
The rain had stopped, but the sky remained a dismal gray. Olivia rode curled in the manner of a teen, shoes kicked off, seatbelt loose around her middle, heels propped on the seat, arms wrapped around her legs. They did not speak for a time, taking the main road leading east. Past the grocery store and the new strip mall beyond, into the largest of Miramar valleys. Like so many drives before, back in the bygone days when all they could think of was how to escape.
He knew her so well. The looks she cast. The questions she didn’t ask, because she didn’t want to pressure him into speaking about what hurt. Which it did. Even staying silent burned his throat and heart. So he decided he might as well get it over with.
