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.”