Claudia Armann

The Hazard Zone

Catalina

The first crack snaked beneath the wrought iron table on the patio. Catalina’s stomach spasmed when she spotted the fissure. No, no, no. Until that moment she’d been in denial, ignoring the orange cones, sandbags, and “Use Extreme Caution” signs infiltrating her neighborhood.

But the six-inch-long crack zigzagging across the concrete provided solid, incontrovertible proof that her house was now in the hazard zone. Already, two homes on the other side of Abalone Lane had been yellow-tagged as the ground shifted. Catalina’s mind knew about the ever-present danger, but her heart refused to believe it could happen to her, the widow. The young widow with two children. Fate could not assault her with another cataclysmic strike. Could it?

She crouched over the coral-stained concrete and traced the jagged edges of the rift with her fingers. Six inches that ruptured her world. Her entire frame convulsed. No tears, no scream of anger, no gears in her mind straining to problem-solve. Only inertia as the summer fog rolled in.

A week later, the sliding glass door refused to budge. Not long after, a knock came with news that the utility company would turn off the neighborhood’s gas. Then the entire block lost electricity. So today, Catalina boiled water on the Coleman stove she and Suresh had used to make pancakes for the kids on camping trips. The water for her Earl Grey tea bubbled and she shut off the propane. The children would have to endure another breakfast of bananas and untoasted bagels. None of the strawberry cream cheese that seven-year-old Kal adored. But the generator would arrive in three days, so they could once again use the Subzero refrigerator and shower with warm water.

Catalina peeled and sliced Yoli’s banana. That much she could do for her girl. Then she took a teabag from the cupboard and left the cabinet door to swing on its hinges. Outside the picture window, a gull glided toward the glittering sea. A three-million-dollar-view in a house where the cabinet doors didn’t close and the rooms were dark after sunset.

Kal and his younger sister Yoli strode into the kitchen and climbed barstools at the quartzite island. “Bananas and bagels again?” Yoli sniveled. “Please, Mommy, please. I want an orange-mango smoothie.”

“Yes!” Kal jumped off the stool. “I’ll go pick some mint to put in it.” After only a step, he spun around. “Oh, we can’t use the blender.”

Catalina’s forehead creased as she absorbed the disappointment on their faces. Little faces she adored, with heavy eyebrows just like Suresh’s. She should have driven to the bakery on her lunch break yesterday to buy them raspberry corn muffins, should have pushed Suresh to buy the cottage in Redondo Beach with the blue hydrangeas, should have invested the life insurance money rather than pay off the mortgage on their doomed house. She had failed her children in small and colossal ways. And by extension, she’d failed Suresh. 

“Listen.” Catalina dunked her teabag. “When we get the generator, I’ll make smoothies. Any kind you want. We can use the blender, the toaster, charge your devices. Okay? Three more days.”

Kal nodded, pierced a banana slice, and popped it in his mouth. Yoli stabbed the bagel with her fork. Her lips pinched shut, and she ripped her paper napkin into shreds. Catalina also wanted to channel her frustration with uninhibited aggression, but mothers kept their shit together. Single-mothers, especially. So she sighed and sipped bitter tea. The teabag had steeped too long. 

When the crack on the patio appeared, Catalina summoned the city for an inspection. The inspector had assured her the house was safe to occupy. She and the children were not in danger. Yet. Everyone in her neighborhood now understood that a “yellow tag” meant a structure was unlivable, but people could remain during daylight hours with workmen making repairs or homeowners moving belongings out. A “red tag” – well then all bets were off. “Unsafe to enter.”

 She stalled on making any plan as long as her house was tagless. While her neighbors were in fight or flight mode, she froze. Even a sliding door that wouldn’t open failed to thaw her. After all, a man with a city badge had told her it was safe.

A knock echoed through the foyer. Kal sprinted to the front door. Catalina followed and overtook him. There were no random visitors in their gated neighborhood. Knocks brought only bad news lately.

Tomas

Tomas warmed up black beans in the microwave while he fried plantains in the battered pan from Goodwill. He checked the time through his phone’s shattered screen. Damn, they had to hurry.

“Niñas,” he yelled to his sisters, who were straightening the sheets on the sleeper sofa they shared in the apartment’s living room. His bedroll and pillow had already been stacked in the corner where he slept rather uncomfortably – especially after his growth spurt at sixteen.

Mercy poured glasses of milk while Flor set forks atop neatly folded napkins at three place settings. The microwave dinged, and Tomas served each a portion of beans. “Are you excited? Last day of school?”

“Yeah, no more homework,” Flor said.

Mercy scooped beans into her mouth. “Give me the platanos with the crispy edges.”

Tomas complied. With eight plantain wedges, he took only two so his sisters could have three each.  

Today would be the last day he’d walk the girls to school on route to his high school. While his sisters attended the summer program at the San Pedro Boys and Girls Club, he’d help their father prune and pamper the gardens of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. All summer long. Out of the house by seven. Earlier some days so they could shuttle Mamá to her job cleaning hotel rooms. Tomas wished he could be back at the club. Learning chess or making crafts from pipe cleaners was not so bad in hindsight. But now, his life would be rakes and leaf blowers.

Mamá said it was okay to leave dirty dishes if they were running late for school. But Tomas hated to leave the work for her. He scrubbed the pan until Mercy called from the front door. “We’re gonna be late!”

Flor scoffed. “Who cares? Last day.”

Tomas stacked the dirty plates. He’d wash them later. His classes had ended the day before, so he had this one day to himself. A one-day summer break. He could play Call of Duty with the college kid next door. Or perfect his Pop Shuvit on his skateboard. Maybe invite Angie to get a Coke. No, he wasn’t brave enough for that. Well, maybe today he would be.

On the walk back from the girls’ school, Tomas’ phone rang. Papi. “I will pick you up in a half hour,” Papi said in Spanish. “Need your help today.”

“Today? You said I wouldn’t start working till tomorrow.”

“Sorry, mijo. Have to help a client move some furniture and can’t do it alone. We should be grateful to have a roof over our heads. This couple’s house is sliding off a cliff.”

Catalina

Catalina stood with her neighbor Wes watching as her gardener and his son loaded the Owen family’s mattress into a moving van.

“Red-tagged,” Wes said as he sunk his hands into his cargo shorts. “I just told Clint Owens he should have moved his stuff when it was yellow-tagged. He’s putting Nico and Tomas in danger by hiring them to move him out now.”

“Do they know they shouldn’t enter the house?”

“You speak Spanish. That’s why I came and got you. Go tell them, Catalina.”

She considered Wes, standing before her in one of his bleach-stained T-shirts. Was he worried for their safety or just being his usual nosey self? The mayor of Abalone Lane, everyone called him. Catalina wouldn’t judge him too harshly. Her survival had come to depend on this septuagenarian. Wes had found the best deal on her new generator and 110-gallon propane tank, and he’d promised to convert her gas appliances to propane. He’d also delivered and installed sandbags to protect her collapsing patio.  

“I’ll talk to them,” Catalina said and began to cross the disfigured street, Kal following. “No, honey. Go in the house.”

Nico was heaving under the weight of a king-sized mattress, but his teenage son was holding his own. Catalina had known Tomas since he was seven or eight. His dad brought him round on weekends to help rake avocado leaves or spread mulch. Once, Tomas had found an abandoned bushtit nest in the orange tree and brought it to her for identification. His eyes had glowed when she showed him a photo in her Sibley’s guide of the plump little bird who’d built the nest. Now, Tomas was pushing the mattress deeper into the van.

“Buenos días,” Catalina said.

“Ay, Doña, desculpe.” Nico apologized for getting a late start on tidying her garden.

“Don’t worry,” she said in Spanish. “But it’s not safe to enter that house.”

Tomas’ head shot up. His father sighed and shook his head. “Poor people. They have to abandon their home.”

“Yes, because it could collapse at any moment. You shouldn’t go inside again.”

“We just need to get the bedframe and a few boxes. They really need their bed or where will they sleep?”

Heat rose up Catalina’s neck. The Owens could always decamp to their second home in Palm Springs or their condo in Park City. How dare they put Nico and his son in harm’s way? Typical. Wes had told her of a family on the other side of the canyon that asked their housekeeper to move into their yellow-tagged home sans electricity to care for their chickens and goats. Her neighbors could be such assholes.

“It’s not worth the risk,” she said, directing her gaze at Tomas. Maybe he could reason with his father.

“Mr. Owens said stay out of the back of the house, but we’re just grabbing stuff from the garage,” Tomas said. “It’s safe, I think.”

Catalina surveyed the garage, which looked intact despite the heavily-cracked driveway. “Bueno, but be careful.” She crossed the street, and Wes met her on the sidewalk. “They aren’t going in the house,” she said. “Just packing stuff from the garage.”

“Nope. I saw them make three trips through the front door. Nico’s giving you the brush-off. Probably getting paid a hefty sum for risking his neck. The land around here is now moving nine inches a week!”

Catalina’s hands cradled her cheeks, and a knot formed in her throat. She glanced at her red-roofed dream home and tried to calculate how much time they had left. This house gave her children stability after losing their father. It could not crumble under their feet. She must keep them in their school, with their friends. If they were forced to move, where would they go? Her sister had offered refuge at her home in Goleta. But moving hours from her job was a nonstarter.  

“The city has sunk ten dewatering wells,” Wes said. “Should divert the water and slow the land movement.”

A thread of hope. She’d grasp it because it was her only lifeline. The fateful call to the insurance company had closed her other avenue of escape. “Your policy does not cover land movement,” the crisp voice had declared. “In fact, we sell no such polices in California.”

Wes scratched the stubble on his chin. “Thinking of installing solar power and putting my house up on steel beams with adjustable supports.”

Catalina’s jaw dropped. She couldn’t picture what he was proposing. The price tag was likely more than she could afford. 

Yoli and Kal marched outside with their backpacks.

“Are we going to camp?” Yoli asked.

Catalina looked at her watch. Well past ten. With a meeting at eleven, she had to get the kids to their STEM camp before heading to City Hall. She waved to Wes and dashed inside for her purse and the basket of laundry she’d do at a colleague’s house after work. She now charged her phone and the kids’ devices at her office. 

Minutes later, kids strapped in the backseat, Catalina drove slowly on the rippled road and around deep dips. As she turned onto Palos Verdes Drive, she spotted a SoCal Edison truck. Workers in orange jumpsuits were positioning a crane to remove an electrical pole slanted at a fifty-degree angle. The utility companies wouldn’t risk fire-igniting sparks or gas leaks so they had shut off service. No, their electricity was not coming back. And if the exposed pipes on Palos Verdes Drive were any indication, it was only a matter of time before broken water lines and sewer pipes meant no water, no toilets.

Tomas

Mr. Owens drove up in a Tesla. Out he came with coffee and a paper bag emblazoned with La Petite Café on it. Tomas thought maybe he’d brought them muffins or something as a thank you. A lady had done that once. But no, Mr. Owens was all business, surveying their work.

“Gracias,” he said and gave Papi two fifty-dollar bills. That’s it? After they hauled all that stuff from a house with a huge gap in the living room floor? 

Papi took the bills and smiled. He stopped grinning when Mr. Owens said he wouldn’t need him to tend the grounds anymore. That was the third client Papi lost since this whole mess started. 

Tomas and his father crossed the street to start on Catalina’s house. Tomas remembered she was the one who once gave him the pastry with almond goo inside. It was delicious but had given him a stomach ache. 

Papi attacked the purple bougainvillea with electric hedge clippers. Tomas wasn’t allowed to use those – only gather up the branches and haul them to the truck. Tomas raked leaves and weeded. Boring stuff. While weeding a raised bed overflowing with mint and strawberry plants, he noticed the open door into the laundry room. He tried to pull it shut, but it wouldn’t fit into the disfigured frame. Maybe Catalina and her little kids would have to abandon their house too. Tomas felt worse about that than about Mr. Owens.

A scream made Tomas jump. He ran around the house to find Papi cursing and pushing his pants down. In front of the whole neighborhood! The sight of his father jumping up and down pantless launched Tomas into fits of laughter. The pained expression on Papi’s face sobered him up.

“¿Qué pasó?” Tomas asked.

“Pinche araña.” Papi examined his leg. A small red pinprick. Could be a spider bite or maybe a tick. 

Papi calmed enough to look around in embarrassment. No one had seen his spectacle. He examined the inside of his pants leg and spotted a crushed insect of some kind. He decided he was fine and started pruning an overzealous Mexican sage.

Tomas returned to his work but stopped to peel and eat an orange from a tree near the swimming pool. His breakfast was long ago digested, and Papi was postponing lunch. He paused to admire the imposing two-story house. Three arch-shaped sets of French doors dominated the ground floor while a wooden balcony stretched across much of the second story. Jasmine climbed from a glazed pot, almost reaching the red-tiled roof.  

Tomas had never been inside. The children probably had their own rooms. Maybe their own bathroom. Certainly, their own closet. He kept his own clothes in a plastic bin next to the TV. Too often their only toilet clogged, and Papi had to fix it because the landlord ignored their calls. 

Tomas thought people in these big houses didn’t have problems, but Doña Catalina had plenty of them. No husband and now her neighborhood was sinking. But people like her had privacy, space to spread out, and strawberries and oranges to eat anytime they wanted. Plus, money to fix most problems. Tomas longed to sleep in a room without his sisters, to sleep in late without footsteps passing inches from his head. Even if he never had swimming pool kind of money, he wanted a bed in a room all to himself.

An hour later, while he pruned lavender bushes, Papi called for him. He found his father bent over in pain. Papi said his knee had swollen and he needed help to walk. Was that a poisonous spider, Tomas thought? Should they call 911? 

Even though they weren’t finished working, Papi was calling it a day. “Text Doña Catalina and tell her what happened. That we’ll come back tomorrow to finish.”

“Are we going to the hospital?”

“Hospital? No. We’re going home. I just need ice for the swelling.”

Tomas wasn’t so sure, but he sent the message on his father’s phone. Then he roamed the property, gathering his father’s tools. 

“You’ll have to drive,” Papi said. “Can’t bend my knee.”

Tomas didn’t have a driver’s license. He had a permit, and Papi had given him a few lessons. But his parents hadn’t had time to accompany him for the required fifty hours of practice. He was excited to get behind the wheel. In control, he could drive right to the hospital. But where was it exactly?

After Tomas helped his father climb into the truck, the phone rang. 

“Answer it.” Papi winced in pain.

“Hello?”

“Nico? Are you alright?” It was Doña Catalina.

“This is Tomas. My dad’s knee is swollen and he can’t walk. We think a spider got him.”

“Oh my God. How is his breathing?”

“Okay.”

“Muscle spasms, nausea?”

Tomas observed his father who did have a sheen of sweat on his forehead. “No, but he’s in a lot of pain.”

“¡Dios mío! There’s an urgent care nearby. That might be faster than calling for an ambulance. They’ll have an anti-venom. I’ll text you the address.”

Tomas entered the address for Oceanview Urgent care into phone. So even the clinics here had ocean views? He navigated carefully around orange cones and dips in the road. The phone rang. Her again.

Tomas stopped the truck and put Doña Catalina on speaker phone. She asked if Tomas knew how to drive and suggested they find Wes, the viejo next door. He could drive them to urgent care. Papi waved ‘no.’ He whispered to Tomas that the grouchy gringo wouldn’t help them. 

Tomas assured Doña Catalina he could drive. By then, he was sweating from the stress and wiped his brow and the space above his lips. The lavender scent on his fingers sweetened the next breath he inhaled. He didn’t know if he’d reach help in time. Or if the people at that fancy clinic would help a gardener without insurance. Papi was breathing hard and clutching his thigh. The first sign Tomas saw after turning onto Palos Verdes Drive said “Rough Road.”

Tomas filtered out distractions – from the dips and waves in the asphalt to his father’s heavy breaths. He concentrated on the voice on his phone telling him exactly where to turn. His hands vibrated with nerves, but he forced them to submit to his will even as faster-moving cars passed them. Maybe he should speed up to avoid calling attention to himself, to get Papi to the clinic sooner, but he lacked confidence behind the wheel. Each mile passed slowly, like he was navigating them on a tricycle.

 At last the voice announced a turn onto Pelican Drive. “Almost there, Papi.”

Tomas turned into the clinic, but a cone blocked the only spot in front. Damnit. Then a woman in purple scrubs with a high blond ponytail scooped up the cone and waved them forward. “¿Señor, Usted es Nico?” she asked in perfectly enunciated Spanish.

How this angel knew Papi’s name, Tomas didn’t know. She pushed a wheelchair towards the passenger door and smiled. Tomas’ gut unclenched, and he knew Papi would be in capable, caring hands. Now he could cry.

Catalina    

Their Sunday ritual was to hike down Sunrise Trail to Verdes Beach. Catalina and her children parked in the public lot at Trump National Golf Course, in the shadow of a gigantic American flag atop a seventy-foot flagpole erected without a permit. The least of his crimes.

Wes had told Catalina that the golf course’s first developer had gone bankrupt after the 18th hole slid into the Pacific Ocean. Trump had scooped it up at that point. If only she had known about the area’s history of landslides before staking her life here. 

Yoli led the way along the dusty trail, while Kal held Catalina’s hand and dutifully carried the tote bag with their blanket and waters. The briny scent of the sea mixed with the perfume of sage and yarrow. Catalina’s first glimpse of the sandy beach and turquoise water below the cliff buoyed her spirits. She felt close to Suresh here. Over the years, he had chased the kids across that sand, built sandcastles, eaten watermelon with yellow flesh on sunny days. Summer and winter, they had come here as a family. She and Suresh had even made love in the embrace of those cliffs. His adoration of the ocean brought them to Palos Verdes. That same attraction got him killed on that dive boat.

The trio navigated the steep decline – and yes, they sometimes fell on their butts. But the solitude of Verdes Beach, rich with memories and seashells, was worth the descent and tiring climb at the end of their visit.   

They spread a blanket in the shade of the deserted lifeguard tower. Yoli climbed the tower to keep vigil, while Kal ran to the wrack line to turn over seaweed fronds with a stick. Settled on the blanket, Catalina texted Tomas. Two days before, she’d sent them to the urgent care clinic and promptly called a nurse there who’d been in her book club. Take care of Nico and send me the bill, she’d requested.

Catalina: How is your father?

Tomas: Pain is better, still some swelling. Doc says to rest for a week.

C: Tell him I hope he gets better soon.   

She sighed and mused that nature could be such a fierce enemy while also providing everything humans needed to thrive. She dug her fingers through the fine sand and tried to clear her mind. Deep inhales of salted air soothed her nerves. Waves rushing through the cobbles tinkled like bells.

 “Mommy! I want my drink,” Yoli demanded. 

“Come down from there and play with your brother.” 

“I don’t want to get sand in my shoes.”

Catalina handed a canteen of water up to Yoli. The girl couldn’t tolerate how the sand felt against her skin or the tiny flies that clustered around the rotting piles of kelp and flung themselves against passing ankles. Catalina climbed the lifeguard tower to sit shoulder to shoulder with her girl.

Yoli had phobias and struggled to regulate her emotions. Kal hadn’t learned to read until he was seven and had sloppy posture. They needed a father in this cruel world. Catalina could not be everything to them. She wasn’t up to it. 

Especially now that their neighborhood was crumbling around them. Her biggest investment was literally sinking into the waterlogged ground. Atmospheric river, the media had called those punishing storms. Catalina had just been finding her bearings after two years of widowhood when the landslide crisis kicked all the fight out of her. 

She had become despondent. That was it. The perfect word. She took her phone and looked up the definition. “In low spirits from loss of hope or courage.” Exactly right.

Wealthy houses had once represented safety for Catalina. While attending UC Santa Barbara, she’d rented a neglected bungalow at the foot of the Riviera with three classmates. Many evenings after class she jogged uphill past mansions ablaze with light. The people inside were safe from the darkness, safe from life’s hardships – money a cushion against misfortune. How wrong she’d been. 

In today’s newspaper, another story about the landslide. The city was spending more than $30 million to stall the landslide and repair infrastructure. Three hundred residents without electricity, and most determined to stay nonetheless. Wes was quoted as saying he would not desert his home. “I’m a fighter!” he said. Catalina admired her neighbors’ resilience and wished she could harness her own. 

Kal came running from the shoreline, a black object in his fist. “What’s this?”

Catalina climbed down and took a three-inch-long pouch from him. Mermaid’s purse, Suresh had called them. “It’s an eggcase for a baby shark.”

“Really?” Kal’s eyes widened and he half-danced, half-shuffled.

“Let me see,” Yoli said.

Catalina tried to hand her the smooth little pouch. “No! I don’t want to touch it, just to see it.” Yoli crouched for a better look and grinned.

Kal held out his hand for his treasure. “What kind of shark, Mommy?”  

“I don’t know.” She returned the eggcase and Kal held it aloft. “I’m lucky, aren’t I? To find a shark egg?”

“That’s rare,” Yoli said with feigned authority.

Lucky? Her kids? Catalina smiled and a bubble of joy rose in her chest. Luck or not, she would do everything in her power to smooth out their lives. When even Kal grew bored of the beach, they packed up and hauled themselves up the cliff.

The drive home took just minutes, but they were stopped where Abalone Lane met Limpet. Road Closed, the sign read. “What?” Sure, her street had cracks that grew by the day, but it was passable.

“What happened, Mommy?” Yoli asked.

“I don’t know.”

As she began backing up, Wes rushed to her car. “They did it. They closed our block off. About an hour ago, the street in front of the Owens’ house sank two feet.”

Catalina’s stomach clenched and she squeezed the steering wheel. Land movement that extreme across the street from her home forecast disaster. Catalina parked three properties away from her house. This would be the new norm. The kids didn’t complain as they trudged home, Wes droning on with the latest news. She wanted to silence him, pause her life, escape to the white sand beach where Kal felt lucky.

Instead, she opened her front door and crept inside. A vertical crack now extended down the foyer wall. Fine dust littered the Saltillo tile. “Oh, shit,” Wes said. He had followed her and the children to the entrance and stood pulling his earlobe down.

Catalina had a decision to make. She turned to her children, Kal open-mouthed and Yoli grinding her teeth. Despondent or not, Catalina must act.

Tomas

With Papi’s knee swollen like a balloon, Tomas was dispatched to tend the yards of the Palos Verdes Peninsula. He pulsed with pride at the responsibility conferred on him, but there was a worry. He was not supposed to drive without a parent at his side. Today he was spreading mulch at the yellow house of a tall lady with purple hair. He remembered this house because one time that lady paid his mother fifty dollars a day to stay overnight and walk and feed a floppy-eared beagle. That lady had gone on vacation to see turtles in Nicaragua, which Tomas’ parents thought was a dangerous place to visit. But Mamá happily stayed in the beautiful house with Dish TV and collected the money for hardly any work. House sitting, the gringos called it. He would love to spend just one night in one of these comfortable homes.

After spreading the mulch, Tomas headed to Doña Catalina’s neighborhood. He had to mow the old man’s lawn and prune his hedges. He parked down the street because the lane was closed. When Tomas arrived, the viejo was cutting a piece of plywood with a noisy saw. 

“Hey, kid. How’s Nico’s leg?” Wes said.

“Getting better.”

“Black widow? Brown recluse?”

“Um. Doctor wasn’t sure.”

The viejo had a bleach stain on the sleeve of his T-shirt. Tomas’ mom would have turned that thing into a rag by now. “But your father is going to be okay?”

“Yeah.” 

“Good, good. The mower and edge clippers are over there,” he pointed. “Got plenty of heirloom tomatoes out back. Take some home, okay? And pick some for Catalina next door.”

Tomas worked through each chore, then found the vigorous tomato plant. Big, plump red tomatoes with deep green mottling. Mamá would make salsa with these. He picked five for his family, five for Doña Catalina. He carried hers cradled against his stomach, in the fold of his T-shirt. When he arrived at her doorstep, there’s was a sign posted on the door. “Limited Occupancy.”

No answer to his knock so he left the tomatoes lined up neatly on the entry patio’s ledge. Then he noticed broken glass beneath a window. The window frame had twisted out of shape and cracked the glass. Maybe the family would have to move now. Tomas inched closer and looked inside the empty window frame. He saw a neatly-made bed with two big pillows edged in ruffles. Two more pillows, small round ones, snuggled against the others. Why so many? He wondered what it would feel like to peel back covers and slip into a bed each night rather than the hassle of setting up a bed roll and spreading out sheets. And what a joy to have extra pillows to hug or prop legs on.

The sign said “Limited Occupancy,” not “Do Not Enter” like the one on Mr. Owens’ home. If Catalina moved out, maybe he’d come stay here. Sleep in an actual bed, in a room without little sisters. In a house with an ocean view.      

Catalina

Catalina found a vacation rental in Redondo Beach. A temporary refuge until she figured out what the hell to do. What the hell would she do?

Wes said she could appeal the “yellow tag” and that the city would work with her to make the necessary repairs so her family could stay in their home. But in her mind, the house was doomed and it was foolish to throw more money at it. The cost of the new generator felt wasteful. How reckless she’d been to stay as long as she had with her children, in a house where she couldn’t even close all the entrances. 

Catalina and the kids arrived to their broken home to find plump tomatoes on the porch ledge. From Wes, no doubt. In sunnier times, she would have made bruschetta or gazpacho. Today, she left them to rot. 

Yoli and Kal each carried a flattened cardboard box. 

“You can take whatever fits in your box,” she told them. “We can only be inside the house for fifteen minutes.”

Kal was energized by the challenge, but Yoli had cried and screamed when Catalina told them they were moving. Now, the girl plunked down on the porch steps. Was she afraid to go inside? Catalina watched her daughter while assembling their boxes. Yoli scribbled furiously in a notebook. 

“Homework?” 

Yoli rubbed her nose with her little fist. “We don’t get homework at camp!”

Of course. “What are you doing then?”

“Making a list of what to pack. You said we could only be inside fifteen minutes.” Yoli looked up from her task and glared.

Very strategic move on Yoli’s part. Catalina sat beside her daughter and made her own list. They just needed to pack for their temporary exile at the rental. 

Next, she started a list for Kal who struggled with writing. “What do you want to take?” she asked him.

“Legos, my trains, my dinosaur stuffed animals—”

“Slow down,” Catalina said and peered at Yoli’s list. PJs, swimsuit, Barbie bedsheets, gummy vitamins…

Sensible girl. Yoli would be alright, but Kal needed help. She could give him an extra box for toys, but then Yoli would protest any preferential treatment he received. “You each get two boxes. One for toys, one for clothes. The movers will pack up everything else and take it to storage.”

Yoli perked up. “I’ll make another list for my second box.”

Yep, she’d be okay. 

“My stuffed animals don’t want to go to storage,” Kal said.

Catalina tensed remembering the oversized bears and dinos Suresh had bought his firstborn. “No, we won’t put them in storage,” Catalina said as tears gathered in her eyes. The kids had accompanied her to the self-storage complex in a gritty neighborhood. They had stood by her side as she peered into the cavernous, dank-smelling space. How was this her life? 

She’d rented a 10’ by 30’ unit for five hundred a month. Either that or leave everything accumulated over twenty years to be swallowed by the earth. Lego sets, bikes, books, the artwork gathered on travels with Suresh. No, they would need those touchstones during the impossible years ahead.     

Wes materialized on the walkway. “When do your movers come?”

“Hey, Wes. Not till next week.”

“Don’t leave anything valuable behind. A thief’s going round to the abandoned homes.”

That news was a punch in the gut. Damn the world, she thought. Not only nature, but humans were aligned against them. 

 Tomas

With no electricity, Abalone Lane was as black as tar. Just what Tomas needed to sneak past the viejo’s house and find his way to Doña Catalina’s laundry room where the door didn’t shut. Earlier that afternoon, he’d watched her load boxes and colossal stuffed animals into her car, and drive off with her kids. The viejo said they weren’t coming back. 

Tomas’ footsteps on the pebbly path crunched loudly to his ears, but he didn’t think neighbors could hear. What few remained. But that old man was everywhere all the time. Tomas slowed his pace until he reached the laundry room. Big problem. A large board now covered the entrance. Looked like the piece of plywood the viejo had been cutting. 

He should give up and go home. This was a stupid idea anyway—and maybe dangerous. Tomas told his parents he wouldn’t be home for a week because one of the residents in the safe neighborhood had offered him money to housesit. He had embellished his story with descriptions of a duo of cream-colored cats he’d tend. Cuddles and Pinky. Those sounded like names gringos would give their pets.

But now he didn’t need an alibi. He couldn’t enter the house with its inviting bed. Then he remembered the broken window. It was at the front of the house where he could easily be spotted. He took off his backpack and leaned against the house to think. If he waited a few hours, the viejo and everyone would be asleep and he could risk entering through the window. That’s what he would do. Tomas settled into a lounge chair by the pool to pass the time and fell asleep.

Hours later, the sonorous hoot of a tecolote roused Tomas. He crept around the house to the broken window. His stomach plummeted. Plywood covered the gaping hole. Game over. 

But no, it wasn’t wood at all, just cardboard. Surely, this was not the viejo’s work. Doña Catalina had probably quickly covered the window frame to keep critters out. Tomas pushed the cardboard and launched himself through the opening. He felt a spike of pain and yelped. A piece of glass had jabbed his stomach. Shit. Had anyone heard his cry of pain? 

Tomas sprinted away from the window into the room’s adjoining bathroom and shut the door. He risked using the flashlight on his phone to examine his wound. Not deep, but long. Blood stained his T-shirt and trickled down to his hip. He turned on the water and rinsed as best he could. Then he pressed a wad of toilet paper against his wound. It didn’t hurt, not really. 

Somewhere in this vast house were bandages, antibiotic cream, all that stuff. But he didn’t want to search for that now. Tomas wanted to peel back those sheets and slumber with the dignity that had eluded him during years of sleeping atop an old stained carpet. Tonight, he’d rest without his sisters’ breaths puncturing his peace. He opened his backpack and found another T-shirt to tie around his waist to stem the blood. 

Then he arranged the pillows, creating a cocoon of softness, and drifted off to sleep. In the morning, he woke to another bird. This one screeched like its wings were on fire. Over and over again. What the hell? It was Sunday and he wanted to sleep in. He rose and risked a peek out an unbroken window. On the fence post, he spotted the little asshole. Blue wings, gray chest, sturdy black beak. Tomas wanted to hiss and shoo the bird away. He didn’t dare.   

He sat up in bed and propped himself with two pillows. The room must have been for guests because the closet was empty except for a puffy coat. After cleaning his wound, he explored the house. He ate breakfast at a long table overlooking the pool. Doritos and two de la Rosa peanut candies he’d brought from home. 

Tomas avoided the front of the house with the cracked wall. He spent a day of leisure examining the family’s photo albums and a book with aerial photos of different cities. When he grew bored, he played with the little boy’s Legos and napped. He did not enter Doña Catalina’s room. That would have been disrespectful. He also didn’t eat any of the family’s food. That would have been stealing. 

At night, Tomas returned to the plush bed and made a nest with all the pillows. He couldn’t fall asleep. Loneliness and a bubble of fear settled over him. He’d never slept apart from his parents and the quiet of this isolated neighborhood unnerved him. 

Eventually sleep came to Tomas. The noise that woke him next was not a bird. It was whispers and the crunch of glass. Someone was moving aside the cardboard in the window across the room. Tomas sprang out of bed, sprinted into the hallway. His pulse raced as he searched for a hiding place. He crept to the opposite end of the house and tucked himself into the little room with the canned goods and cereal. He moved aside a big box of paper towels and crouched behind it. 

Time had never passed so slowly in his life. His thighs grew stiff so he sat down even though his legs were now visible if someone opened the door. If he got caught in the house, he’d be in trouble. And if the people who had snuck in were crooks, they could hurt him. Sweat soaked his armpits and his wound began to throb. Por favor, Dios, don’t let them find me. 

Footsteps approached and he saw a dull light. The intruders opened drawers and cabinets, then retreated. When ten or fifteen minutes elapsed in silence, Tomas dared to hope he was alone again. But he didn’t dare move. He’d sleep in this little room till the sun rose. Tomas was sprawled on the pantry floor, a paper towel for pillow, when Wes and the police officers found him.    

Catalina

Frozen mango chunks, sliced banana, almond milk, and spinach. The children finally got their smoothies. Catalina even made banana bread, Yoli’s favorite. It was Monday, but City Hall closed for Juneteenth, so she stood at the bungalow’s vintage cast iron sink and washed the blender. Not as deluxe as her Vitamix, but serviceable. She was grateful the rental was well-stocked.

“Mommy, can you hear me?” Yoli yelled.

“What do you need?”

No response. A few seconds later, “Can you hear me now?”

“Yes. What’s the emergency?”

Yoli careened into the kitchen. “This house is the perfect size. You can hear me from every room.”

A 1,200-foot bungalow was the perfect size? Catalina was grateful her daughter thought so. No pool, no pantry, no walk-in closets. But with time she’d find something more suitable. Last night, she’d spoken with her in-laws in Chicago. They begged her to relocate to Illinois. They even offered to help with a down payment. But leaving California, her life-long home, seemed unthinkable. Her own family was just two hours north.

Kal settled himself on the bench in the breakfast nook. He had picture books he’d discovered in the Free Library across the street. “When can we go to the little store on the corner? I want gum.”

“After lunch. We’re leaving in twenty minutes for the dentist.”

“Do we have to?”

She didn’t want to go either, but she took advantage of days off for their appointments. A day off was never a holiday for a single mother.    

“Yes, we have to go. We’ll stop by the market afterwards.”

“But I want to walk there. At our other house, we couldn’t walk anywhere.”

Yoli, who was helping herself to more banana bread, nodded. “How long can we stay in this house? I really like it, Mommy. There’s a girl my age next door.”

Catalina turned off the faucet and spun around bewildered. She and Suresh had worked and maneuvered for years to afford their sprawling sea-view home. That was the realm where the children had known their father, the yard and the rooms where they had shared years of cherished memories. This bungalow was a starter home in a struggling school district.

She abandoned the dirty dishes and stared at the kids. Yoli sat next to her brother and ran sticky fingers over the words as she read to him. Catalina smiled, then sighed a breath she’d been holding for weeks. Her children were resilient, her children were moving on. She was the one stuck like an ant in honey. 

Yoli and Kal didn’t need the house on Abalone Lane, they needed a fully functioning mother. And that’s who she would be.

Tomas

Tomas’ shoulders ached from the hour he’d spent, wrists cuffed, in the back of the police car. The cops hadn’t beat him but his father would. In his panic, he was oblivious to the highways they traveled, but he was certain he was headed to Terminal Island. That’s where they locked up bad people like himself. A classmate’s father worked there and he’d told him an inmate was kicked in the head so his brain stopped working. 

The cop tried to make conversation during the drive, but Tomas’ answers were monosyllabic. Now he risked asking a question. “Are you going to lock me up at Terminal Island?”

The officer burst into laughter. One echoing cackle after another. “Kid, that’s a federal penitentiary. Just juvie for you. But keep this shit up, and they’ll make room for you in the big house.”

No, Tomas was done with trespassing and driving without a license. Never again. He was better off on his bedroll, with Mamá and Papi in the adjoining room. Electricity and safety were more important than privacy. After everything his parents had done to build a decent life for him, he had regressed to living in a broken home where he couldn’t even make himself a pot of frijoles. Last night he’d slept on the floor without a pillow. Tomas adjusted his hands so the cuffs didn’t squeeze his wrists. He’d serve his days at juvenile hall and beg his parents to forgive him.

Catalina

Catalina and her kids were in the car bound for the dentist. Her phone rang and she let Bluetooth answer. “Hello?”

“Wes here. The cops arrested Nico’s son for breaking into your house.”

His words whirled in her mind without meaning. “What?”

“I saw flashlight beams upstairs in your house last night and called the police. Kid says he didn’t steal anything, was just camping out. Says someone else was riffling through your stuff.”

Catalina’s stomach sank as she absorbed this latest calamity. “This doesn’t make any sense.”

“Don’t know if I believe the kid or not, but if he didn’t take anything, maybe you don’t press charges. Don’t want to feed another kid into the Prison Industrial Complex.”

As always, Wes was thinking several steps ahead. But she was angry her privacy had been trounced. The widow a victim again. 

“The nanny cam,” Kal said.

“What?” Catalina responded.

“I set up the nanny cam so I could watch over the stuffed animals we didn’t bring,” Kal said.

“You can see who was in the house,” Yoli added.

Catalina glanced at her children in the rearview mirror. Their brown eyes glittered with intrigue. They were a marvel – clever and resourceful. These last few days had shown her just how resourceful. Catalina’s heart swelled with love. As much love as Tomas’ parents must feel for him. She inhaled deeply and pulled the car over.

Their dental cleanings could wait. None of them wanted to go anyway. They would watch the nanny cam footage on her phone, then get over to juvenile hall. Whether Tomas was guilty or not, she had to get him out of there. Nature was too fierce a foe without the humans turning against each other.