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food | An LA Crime Story - Part 4

Apr 09
0

Almost

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Rhea woke. A homeless man was clawing at the bread in her pocket. Her scream muffled into the damp of his dirty clothes but it scared him off. She untangled herself from the straw and made her way back across Alameda. She walked east on Cesar Chavez, up a little hill and over an old gothic bridge. The only sound was the numbing whoosh of cars on the freeways below and the sputtering hiss of an old neon sign on a shuttered, rundown bar across the street called Domingos. As she started to cross Pleasant Street, a sudden, loud THWAP! startled her and the air around her moved. She turned, looking out over the City. The lights glittered under a starless sky. The thwap! had disturbed the mist and it moved and fluttered like a thousand wings. The beauty of it stunned her.

“Aggie?” she whispered though she didn’t know why. She remembered this was The City of Angels. She hoped like hell that Aggie wasn’t one of them and that she was alive.

“Aggie!” she screamed as loud as she could. It echoed out over the warehouses and train tracks below the bridge where she stood. It echoed out over the cars on the freeways, hurrying home and it echoed out over the glittering city as the mist settled back down and a chill settled in.

Apr 09
0

Sandwich Cookie

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Manny Valdez was carefully sprinkling two drops of tabasco on to each of six Nutter Butter cookies he’d lined up on his desk for a late afternoon snack when Rhea walked in, in need of her check. He offered her one. “Nutter Butter?”

“Sure.” She ate it and nodded, nominally impressed by the added heat.

“I know.” he agreed, “Stuff is magic, right?.” He handed her a check and asked if she had anything in mind for the following week.

“Possibly going sweet.” she told him as she opened the envelope with the check. “Someone’s doing polenta donuts in Grand Central then there’s those mango stuffed glazed logs at Yummies or Koos’ pancakes or….” she checked her check. It wasn’t all she hoped it would be.

“Ummmm… a hundred twelve dollars?”

“And seventy eight cents….” Manny added. “Look, you gave me three hundred sixty words, minus taxes you get a hundred and twelve seventy eight.”

“I have rent to pay–” she protested.

“Use more words.” he advised and handed her a copy of the newly printed Pulse with her review, titled “Toolong? by Rhea Porter.” She took the paper and left.

On her way to her car, Rhea passed by Yummie’s donuts, at the end of the strip mall. They were baking. That smell, that divine perfume wafted out. Irresistible. It drew her in. Well, that and remembering the sinewy young hunk who was sweeping up when she first walked by a few days ago. It was summer, surely he’d be wearing a T-shirt and jeans. Her favorite.

As luck would have it, the mango logs were just being stuffed and young Mr. Sinewy was stuffing them – squirting that thick yellow fruity cream into freshly fried sweet dough. She took a seat at the counter. Both he and the waitress looked up. The waitress gestured she’d be there in a sec but Rhea kept her eyes on him. She smiled.

“You’re a pretty good stuffer.” He smiled back then looked away. She moved a seat closer. Leaned in to him. Talked low.

“Stuff me a good one. Fill it up.” She leaned even closer and whispered. “I tip good.”

He kept on stuffing. The waitress came over and took the pastry stuffer out of his hand.

“Go in the back and finish glazing. I’ll take care of her.” He did as he was told.

Rhea looked at the waitress, a little defiant, totally cocky but the waitress’s glare creamed her.

“Just a coffee.” Rhea ordered, “To go.”

This wasn’t good. And Rhea knew it. She had to stop this bullshit. Gallows was right. She’s was gonna end up in jail. Broke. And never find a guy who loved her… though that last part was OK with her. She didn’t need or deserve love and that was the way it should be. What she needed was her old job back.

She got in her car, swung up Lucille, meandered down to Temple then headed east through downtown to Little Tokyo.

Apr 10
0

Imagination

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A rustic little mock tudor house with leaded windows and drought-mandated desert landscaping sat between two mid century modern flips on North Beachwood Drive. Forty steps led up to the Tudor and another sixteen led around to the tiny back yard where a one room guest house snuggled against a stone retaining wall that held back part of the hill below the Hollywood sign. A tortoise named josefina lived in a little bunker built into the wall. A grate covered the opening. The bunker was big and safe and she had plenty of flowers and celery to eat. But she liked to get out and walk around and hang out in the sun for a few hours a day. Seeing as those hills were home to dozens of coyotes who roamed them freely looking for mice. Rats. Squirrels. Rabbits. lizards. Cats and small dogs to eat, most definitely they would have snacked on Josefina if they found her out sunning some afternoon. Josefina had been raised for thirteen years by a friend of Sakuri’s named Halina Siwilop, a hollywood set designer who owned the house and had built the bunker. She traveled alot and needed someone to live in the guest house, look after Josefina and keep the coyotes away from her. All RHea had to do was pay utilities. She took it.
Physically Moving out of her Laurel studio was easy for Rhea- everything she owned fit into her LeBaron. Emotionally it was surprisingly hard. She hated emotions – except anger which she considered to be more of a logical reaction than a real emotion. So when she got a little weepy walking past Strickland’s apartment for the last time – the apartment where she’d lived for so many years – she crumpled. Had to sit down. She’d found some comfort there. But a stop at the Bristol Farms bakery three blocks away for a cheddar bacon croissant studded with puffs of ricotta helped her stuff that feeling away.

Rhea settled into the little guest house. She fed Josefina and let her out of the bunker for two or three hours a day. While she sat in the garden watching out for her, she wrote… about donuts and tortas and men. And she fantasized – The half dozen stuffed custard logs she bought at 24 hr. Joint on Sunset by fountain called Tangs turned into a sticky little midnight roll in the Elysian Park hills with a street cop with a freckled dick. The donuts (real!) came to $4.80 – under five bucks!. She was learning. The cop she made up.

It felt a little tame, a little like she was cheating and the review was still a little short at 416 words but she got paid more than last time and was learning to add easy wordy details like “open twenty four hours and popular with chess players and actors, Tangs can be stimulating even if you don’t score. ”

As for her other writing, her shrink writing, her homework… thinking then writing about fucking a nice forty year old man… she didn’t know where to begin. She couldn’t even focus on what a forty year old looked like. Strickland was sixty now… so he was probably almost forty when she’d moved into his place at seventeen. She could remember him rearranging all the potted succulents on his enclosed balcony, making room for a little bed and night stand and desk for her. He’d cooked for her, made her go to school, taught her self defense, became her guardian, then her mentor at LAPD. She could clearly remember the sweat pouring from his brow and the smooth muscles on his arms as they punched dummy bags at Gold’s Gym and ran laps at Fairfax High as she trained to get into the academy but…. was he sexy? Possibly. Did he turn her on? No way. Try as she might to imagine kissing him – to imagine kneeling down and unbuckling that old jimi Hendrix belt buckle he always wore then unzipping his fly and reaching in through the slit in his boxers – smelling that musk as she eased out the just bulging arch of his dick and licking the folded skin until it pulled taught and smooth… No. Every time she got that far in her mind he got younger and younger until it was no longer Strickland but some young nameless faceless hunk who then grabbed her head and eased her mouth onto him. That was home to her. Comfort. Escape. That and a slice of Vons banana cream pie or the warm stuffed grape leaves at Carnival on Lankershim. Or the ox tails from Madame Matisse’s or Tam ‘o Shan’s corn fritters or, or, or…

Though that was hard, Rhea’s sixth night in the guest house was downright unnerving. At almost three AM, she was asleep on the little fold out sofa. The windows were closed. But the howling that woke her sounded like a pack of coyotes was surrounding her bed. She shot up, terrified as something big moved past her, ruffling her hair with a flapping before it disappeared. Jesus! she yelled as she batted at the dark air and backed away from the howls. As her eyes adjusted to the darkness she saw she was alone and her door was locked and her windows were still closed. A dream? Yes. No. The howls continued… Josefina! She had to save Josefina. She grabbed a flashlight, her gun and ran outside. She shined a beam into the bunker. Josefina was safe. Sound asleep. She aimed the beam up the hill and across seven coyotes perched there. They looked right into her light. And the air around them and around her rippled like it was full of a thousand softly beating wings…

“Aggie–” she whispered into the nearby night, surprising herself with the hope in her voice and the tears on her face. After a minute or so, the coyotes retreated and Rhea went back inside.

She stayed awake until dawn, slept for an hour then got dressed and walked a few minutes down Beachwood Drive to the Village Cafe.

The cozy eatery was pretty, quiet, shaded by massive pines and bouganvillea vines and part of the little Beachwood village that included a market, the Hollywoodland realty, an antique and watch repair shop and a dry cleaners.

Rhea took a seat at the counter and blew her budget on a cup of coffee and a polenta scone. She looked around. Upscale and rustic, the café was a hangout for locals and the aging freelance hipsters who occasionally still worked in the movie biz. They were cool, fit, established. They liked their eggs without yokes, their salads undressed and their oatmeal steel cut. And most of them – at least the men – looked forty or older. She started hanging out there a few mornings a week and tried to imagine fucking these guys. She ate most of her meals at home – canned soup, frozen burritos, mac and cheese then once a week she ventured down the hill for work – for a falafal sandwich, a bacon burger, an octopus taco or two or a five buck slice of asiago pizza from Gelsons’ deli on Franklin. She ate, wrote, and made up sex. She was not happy. Then she slipped. On a Monday. It was about seven thirty. She was driving home down Sunset after a nasty bout with Dr. Gallows when two things caught her attention: There was an inordinate amount of fine young men out and about and – in an effort to stay open – Barragan’s on Sunset had brought back “Dollar Taco Mondays”. Time to get her groove back.

Mar 22
0

Depth of Field

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Daisy Valentine pressed her finger into the last crumbs on her plate left from a cheddar cranberry scone. She licked her finger and finished editing a photo of onion rings she’d taken for a local burger joint’s window poster. She topped up her iced coffee, grabbed her ever-ready Pentax and took it and the coffee out onto her back patio. She slipped her legs over the low wall and let her bare feet dangle as she scanned the dark forest below. She played a little Nick Cave on her Moto phone and Moonlight Mile by the Stones: “Oh I am sleeping under strange strange skies…” She got up, stretched, stood on the wall. As she looked to her left, out over the distant downtown LA, she saw a tiny, familiar puff of light shimmer up toward the sky. She knew people died all over LA every day. If you looked really hard you could see the souls rise, even in the bright height of daylight. Some only rose an inch before dissolving. Some rose all the way into the sky and were gone – absorbed into heaven. And a very few drifted back down. Daisy didn’t document most of them – they were too far in the distance or it was too light to record them on film. But this one, she could tell, was a little girl. In a moment, it, too was gone. But she felt compelled to go to it – compelled to see if it would float back down.

“Hey Ralphie–!” she called into the brush below. A minute later, an old coyote came out of the dark and onto her patio. “Watch the place, OK? There’s food in the fridge if you’re hungry.”

Ralphie lay down by her open back door. She grabbed her car keys, got in her Jeep, rested her camera in her lap and drove down the hill. As the Hollywood sign receded behind her, she passed the Village market and drove down Beachwood Drive, to the streetlight at Franklin. When it turned green, she turned left, drove to Hillhurst and took that to Sunset. Fifteen minutes later she crossed the Chavez bridge and parked a block down, in front of an old Boyle Heights church. Painted on the front, a mural of God giving an angel the city of Los Angeles on a platter made her laugh. She looked around to get her bearings then walked back across the bridge. She wandered across the top of the cement bank of the LA river. She sat on a railroad track that ran near it. She faced toward Domingos and waited. She never saw a soul. But about ten minutes after ten, a woman who smelled like taquitos and a teenage girl walked by. She faded back, into the debris by the tracks, nearly disappearing. It was a good trick and she used it often. She didn’t mind people, really – she liked most of them. They were weird and funny and interesting. but she always had to walk away before they asked too many questions.

Jul 13
0

Skinny Dipping

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“What was that about?” Dawson asked Strickland as they walked to his car, parked half a block down, in front of an upholstery fabric warehouse.”

“You know, Porter’s sister was kidnapped by someone taking some furniture up from Baja.” Strickland informed him.

Like most cops, Dawson knew her history, “Long time ago, yeah?”

“Yeah–” Strickland acknowledged, “Hays’s been here longer, though.”

Dawson looked around at two other furniture import warehouses. “Still a long shot, though.”

“Prob’ly.”

“I’ll get a rush from Wisnevitz and arson on the cause then, depending, we can try and track down that Myrna.”

“Sounds good.” Strickland agreed then added, “I might ask around a little tomorrow, though-”

Dawson shrugged, “Suit yourself. I’m working an NCIS film shoot down on Olympic and fifth. Text me if anything turns up.”

Strickland nodded. They got in Dawson’s car. As they drove toward headquarters, Rhea pulled out of her parking spot and headed west on Fourth.

Dawson dropped Strickland at Headquarters. Strickland got his car and drove home.

Strickland knew in his saddest bones that the fire would be ruled accidental. End of story. Their bodies would remain unclaimed. Their ashes would be stored in small paper bags at the county crematorium with the hundreds more of unclaimed bodies that year. They’d all be buried in a single mass grave at the county cemetery on the corner of 1st and Lorena streets in Boyle Heights. “2017” would mark the plot. He also knew there might be more to this. He also knew he needed Rhea.

He parked his Honda in the underground garage and quietly walked up the steps to the courtyard. He walked past Rhea’s old place. It was dark. Moonlight shone down on a palm tree, next to the pool. RHea was standing there, leaning against the tree, finishing off a bag of Fritos. She tugged at her T-shirt, pulling the V neck down to flick off bits of salt and crumbs. She looked up and saw him there; caught him looking where her tugging had highlighted her cleavage. He blushed.

What the fuck? she thought as the heat of realization rippled through her. It threw her for a minute. It was weird. For all the unsuccessful homework imagining she’d done about fucking him, she’d never considered the fact that he thought of her that way. I mean, good lord, he’d scraped her off the sidewalk more than once. Pulled her out of a dozen dark nights. Wiped her flu snot. Wiped her ass when when they’d both eaten some bad Chicken Mole on the Day of the Dead. Sure, if she thought about it, he was kind of hot in a James Comey way but he was a second father to her. More than that, he was nice. She didn’t know what to do with this. Neither did he.

“How’d you get in?” he asked.

She pulled the garage gate clicker out of a pocket. “Through the garage. They never asked for my clicker back. What’s at the warehouse?”

He knew she had followed them to the the warehouse. He’d expected her to. He took a breath.

“Back off.”

“Let me back.”

He started to walk away.

“What do I have to do?!”

He did walk away.

“Oh come on, Strickland–” she whined then begged, “Don’t do this to me–”

His apartment was on the other side of the pool. He could hear her start to follow behind. He heard a little clunk. Then a swish. Then the sound of bare feet on the cement. He turned and looked back. She’d taken off her shoes, her skirt and was lifting her T-shirt up over her head, laying bare her breasts. She dropped the t-shirt on the ground. All she had on was a pair of men’s boxers.

She slipped those off – paused for him to get a good look – then she dove in the pool.

He watched her swim under the water – rippling, shimmering, open, wet. He looked away and went inside.

Rhea treaded water, looking around for Strickland. His lights were out. Maybe he’d just popped in for a towel, she thought as she waited for him. But she could feel something else, a vibe. It wasn’t a good one. She swam to the steps, got out, pulled her clothes on over her wet body and hurried out of there.

She knew she’d made a mistake, a big one. But she wasn’t going to think about that. No way. She needed chili cheese fries. They had some good ones at Tommy’s on Hollywood and Bronson.

Nov 30
0

A Path

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When Aggie was tossed over that Reservoir fence, she landed face-up on a bed of twigs and moss. She thought about Poo and the Christmas cookies she’d get to eat soon, as she waited for Rhea to find her. It was cold lying there; the green jacket with kittens embroidered on the pockets clung to only one of her arms. She repeated her whispered prayer, “Please God, help Rhea find me. I want to go home.” She heard the rustle of footsteps on leaves, coming closer. “Rhea!” she called out, as loud as she could but she could barely hear her voice, “I’m over here!”

She tried to get up but she couldn’t move. As the footsteps got closer, she looked up to see Rhea’s face through the trees, hoping she’d have something sweet to eat. Instead she saw the glitter of two sets of grey eyes. And she knew. Coyotes had come to eat her.

The coyotes crept close. Their breath felt nice on Aggie’s bare feet, it felt warm. But she was afraid. She tried to think of other things, like blue birds flying free and the smell of grass in spring but it was hard to concentrate. She could still move her eyes so she decided to look the coyotes in their eyes and ask them to please leave enough of her behind for Rhea to find. And when she looked down, she saw…

Tamarind! Alive again, standing on her knee, waving her broken leg at the coyotes, yelling, “Leave her alone! She’s been a good a friend to me!”

But the coyotes were hungry. With bared teeth and a low growl, they lunged for her. Tam opened her hairy little mouth and bit one of their legs. He howled and fell back, landing on a nearly empty Cheetos bag. The cheesy smell puffed out. They snatched it up and took it behind a creosote bush to lick up the last little crumbs. Tamarind wobbled up to Aggie’s face, walked right through her tears and settled on her cheek just below her eye. “Hello my friend.” she said.

”I thought you were dead.” Aggie whispered, so very happy to see her.

”Not any more.” Tamarind smiled, “Thank you for your prayer.”

Aggie smiled back but it quivered, “I’m cold, Tam.”

”I’m sorry.”

”Do you think my sister will find me?” Aggie asked, hoping Tamarind had some inside information.

“Not here she won’t.” Tamarind said then peered into the dark woods. “We need to get to the top of that hill.”

”OK.” Aggie said, feeling hopeful. Then she tried again to move. “I can’t get up.” she cried.

“It’s OK. Don’t cry. I’ll get some help.” Tamarind promised. She wobbled off of Aggie’s face and jumped down into the brush.

A moment later, out of the shadows, came a single whispered word: “Cake!”

All of a sudden the entire floor of the wooded bramble started to ripple and move as thousands and thousands of ants, sal bugs, silverfish, beetles and other spiders too – scurried out from under holly oak leaves, rocks and weeds and gathered around Tamarind, fueled by the promise of cake. Maybe it would be strawberry shortcake (made with biscuits and real whipped cream), or lemon pound cake drizzled in glaze or butterscotch caramel… or blueberry cheesecake with raspberry mousse or French vanilla cake covered in buttercream roses or blue velvet with cream cheese icing or maybe even a Christmas jelly roll or two. The bugs all had only one thought:

“What do we need to do?”

Tamarind pointed at Aggie.” Get underneath this girl; under every single part.”

The bugs crawled beneath Aggie and filled every nook, every cranny, every crevice.

“Are you ready?” Tam asked Aggie.

“Yes.” Aggie nodded,

Tam looked at the bugs, “OK. Carefully, carefully, carefully… Ready, set… Move!”

The bugs lifted Aggie up. It was just a tiny bit, a fraction of a fraction, you had to look really close to see but… as Tamarind started wobbling up an incline, into the moonless, misty woods, the bugs followed her, carrying Aggie on their backs.

The odd little procession marched steadily through a tangle of bushes and leaves. They carried her right past the two coyotes, who were still hungry. They couldn’t believe the feast parading before them. They crept closer and closer, ready to pounce.

Tam could feel them closing in. She turned her head and hissed, her words hitting them like spit:

“God will be mad if you do!”

Undaunted, the coyote named Ralph declared, “I don’t know if we believe in God. We’ve never seen him.”

“Well, then…” Tam argued, as the bugs paused the procession, “There’s karma to consider.”

“Huh?” Ralph pondered so Tam explained,

“If you do good, good comes to you. If you do something bad, bad will happen to you.”

“But we’re hungry!” the coyote named Lacey explained. “How is that bad? And besides, the little girl is nearly dead and it wasn’t us who killed her.”

“Ok ok ok but consider this:” Tam went on, “If you help us get her to the spot where she’ll be found, it will be a really nice thing to do. And nice things always end with…”

“Cake.” Ten thousand bug voices confirmed.

Or…” Tam added, honestly, “…at least they should.”

Ralph and Lacey looked at each other and considered everything. “OK.” they said, in unison, “Sign us up.”

“You, then. Over there.” Tam directed Ralph to take a position at Aggie’s feet. Lacey took her place at Aggie’s head. “You are to guard us.” Tam ordered. They nodded, earnestly then Tam reminded them,

“And don’t eat anyone.”

With a wave of Tam’s arm, they continued their journey.

As the mist settled in, they carried Aggie under a broken part of the fence, across a little road, over a patch of rocks, through a thicket of scrubby brush and into a grove of dark red Manzanita trees. The night was quiet. The only thing heard was the soft rustle and crunch of dirt and leaves and the breathing of ten hundred thousand bugs, carrying a heavy load. Sometimes there was a snippet of conversation as strangers became friends.

“Do you know of any good parties on New Years Eve?” one bug asked another, and “Where did you get that hat?”

A peace settled over them as they soldiered on. When they were about one-third of the way up, coming through a gnarly patch of thistle, the slithery tongue of a lizard lashed out at the seven hundred and ninety three ants carrying Aggie’s hand. They screamed and cowered. With a whack of a paw, Ralph sent the lizard flying. The ants righted themselves, everyone thanked Ralph for his quick response and everyone carried on. When they were almost half-way up, a sal bug spotted an old MacDonald’s bag and hollered,

“Food!”

“Keep walking.” Tam ordered, “I’ll get it.” She looked inside the bag but only the bun was left. She dragged it back to the group and everyone got a crumb. Fourteen ants crawled onto Aggie’s face and offered her their share.

“No thank you.” she said, her voice getting weaker, “You need it more than me.”

They ate their snack high up on Aggie’s nose, cooled by the fog, until two huge clawed feet swooped down, aiming for Aggie’s head. They screamed and Lacey leapt up. She grabbed the owl’s leg in her teeth and flung it back into the sky. They all walked on, a little weary, a little unnerved but still dedicated to their journey. To stave off their fears, some of them started to hum, then sing an old Bob Dylan song:

“You must leave now, take what you need you think will last. But whatever you wish to keep you better grab it fast.” Those who knew the song joined in… “Yonder stands your orphan with his gun; crying like a fire in the sun. Look out, the saints are coming through. And it’s all over now, baby blue…”

They made it through a patch of mud and past two sleeping raccoons. They started to think their troubles were over when they came upon a gigantic boulder that was way too big to go over. To the right of the boulder was the dark, dark forest. To the left it was very dark too. If Tam chose the wrong direction they could get lost and never make it to the top.

“Please God.” everyone prayed, “Show us the way.” Then they waited.

After a little while, a sliver of light fluttered down to the ground and landed on the left side of the boulder. It was a piece of Christmas tinsel. Tamarind took a few steps to the left, looked around that side of the boulder and gasped. Everyone followed, Everyone looked and everyone gasped, too.

“What is it?” Aggie whispered. An extra thousand bugs wriggled under her head and managed to push it up enough that she could see: In the blackness of the night, in the dark of the forest, a silver trail emerged, winding up the hill as a blue parakeet dropped bits of tinsel that lead the way.

”Tyrone!” Aggie cried out with one of the last bits of life she had. Tyrone fluttered his wings at her and flew on, lighting their way.

They followed the silver trail, up and up. In the distance, the faint sound of an old recording of the Temptations singing “Silent Night” started to play. Out of the shadowy mist came the almost melodic “meow” of a familiar cat voice trying to sing along. Suddenly, there was Poo, looking a little tired and a little bit thin but so happy to be with Aggie again. She nodded to Tam in apology and nuzzled Aggie’s hand as she joined the procession.

The forest started to thin. Soon they reached a ridge near the top of the hill, over which the letters of the Hollywood Sign loomed, hazy in the night’s mist. Just below was a line of houses; their back patios were set on the ridge. The patios were decked out in palm trees and yucca plants, hung with Christmas lights and tinsel. And on little tables under almost every tree were plates of cookies and cake left out for Santa Claus: yule log cakes, sprinkle cookies, chocolate chip cookies and frosted scones. There were shortbread and gingerbread cookies and lemon pound cake; red velvet, vanilla, rainbow and devil’s food cupcakes piled high with frosting. And carrot cake for the reindeer, peanut butter cookies which would be nice for Poo and candy canes everywhere.

The ten hundred thousand bugs marched right past, keeping time to the Temptations’ Christmas song, following their leader, Tam, carrying their precious cargo. Tamarind walked ahead to a little, deserted stone and stucco house that kind of crumbled down the side of the hill. At a small level spot she turned and looked at the view. Before her lay the whole little forest. It hugged the Hollywood reservoir. Just beyond that, the lights of LA glittered like diamonds reaching clear to the horizon. Tam waved to the bugs.

“Here.” She said.

The bugs set Aggie down, on that spot. They backed away. Tamarind wobbled up Aggie’s arm, then her shoulder, then onto Aggie’s face. She looked her in the eye.

“How are you doing?”

”I’m tired.” Aggie barely whispered.

“I know.” Tam replied. “It’s almost time for you to decide…” Aggie looked at her and Tam went on, “After you die you can stay here and wait for your sister or you can leave and go to heaven then get reborn whenever you want.” Aggie struggled. It was hard to decide. “Let’s all pray.” Tam told the bugs and coyotes. Everyone bowed their head and thought their very best thoughts.

After a minute, Aggie turned to Tamarind and said, “I want to stay.”

”OK.” Tamarind cuddled up on Aggie’s cheek. The bugs and coyotes surrounded them and softly joined in the last chorus of a Motown “Silent Night”. “Sleep In heavenly peace….”

Just then, the light went out in Aggie’s eyes and she died.

Aggie’s Soul rose up… an ethereal, shimmering slip of light in the shape of a girl. It slowed a little as it rose then stopped in the branches of a tree. After a pause – just three seconds or so – it fluttered back down. The shimmering stopped and it looked and sounded just like Aggie. She sat with Tamarind and watched Ralph and Lacey dig her grave then put her body in it, whole, and bury it.

A group of ants walked towards the houses while the new dead Aggie, Tamarind, Ralph, Lacey and most of the bugs sat out on the ridge by the grave, together. Soon, the ants returned carrying big hunks of cake, seven different kinds, which they shared with everyone. They all looked out over the ridge at the lights of LA and ate. Friends now forever.

“I am a long way from Normal Road.” Aggie said.

“She’ll find you.” Tamarind comforted her.

“I know.” Aggie nodded.

To be continued…

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