Chapter 35 — Our House

The next week, LAPA managed two full academic days before the Thanksgiving fever struck and students started going AWOL. Halle’s family, according to her iPhotos, were full-blown Norman Rockwell turkey-basting purists, meaning she had to leave campus early to help with the preparations. Ava was already gone. The Bernsteins, despite their Jewish roots, took Thanksgiving very seriously.

Of the two roommates, Halle had extended an invite a little too late, and Ava not at all. Eppie did not begrudge either of them—for Thanksgiving was stressful enough without an orphaned celebrity being dragged into the November madness.

She was then pleasantly surprised when Zara arrived in her own car—a 2003 first-generation Prius.

“No guitars?” Eppie looked in the trunk as she flat-packed her two days’ change of clothes. She was going to see Father Parson on Thursday, and would have Friday free if things turned out well. Zara was staying the whole weekend but said that, if needed, she was happy to come back to LA. The latter was not particularly necessary, for Eric or Lafitte could do the honours if needed.

“We have more guitars than we can tune in Fresno,” Zara assured her, her intelligent, amber eyes sparkling. “Get in! Ooo, this is exciting! It’s the first time I am taking a girl home to my aunties.”

“Meeting your relatives so soon?” Eppie slipped into the seat, which had been slid back for her comfort. “You’re making me nervous. What if they don’t like city slickers?”

The girls laughed, and the car quietly pulled out of Cal State…
… into the endless traffic of the crawling 10 on Thanksgiving Wednesday.

“Oof. Let’s put on some music.” Zara strategically pulled out some CDs. “These are er… from my Uncle.”

“I understand,” Eppie giggled. “Let’s Rock and Roll!”

What played was not the Rock and Roll of Rex Eno or Mott Slade, but something wholly exotic to Eppie’s ears. It was flamenco, but not the tourist-trap music one heard in bars. It was more mellow, drier, like Shiraz.

“He calls it Soleares, meaning solitude,” Zara said. “It takes a little getting used to.”

The experience of new music was music to her ears.

While traffic stalled, Eppie allowed her [Sublime] and [Composer] to take the wheel. Her body attuned itself via the [The Clockwork Pulse], and her [Perfect Pitch] visualised the masterful fingerwork. The music was good. It wasn’t mainstream, but it was authentic. It took all but five minutes for her to be sucked into the whirlpool of solitude it portrayed. The technical complexity Zara’s uncle displayed was a story in itself.

Poor Mio. Eppie sighed inwardly, her mood melding with the music. How lonely must she feel?

The 5 North opened up past downtown, and the traffic gradually grew laminar. Zara relaxed in the driving seat, and Eppie leaned her head against the headrest. Behind the girls, the city dropped. Ahead, the horizon began to climb, and the traffic started snaking once again. At the top of the Grapevine, the whole San Joaquin Valley appeared, a giant vista stretching from horizon to horizon, like something out of a road-house movie.

The girls wounded down the windows and allowed the cutting wind to whip their hair.

Here wasn’t the grandeur of the Canyons or Death Valley. It was the tableland, flat and agricultural and stretching across the landscape in strips and squares. The sun started to sink as they descended. In front of their eyes, the whole valley became suffused in amber gold.

Though they weren’t a pair of femme fatale fugitives, the mood was right. Zara’s smile grew as the golden horizon sunk into place. She pointed out the orange groves belonging to a distant cousin. She told Eppie that in March, a traveller could smell the citrus a mile away. She told her that there used to be a Taco truck there, once owned by a distant aunt. She told Eppie where to find the best carnitas after sundown. They saw rabbits and coyotes and pointed at cows and laughed at sheep, and flipped off a yokel that catcalled them.

This moment is precious and must be protected. Eppie told herself. This ordinary, wonderous happiness.

Whoa—Eppie gave such a start that Zara had to check the rearview mirror in a panic. No one ever told me I could generate my own [Causality].

The light was failing now.
The sun sat on the horizon like a giant golden disk diffusing tea.
Her phone buzzed. Eric’s text hovered over the screen.

I’ve settled near the town centre.

Thanks. I’ll let you know how things go once I settle.

Zara pulled off the 99. The scent of the air changed again, now stinking of woodsmoke. The streets grew narrow, and the buildings shrank back in time. If Eppie were in a strange car driven by a strange man, she would be looking for a way out right now. Their car soon stopped in an alley, drifting silently until it rested in the private parking lot of a hotel bar restaurant.

Outside, Eppie stretched with her theatre exercises while Zara shook herself off like a dusty pup. They skipped the side entrance and went straight for the kitchen. Inside, Eppie’s vision is greeted by pots, pans, cooks and kitchen hands that hollered at Zara as she passed. The air was thick with garlic, wine, and herbs. Multiple conversations were happening simultaneously in Spanish, competing with the radio, also in Spanish.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

Zara walked with the confidence of a girl returning home, while Eppie followed like a guilty cat following her human, hoping for some kibbles. They cleared the kitchen and entered the hotel’s dining area. She saw a musician playing on a Spanish guitar, and the moment he saw her, he laid down his instrument as a loving husband might lay down a tipsy wife, then strode toward them with arms wide open.

“Uncle Paco!” Zara ran to the man like a puppy.