Get out. I have to get out! If it isn’t here, I can’t come back. No one will ever know. They’ll think the arsonists did it. War zone after all. I’ll set a fire under his ass. For the last time! The riots, catalyst to freedom. What a great cover. She’d take the car. Then he can’t come after me. The videotapes. The Polaroids. Fiona retrieved them from his hiding spot along with the Rolex and a fistful of gold coins. She returned upstairs to find Caleb asleep, listened to his breathing as she tugged the wallet out of his jeans, removed all the bills. She’d need to hit a bank machine right away, before he had a chance to call Visa and shut down her account. It would be all the money she’d have to live on for a while. At least the tank was full, enough fuel to get her well out of the city. She loaded the car with clothes, toiletries, camera, photos, guitar, amplifier, a few books and Virgin Marys. She grabbed her microphone and one of his precious Neumanns, planning to pawn it when the time came. She couldn’t find Evinrude, calling softly, frantically as she packed. Finally, she heard a piteous mewl emanating from beneath the far corner of the couch. She managed to coax him out and put him in his cat carrier.

“He likes his cage. It makes him feel secure. Like me?” Gawd. I’m talking to myself. “And if Caleb wakes up, I’ll kill him!”

Fiona tiptoed back to the bedroom to check once more, watched her husband’s chest rising and falling. Asshole. Sleeps through earthquakes, and Hole, after all.

She put Evinrude’s carrier in the car and returned to the basement. So, if those thugs had come along and set the place on fire, how would things appear? They’re using Molotov cocktails, judging by the news. Fiona wondered if they were breaking into the buildings or torching them from the outside. The news choppers hadn’t gotten close enough to reveal those kinds of details. Both, probably. Keep moving. Fiona found kerosene, walked through the studio to the front of the building, poked her head out, relieved to find the street deserted.

“Do it. Do it. Do it.”

She constructed a pyre of newspapers, wood chip mulch and dried lawn clippings. Fire by design. Fire by Fiona. She hesitated, stared down at her shaking hands. This place is killing me! She looked around. Dumped the kerosene. It glugged out, splooshing all over her shoes, intoxicating fumes overwhelming her lungs. She pulled out a box of REDBIRD Strike Anywhere Wooden Matches. Anywhere? 250 Wooden Matches Caution: Handle With Care. Fiona struck a match, held the match, an eternity passing. Ouch! She lit another, breathing in the pungent fetor of dead wood and sulfur.

“Dead meat. I’ll be dead meat.” Not anymore. Fiona dropped the match, heard the gasp of its conflagration taking in oxygen.

*WHOMPF*

Wow. All that bushwhacking with the old man finally pays off. A pulsating pillar of flame roared up, pausing as though to pose, flaunt its terrible splendor before heaving itself against the building. Fire # 2,508.

“Oh my God!”

Fiona loped to the car, jumped in, booted it. Adios motherfucker! Do not look back. Can’t! Gotta keep an eye out for gangstas. Into the fire, horizon crimson. Like a war movie. The future. My future. There. On fire!

It was past curfew, and though the studio was only a block from the 101 Freeway, Fiona realized it might be closed. Maybe I can get on it somehow. She raced down. STOP. NO ENTRANCE. CHP with shotguns. Maybe I should beg. Puleeeze officer! Let me go home. My house is on fire and my mother is dying alone. He didn’t look too receptive. Fiona turned around. Where the fuck am I gonna go? She closed her eyes, trying to envision a route out. She’d head north, most importantly, north and west. That would get her to the I-5. She could be out of the worst of it in twenty minutes. Fiona turned right onto Virgil, left on Temple. Not too bad. Shit. I still have to get past Vermont. She cruised by burned out buildings—charred steel frames like ebony skeletons—portrait of Martin Luther King hanging from seared iron security bars. Keep moving! Cars sped down the street or careened out of control. Looters waded through a sea of shards. An overturned Volvo, incinerated black, rested across the street from the SilverLake Dry Cleaners. Thunderous, close, incessant gunfire. Fiona found Vermont jammed, hordes descending, screaming, smashing glass, hurling bottles, street a river flooded with bodies, burning buildings on either side like blazing riverbanks. Impotent policemen guarded faceless firemen, hoses flaccid in their hands or lying on the ground. Yea, though I walk through the valley of death . . . Fiona crossed herself. Stay in the left lane! She kept her eyes on the road, praying her cap and high collar would conceal her whiteness. Fairness. Hah! She locked the doors, windows. God, it’s not bullet proof. Why do I think my car will keep me safe? Livin’ in LA too long alright. Keep moving. Don’t stop! Don’t stop for anything. Anyone. Even the looters. Especially the looters. Crazy motherfuckers. Narrowly missing several people dodging her car, Fiona caught her eyes flashing in the rear view mirror. Carloads of disaffected youth cruised the block, screeching to a stop every few minutes to casually smash a store window, toss in a homemade bomb. Traffic lights out everywhere, absolutely everything in flames—street signs, mailboxes, parking meters. Which is safer? Sunset or Santa Monica? Sunset. Surely, Sunset will be spared. Fiona cruised with head low past Circuit City—hot spot—the goods inside so coveted. She watched a short, muscular, barefoot homie struggling to carry two television sets and a huge handgun. Soon he dropped a TV. Determined not to lose his booty, he set the other one down, shoved his revolver into the front of his jeans, then heaved both televisions onto his arms. Yeah, pick ‘em up asshole. Then you can’t shoot me. It occurred to Fiona she could swing by Rango’s. Bad idea. Still tempting though. Man, I’ve got it bad.

A massive, cream-colored Chevy Impala appeared, yelling, jeering gang bangers speeding up to pull alongside her car.

“Get her!” A seemingly enraged black man leaned out the window, leveling a .45 directly at Fiona’s face.

Duck! Fiona ducked and threw the car into reverse. “Get the fuck outta my way!” she screamed. It felt good to scream. “Goddamn muthafuckas! I will run you down.”

*BAM*     *CRRRUNCH*

Fire hydrant. Godammit! The Impala pulled away. An arc of water sailed over her car, dousing the mob, causing it to disperse. Somewhat. Shaking their fists, they cursed her out. Once more, Fiona threw it into drive. “Move car. Move car. Move car. Please car! Please car! Pleeease car!” Her trusty old Valiant lurched forward, bumper still gripping the gushing hydrant. She gunned the motor, freeing the bumper with a loud scraping sound and steered her way through the throng, roaring, “Get outta my way!”

I could kill. Oh my God! Caleb. What have I done? I better go back . . . Fiona managed to make it to Normandie, turn right, head north. North, all the way to Canada. All the way home. I hope! A camouflaged army truck idled in front of the Vista Theater, Queen Ida blaring from a burrito stand. She wondered if there was still cruising going on in Griffith Park. Must add to the thrill. Fiona searched frantically for a freeway on-ramp, helicopter hovering. ALL EXITS CLOSED I hope nobody stops me. A CHP cruiser pulled up behind her.

“Don’t pull me over.”

He pulled her over. Christ. Don’t arrest me! No due process. How long would she be holed up? Cop approached cautiously, probably relieved to find a white girl flying solo.

“Don’t you know there’s a curfew?”

Christ. I smell like kerosene. Fiona summoned tears. “I’m going home!” she stammered. Can he smell it?

“Home! Why did you leave home in the first place?”

Trick question? As much as she loathed being perceived as a dumb blonde, Fiona always knew exactly when to bat her eyelashes.

“Please officer! We need milk for my son. I’ll go straight home. I promise.” Fiona bit her tongue to stop from asking for help, from blurting, “I don’t know where, or what, home is. And I may have just killed my husband!” Self-defense. I’ll plead self-defense.

The cop let her go. There were army tanks everywhere, National Guardsmen bearing M-16s, standing at attention. Fiona kept moving, heading north. Screw Sunset, I’ll take Los Feliz through Atwater to the 5 entrance. The Interstate must be open up there and surely, Atwater is quiet. Atwater was quiet, to the point of eerie, streets lined with softly swaying Jacaranda. She would miss their showy lilac flowers, black trunks. Another transplant, from Brazil. Further on the police presence thinned. People moved about freely, though their eyes were trained on their destinations. For once, Fiona was grateful for the I-5, breathing a huge sigh of relief upon seeing the sign, entering the on ramp.

Ah, so the entire world isn’t in flames. Fiona gripped the steering wheel and leaned back. She took much pleasure in driving, relished the mobility, freedom. This drive was exhilarating, even stuck behind a truck hauling a load of carrots like giant orange dreadlocks. Not for long. Gunning the engine, cranking her tunes, Fiona pulled out and passed.

As home burns . . . She kept moving, driving until it got dark, checking into the Journey’s End Motel just outside Santa Barbara, tempted to call Dennis’s folks. Jumpy, torn, lonesome, dismayed at of how far she still had to go, Fiona couldn’t sleep, paced the room through television news. She ordered a pizza, ate a slice, took a shower and slept fitfully. Leaving early without seeing anyone, she drove. And drove. And drove, listening to news of the aftermath on the radio. A rush of volunteers was cleaning up the mess, actor James Edward Olmas sweeping the sidewalks, walking it like he talks it she thought. Death toll up to 53. White exodus. White trash exodus in my case. Tired clichés about “healing, recovery.”

A familiar road trip, after two more wretched nights of sneaking her cat into cheap motels, Fiona made it to Washington State, driving straight through to the border, crossing into Canada with no problems. She passed small, white crosses tacked onto telephone poles near White Rock. Spooky, roadside memorials, descansos in Spanish, common down south, much in the tradition of Dios Las Meuertas. She’d never seen them in Canada. Must be due to the country’s expanding immigration policy, emphasis on ethnic diversity. Memorials. What difference does it make? People die. They die they way they do in stories, in ballads, the way they have for eons, in catastrophes, murders, plagues, car accidents.

She didn’t make it, Jeanette dead and gone by the time she arrived, cremated, Rory in possession of their mother’s ashes. Three daughters and none of them with her during her last hours on earth. Jeanette would have died alone if not for good old Bernie. Her sisters refused to have a funeral.

“I need it,” said Fiona. “It’s unreal! I didn’t see her dead. I can’t feel anything. I need to mourn. Please!”

Still, they refused. Rory felt bad though and offered to take care of Evinrude until Fiona could find a job and a place to live.