The Caryatids

Toddy rose from her couch, ignoring Mila's entrance. It was unheard-of for Toddy Montgomery to miss a cue. Radmila was shocked. She managed the first half-dozen steps of her planned routine and then simply walked over.

Toddy turned to her: beneath her huge hat was the tremulous face of a scared old woman. "Thank you for joining us at this difficult time, Mila."

This was not in the script. So, improvisational theater: Never, ever look surprised. Keep the stage biz flowing; always say "YES, AND."

"Yes, of course I came here to be with you, Toddy," Radmila ad-libbed. "Wherever else would I go?"

"We're evacuating all the children first."

"Yes, of course. The children come first. That's exactly how it should be."

"The seismic wave is in Catalina. This one is a Big One."

"Surf's up," Radmila quipped. There was one moment of anguished silence from the murmuring audience, then a roar of applause.

Radmila sat and smiled serenely. She crossed her legs beneath her gleaming skirt. "I suppose we women will be leaving, too-once they get around to us."

"I never like to leave a party," said Toddy. She fought with her badly confused costume, and managed to sit.

An antique sandalwood trolley rolled over with a delicate chime of brass bells.

"Tea?" said Toddy.

Alarm sirens howled. The sirens of Los Angeles were terrifying. A scared coyote the size of a ten-story building might have howled like LA's monster cybernetic sirens. The sirens had been planted all across the city, with intense geolocative care. There were networked packs of them.

Toddy turned her stiff, aged face to the sky. A twirling, linking set of geodesics, thin beams looking delicate as toothpicks, danced across the stars. Los Angeles was famous for the clarity of its skies. "It's been such a lovely night, too."

"You've never looked prettier," Radmila lied, and then the earthquake shock hit the building. The antique couch below them bounded straight into the air.

The entire studio audience went visibly airborne, their arms spontaneously flopping over their heads like victims in a broken elevator.

The museum floor dipped from rim to rim like a juggler's airborne plate. It rose up swiftly under the audience.

The floor gently caught them as they fell.

The silence was cut by startled screams.

Radmila scrambled across the couch and groped for Toddy. The old woman had swooned away, her mouth open, eyes blank. There seemed to be no flesh within her massive, glittering costume. Toddy was a pretty, beaded bag of bones.

A second shock hit the museum. This shock was much bigger than the first, an endless, churning, awesome, geological catastrophe. The museum reacted with a roller coaster's oily grace and speed, ducking and banking. They were suspended in limbo, an epoch of reeling and twisting, rubbery groans and shrieks for mercy.

Radmila found herself audibly counting the seconds.

The earthquake rushed past them, in its blind, dumb, obliterative fashion.

The sirens ceased to wail. People were gasping and shrieking. Radmila twisted in her stubborn costume to look at Toddy. Toddy was unconscious. Toddy Montgomery had a very famous face, an epic, iconic face, and that face had never looked so bad.

Radmila clambered to her feet. The panicked audience was struggling in semidarkness, while she had the stage lights. The audience badly needed her now, and a star on stage could outshout anybody.

Radmila tore the dented hat from her face. "Did you see what this building just did for us? That was completely amazing !"

Radmila dropped the hat and clapped her hands. The stunned audience caught on. They heartily applauded their own survival.

"The architect's name is Frank Osbourne," Radmila told them. "He lives and he works in Los Angeles!"

Those who could stand rose to applaud.

The museum floor beneath their feet was miraculously stable now. Their building was as firm as granite, as if earthquakes were some kind of myth.

Toddy was entirely still.

The sirens began again, different noises: fire alarms. The fire warnings had a gentler, less agitated sound design. Los Angeles fires were much commoner than earthquakes.

With tender respect, members of the audience began setting the prized furniture straight. They sat with conspicuous dignity, and simply gazed up at Radmila. They still wanted to be entertained.

A black-clad shadow vaulted from backstage, did a showy, spectacular front flip.

Lionel had made an entrance.

Lionel had thoughtfully brought her some scripting. The two of them hastily conferred. Lionel leaned his black-wrapped head against hers to whisper. "Grandma's had a power failure."

"I know that."

"I'll get her offstage, you manage this crowd."