Winter Moon

much good fortune, Toby does."

"We all deserve it." He got up, went to a nearby cabinet, and removed

a clean dish towel from a drawer. "Here, let me." He took the bottle

from Heather, draped the cloth over it. "Might explode." He twisted

the cork, it popped, but the champagne did not foam out of the neck of

the bottle. She brought a couple of glasses, and he filled them. "To

Eduardo Fernandez," she said by way of a toast. "To Tommy." They

drank, standing beside the table, and then he kissed her lightly. His

quick tongue was sweet with champagne.

"My God, Heather, do you know what this meanst' They sat down again as

she said, "When we go out to dinner the next time, it can be someplace

that serves the food on real plates instead of in paper containers."

His eyes were shining, and she was thrilled to see him so happy. "We

can pay the mortgage, all the bills, put money away for Toby to go to

college one day, maybe even take a vacation--and that's just from the

cash. If we sell the farm--"

"Look at the photographs," she urged,

grabbing them, spreading them on the table in front of him. "Very

nice," he said. "Better than very nice. It's gorgeous, Jack. Look at

those mountains! And look at this one--look, from this angle, standing

in front of the house, you can see forever!"

He looked up from the snapshots and met her eyes. "What am I

hearing?"

"We don't have to sell it."

"Live there?"

"Why not?"

"We're city people." . n: . ^: "And we hate it."

"Angelenos all our lives."

"Isn't what it once was." She could see that the idea intrigued him,

and her own excitement grew as he began to come around to her point of

view. "We've wanted change for a long time," he said.

"But I was never thinking this much change."

"Look at the photographs."

"Okay, yeah, it's gorgeous. But what would we do there? It's a lot of

money but not enough to last forever. Besides, we're young--we can't

vegetate, we need to do something."

"Maybe we can start a business in Eagle's Roost."

"What sort of business?"

"I don't know. Anything," she said. "We can go, see what it's like,

and maybe we'll spot an opportunity right off the bat. And if not .

. well, we don't have to live there forever. A year, two years, and if

we don't like it, we can sell." He finished his champagne, poured

refreshers for both of them.

"Toby starts school in two weeks...."

"They have schools in Montana," she said, though she knew that was not

what concerned him. He was no doubt thinking about the eleven-year-old

girl who'd been shot to death one block from the elementary school that

Toby would be attending.

She nudged him: "He'll have six hundred acres to play on, Jack. How

long has he wanted a dog, a golden retriever, and it just seemed like

this place was too small for one?"

Staring at one of the snapshots, Jack said, "At work today, we were

talking about all the names this city has, more than other places.

Like New York is the Big Apple, and that's it. But L.A. has lots of

names--and none of them fit any more, none of them mean anything. Like

the Big Orange. But there aren't any orange groves any more, all gone

to tract houses and mini-malls and car lots.

You can call it the City of Angels, but not much angelic happens here

any more, not the way it once did, too many devils on the streets."

"The City Where Stars Are Born," she said. "And nine hundred and

ninety-nine out of a thousand kids who come here to be movie

stars--what happens to them? Wind up used, abused, broke, and hooked

on drugs."

"The City Where the Sun Goes Down."

"Well, it still does set in the west," he acknowledged, picking up

another photo from Montana.

"City Where the Sun Goes Down ... That makes you think of the thirties

and forties, swing music, men tipping their hats to one another and

holding doors open for ladies in black cocktail dresses, elegant

nightclubs overlooking the ocean, Bogart and Bacall, Gable and Lombard,

people sipping martinis and watching golden sunsets. All gone. Mostly

gone. These days, call it the City of the Dying Day."

He fell silent. Shuming the photographs, studying them. She waited.

At last he looked up and said, "Let's do it."

PART TWO The Land of the Winter Moon Under the winter moon's pale

light, across the cold and starry night, from snowy mountains soaring

high to ocean shores echoes the cry.

From barren sands to verdant fields, from city streets to lonely

wealds, cries the tortured human heart, seeking solace, wisdom, a chart

by which to understand its plight under the winter moon's pale light.

Dawn is unable to fade the night. Must we live ever in the blight

under the winter moon's cold light, lost in loneliness, hate, and

fright, last night, tonight, tomorrow night under the winter moon's

bleak light?

The Book of Counted Sorrows CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

In the distant age of the dinosaurs, fearful creatures as mighty as the

Tyrannosaurus rex had perished in treacherous tar pits upon which the

visionary builders of Los Angeles later erected freeways, shopping

centers, houses, office buildings, theaters, topless bars, restaurants