committee to press for the banishment of the Junipero Serra statue on
the grounds that a monument to a religious figure did not belong in a
park created and maintained with public funds.
Separation of Church and State. The United States Constitution, they
said, was clear on this issue.
Wisteria Jane (Milbury) Snow-“Wissy” to her friends, “Mom” to me-in
spite of being a scientist and rationalist, led the opposing committee
that wished to preserve the statue of Serra.
“When a society erases its past, for whatever reason,” she said, “it
cannot have a future.”
Mom lost the debate. Bobby’s folks won.
The night the decision came down, Bobby and I met in the most solemn
circumstances of our long friendship, to determine if family honor and
the sacred obligations of bloodline required us to conduct a vicious,
unrelenting feud-in the manner of the legendary Hatfields and
McCoys-until even the most distant cousins had been sent to sleep with
the worms and until one or both of us was dead. After consuming enough
beer to clear our heads, we decided that it was impossible to conduct a
proper feud and still find the time to ride every set of glassy,
pumping monoliths that the good sea sent to shore. To say nothing of
all the time spent on murder and mayhem that might have been spent
ogling girls in bun-floss bikinis.
Now I entered Bobby’s number in the keypad on my phone and pressed
send.
I turned the volume up a little so Orson might be able to hear both
sides of the conversation. When I realized what I had done, I knew
that unconsciously I had accepted the most fantastic possibility of the
Wyvern project as proven fact-even though I was still pretending to
have my doubts.
Bobby answered on the second ring: “Go away.”
“You asleep?”
“Yeah.”
“I’m sitting here in Life Is Shit Park.”
“Do I care?”
“Some really bad stuff has gone down since I saw You.”
“It’s the salsa on those chicken tacos,” he said.
“I can’t talk about it on the phone.”
“Good.
“I’m worried about You,” I said.
“That’s sweet.”
“You’re in real danger, Bobby.”
“I swear I flossed, Mom.”
Orson chuffed with amusement. The hell he didn’t.
“Are You awake now?” I asked Bobby.
“No.”
“I don’t think You were asleep in the first place.”
He was silent. Then: “Well, there’s been a way spooky movie on all
night since You left.”
“Planet of the Apes?” I guessed.
“On a three-hundred-sixty-degree, wraparound screen.”
“What’re they doing?”
“Oh, You know, the usual monkeyshines.”
“Nothing more threatening?”
“They think they’re cute. One of them’s at the window right now,
mooning me.”
“Yeah, but did You start it?”
“I get the feeling they’re trying to irritate me until I come outside
again.”
Alarmed, I said, “Don’t go.”
“I’m not a moron,” he said sourly.
“Sorry.
“I’m an asshole.”
“That’s right.”
“There’s a critical difference between a moron and an asshole.”
“I’m clear on that.”
“I wonder.”
“Do You have the shotgun with You?”
“Jesus, Snow, didn’t I just say I’m not a moron?”
“If we can ride this barrel until dawn, then I think we’re safe until
sundown tomorrow.”
“They’re on the roof now.”
“Doing what?”
“Don’t know.” He paused, listening. “At least two of them.
Running back and forth. Maybe looking for a way in.”
Orson jumped off the bench and stood tensely, one ear pricked toward
the phone, a worried air about him. He seemed to be willing to shed
some doggy pretenses if that didn’t disturb me.
“Is there a way in from the roof?” I asked Bobby.
“The bathroom and kitchen vent ducts aren’t large enough for these
bastards.”
Surprisingly, considering all its other amenities, the cottage had no
fireplace. Corky Collins-formerly Toshiro Tagawa-had most likely
decided against a fireplace because, unlike the warm closest to You.
Forget about leaving a mark on the world. Ignore the great issues of
your time and thereby improve your digestion.
Don’t dwell in the past. Don’t worry about the future. Live in the
moment. Trust in the purpose of your existence and let meaning come to
You instead of straining to discover it. When life throws a hard