It's Hard To Be Holy

EP. 6: The Author (Cont'd)

The drive from LAX, up the charred and barren coast was comfortable. Traffic, while still troubling, had diminished in the last decade or so. The heat and fires caused a flight of the more affluent to safer, eastern ground. Over a hundred years after the Golden Age of Hollywood and the seductiveness of the lush, green valleys that enticed the millions upon millions, a feeling of abrupt abandonment gripped the land. Still the Author couldn't help but marvel at the beauty of the state. Despite the haze of ever present smoke, and the fire scars that covered every hillside, there was a natural, heavenly quality about the place. Years of human abuse had changed the landscape, but hadn't managed to diminish its splendor.

The driver, a Mr. Juan Gutierrez, an older man in a tailored suit, who collected the Author at the airport, was a silent companion. He was cordial and drove with assurance, but seemed little interested in conversation, especially any that dealt with his employer.

'How long have you worked for Mr. Carr?'

'A couple of years.'

'Is he a good employer?'

'He pays me on time.'

'What's he like?'

'I don't know.'

'Haven't you met him?'

'No, Ma'am. Mr. Carr doesn't often like to leave his home anymore.'

'Why?'

'I wouldn't know.'

He must have been payed exceptionally well, the Author figured, to be so evasive. She tried a few more times to engage Mr. Gutierrez, but was always met with the same response. 'I wouldn't know.'

An hour passed, and growing bored of the scenery, the Author decide to call her Cousin Jim. Her nephew, he told her, was playing. Happy as a clam. The next call was to the home health aid, who twittered on merrily in her thick Tagalog accent on how charming and pleasant her parents were being. 'They're so sweet,' and the Author ended the call. It annoyed her to hear all that positivity. Her family members always put on a good show for anyone who wasn't related to them.

The Author settled into the comfortable, air conditioned seat, trying to compose some tangible questions for her slippery subject. Nothing came to mind, and, bathed in the warm, hazy sun, she began to drift off into a comfortable—

'Here we are, Ma'am.'

The Author jerked awake, momentarily startled as the car passed through a heavy, iron gate. She straightened, rubbing her eyes, unsure of how long she'd slept. The highway was long gone, replaced by a relatively paved country road, and as they moved through the gate, the Author could just make out a small, wooden sign with faded lettering:

HOUSE OF CARR

A sudden surge of energy came coursing through the Author. This was it, she thought. Here at last!

The 'House of Carr', once a Franciscan monastery, was a sprawling and objectively elegant estate. Perched on a high cliff that overlooked the frothing Pacific, carefully manicured gardens and graveled pathways vanished into thick, colorful hedges that always seemed to end with stone fountains, adorned with cherubic angels that sprouted crystal blue water from their private orifices. So much for the water ban, thought the Author, but she couldn't dwell long on the potential legality of the estate. All earlier frustration was giving way to an easy serenity. It had to be one of the most beautiful places she'd ever seen in her life. As children, the Author and her sister had loved trips to the Cloisters and Botanical Gardens, and more especially when their parents had taken them Upstate to the mountains and farms with intricate mazes built into their centers. There they'd spent hours, unfurling stories and adventures, carrying sticks for swords, lost in each other's company and imaginations. Her nephew was much the same way. With all the upheaval in his young life, the boy delighted whenever his aunt took him far from the city, into what he called 'The Green Lands'! They were an urban family, utterly dependent on concrete, wondrously fascinated by the image of mud and soil and sprawling, free grass.