Amputation, page 16
‘See what I mean?’ said Felipe. ‘Fuckin weird, isn’t it?’
The vacuum had Red Cross scrawled across the dustbin in a black marker.
‘This woman’s dead,’ said Jerry.
‘Like, dead for real?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to stay with her. Go down and tell that asshole to call someone. And don’t let him give you any shit.’
* * *
Roderick
Sonata’s mom flew out as soon as she learned the news. It was the first time Rod and Maureen had met.
It took two days to find Sienna, who was hiding under the Santa Monica Pier in a clot of rubbish and seaweed next to a piling. When a foot chase with a violent, homeless woman happened to end at her secret 161garden, the police handed the girl over to the Dcfs. It took another two mad days of paper chasing for her grandmother to get custody.
When they picked her up at the shelter, the little girl was shy and nervous around Maureen but after a few hours began to ask, ‘Why are you staring at me?’ She rolled her eyes and protested to Rod, ‘She keeps staring at me!’—until it became a catchphrase. Everyone kept saying ‘Why are you staring at me?’ then busting into laughter. Through Maureen’s joyful, anguished gaze, the stuntman looked at Sienna with fresh eyes—and saw Sonata. It was hard work to keep his heart in his chest.
In the case of runaway horse vs. old woman, Rod delicately set the body down on the lawn of Adamson House, where, more than eighty years ago, the same figure lay, its eyes scrutinizing the stars.
While waiting for the Highway Patrol, he called Rocky, who was overjoyed by the news of Al-Nakba. The producer immediately said he was on his way down from Groom ’N Dume with a horse trailer. Rod was about to tell him about the dead lady but decided to do that in person.
A sheriff came and called for a medical examiner. Rod explained everything, something he had to do formally to different people in the next few hours. When asked about the whereabouts of the horse, Rod pointed to the tree where he’d hitched Al-Nakba. As it turned out, the man was an aficionado and walked over to get a closer look.
‘That is one magnificent animal,’ he said.
There was no explaining the stallion’s current equanimity—a calmness that, to Rod, seemed rooted in something different than the exhaustion of a long chase.
Their heads turned at the distant sound of whinnying. They ran behind the house and saw the chase horse staring at them from the wet sands of low tide. It jerked, trotted, and cantered along the lagoon in a merry, celebratory revue, before docilely letting Rod gather it up and tie it to a tree as well.
162 By the time Rocky and the stable boss arrived, and the two horses were loaded in, it was nearly 4 a.m. He’d been texting Sonata for hours but never got a response. Her phone kept going to voicemail. He checked the Hampton Inn, the Days Inn, the Comfort Inn, and a dozen other usual suspects but drew blanks. Still, nothing dire occurred to him. He reasoned that they’d probably just conked out from all the evac drama. He was even starting to get a little pissed.
He couldn’t believe what he saw when he gunned past Tahitian Terrace.
The stuntman circled back.
The moon was full and that’s how he saw that everything was gone. The park was smoldering. He pulled the bike over and picked his way toward Sonata’s trailer but it was disorienting. Was it this one? That one?
He stumbled, reaching out to the torched shell of a car to steady himself. His singed palm recoiled, clueless that it had landed on his girlfriend’s Hyundai Sonata, a sweet jokey birthday gift he bought for her with Dune money. On the way down the hill, he walked past the debris-choked pool; it looked like there was a tree trunk in there. Nothing made sense.
At least his truck was still in the parking lot. He decided not to load the Harley. Dawn was breaking and he was on autopilot now, not yet understanding that he was caught in the loop of a purgatorial waking dream. He found himself gunning aimlessly past hotels, thinking he’d soon need to check into one of them and wait for her call. What else could he do? He was a real headless horseman now, in a headlong swirl of manic impotence and locomotion.
His phone rang.
But instead of Sonata’s, Guttenberg’s name lit up his cell.
‘Rod?’
‘Steve!’
‘Where are you?’
‘In Santa Monica—long story. What’s happening?’
‘Look, I’m with the sheriff. Did you hear about Tahitian?’
‘Yeah, I just passed it. Sonata evacuated around four o’clock—’
163 ‘I’m going to put him on.’
‘Mr. Paisley, this is Sheriff Waylon Gannoway.’
‘Yessir.’
‘We had some fatalities up at Tahitian Terrace.’
Rocky had told Guttenberg the funny story about how the couple had met and the actor conveyed it to the sheriff.
‘My girlfriend evacuated—’
‘Mr. Guttenberg said that she has some tattoos.’
‘Uhm—’
‘Can you confirm that, Mr. Paisley? Does she have one on her lower lip that spells out two words? If so, can you tell me what those words are?’
* * *
Esther
When they stepped out of the Rolls, a cheerful greeter checked their names twice while security stood by. The guests were cleared to walk down the long driveway. Morty wasn’t feeling so spry but made his best effort.
A large crowd was inside. Sammy introduced the old man to a few people and each time they stepped away, apprised Morty sotto voce of their high Hollywood status. His auditor nodded and smiled but couldn’t have cared less.
After a while, two women stood ceremoniously at the head of the enormous room. Half the group didn’t notice but when a flamboyant Asian man in a purple keffiyeh clinked on a glass with a knife, everyone settled down. One of the ladies began to speak. Sammy leaned close and said, ‘That’s Debra Winger. And standing next to her is Angelina.’ Seeing that Morty was blank faced, he added ‘Jolie,’ which didn’t help.
‘Many of you,’ said the actress, ‘may have recognized the phrase on tonight’s invitation: If I Must Die. It’s the name of a poem by the martyred 164Palestinian writer Professor Refaat Alareer, who was murdered by Israeli rockets in the year 2023 of the genocide—slaughtered by Benjamin Satanyahu and his armies of the wicked. Refaat wrote that poem for his beautiful daughter, Shymaa. Refaat Alareer was more than familiar with Israeli bloodlust. In 2014, his brother and thirty members of his wife’s family were exterminated in what Susan Abulhawa calls ‘an aerial pogrom.’’ A groan of agony and revolt came from the gathered.
Sammy, already bored, scanned the room before sneaking a look at his plus-one. Nervous about Morty’s reaction to the speech, he more than regretted having brought him. It would have been so easy not to! The strange thing was that the diehard Zionist had a ludicrous smile plastered on his face. It was stuck there like one of those TikTok filters Sammy’s granddaughter was crazy about.
‘Refaat had many supporters,’ she continued. ‘And among those brave men and women, there were many whom he gave back his respect and his love. We celebrate one of them tonight. Her name—Alhamdulillah!—is Esther Altschuler.’
During the applause, Morty asked, ‘Is she Jewish? She looks like a Jew.’ When Sammy nodded his head, he noticed that the old man’s smile achieved the impossible—it got bigger. ‘And the other one? The Angelina?’
‘Not a Jew. She’s Jon Voight’s daughter, so I don’t think so.’
‘Esther used to call me TD—Truth Diva.’ All laughed warmly. ‘I got texts from her every day that said, ‘How goes the battle, TD?’ And sometimes, as everyone is this room well knows, the battle sucked. I mean, really, really sucked. Babies and grandparents and hospital workers and pregnant women were liquidated. Artists and painters and stageworkers—clayworkers and collagewokers, wordworkers and poetworkers. She called me TD but I never had a nickname for her—how can you nickname a force of nature? But Refaat did. He called her ‘the baker Anat.’ In the land of Canaan, Anat was the goddess of war. ‘And that is Esther,’ Refaat would say. She is Anat. But she can also make a wonderful Aish el Saraya!’ Everyone laughed but only a handful knew that was a dessert. ‘Esther 165never stopped giving to the cause. And she is still giving, by the magnificent example she made, not only with her pocketbook but with her heart. She is that sublime white kite flying over Gaza that Refaat wrote about in the poem to his daughter. She is the angel bringing the hope and love that Refaat told Shymaa to watch for.’
Angelina handed her some pages. Debra put glasses on and read from them with great emotion.
… so that a child, somewhere in Gaza
while looking heaven in the eye
awaiting his dad who left in a blaze —
and bid no one farewell
not even to his flesh
not even to himself —
sees the kite, my kite you made, flying up above,
and thinks for a moment an angel is there
bringing back love.
If I must die
let it bring hope,
let it be a story.
People were softly crying now.
‘‘His dad, who left in a blaze …’ as did our Esther. Esther Altschuler was a shooting star—how could she not have left in a blaze?’ Debra set the pages down, dabbing her tears. ‘So, open your hearts and your wallets and purses and keep your eye on that soaring kite. A kite named Esther.’
There was silence, then respectful applause. Morty whispered (a bit too loudly for Sammy’s taste), ‘Very articulate, very elegant. Would’ve been a great ‘Yentl’ when she was younger.’ The beaming, off-kilter smile returned as he stared at the actress. Like a nervous fanboy, he said, ‘Sammy … do you think—do you think you could introduce me?’
A line had casually formed and they kibbitzed while waiting. At last, it was their turn. Angelina was off somewhere so they had Debra to themselves.
‘Sammy!’ she said warmly. ‘I’m so glad you came.’
166 When she looked politely at Morty, Sammy said, ‘Debra, I want to introduce you to someone very special. This is my dear friend, Morty Altschuler.’ Debra shook his hand but didn’t connect the dots. ‘Esther’s father.’
Her mouth dropped open.
‘I’m so pleased to meet you!’ said Morty.
‘Oh my God,’ said Debra. ‘I can’t believe this! Esther’s father?’ She of course knew about their estrangement and hated everything the man stood for. But meeting him in the flesh was so unexpected and poignant. ‘Thank you for coming, Mr. Altschuler,’ she said decorously. ‘I’m sure that wasn’t easy. But thank you. Thank you for honoring her—and honoring me too by being here.’
He hadn’t let go of her hand.
‘I have something for you.’
‘For me? Really?’ She was curious, baffled, and excited all at once.
Morty reached into his pocket to bring out a small jewelry box that, on his instructions, had been customized by a leathermaker who worked at the Hermès shop in his hotel. The small case was adorned in the colors of Palestine and Inshallah was written on its lid in gold. A few days after receiving Rocky’s bequests, the old man wondered how the watch hadn’t been reduced to ash. He spoke to the forensics people, who said that when a Calder ceiling mobile collapsed, some of its enormous steel leaves covered his daughter’s head and torso—preserving half of her skull, a radius bone, and a slice of the timepiece but nothing more.
The actress opened it. She stared into the box, not knowing what she was seeing. With a contorted grin, she looked up at him to explain.
‘During the Holocaust,’ he said, ‘there was something called the Judenrat, the so-called Jewish Council. It was filled with Jews who carried out the orders of the Nazis. Those Jews were known as kapos. Some were rabbis, some were doctors—some, as you said, were artists. Actors, musicians, what have you. Now, these kapos followed the commands of the SS to a letter! They even worked with the Sonderkommandos, the 167Jewish prisoners who took pliers to the mouths of their people before they were led to the crematoria. Because otherwise, the gold would have melted; there’d be nothing left. They didn’t have Calder mobiles in the gas chambers!’ he said obscurely. Morty looked into the box at the burnt offering. ‘See? Some of her teeth are stained yellow—all that remains of the gold.’
‘Are you saying …’
‘Yes!’ he shouted, his wild-eyed smile genociding the room. ‘Esther’s teeth! The teeth of Anat the baker—the red rose and white kite of Gaza! Who better to have them than you? The kapo, the Sonderkommando, the Jew-killing Jew?’
Her hands were trembling but she couldn’t detach them from the box.
He leaned over and said, ‘I hope you enjoy those teeth as much as she did! All her life, my daughter ate like a pig gorging on treif.’
* * *
Roderick
When Taylor Sheridan walked into the room, he was bigger than life. He was funny, real, warm, and cocky—just as the visitors had imagined.
In a preamble, they touched on Mary Parent and Taylor said, ‘She’s a champ. We’ve been talking about a few things.’
‘Something with Denis?’ said Rocky.
‘No,’ said Taylor. ‘But Denis is a good man.’
‘Sicario was so bitchin,’ said Rod.
‘Mary spoke highly of you boys and that carries some weight. What can I do for you?’
Rod launched into the Queen of Malibu pitch. He didn’t need to rehearse it; it was part of him now. As he spoke, he felt outside himself, as if listening along with the others. Rocky was enthralled, knowing the 168stuntman was hitting it out of the park. Taylor was engaged and enthusiastic as well, nodding assents throughout.
‘Well,’ said Taylor, with signature directness. ‘I hate to burst your bubble, gentlemen, but we just optioned that book.’
‘No way!’ said Rocky, with an empty smile.
‘Mary gave me a heads up—guess I could’ve saved you a trip but I had my reasons. I’m almost finished writing the pilot.’
‘That’s awesome, Taylor,’ said Rod. He was crestfallen but did his best not to show it. ‘I’m happy for you but it’s still kinda brutal to hear—if you got some big-boy pants around here, point em out and I’ll put em on.’
Taylor guffawed. ‘Sure will, buddy. Gotta lot of those laying around. I know it’s cold comfort but your instincts were dead-on. The Rindges have one helluva story. But I do have a consolation prize—that’s why I wanted to meet you. I don’t hire people on zoom. I need to see the fuckers and look em in the eye.’
He told Rod that one of his stunt coordinators recently had a heart attack. ‘Probably a vaxx injury,’ he said. ‘You can count on it. There’s more o’ that shit happening than anyone wants to admit. I hear you’re a helluva horseman.’
‘You’re not so bad yourself.’
‘I get by,’ he said. ‘Mary talked you to the skies—Denis and Ridley did the same. In short, I’d love you to come work with us.’
‘I don’t know what to say.’
‘Hey, look what’s over there!’ said Taylor, impishly pointing to a corner of the room. ‘Your big-boy pants! Just put em on and say yes.’
Everything felt better now. Someone came in with coffee and treats. Rod and Rocky exchanged little looks, as if to say, Well, he’s not kicking us out just yet.
Taylor leaned back in his chair and said, ‘Tell me about what happened with the Rindge woman back in LA. They printed some things out for me to read but I wanted to hear it from the horseman’s mouth.’
169 The stuntman recounted how he had wanted to meet May Rindge’s granddaughter to get her blessings on the project. How he’d trespassed at Serra Retreat and saw her from afar before security gave him the boot. How he charged down PCH chasing Rocky’s runaway stallion and was about to run an old woman down but lifted her onto the saddle where she died of fright and exhaustion. And how, a few days later, he was stunned to learn the woman was Marjorie Rindge herself.
Taylor slowly shook his head.
‘Well,’ he mused. ‘I got another proposition for you, Mr. Paisley. I’ve been looking for a precredits thing to frame the whole damn saga. And you know what? I’d like to begin with that scene—a Hollywood stuntman scooping up a spent old visionary warrior queen that the world’s already forgotten. Start with the fires of ’25 then go straight back to the 1800s—with a Chumash rider on that same ground, when the land was pristine. Before we stole it from ’em.’
‘Whoa,’ said Rocky, mesmerized.
‘And I’ll pay for the use.’
171
One Year Later
173
Karen
She was excited about the 2028 Olympics. What a time she’d had in Paris! And how thrilled she was to be the first ever black woman mayor to be given the official flag—in a handover by the first woman mayor of Paris—to the upcoming games in LA. John Legend had sent a sweet, old school telegram: ‘That’s your torch, Queen, that’s your torch song right there. With mad respect, your old flame, John.’
As the time of the fires receded, engagement with the media became less onerous. Softball questions about the summer games began to edge out the antagonistic finger-pointing and disinformation. Still, she always ended those Q&As with her anodyne trademark of empathy and concern. ‘My priority is to keep the city and its people safe.’
She hadn’t seen Zahra in a while—she’d been so busy with the reelection campaign and this, that, and the other.
One Sunday, after church, they rode together to see Aaliyah’s stone.
Aailyah Abigail Simpson
2002–2025
‘Truly, truly, I say to you,
unless one is born of
water and the Spirit,
he cannot enter the
Kingdom of Heaven.
John 3:5
Returning from the cemetery, they had their usual tea in the kitchen nook.
