California Angel Read online

  "It doesn't really matter, does it?" Toy said. "As long as he enjoys it." Ever since she could remember, her father had spent all his free time woodworking, carving children's forts and birdhouses, most of them now scattered in various locations throughout the yard. His latest project was to set himself up as a custom toymaker, and he spent hour upon hour in his little workshop in the garage, carving

  California Angel 51

  miniature trains, cars, trucks, and other items children could play with, then painstakingly painting each one. This Christmas, he said, he was going to put up a sign out front and sell them. This was how he planned to supplement his retirement income.

  While her mother went into the house to make a fresh pitcher of lemonade, Toy went to speak to her father. At first she just stood there, watching as he worked over a square piece of wood, shaving it carefully with his knife. Although he was no older than her mother, he had worked hard all his life, most of it outdoors in the sun delivering the mail each day, and it had taken its toll. His skin was leathery and tough, with numerous scars where he had developed cancerous lesions and had them removed. But his hair was still dark, with only a spattering of gray throughout, and he was as strong and fit as many men half his age.

  "What's it going to be?" Toy asked softly.

  "A toy soldier," he answered without looking up.

  "Are you going to come inside and have some lemonade with us?" she asked tentatively.

  "Maybe a little later," he said.

  Toy knew what he meant. It was her father's way of saying no, that his work took precedence over visiting with his daughter. She knew he loved her, but he was a quiet, reflective man, far happier in his workshop than in his home. He had never been one for small talk or gestures of affection. Toy sometimes thought it was all the years he had worked alone, walking down each street with his mailbag slung over his shoulder, whistling and singing to himself.

  "I'm going away for a few days," she said. "I just came by to let you know."

  For a long time he continued whittling away with his back turned, curled pieces of wood falling to the floor like potato peelings. Finally he said in a low voice, "That's nice. Is Stephen going with you?"

  How did he know? Toy wanted to turn around and run back to her car. As little as they had communicated throughout the years, her father always knew when she was in trouble. In his odd way, she assumed he could sense it. Once when she had been in elementary school, she had swallowed what she thought were Red Hots, her favorite childhood candy, after seeing one of them abandoned on her friend's plate. As soon as she had swallowed it, she became desperately ill and rushed to the water fountain, reddish foam spewing from her mouth and dribbling all over her clothes. As it turned out, little Toy had swallowed another child's worm medication, and had

  been humiliated in front of the entire lunchroom. But when she had walked out of the school at the end of the day, still nauseous and stinging from the ridicule and taunting of the students, her father had been waiting in front of the school in his mail van. Never before had he shirked his duties to come to her school. Somehow he had just known.

  "No," Toy said, deciding that now was not the time to tell him about the problems in her marriage. Her parents were so proud, so proud that she had married a doctor. If she and Stephen did get divorced, Toy knew they would be devastated. "Stephen can't get away, Dad. I'm going with Sylvia. It's only five days, anyway. We're going to New York. I've never been to New York."

  "Big city," he said, this time turning to look in her eyes. "You better be careful, Toy. There's a lot of bad people in a city like that. Why don't you wait and go with your husband?"

  Toy frowned. "I might be waiting forever, Dad. You know how Stephen feels about leaving his practice." Then she forced a smile, seeing the concern on his face. "Whether you realize it or not, I'm perfectly able to take care of myself. I'm not exactly a kid anymore, you know."

  "I know," he said slowly, but Toy could see he was still troubled. "How are you feeling? Have you had yourself checked recently?"

  "I feel fine," Toy said emphatically. "Besides, I'm married to a doctor, Dad. I go for a physical every year. I don't even have to pay for it."

  He turned his attention back to the piece of wood. Toy felt a strong urge to walk over and throw her arms around him, tell him that she loved him. Tell him that he was a good father, as good a father as he could possibly be. But she could not. Too many years of distance stood between them, creating a chasm that was too wide for her to cross. She stood there for a few more minutes watching him, and then walked off to visit with her mother.

  The five-hour flight from LAX was tiring. Toy and Sylvia then had to lug their suitcases from the baggage claim area and wait in line for a taxi.

  Dressed in a lime green pantsuit, the jacket tucked in at the waist and then flaring at the hips, Toy had never looked more beautiful. Her red hair was shiny and clean, curl upon curl popping and bouncing around her head. Her eyes were clear and expectant, and other than feeling somewhat bedraggled, she was in great spirits. It wasn't really so bad being away from Stephen. She had managed to survive

  California Angel 53

  one whole night and a complete day, even travel across the country without him, and she was still alive. No one had used her, robbed her, or conned her out of her last dime as Stephen would surely be predicting.

  "I can't believe there's a line for cabs this late," Toy said, short of breath and panting, looking at the six people in front of them. "How far is the hotel from here?"

  "Well," Sylvia said, "we're in Newark and the hotel is in Manhattan. If there's not too much traffic, we should be there in less than an hour." Then a concerned expression appeared on her face. "Are you having trouble breathing, Toy? You look really pale."

  "Oh, no," Toy said quickly, brushing her hair off her face and smiling, "I feel terrific. I'm just not used to carrying things. Guess I need to exercise more often."

  They finally reached the front of the line and hopped in the taxi, Sylvia telling him to take them to the Gotham City Hotel on Central Park South, near Sixth Avenue. "This is a great hotel," she told Toy enthusiastically. "Wait until you see it. It's right across the street from Central Park, in the same block as the Plaza. I got us a special weekend rate, but Monday and Tuesday are going to cost more money."

  Toy was concerned about her finances. She had her credit card but very little cash. She would have to give Sylvia a check for her share of the hotel, and pray there was money left in the bank to cover it. But Sylvia claimed she didn't mind. She'd already paid for Toy's ticket. As long as she got the money back eventually, she'd told her, it would be okay. Her budget was tight, but a loan of a few weeks she could handle.

  While Sylvia bantered back and forth with the cabdriver, Toy stared out the window, mesmerized by all the cabs and the towering buildings as they made their way into the city. A few times she felt so exhausted she leaned her head against the window and tried to sleep, but everything was too loud and noisy, and the cab was jerking and bouncing as the driver darted in and out of traffic. Cars honked at one another, sirens squealed, people yelled profanities and shot other drivers the finger out their window. Toy had expected Manhattan to be similar to Los Angeles and was shocked at how different in atmosphere the two cities were. Even though it was big, noisy, and dirty. Manhattan was pulsing with energy and vitality, while Los Angeles had always seemed to be sleeping in a drugged-out haze of perpetual confusion.

  "What time is it here?" Toy asked.

  Sylvia glanced at her watch. "I'm still on California time, but it's three hours later, so it's almost two."

  Toy's mouth fell open. "Two o'cjock? It's really two o'clock in the morning? There's so many people out milling around."

  "The city that never sleeps," Sylvia said, turning to smile at her friend. "That's one of the things I miss about living here. You know what? You can get a corned beef sandwich any time you want. Are you hungry? We can go to Wolfe's Deli. It's right down from
the hotel."

  Toy just looked at her. She couldn't imagine digesting a corned beef sandwich in the middle of the night. "I'm pretty tired," she said. "But I'll go along if you want me to."

  Sylvia sighed, glancing down at her heavy thighs. "No," she said. "Corned beef is probably the last thing I need."

  A few minutes later, they pulled up to the hotel and let the bellman take the bags. Sylvia went to the counter to register. "I requested a big room, view of the park, and two queen-size beds." She leaned over the counter while the desk clerk completed the paperwork.

  "We don't have anything left with two beds," he said. "All we have is a king."

  "What do you mean?" Sylvia snapped. "I specifically told my travel agent that we needed two beds."

  "I'm sorry," he said politely, "but we're sold out tonight. There's a convention in town."

  Sylvia stepped away and conferred with Toy. There really wasn't much to confer about. At this time of night Sylvia didn't think it was wise to go out shopping for another hotel. Both women feeling the strain of the long day, they headed up in the elevator with the bellman to the twenty-ninth floor.

  The room was nothing like Sylvia had expected. When the bellman unlocked the door and placed the luggage inside, she immediately ripped into him. "This room doesn't overlook the park. What is this anyway? The worst room in the hotel? God," she said, peering into the tiny bathroom, "this is the pits. I could have stayed at my brother's house in Brooklyn if I wanted a crappy room like this."

  "Sylvia," Toy said, pulling her into the bathroom. "He's only the bellman. He doesn't own the hotel. Let the poor man go."

  Her friend was still agitated. "You don't understand about this city, Toy," she said, placing her hands on her hips. "If they think you

  California Angel 55

  don't know the ropes, they'll rip you off in a minute. Well, they're not ripping me off. I'm no country bumpkin. I grew up in this lousy place."

  "Let's just get some sleep," Toy said calmly. "Then we'll deal with it tomorrow."

  Sylvia reluctantly handed the porter a tip, and the man quickly scurried off. Then she pulled down the bedcovers, wondering how they could both sleep in the same bed. "Hope I don't roll over on you and squash you like a pancake," she told Toy. "If you know what's good for you, you'll cling to the corner all night."

  "No problem," Toy said, laughing. "You're the one who should worry. Stephen says I talk in my sleep."

  "Oh, really?" Sylvia said, arching her eyebrows. "You can talk all you want, just make sure it's something juicy."

  They took turns in the bathroom, and in no time, they were both in bed, the covers pulled up to their chins. Sylvia was wearing a long cotton nightgown with a picture of a cat on the front, and Toy was sleeping in her California Angels T-shirt and a pair of black stretch pants, having forgotten to pack her night clothes in her haste to get her things and get out of the house before Stephen came home.

  Toy turned off the lamp on the nightstand and left the bathroom light burning.

  "Whatever you do," Sylvia told her wearily, "don't wake me up in the morning. I'm so tired I feel like I could sleep for three days. This is the plan—we sleep in until about eleven or so. Then we'll be adjusted to the time difference."

  Curling up in her corner of the big bed, Toy felt an aching loneliness, wanting to have Stephen next to her. But her head sank into the soft pillow, and she quickly fell into a deep, exhausted sleep.

  She was walking in a tall field of grass, so high that it reached past her ankles and grazed her knees. Behind her was a group of young children. She was taking them somewhere, leading the way as she did when she took her class on a field trip.

  "Hurry," Toy said, going to the back of the line and urging the children to move faster. Thick clouds of black smoke filled the air and the heat was intense; only a few feet behind them was a blazing inferno. Sparks popped and flew through the air, one landing on the ground right next to Toy's feet and igniting the dry grass instantly. She screamed at the children to run faster; they were coughing and choking from the smoke.

  Just then a small boy stumbled and fell. Like a wicked burning snake, v the fire raced through the grass and started burning all around him. He was trapped inside a circle of fire. Trapped and screaming, crying for his mother..

  Toy looked quickly at the children in front of her and then back at the boy. As she raced in his direction, a fiery finger reached up and his shirt erupted in flames. His wail of terror shifted into a horrifying scream of agony; the smell of burning flesh filled the air. Toy lunged, willing her body to pass through the flames, moving as fast as she possibly could, not pausing for even a second. She reached him and swooped him up in her arms, racing back through the wall of fire, trying to shield him with her upper body. Once outside the circle of burning grass, Toy threw herself on top of the boy, felt the searing heat of his body against her own flesh, absorbing his pain as her own.

  Behind her the fire was still raging, moving in their direction fast, while the blazing fields of grass lit up the sky with an eerie, unnatural yellow glow. The child's eyes were open, but he wasn't moving, wasn't crying out. Swooping him back up in her arms, Toy started running with him, the flames nipping at her feet. She was coughing and her eyes were tearing from the smoke. She could hardly see anything now other than the tiny spots of blackness in the distance, the children's backs.

  "You're going to be all right," she said to the boy as she ran, panting and out of breath. "Everything's going to be fine."

  "I want my mommy."

  It was a pathetic plea, a thin little voice reaching through the chaos. Up ahead Toy saw fire trucks and ambulances, a crowd of people gathered in a tight group, watching, waiting. She headed for the row of ambulances. A dark figure in a heavy coat met her and accepted the injured child from her arms. "Is this your boy?" he said.

  "No," Toy said.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yes," Toy said. "You have to find his mother. Maybe she's in the crowd."

  "What's his name?"

  "I don't know."

  Toy was jogging next to the fireman now, the child in his arms. Panting, the man looked down at the boy. "What's your name, fellow?"

  "Jason . . . Jason Cummings."

  The fireman began yelling. First he yelled for assistance from the

  California Angel 57

  paramedics. One rushed over with a large steel case, and another ran behind him with a gurney. In what seemed like seconds they had an oxygen mask over the boy's face and were trying to assess the damage. "His vital signs are good. I don't want to pull away that sweater yet. Let them do that at the burn unit."

  Toy bent over the child, sandwiched in between the emergency workers. "Jason, everything's fine now. They went to get your mommy and you're safe."

  For a moment his tortured eyes met hers and his lips moved inside the mask. Toy had to lean even closer to be able to hear him. "I'm scared. I hurt really bad. I hurt so bad I can't cry."

  His forehead was black and sooty. Toy kissed it lightly, her lips cool against his skin. "Have you ever heard the story about the little engine trying to pull the toys over the mountain?" Toy waited but the boy didn't answer. "I think I can. I think I can. I think I can. Then the little engine says, I know I can, I know I can, I know I can."

  She saw recognition in his eyes. It was a popular story; they even made children's records of it, little multicolored forty-five's. Toy had played it over and over as a child. "Jason, you're that little engine. Keep saying that over and over to yourself. I know I can. I know I can. I know I can. Tell your body to heal itself, take away the pain. Tell yourself that you can do it."

  "We have to take him now, miss," the paramedic said, ready to lift the gurney.

  "You can do it, Jason," Toy said firmly. "I know I can. I know I can. Come on, Jason. Say it."

  As they carried him off, the child's lips were moving inside the mask. "I know I can. I know I can. I know I can." He jerked his eyes to the side
, desperately trying to find the.woman who had saved him, but she was no longer there.

  California Angel 59

  still didn't get a response, she began to panic, and grabbed her arm to check her pulse.

  "Oh, God," she screamed, certain there was no pulse. Quickly she pushed Toy over on her back and placed her head against her chest. Nothing. Then she turned her face sideways and tried to feel Toy's breath on her cheek. She felt nothing. Grabbing the phone on the nightstand, she hit the number for the operator and yelled into the receiver, "Call an ambulance. Fast. My friend isn't breathing. I think her heart stopped."

  Sylvia took a deep breath and tried to remember how to administer CPR, tried to keep herself calm and focused. "Hold on, honey," she said, her voice shaking, perspiration now pouring down her face. "Please, God, don't let her die. Let me do it right. I can't mess up now."

  She ran her finger up Toy's midsection until she located her sternum, then placed one palm on top of the other and began the compressions. Once the first set was completed, she sealed her lips around Toy's mouth and began ventilating. She tried not to think of what was happening, tried only to remember what she had been taught. This was not her best friend, she told herself. If she thought that way, she couldn't do what had to be done.

  Sylvia didn't know how much time had passed before she heard heavy footsteps pounding in the hall outside the room. She moved her mouth to Toy's again and suddenly realized that Toy was breathing on her own. Lowering her head again to her chest, she heard the thump, thump, thumping of her heart.

  "Thank you, God," she said, and then started jabbering prayers in Hebrew.

  Just then the door opened and two paramedics rushed in, carrying a large steel box with their equipment, the hotel manager remaining in the hall as they entered. One of the men was tall and dark, the other smaller and fairer, his blond hair shaggy and long enough to cover his ears. "Her heart's beating now," Sylvia said excitedly. "I gave her CPR."