The Tortilla Curtain

her age, the tragedy of the night etched under her eyes and dug in deep round the corners of her mouth. Kyra, in contrast, had tied her hair back and forgone makeup, and even in her party dress she looked streamlined, girded for battle. Before Delaney could get out of the car she was in the house, striding from room to room like a field marshal, calling out the cat's name while punching numbers into the portable phone. Delaney, cradling a brown paper bag full of indispensable notebooks and essential nature guides, joined her a moment later.
    He set the books down on the kitchen table and went to the oven, which still gave off a faint if unappetizing whiff of turkey. And there, inside, was the turkey itself, as tough and desiccated as a piece of camel hide. It had been a hell of a Thanksgiving, Delaney was thinking, the worst he'd ever had, when Kyra strode into the room, gave him a sour look, and reached into the refrigerator for the carton of orange juice. She pinched the phone between chin and shoulder while pouring herself a glass. “Uh, huh,” she said, speaking into the mouthpiece. “Uh, huh, yes. Uh, huh.”
    She was concerned about her properties. As far as anybody knew to this point, the only homes lost had been eight redwood cabins just to the south of Arroyo Blanco in a little enclave of people living alternative lifestyles--hippies, bikers, palm readers, New Age enthusiasts and the like--but she was worried about a couple of far-flung listings, the Da Ros place in particular. She'd been on the verge of hysteria the previous afternoon when they'd had to leave the cat behind to what seemed a horrible and inescapable fate, but now that the fire had passed them by, Delaney could see that she'd automatically shifted her focus to her listings. The cat would be all right, she knew that. It was probably hiding under a bed somewhere, terrorized by the sirens. Or it was out back stalking all those dislocated mice. It would turn up.
    “They didn't,” Kyra said into the mouthpiece. The juice went untasted from her hand to the counter, a clear orange tube of light. “Are you sure it was the Da Roses'?” And then, to Delaney: “Quick, flick on the TV, will you?” and they were heading in lockstep for the living room. “Channel Seven,” she breathed, and spoke into the phone again: “Thanks, Sally. Yes, yes, I'm watching it now.”
    Full-color scenes of destruction blew by on the screen. The flattened remains of the redwood cabins held center stage a moment, burned-out cars and vans and toppling chimneys raising their skeletal fragments to the treeless horizon, and then the scene shifted to a reporter interviewing people outside Gitello's Market.
    “That was Sally Lieberman,” Kyra said. “She says they showed the Da Ros place.” Her voice caught. “It's gone. She said it's gone.”
    If this was the case, the reporters on Channel 7 failed to confirm it--at least in this segment--and their counterparts on Channels 2, 4, 5, 11 and 13 didn't report it either. They all showed the blackened rocks, the white ash, the corrugated air rising from the remaining hot spots and the sweaty exhausted firefighters plying their hoses, but already the fire was old news--there had been no deaths and precious little destruction of real property--and they turned to other matters, to the drive-by shootings, the fatal knifings, the traffic gore.
    “Maybe not,” Delaney said. “Maybe she got it wrong.”
    Kyra was wearing her frantic look. “I've got to go check.”
    “What, now?” Delaney was incredulous. “It's dangerous. The thing isn't out yet, you know--it could flare up again. Besides, they've probably got the road blocked.”
    He was right, and she knew it. She sank into the chair, volitionless, the phone clutched desperately in her hand. She was thinking of who to call next, how to get around the roadblocks, how to make things happen. “There's nothing you can do,” he said, “and we've got to get all this crap out of the cars before we do anything. You don't want people stealing it, do you?”
    Kit appeared at that moment, still looking a bit disoriented but more herself now--she'd wrapped a turban round her head to conceal her frayed hair and reapplied her lipstick. Delaney saw that she was holding something awkwardly in her right hand, out away from her body, as if she'd found a bit of offal or a dead rat under the bed. But what was it--a belt? A Walkman? Or no, it was a black plastic box dangling from a