The Tortilla Curtain

house.”
    Delaney couldn't believe it either. He'd even called Jack about it and Jack had used the occasion to shoot holes in what was left of the sinking raft of his liberal-humanist ideals. What did you expect? Jack had demanded. You give all these people the full protection of our laws the minute they cross the border and you expect them to incriminate themselves? Where's the evidence? Yes, all right, they determined the thing was started by an illegal campfire in the lower canyon, and these two men were seen walking up the canyon road, fleeing the fire just like everybody else--where's the proof they started it? You think they're going to admit it, just like that?
    Delaney had been outraged. The fire had given him a real scare, and though he knew it was regenerative, a natural and essential part of the chaparral environment and all that, this was no theoretical model--this was his canyon, his house, his life. It made him seethe to think of the ruined holiday, the panic of packing up and running, the loss of wildlife and habitat, and all because some jerk with a match got careless--or malicious. It made him seethe and it made him hate. So much so it frightened him. He was afraid of what he might do or say, and there was still a part of him that was deeply ashamed of what had happened at that roadblock Thursday night. “The whole thing is crazy,” he said finally. “Just crazy. But listen, it could have been a lot worse. We're okay, we made it. Let's just try and forget about it.”
    “Look at the Da Roses, look what they lost,” Kyra said, lifting the book wearily from her lap, as if the weight of all those properties were bearing her down, and set it on the coffee table. “How can you say 'forget about it'? The same thing's going to happen in these canyons next year and the year after that.”
    “I thought you said he killed himself.”
    “That's not the point. His wife's alive. And their children. And all of that artwork, all those antiques--they were priceless, irreplaceable.”
    There was a silence. They both stared numbly at the screen, where a couple Delaney didn't recognize--B stars of the forties--embraced passionately against a shifting backdrop of two-lane highways and hotel lobbies rife with palms. Finally Delaney said, “How about a walk before dinner? We could look for Dame Edith--”
    For a moment he was afraid he'd said the wrong thing--the cat had been missing for three days now and that was another sore point--but Kyra gave him half a smile, reached out to squeeze his hand, and then got to her feet.
    Outside, it was overcast and cool, with a breeze that smelled of rain coming in off the ocean. And why couldn't it have come four days earlier? But that was always the way: after the fires, the rains, and the rains brought their own set of complications. Still, the stink of burning embers was dissipating and the Cherrystones' jasmine was in bloom, giving off a rich sweet nutty scent that candied the air, and things were flowering up and down the block, beds of impatiens and begonias, plumbago and oleander and Euryops daisies in huge golden masses. The windborne ash had been swept up, hosed into lawns and off the leaves of the trees, and the development looked untouched and pristine, right down to the freshly waxed cars in the driveways. Fire? What fire?
    They were walking hand in hand, Kyra in her Stanford windbreaker, Delaney in a lightweight Gore-Tex backcountry jacket he'd got through the Sierra Club, calling out “Kitty, Kitty,” in harmony, when Jack Jardine's classic 1953 MG TD rounded the corner, Jack at the wheel. The car was a long humped shiver of metal and the engine sounded like two French horns locked on a single note that rose or fell in volume according to what gear Jack happened to be in at the moment. He swung a U-turn and pulled up at the curb beside them, killing the engine. “Out for a stroll?” he said, leaning his head out the window.
    “Sure,” Delaney said. “It's about time the weather changed. Feels good.”
    “Hi, Jack.” Kyra gave him an official smile. “All settled back in? How's Erna?”
    “Everything's fine,” Jack said, and his eyes dodged away from them and came back again. “Listen, actually--well, there's something I just discovered I thought you might want to take a look at, no big deal, but if you've got a minute--?”
    He swung open the passenger door and Delaney and Kyra squeezed in--and it was a tight squeeze, a very tight squeeze, the