Ever stood there, in the shadows, holding two beers. “There you are,” he said, handing one bottle to her and then stroking Dog’s ear with his free hand. “I thought you two left.”
She thanked him and took a sip of the beer.
“That was intense,” he said. “I’m not sure what it was, exactly.”
“Do you know much about them?” she asked him. “This House of Hearts or whatever it’s called.”
“The ad said it’s for healing. That’s all I really know.”
Dog went and situated himself decidedly on top of Ever’s feet. “Therapy dog,” Izzy said.
Ever smoothed his thumb along the bony ridge between Dog’s eyes. “No doubt. You don’t need much healing with him around.”
She nodded. “Not too much.”
“Where are you from?” he asked her.
“Slab City. But I live in Salton City now. You?”
“Joshua Tree, but I’m from LA.”
“I’ve always wanted to live there,” Izzy said.
Los Angeles.
The city that had been populated by those seeking wealth through gold, oil, land, or water, fame through the movies, or freedom from oppression. And these settlers had created their own oppression. Haciendas and then bungalows had replaced orange groves, and, in turn, mansions and manor houses, towers of limestone, copper and glass, and highways of asphalt had replaced bungalows. Rock and punk music had erupted in suburban garages or canyon dwellings, then blown by Santa Ana winds through the streets and into the clubs along the Sunset Strip. Graffiti twined up and along freeway underpasses where a growing homeless population slept. Gangs torched and looted, while mountain lions, bears, bobcat, mule deer, skunks, raccoons, and opossums still fought for their own territory in the wild.
To live and die in LA.
To live and die without Cyrus.
“Why did you move?” she asked Ever.
“I thought it would be better to get out of the city. Better air. And there was a good doctor in Palm Springs. So, I opened a recording studio out here.”
A doctor, a need for healing. She wanted to ask him more, but a kind of unspoken agreement then passed between them. It all felt like too much, these thoughts of loss, so she took another sip of beer and asked about his work instead. He told her he played instrumental covers of nineties bands but with a funk twist. He told her more about his band, ze Monsta. And Izzy listened, glad of the distraction.
She did not miss the reference—his band shared the name of one of her favorite songs. Cyrus had heard there was a place to watch, or at least hear, concerts in LA for free. After the ride on Joe’s bike and a long hike in the beam of his flashlight, toward the sound of the music that had begun down in the amphitheater, they found what looked like a small campground among the pine trees. Oddly, no one had gathered there yet; maybe they’d come later, the “tree people” as the singers from the theater called them. Cyrus opened his backpack and took out almonds, apples, cheese, crackers, and a canteen of water. He and Izzy sat on flattened beer can cartons and ate and drank and listened; it was hard to really see anything beyond the pines. But the singer’s wail reached Izzy; she felt it in her sternum and scapula and coxal bones. She closed her eyes and saw a video she’d watched of the singer on an outdoor stage at a music festival in England. The singer wore pale-blue eye shadow, an intricately laced white satin dress that just grazed the top of her forearm-slim thighs, and high black boots. She held her guitar over her pelvis and strummed with a ferocity that never reached her placid face.