By Claudia Armann
The Rules Don’t Apply
Raquel
I’m marooned in Big Sur. The bridge to Carmel collapsed. This unimaginable news in a text from Russell. I’m separated from him and our children for at least tonight – who knows how long? And the asshole doesn’t call? Just sends a text?
I must see the spectacle for myself. I slip on a pair of Dante’s half-shredded Vans and hop on Beatrice’s bike. Then I pedal north on Highway 1, still slick from the punishing rainstorm. The roadway south of town was buried by a landslide weeks ago. So Highway 1 is abandoned like I’ve never seen it before.
A mile up the coast, at the bakery, a dozen residents in raincoats huddle on the steps. I stop, dismount. I wave and half the daytime population of Big Sur in January waves back. I’m exaggerating, but not by much.
“Is it true? About the bridge?” I ask.
Ranger Ted walks down the stairs. “The bridge is toast. Some fellas from Caltrans were on the other end assessing the damage. We’re stuck.”
“My kids are at school in Carmel.” I don’t mention Russell—he can stay on the other side of the bridge for all I care.
Ted bunches his lips together before answering. “Everyone’s kids are on the other side.”
Juana, who manages the Sorento Lodge, descends the stairs. “Raquel, do you have power at your place?”
“I do.”
“Ours went out during the storm. We have five guests paying two thousand a night. ¿Que diablos vamos hacer?”
The panic in Juana’s voice finally rattles my nerves. But, no the devil won’t help us of this act of God. “Lo siento,” I say. I’m sorry.
I dial Russell, but the call fails.
Ted shakes his head. “Try texting. Calls aren’t getting through.”
Maybe Russell did try to call me. Why do I always assume the worst from him?
“Doing fine here,” I text. “Any news on when they’ll connect our worlds?”
“No time soon,” he responds. “Kids and I will go to Ma’s.”
Okay, Beatrice and Dante will spend a few nights at Grandma Melvin’s and I’ll have some solitary days to work on my culinary guidebook to the desserts of Italy. I don’t allow myself to consider that the situation will span any longer. I can be supremely naive when I need to be.
Troy Hoang, sculptor extraordinaire, leaves the bakery with three ciabatta loaves. He’s dressed head to toe in his signature white. From wool knit cap to immaculate white Chuck Taylors. Troy was married to my dentist, but we aren’t on a first name basis.
“Hey, Troy, the rest of us gotta eat too,” Ted says as he sprints to the bakery.
Back on the bicycle, I peddle the last half mile to the steep canyon spanned by Pfieffer Canyon Bridge. How many times have I traveled this route, never giving thought to the metal structure that transports me to civilization? To Whole Foods, the movie theater, the hospital where my children were born.
I round the last curve, slip off the bike. Another knot of people stands at the abyss. My heart careens against my chest when I see the gap in the roadway. In the canyon below, twisted metal and asphalt sprawl like abandoned pieces of Dante’s train set.
An unfamiliar man with wavy silver hair stands solemnly, hands in pockets. Everyone else is taking photos with their phones. The distinguished-looking stranger sees me and gives my body a vertical sweep, like men did a decade ago when I was young and bothered with my appearance.
“Raquel,” hollers Alice, the caretaker at the Henry Miller Library. “A new chapter in the life of Big Sur. We’re isolated. Like in eighty-three. These poor folks were staying at the Sorrento Lodge.”
I scan the tourists and my eyes land again on the gray-haired man. He steps forward.
“That was a marvelous storm,” he says. “Are you a local?”
“Yes. I hear you don’t have electricity at the lodge.”
“I wanted an escape. With the power out and the bridge in pieces…” He shrugs. “I got exactly that.”
Annoyance grips me. “It’s not amusing. My kids are on the other side.” There I go again, editing Russell out.
“Oh, God.” The man runs his hand through his hair. “How insensitive of me. It’s a character flaw of mine. Sarcasm in times of crisis.”
I step closer to the edge for a better look.
He reaches for my shoulder. “ Careful. The ground is unstable.”
Alice waves everyone together. “You’re welcomed at the library. I’ll light the fireplace and make coffee. Henry always welcomed forlorn souls.”
The tourists follow Alice down the eerily vacant road to their cars.
“I’m Dallen,” the stranger says.
“I’m Raquel.” I turn the bike around. I’m about to be rude and ride off when Dallen asks, “How old are your children?”
“Dante is sixteen, Beatrice is fourteen.”
He gives me a sly look. “A fan of the Florentine poet?”
“Yep.”
Alice and the tourists drive off and no cars remain.
“Where’s your car?”
“I walked from the lodge. Isn’t that the point of coming to the wilderness, to abandon the automobile?”
“You said you were escaping.”
“Yes, my pitiful fate. The President fired me via Twitter last week.”
I squeeze the bike’s handlebars, horrified that he might be one of them. The President fired his enemies months ago. Now he’s eating his own. I squint at him accusingly, “You’re not a Republican, are you?”
“Until last week, I was Fed Chairman.”
“No shit! I heard about you on NPR. You didn’t answer my question.”
He holds up his hands in self-defense. “I was appointed by the previous administration.”
My stare is icy.
“Look, I didn’t vote for the imbecile,” he says.
My shoulders relax. “Now you’re stuck here.”
The economist smiles. “I don’t see it that way,” he says. “A beautiful landscape. A few books I picked up at the airport and a bottle of Brunello in my suite at the lodge. And now an invitation to coffee at the Henry Miller Library with a mixed assortment of elites.”
I laugh, hop on the bike.
“Can I ask you for a favor?” he says.
***
Troy
Talk is that the bridge is out. We could be isolated for months. What do I care? I never go anywhere. When I’ve eaten the ciabatta, I’ll work my way through the rice, olives, pea soup, and chocolate chips in my pantry. Then, I’ll snag food from neighbors’ deserted homes. I know exactly who is on the other side of the gap. In fact, my ex-husband is at his dental office in Carmel.
That’s when the idea strikes. I’ll take up residence in the splendid oceanview house that Sylvester got after the split. The jerk probably keeps the spare key in the same place. Under his frumpy gnome. While there, I can finally dig up mother’s antique roses.
I’ve missed the house like an amputee longs for a severed limb. Waking with a view of the vast Pacific and the soothing glow from a stone fireplace is not surrendered without sorrow. I produced my best pieces in the studio above the garage.
I stuff a backpack with underwear, a sweatshirt, a toothbrush. I gather candles, the ciabatta loaves, and other staples into a paper bag. Before I leave, I decide to make a decadent meal since the contents of my fridge will spoil with the electricity out. An omelet with five eggs, mushrooms, spinach. I take big bites of gouda cheese and finish the mint chocolate chip ice cream.
What does Sylvester have in his fridge, I wonder? Must be careful not to leave any trace that I stayed at his place. I drive desolate Highway 1 and pass Raquel walking her bike alongside an elegant fellow who’s not one of us. She’s not a true local either, but a poser with her Patagonia jacket, Klean Kanteen, and native plants field guide.
Ha! I learned to distinguish a coffee fern from a bracken fern from my grandfather, not a book. Raquel and the man are tiny in the rearview mirror when I turn onto Post Creek Road. Mud oozes across the pavement. I drive around a boulder the size of a barrel, feel my tires slip off the road onto the soggy shoulder.
A few yards farther and I’ve arrived. No Subaru in the driveway, so Sylvester is at the office like the workaholic he’s always been. In the vanishing daylight, I admire the graceful wood and glass house that sheltered me for nineteen years. Beyond it, the ocean that’s always been like an extension of my soul.
I sprint around the house to the gnome statue and feel beneath it. Nothing. Son of bitch. Now, he decides to get creative? I check under the azalea pots on the deck and come up empty. I consider breaking a window to sneak in. Who’s to say it was me and not a hungry neighbor? No, if I’m going to enjoy my sojourn here, I don’t want to worry about consequences.
Can I jimmy a lock? Don’t know how. What does jimmy even mean? I grip the handle on the sliding glass door and squeeze. It’s unlocked. Stupid Sylvester. By the time I get my stuff inside, it’s dark. With the electricity out, I decide on an early bedtime.
***
Raquel
The rules don’t apply. We’re in limbo, hostage to the whims of nature’s fury. So when the economist asked if he could charge his phone at my house, I agreed.
Dallen has urgent instructions he must send his successor. It’s almost dark when we arrive at my house. Through the back door, into the colossal disorder of my kitchen. The scent of rosemary and licorice cling to the air. I’d spent the morning making rosemary focaccia and testing recipes for biscotti del santo, an amaretto-flavored cookie made in Padova in honor of St. Anthony. Russell says there’s no market for my book, but that New York publisher of mine thinks otherwise.
I unplug the mixer, let the economist charge his phone.
“Smells incredible.” He scans the disorderly array of spices and scattered ingredients.
“Are you hungry?” I ask. I sure am.
“You don’t have to feed me.”
I slide a focaccia loaf off the baking sheet and slice it. “Help yourself. A grandmother in Genoa gave me this recipe.” I take olives from the fridge and notice that the panna cotta has now set. I grab two small bowls of the delicately sweet cream dessert.
“Sit down,” I command and wipe flour off a barstool. I give the economist a panna cotta and spoon. “This is a Tuscan version with honey, marsala, and pinenuts.”
“You love to cook?”
“Not at all, but I’m committed to indulgence. I’m writing a travel guide to the desserts of Italy. Each region has its specialties. Particular desserts are made at Christmas, Easter, saints days.”
He nods respectfully. “I was just in Rome for an economic summit,” he says.
“What did you eat?”
“I don’t remember.”
This man is not the audience for my book. Only for those who seek pleasure. I peer into his eyes and feel pity.
Dallen gazes at the panna cotta, takes a bite. “My God,” he squeals. His spoon is in mid-air, eyes startled. “It’s delicious. What is it?”
“Panna cotta.”
He takes another greedy bite. “Your book will be a smashing success.”
I decide to feed him something nutritious, and reheat the pasta al forno from last night’s dinner.
“Here’s some economic trivia for you,” I say. “In the 1500s, the Pope imposed a tax on salt, so the Tuscans stopped adding it to their bread. The tax is long gone, but to this day, they don’t use salt for baking. The bread in Florence is hopelessly bland.”
“Tax avoidance shapes societies in profound ways. Did you know salt was used as currency by many societies?”
“I did know that,” I say. “Since people were paid in salt, that’s where the expression you’re worth your weight in salt comes from.”
He smiles even more enthusiastically than he did at my food. The phone in my pocket chirps. I notice I’ve missed three messages from neighbors:
- “U ok? Worried about our dogs. Can u give them dinner?”
- “Saw Russell in underwear aisle @ Target. LOL. He said u could feed my cats. Spare key in false rock near marijuana plants. Help yourself.”
- “It’s Sylvester. Need big favor. My rat Danika home alone. In garage. Will u feed her? House locked. Do what u have to do.”
Crap. Feeding cats and dogs, gladly. Breaking into my dentist’s house and getting close to a rodent is a colossal ask. Last month, I opened the compost bin and one of those furry little beasts leapt out at me. A spasm ripples up my back.
I stare across the kitchen at the economist. He lifts a forkful of pasta to his lips and chews with relish. The smell of garlic and parmesan that sparked my appetite, now revolts me.
“Have you ever…” I begin. “This is crazy. Do you know how to get into a house that’s locked?”
He puts his fork down. “I do. I call the locksmith.”
I hurl an oven mitt at Dallen, and it hits him square on the forehead. He didn’t duck! Russell knows to move out of the way. But women throwing domestic objects seems well outside Dallen’s daily routine.
“Sorry!” I glide my hand across my eyes, embarrassed.
“No harm. Why a break-in?”
“I have to feed a neighbor’s rat.”
“No key?”
I shake my head. “Rats are so revolting.”
“Come on now. You can’t let an innocent mammal starve.”
“You do it. And help me figure out how to get in the garage.”
***
Troy
I wake in Sylvester’s bed, where I’ve slept seven thousand nights. Fog stretches like a blanket over the ocean. It never makes me blue, this fog. It makes me feel alive.
I venture into Sylvester’s fridge. A bowl of purple grapes. If I take a small cluster, he won’t notice. If I take just one egg, two slices of cheese, a handful of marcona almonds, he’ll never know someone was here.
I spend the first morning doing yoga while I watch stellar jays soar between the pines. Like so many mornings of my life, except I can’t play music with the electricity out.
I soak in the tub and it’s the best bath I’ve ever had because I’ve bested Sylvester with this wholly innocuous caper. Lucky for me, the house has a gas water heater.
Rested and refreshed, I begin my reconnaissance. I open every drawer, cabinet, closet to take stock of Sylvester’s predictable life. I check the balance in his checkbook, the bottles in his medicine cabinet. Then, I remember his beer fridge in the garage where he ages his precious craft beers. They’ll be ruined. I go to the garage and prop open the fridge door to help the spoiling process along.
I peek in and scan the labels. Russian River’s Pliny the Younger, Firestone’s Parabala, and row upon row of delectable Belgian imports. He’ll have to throw them all out, so he won’t notice if one bottle is missing. I grab a Westvleteren and hear reproachful chatter from across the garage. Sylvester’s pet rat. I’ll have to bring her some scraps.
I sip the stolen beer on the deck as a news helicopter flies over. I haven’t had this much fun since my cousin and I stole grandpa’s truck and went into the city.
***
Raquel
I dutifully fed the dogs and cats. Dallen suggested we wait till daylight to attempt the break-in of my dentist’s house. I postpone another day, texting back and forth with Sylvester. Can’t your ex-husband feed the rat? I ask and get no reply.
“Raquel, the rat hasn’t eaten in two days,” the economist pleads. “Let’s go over there.”
I spent yesterday with Dallen. At the Sorrento Lodge. He invited me over to share his bottle of Brunello. It tasted of candied cherries and fig. We discussed the financial craze over tulip bulbs in the Netherlands, circa 1630. But after the third glass of wine, the conversation shifted into discussing why he was a Republican and why I loathed them. Dallen spoke with calm patience, I raged and threw more things at him.
Today, Dallen’s back at my house charging his phone, but he’s fixated on feeding Danika the rat.
Panforte. The perfect rodent treat. A Sienese specialty that melds almonds, dried figs, chocolate, honey, spices. I take a few chunks from a tin in the pantry. Two for Danika, one for Dallen.
“Try this.” I slip a chunk of panforte into his hand.
He takes a bite, smiles brightly. “You’re spoiling me.”
Next, I slice into a panettone I made days ago. Fluffy sweet bread laced with raisins and dried fruit. Danika the rat is in for a treat.
***
Troy
It’s been three days of isolation. They’re talking about building a trail through the state park so residents can get back and forth to civilization on foot. A helicopter is coming to evacuate the stranded tourists at Sorrento Lodge. The bakery is out of flour.
I’ve now drunk five of Sylvester’s beers and have experimented with refilling them with cheap beer from my fridge. But as hard as I try, I can’t recap them in a convincing way.
I puked on his Navajo rug. I guess I shouldn’t have pushed my luck eating that unrefrigerated milk. I got the stench out of the rug, but the bile from my stomach discolored one corner.
Today I broke one of Sylvester fancy beer glasses by mistake. But disconnecting wires inside his fancy stereo was intentional.
Now, I’ll dig up my roses to stay out of trouble.
***
Raquel
I turn the car onto Sylvester’s road. Dallen cleans his eyeglasses. I’ve grown accustomed to his serene companionship. I fancy myself his tour guide, not to Big Sur per se, but to this peculiar interlude where serendipity reigns.
In Sylvester’s driveway, a battered Volvo is parked askew, its trunk stuffed with forlorn branches. Or rose bushes?
“There’s flames on the roof,” Dallen says.
“Help!” a man screams.
***
Troy
I broke my wrist hefting the roses to the car. I was so pissed, I threw the gnome through the plate glass window with my good hand. Shit! Shit! Shit! Sylvester will know someone was here, I thought.
An accident must befall the house. To cover my tracks. If I can’t have this house, why should he?
I was half a mile away after setting the fire, when I remembered Danika. I turned the car around, sped up the driveway to rescue her.
***
Raquel
Dallen is out of the car before I’ve braked. He runs to the sound of the scream I follow and hear the crunch of broken glass under my feet. I stop when I spot the garden hose. Turn it on, aim a spray of water at the roof.
Troy emerges coughing from the garage. Something wrapped in his sweatshirt.
“Are you okay?” Dallen asks as he pulls him away from the building.
Cough, cough. “Who the hell are you?” Troy manages to ask.
A white snowball climbs across Troy’s chest and onto his shoulder. The rat.
I scream and drop the hose.
***
Troy
Sitting on the ground, trying to catch my breath. I’m screwed. Girl scout Raquel to the rescue. She’s got the hose aimed at the roof, phone pressed to her ear as she calls Ranger Ted for help. She’s brought her gallant companion to bear witness to the chaos I’ve caused. I’m in deep shit.
***
Raquel
Dallen has retrieved a cardboard box from the recycling bin and helped Troy get Danika into it. He takes a piece of panforte and holds it out until the rat approaches for a nibble. A week ago, he was in Washington, D.C., setting monetary policy for the greatest economic powerhouse the world’s ever known. In that same time, I’ve gotten a taste of a Russell-free life.
I glare at Troy. Disasters strip us down, exposing veins of madness. Could I ever hate Russell enough to burn his house down after we split? No. Once I untether myself from him, I’ll never look back.
The End
Claudia Armann has a journalism degree and earned a prestigious Associated Press Minority Internship. She worked for five years in the magazine industry as a research editor at Hispanic Business and ISLANDS magazines. She is seeking a literary agent to represent her five novels which feature Latina protagonists. To hone her skills, Claudia participated in writing mentorships with Latinx in Publishing and AWP – Association of Writers and Writing Programs. For the last two decades, she has had a career in philanthropy and serves as Executive Director of the McCune Foundation, a philanthropic organization concerned with social justice issues in California. She helped launch the 805 UndocuFund, a nonprofit that has provided more than $9 million to undocumented immigrants affected by disasters and the pandemic on California’s Central Coast. Claudia is the daughter of Guatemalan immigrants, and her family background and years working with the Latinx community inform her novels. www.claudiaarmann.com