Book Report: Lola

9. Melissa Scrivner Love, Lola (2017) (5/31/18)

I had high hopes for this book, based partly on the enthusiastic Bookshop Santa Cruz shelf-tag recommendation, partly on the cover blurbs: "One of the best[-]written crime dramas to be published in quite some time" (AP); "Achingly beautiful . . . Scrivner Love does better than Stieg Larsson" (Milwaukee Journal Sentinel); "An act of literary magic . . . a gritty, tightly plotted masterpiece" (LA Weekly); "An unbelievably smart mystery" (Newsweek); "Stunning . . . Love has created a fully fleshed-out and uniquely compelling antihero" (Publishers Weekly).

It starts out well enough—set in the barrio of Huntington Park, the "South Central" of Los Angeles, and concerning a very small gang known as the Crenshaw Six . . . which, we soon learn, is fronted not by the usual man, but by small, fierce, fearless Lola. Who, as the story gets going, receives a death threat from a rival gang, and a couple of options to remove said threat.

But as the story progresses, the pace slackens, the characters become more and more cardboard-like, the double-crosses and loyalties and retributions more convoluted, and the nagging theme of "how many hours until she dies?" more tedious, until, frankly, I just didn't care.

But I did finish, just in case there was some sort of redemption (not really) and to be able to post a report here. Because, fifty.

Certain themes did emerge: the wreckage caused by heroin; dingy linoleum floors; doll houses; barbecues; beauty products; women in control; obedience; family; fox hunting (kidding, but not). I rarely got a clear idea of place—save kitchens with their impossible floors—or of what most people looked like, except all the Mexican American women and girls seemed to have long straight shiny black hair.

Mostly, I found the worldview sour and cynical and clichéd, as in this description of a Westside fitness center:

Lucy [a five-year-old whom Lola saves from her junkie mother] slips her hand into Lola's. Together, they exit the locker room, leaving behind the blow-dryers and the bad news. They pass the cardio machines and the skeleton women doing endless mindless reps of bicep curls and squats in front of the inescapable mirrors. See your flaws. Fix your flaws. They stride by the café where hungry ladies salivate at the turkey burgers and opt instead for salads with dressing on the side. Together, Lola and Lucy push open the glass doors of this training academy for trophy wives, a factory in its own right. Perhaps it's better to be raised in the ghetto, away from this sweatshop of a different color.

The book, I learned in a review, started out as a TV pilot (Scrivner Love works primarily as a screenwriter), and it feels like it. A sequel made its way to her agent a year ago. If it gets published, I will be skipping it.

P.S. My opinion may be somewhat shaded by the delightfully rich and complex House of Broken Angels by Luis Alberto Urrea, also about Mexican Americans, in San Diego. The stories are different, of course, Lola being plot driven, House about relationship. But if you want a story about real people, not stick figures, try House. You won't regret it. 

Pine Valley, Ventana Wilderness

On Friday and Saturday, fellow wilderness ranger Roger Beaudoin and I made the six-mile trek into Pine Valley from the Tassajara Road, to maintain the eight or ten established campsites in the valley, dismantle a few illegal campfire rings, and talk to backpackers making the hike in for the long Memorial Day weekend—some 46 souls. I took a few photos (see below).

In the middle of Pine Valley is the cabin of Jack English, a man I met a few times during Search & Rescue overnight trainings. He would always invite a few of us in for coffee and a chat, and oatmeal if it was morning. (The coffee was always on his stovetop.) He may have lived in the middle of nowhere all alone, but he enjoyed people, and I know he made a lot of friends among the hikers who came to Pine Valley regularly. He died two years ago, at the age of 96, and his cabin is now closed up (a scattering of sprung mouse traps adorned his back porch, so apparently someone is looking out for the place). There's a wisteria vine in front, looking healthy: it must have been glorious earlier this spring, full of bright green leaves and purple flowers. I miss Jack, and I know I'm not alone in that. He was a real gentleman.

Here's a video that was made about him when he was 93. It's one I enjoy watching every so often. It reminds me of what's important in life, of having a good spirit. And here is his LA Times obituary.

And here are a few of the photos I took on our hike into Pine Valley, in Pine Valley, and then back out, along the Pine Ridge Trail. It was an overcast couple of days, with drizzle, and the thigh-high grasses along the trail did a great job of soaking us through. But it wasn't cold, and the light was absolutely gorgeous, saturating the blues, reds, yellows, oranges, pinks, and purples of the abundant wildflowers. Better, especially on the uphill hike out, than hot sunshine. It was a lovely couple of days.

Looking east across Tassajara Road from the start of the
Upper Pine Ridge Trail

The boundary of the Ventana Wilderness

A beautiful pink thistle (Cirsium mohavense)

Santa Lucia monkeyflower (Erythranthe hardhamiae)

The trail bounded by sky lupine (Lupinus nanus)
and scarlet bugler (Penstemon centranthifolius)

Chaparral yucca (Yucca whipplei)

Hulsea heterochroma, a fire-chaser

Sky lupine and yellow bush lupine (Lupinus arboreus)

The rocks behind Jack's cabin

Jack's memorial to his beloved Scrumptious

Santa Lucia monkeyflower among the granite

Pine Valley as the sun sets: this was virtually my view
the next morning, rising from my tent

Bedewed ladybug(s?)

Scarlet bugler penstemon

More scarlet bugler, in the deep fog

And that darn pink thistle again

And finally, a couple of before and after pictures of our illegal fire ring maintenance. I do love hurling rocks! (They'd be better paired, but I'm too lazy. You'll get the picture by scrolling, though.)

Book Report: Still Life

8. Louise Penny, Still Life (2005) (5/23/18)

I almost never reread books. I read too few books as it is—once, never mind twice. Plus, I'm a slow reader, so I don't want to "waste" precious time going backward rather than forward.

My most recent book, however, was a revisit. I was in Bookshop Santa Cruz the other day scanning the mystery shelves, and there were several by Louise Penny. Hers is a name that often comes up when discussing good mysteries with fellow aficionados. I remembered Still Life vaguely, remembered enjoying it and its main protagonist, the "cerebral, wise, and compassionate" Inspector Gamache (to quote Kirkus Reviews, from the book's cover). I considered forging ahead with the second volume in the series, but when I read the first paragraphs of Still Life and didn't immediately remember the story, I thought, No, I'll start at the beginning—get to know Gamache all over again.

I'm glad I did. For one thing, there's a passage in the book that has stuck with me since my first reading, though I did not realize the words and ideas were from this book. They're about loss—an author's theory "that life is loss . . . Loss of parents, loss of loves, loss of jobs. So we have to find a higher meaning in our lives than these things and people. Otherwise we'll lose ourselves."

The woman speaking these words, Myrna, now a used-book store owner, was a psychologist before retiring to the small Quebec village of Three Pines, where the central murder and investigation take place. "I lost sympathy with many of my patients," she explains to the inspector. "After twenty-five years of listening to their complaints I finally snapped. I woke up one morning bent out of shape about this client who was forty-three but acting sixteen. Every week he'd come with the same complaints. 'Someone hurt me. Life is unfair. It's not my fault.' For three years I'd been making suggestions, and for three years he'd done nothing. Then, listening to him this one day, I suddenly understood. He wasn't changing because he didn't want to. He had no intention of changing." Although many of her clients did work hard, genuinely wanting to get better, "I think many people love their problems. Gives them all sorts of excuses for not growing up and getting on with life." She goes on:

"Life is change. If you aren't growing and evolving you're standing still, and the rest of the world is surging ahead. Most of these people are very immature. They lead 'still' lives, waiting."
 "Waiting for what?"
 "Waiting for someone to save them. Expecting someone to save them or at least protect them from the big, bad world. The thing is no one else can save them because the problem is theirs and so is the solution. Only they can get out of it."
 " 'The fault, dear Brutus, lies not in our stars, but in ourselves that we are underlings.' "
 Myrna leaned forward, animated. "That's it. The fault lies with us, and only us. . . . The vast majority of troubled people don't get it. The fault is here, but so is the solution. That's the grace."

As it happens, this conversation between Myrna and the inspector informs the solution to the murder—of an elderly artist who spent her life chronicling the history of Three Rivers. As I read, I vaguely recalled "who dunnit," but nothing pointed without doubt in that direction—or "nothing" that I twigged to, though of course on reflection there were plenty of little inconsistencies that made me say, "Aha!" by the end. Mysteries are like that. Even on rereading. Fickle memory.

The story is populated by artists and misfits, and bow-hunting figures in. Relationship is at the center of the story as well: within families, between husbands and wives, between old and young, between old-timers and newcomers, within the police force and between the police and those being investigated. The lovely village of Three Pines in autumn plays a role. And we're sorry we did not have a chance to get to know the murdered woman, Miss Jane Neal, in life, though we do learn a lot about her through the eyes of others.

This was Penny's first book, and although at points I wondered if she was losing control of the narrative just a tad, she always managed to pull things back together. And now, I've got the second book on order. I look forward to watching Inspector Gamache work the next scene of the crime.

Book Report: Bad Stories

7. Steve Almond, Bad Stories: What the Hell Just Happened to Our Country (2018) (5/18/18)

It took me a little while to read this not-very-long book, not so much because I wanted to savor every word, but because every chapter made me (a) angry and (b) really, really sad. I don't want to be in despair over what's going on in this country—and it's hard for me not to . . . but thankfully, smart, critical, unabashedly progressive and hopeful (if not necessarily optimistic) writers like journalist and social commentator Steve Almond (he's perhaps best known for co-hosting the podcast Dear Sugars with Cheryl Strayed) help keep me from slipping over the brink.

Bad Stories is an examination of our 45th president as a symptom of the recent election and our current state of seeming impasse (if not destruction). In these sixteen-plus-one chapters, Almond struggles "to see Trumpism . . . as an opportunity to reckon with the bad stories at the heart of our great democratic experiment, and to recognize that often, embedded within these bad stories, are beautiful ideals and even correctives that might help us to contain the rage that has clouded our thoughts."

Almond begins by invoking the notion expressed by Israeli historian Yuval Noah Harari in his book Sapiens: A Brief History of Humankind that humanity's dominance on this planet "stems from our unique cognitive ability to believe in the imagined, to tell stories that extend our bonds beyond clan loyalties. Our larger systems of cooperation, whether spiritual, political, legal, or financial, require faith in a beautiful fiction known as the common good, the sort of mutual trust expressed in any trade agreement or currency." But what, Almond asks, if the stories we tell ourselves are bad—perhaps merely frivolous, or worse, fraudulent, whether by negligence or design, "intended to sow discord, to blunt our moral imaginations, to warp our fears into loathing and our mercy into vengeance?"

Almond takes on various American myths/exaggerations/falsehoods in somewhat rambling discourses, supported by "statistical data, personal anecdote, cultural criticism, literary analysis, and when called for, outright intellectual theft." For example, Bad Story #1, "Watergate Was about a Corrupt President," wasn't just about that: it was even more so about our nation's shared idealism—which today seems increasingly fragile, even evanescent. To explore this idea, Almond cites Moby Dick and mad captain Ahab; conversations Almond has had with his own young children; Kurt Vonnegut and W. E. B. Du Bois; and slavery.

Other "bad stories" explore journalism and the Fairness Doctrine, feminism, sports culture, the Internet, television comedians, talk radio, immigration, Putin, and more. The central chapters refer to Neil Postman's influential 1985 book Amusing Ourselves to Death: Public Discourse in the Age of Show Business—no less relevant, and perhaps more so, today than thirty years ago—and Melville's Moby Dick remains a thread throughout the chapters, and the idea that "the great peril of our age is not that we have turned into a nation of Ahabs, but of Ishmaels, passive observers too willing to embrace feuds that nourish our rancor and starve our common sense."

It's an interesting, wide-ranging read—though of course I'm in sympathy with Almond's progressive political views. Not all are. On FB, Steve posted links to a couple of places online where the opposing view is presented: first, in a caller's response to an otherwise solidly sympathetic interview with KQED's Michael Krasny ("Wow," Steve comments on FB. "Here's what happens when a Trump voter calls in to a radio show to complain that he feels 'condescended to.' Listen as I struggle to deal w/ Toxic White Entitlement Syndrome. [Spoiler alert: I kind of lose my shit...])" and then in a YouTube "podcast" called Left-Right Radio with conservative ("Trump Troll") host Chuck Morse.

The one aspect of the book that I found unfortunate is the lack of source citations. In a work like this, so reliant on statistics, quotations, and facts—and not just opinions—knowing where the ingredients come from only makes the arguments more convincing. Assuming they come from credible sources. I'm sure Steve is able to provide that information, and I suspect his publisher nixed the idea. It's too bad. In a work like this, all the authority the author can muster is for the better, in my view.

The back cover of the book quotes Trump from his book How to Get Rich: "I don't mind bad stories, I can handle a bad story better than anybody, as long as it's true." Ayup. Nuff said.

Important Albums

There's a challenge going around Facebook right now, asking people to post their most influential albums, without commentary. I was tagged, twice, and so . . .

But because I cannot follow directions, and because I find the stories behind influence interesting, I've blabbed on about my choices. I'll archive them here, for posterity. They are posted in no real order. These are just albums that, for one reason or another, continue to resonate and are mostly from my first half of existence (i.e., before about 1990).

1. The Beatles, Help

Here's the first album I ever received as a present, from my mother's best friend, Libby Robinson. It wasn't because I liked the movie (I'm not sure I'd seen it—my access to popular culture was limited when I was a kid), but because she went to a record store and asked what an 11-year-old would like. It worked! I did! It helped make me feel like I belonged, somehow. I distinctly remember the first time I ever heard the Beatles, in my friend Mary Ann Pobog's garage on Georgina in Santa Monica, on the radio. The song may have been "Love Me Do." I was not exposed to the Rolling Stones until much later, so yeah, I was a Beatles kid. Today, I like both bands. They're different. 

2. Randy Newman, 12 Songs

This album introduced me to Randy Newman, thanks to a review I read somewhere, maybe the LA Times or Rolling Stone, which commented that other artists I liked at the time (Joni Mitchell, Chrissie Hynde, Paul McCartney, that sort of folk—this would have been about 1970) were really impressed with this album, though it never gained popular currency. Sail Away is probably my *favorite* album of Randy's, but it all started here. We have heard him perform live several times, just him and his piano. It was always a treat.

3. Steeleye Span, Below the Salt / Jethro Tull, Aqualung

Steeleye Span was the opening act for the first big-arena concert I went to: Jethro Tull's Aqualung tour in 1972. I loved the spin they did on English folk tunes, and their song "Gaudete" delights me to this day. I still have the vinyl album Below the Salt. And, of course, Aqualung. So I'll just post both of them for #3: they are wrapped around each other in my mind. 

4. The Music Man (movie soundtrack)

When I was a kid, my mom took me to the theater, starting with musicals, and at that time, too, musicals were on the screen. I have a very short window from the 1960s with a few favorite musicals: West Side Story, Camelot, Man of La Mancha, Fiddler on the Roof, Paint Your Wagon, My Fair Lady, Oliver! The last two I saw overseas in the cinema: MFL in March 1965 in Tokyo, twice within a week—I was homesick for English, even if it was Cockney; and O! in a tiny theater in Munich, 1969. I also saw a stage production of Fiddler in Germany (after having seen Zero Mostel in Los Angeles), and one of Jesus Christ Superstar in Bologna, Italy. I will always love The Music Man best, though, and yes, I know every word of the soundtrack. Plus, Meredith Willson, the author, went to our church (not significant; I just find it interesting for its randomness).

And that's as far as I got. I might pick up the project again at some point, though for now I've lost interest. If I do, I'll post a Part II.

Book Report: The Word Is Murder

6. Anthony Horowitz, The Word Is Murder (2017) (5/14/18)

I've been slogging through a book on the current dysfunction of this country. It's interesting and illuminating, but it's also depressing. Yesterday my friend Kim asked, via a photo on WhatsApp, if I've read Magpie Murders by Anthony Horowitz. I responded with a photo of a different Horowitz book that arrived in my mailbox just the day before. I saw it mentioned in the "What Are You Reading?" column of the Christian Science Monitor, and the fact that we've been binge-watching Foyle's War, a Horowitz creation, caused my ears to perk up. So I ordered it and stuck it on my stack.

But the coincidence caused me to consider: I don't need to slog through just one book. I could pick up another.

Done—and done. This morning I finished The Word Is Murder, a delightful romp through greater London, full of undertakers, actors and producers, lawyers, grieving parents, nannies and house cleaners, a mysterious former police detective named Hawthorne, and Horowitz himself. Even Steven Spielberg and Peter Jackson make a brief appearance (Horowitz was involved in the Tintin project). There are also, of course, a couple of murders—the first occurring mere hours after a woman arranges her own funeral. And not a few red herrings.

The best part, though, is the fact that Horowitz himself is the narrator, as he partners with the brilliant yet opaque Hawthorne. They had met several years before when Horowitz was working on a police procedural TV series and Hawthorne was brought in as an expert consultant. Now, Hawthorne approaches Horowitz and proposes a book: a real-life one about an ongoing murder investigation. Horowitz is reluctant. He is a fiction writer, after all; plus, he doesn't much like Hawthorne. But he is between projects, and then a chance question at a book fair—"I don't mean to be rude, but I wonder why you're not more interested in the real world. . . . Aren't you worried that your books might be considered irrelevant?"—convinces him to take it on. The metanarrative device, which is in play right through the acknowledgments, tickles; Horowitz throws in enough real-world detail that we're never entirely sure what's true and what isn't. It also allows us nice insights into Horowitz's own career and working method.

The ultimate solution is satisfying, and one rather hopes that the partnership will endure (which seems to be Horowitz's plan).

Here Horowitz talks about the "scene of the murder," from a writer's perspective:

Normally, when I visit a crime scene, it's one that I have myself manufactured. I don't need to describe it: the director, the locations manager, the designer and the props department will have done most of the work for me, choosing everything from the furniture to the colour of the walls. I always look for the most important details—the cracked mirror, the bloody fingerprint on the windowsill, anything that's important to the story—but they may not be there yet. It depends which way the camera is pointing. I often worry that the room will seem far too big for the victim who supposedly lived there—but then ten or twenty people have to be able to fit inside during filming and the viewers never notice. In fact, the room will be so jammed with actors, technicians, lights, cables, tracks, dollies and all the rest of it that it's quite difficult to work out how it will look on the screen.
 Being the writer on a set is a strange experience. It's hard to describe the sense of excitement, walking into something that owes its existence entirely to what happened inside my head. It's true that I'm completely useless and that no matter where I stand I'm almost certain to be in the way but the crew is unfailingly polite and pleasant to me even if the truth is that we have nothing to say. My work finished weeks ago; theirs is just beginning. So I'll sit down in a folding chair which never has my name on the back. I'll watch form the side. I'll chat to the actors. Maybe a runner will bring me a cup of tea in a styrofoam cup. And as I sit there, I'll take comfort in the knowledge that this is all mine. I am part of it and it is part of me.
 Mrs Cowper's living room couldn't have been more different. As I stepped onto the thick-pile carpet with its floral pattern etched in pink and grey and took in the crystal chandelier, the comfortable, faux-antique furniture, the Country Life and Vanity Fair magazines spread out on the coffee table, the books (modern fiction, hardback, nothing by me) on the built-in shelves, I felt like an intruder. I was on my own, wandering through what might as well have been a museum exhibit as a place where someone had recently lived.

And here you get a taste of Hawthorne, as he interviews the funeral director:

"I have already spoken to the police," Cornwallis began.
 "Yes, sir." It was interesting that Hawthorne called him "sir." I saw at once that he was quite different when he was dealing with witnesses or suspects or anyone who might help him with his investigation. He came across as ordinary, even obsequious. The more I got to know him, the more I saw that he did this quite deliberately. People lowered their guard when they were talking to him. They had no idea what sort of man he was, that he was only waiting for the right moment to dissect them. For him, politeness was a surgical mask, something he slipped on before he took out his scalpel. "Because of the unusual nature of the crime, I've been asked to provide independent support to the investigation. I'm very sorry to take up your time . . ." He gave the funeral director a crocodile smile. "Do you mind if I smoke?"

And now, I guess I'll get back to American dysfunction.

Book Report: The House of Broken Angels

5. Luis Alberto Urrea, The House of Broken Angels (2018) (5/1/18)

I had the great pleasure of listening to Luis Alberto Urrea "read" one of his short stories at a writers' conference a few years back (it was actually a by-heart dancing performance—absolutely riveting), and I have been enamored of him ever since. I then read one of his novels, Into the Beautiful North, and thoroughly enjoyed it, and David read his nonfiction The Devil's Highway, about people crossing the border from Mexico into the U.S., and ditto. So I was excited when his newest book came out two months ago. (Because I am trying to actually read the books I buy in hardback, when the question came up of what to tackle next, it was an easy choice.)

The House of Broken Angels is a family saga—the family Mexican-American, living in San Diego as the novel gets going, most of them here legally, but some not. The story plays out over the course of a week bookended by a funeral—the matriarch's—and a birthday party—that of the matriarch's 70-year-old son, Big Angel, who also happens to be dying of cancer. But it also plays out over the decades of these people's individual stories, as memories are visited, dreams re-explored, tragedies put once again to rest. Time is a character in this book as well.

Occasions like these bring in everyone, and the family tree is large and complicated. Figuring out who's who (everyone has at least one nickname) and who's related to whom how is part of the fun of this book. It's like being a guest yourself at a large family gathering where you only know one person (in this case, Luis himself—a professor at the University of Illinois, his father Mexican, his mother American, who in the novel "is" Little Angel, Big Angel's half-brother by an American mother, and a professor in Seattle). Little Angel is somewhat estranged from the clan, so we get to watch through his eyes as he sorts things through. It helps. Because you have to pay close attention, watch and listen carefully, to tease out the relationships, the energies, sometimes even the identities of those assembled.

It is also a story full of emotion: as the NYT reviewer, Viet Thanh Nguyen, notes, it includes all sorts of dualities—anger and sorrow, love and pain, joy and resentment, hatred and reconciliation, backstabbing and tenderness. In short, there's a whole heckuvalot of humanity in this book. And the ante is upped by it being Hispanic humanity, in this country, now.

I flagged many passages for the beauty, humor, pathos, emotion, of the writing. Here are a couple, chosen somewhat at random (one interior, one dialogue). They're long, but I want you to get a good sense of the flow. Urrea can write, yes—description, sequence—but he also has deep insight into the heart of us, and it, all. (In the following, Perla is Big Angel's wife; Lalo and Minnie are his children. The "invisible interviewer," I'm guessing, is God.)

Big Angel was turning seventy. It seemed very old to him. At the same time, it felt far too young. He had not intended to leave the party so soon. "I have tried to be good," he told his invisible interviewer.
  His mother had made it to the edge of one hundred. He had thought he'd at least make it that far. In his mind, he was still a kid, yearning for laughter and a good book, adventures and one more albóndigas soup cooked by Perla. He wished he had gone to college. He wished he had seen Paris. He wished he had taken the time for a Caribbean cruise, because he secretly wanted to snorkel, and once he got well, he would go do that. He was still planning to go see Seattle. See what kind of life his baby brother had. He suddenly realized he hadn't even gone to the north side of San Diego, to La Jolla, where all the rich gringos went to get suntans and diamonds. He wished he had walked on the beach. Why did he not have sand dollars and shells? A sand dollar suddenly seemed like a very fine thing to have. And he had forgotten to go to Disneyland. He sat back in shock: he had been too busy to even go to the zoo. He could have smacked his own forehead. He didn't care about lions, tigers. He wanted to see a rhinoceros. He resolved to ask Minnie to buy him a good rhino figure. Then wondered where he should put it. By the bed. Damned right. He was a rhino. He'd charge at death and knock the hell out of it. Lalo had tattoos—maybe he'd get one too. When he got better.

. . . . .

It was almost party time. Back in the bedroom, Perla and La Minnie were struggling with Big Angel. They had pulled the chair backward, against his will. Every inch made him more hysterical. He dragged his feet until the linoleum pulled off his slippers and then his socks.
  None of them could remember what pills he was supposed to take at what hour. They had to trust his computer of a brain to keep track of all his mega doses. And his least favorites: the chemo lozenges. Minnie was certain he was hiding these under the bed, but she could never find them.
  They muscled him into the bathroom and stripped him.
  "Ay," he said. He went limp in their hands and sagged, grunting. "No."
  They pulled off his diaper.
  "No you don't!" he said.
  Minnie carefully wrapped the diaper in a tight ball and dropped it into the trash can.
  "No, I said!" Big Angel was trying to sit on the floor. "Leave me alone."
  Every damned day, the same thing. "Come on, Daddy," Minnie urged. "Stop being a baby."
  Perla ran the water. She was careful—kept her hand in the stream until she was sure it was perfect. Too cold and he'd curse, too hot and he'd cry.
  "No bath today!" he said.
  They lifted him into the water. He kicked weakly.
  "Flaco! This is the one day you need to take a bath. Your party!"
  "I don't want a party."
  "Be good, Flaco."
  "Too hot! Ay! Too hot!"
  "Dad!"
  "Help!" he shouted. "Angel! Angel, come!" He thrashed. "Carnal! Help me!"
  "Flaco, stop it."
  Little Angel rushed into the bedroom behind them. "Angel?" he said. "You okay?"
  "Don't come in here, Tío," said Minnie, kicking the bathroom door closed.
  Big Angel sat in the water, hands over his face. His back looked like a Halloween costume of gray bones. He shivered in the warm water.
  "You wanted a party," Minnie said. "Do you want to look good or not?"
  "Good," he said softly.
  Perla leaned in with a huge soft sponge foaming with soap and reached between his legs.
  "Better, Flaco? Sí? Feels good, no?"
  "Don't watch," he told his daughter.
  "Ain't watching. I'm busy with your armpits."
  He lay back in the water and kept his eyes screwed shut.
  "Nice and clean," Perla said. "Como un buen muchachito."
  Big Angel covered his sagging breasts with his blackened hands. "Mija?" he said.
  "Daddy?"
  "Do you forgive me?"
  "For what?"
  He waved his hand in the air. "I'm sorry."
  "For what, Daddy?"
  "All these things." He opened his eyes and stared at her. "I used to wash you," he said. "When you were my baby."
  She busied herself with the bottle of no-tears baby shampoo.
  "I used to be your father. Now I am your baby." He sobbed. Only once.
  She blinked fast and put shampoo in her palm. "It's okay," she said. "Everything's okay."
  He closed his eyes and let her wash his hair.

And at the very end, after the party, Little Angel promises Big Angel a trip to La Jolla the next day—and Big Angel drifts to sleep dreaming about watching "great waves traveling forever across the open copper sea." I don't think that's really giving too much away.