Daisy, the second-floor maid, came up to Mr. Moncrief and stopped. "You like to look out the window, Mr. Moncrief. I'm surprised you didn't want to go to the Tar Pits today. Everybody else in the house did."

"Basil used to be the butcher down at the butcher shop it's a seven-eleven now," Mr. Moncrief said. "Eleanor thought the world of Basil."

"Would you like me to brush that fly off your head, Mr. Moncrief?" The fly flew off on its own. "I noticed you had some blood on your sheets, Mr. Moncrief. That psoriasis is bleeding again?"

"Ground beef was a dollar fifteen cents a pound only about an ounce of fat."

"Can't get it like that no more."

"Goddam that was good ground beef. 'Ground chuck,' they called it. All red and bloody and always fresh ground. You would make a hamburger real rare put salt on it after you turned it to bring the blood up, make 'em real thick."

"You don't get much ground beef here, I s'pose, Mr. Moncrief."

A fly lighted on his nose and he brushed it off.

"Eat one you wanted another. Lotsa salt and fresh ground pepper. Blood came up on the top and got kinda thick like syrup. High fire, crisp on the outside and rare inside. On an onion roll. Got them at the deli department." Mr. Moncrief took out a handkerchief and wiped his nose carefully. There was a large raised scab on the end from a recently removed keratosis lesion which he was avoiding.

"Those poppy-seed rolls are nice that way."

"Eleanor died and we buried her."

"Yes, I know."

"A nice casket. Steel. Silk inside. And then a concrete vault."

"Can I bring you a cup of tea, Mr. Moncrief?"

"A little pillow for her head. She looked so nice. They did her smile real well. Butcher used to cut the meat special for Eleanor. She had a way with people. Didn't charge extra. Even give us some free bones for the dog." Now there was a mockingbird on another limb of the ash. Chewing something. The air was still. A typical summer day. Very high above, in blazing sunshine, the hawk was on reconnaissance.

Daisy went to the adjoining kitchen, as always trying to disguise her slight limp, and returned with a cup of tea. "Let me put it right here. You be careful now; it's hot."

She went to Mrs. Estrada and said something and returned. Mrs. Estrada had turned off the television and was thumbing through a copy of People en Espanol.

"Can I bring you a magazine, Mr. Moncrief? You like those fishing ones, don't you?"

The temperature was rising and the air conditioning was falling behind. Mr. Moncrief patted his forehead with the handkerchief.

"That blue dress she wore at the jewelry store I wanted her in it."

The mockingbird shot off the limb and headed up to challenge the circling, nest-hunting hawk, ten times its size. It was joined by another mockingbird. Courage, by God. Together they wheeled and dove repeatedly at the hawk's head, like fighter planes attacking a lumbering bomber. After a few near misses, the hawk began flapping furiously and headed away out of view.

"When I took it down it went all to shreds, like old curtains do. Shreds and tatters."

"That was before you came to the Manor, wasn't it, Mr. Moncrief? And you been here what, a dozen years? You're one of the real old-timers here, I guess."

"Like an old piece of toilet paper holding a place in a book. Crumbled to pieces. I found another dress, one with flowers. It was a favorite of hers."

"'Fore I get back to work, Mr. Moncrief, can I turn on your television for you?"

"Get some of those purple onions and slice 'em real thin. Swiss cheese. The good mayonnaise. Heinz ketchup, the real kind. Sweet pickle relish. Onion rolls, fresh. 'Here you are, Madame,' I'd say. 'Did you salt this good?' she'd say. 'Just the way Madame prefers,' I'd say. She'd take a big bite. 'I daresay that's a splendid hamburger, Moncrief,' she'd say. 'You may visit me in my rooms tonight.' Thirty years behind the counter in a jewelry store. A classy store. Always had her hair done nice, latest style. Polishing the rings with a soft cloth before she handed them over. Never tried to push people along. Especially the kids getting ready to propose."

"I got to get back to work, Mr. Moncrief. That tea ought to be real nice now." Daisy touched his arm and left.

He continued looking at the tree, in full green leaf and barely moving. Some of the uppermost leaves had been infested with aphids this summer, dropping their honeydew excretions on leaves, onto which a sooty mold fungi was now appearing. The affected leaves would soon be left black and mangled.

"'I daresay that's a splendid hamburger, Moncrief,'" he repeated, without listeners. That laughing twinkle had been there in her pale blue eyes. He reached out and touched the teacup with a thumb and index finger. It was too hot still to drink. The cup said, "Sunnyvista Manor, Santa Monica. Elegance . Dignity . Affordability . Since 1915."

Beyond the ash tree was the bare brick and stucco wall of the Manor's maintenance building. It seemed to be shaking. Shaking? Then the parlor began to quaver gently. There was a rumbling sensation and the sound of muffled grinding. Suddenly the room took a violent lurch and the central ceiling crossbeam came thunderously down, caving in the center of the plank flooring amid a swirling cloud of plaster and dust. The room was being thrashed simultaneously back and forth, up and down. Mr. Moncrief recognized the feeling. This was a big one. His first reaction was to clutch the arms of the easy chair. A fire had broken out in the kitchen and billowing smoke was now added to the swarming particles of plaster and splintered wood. Tiny popping explosions emanated from different directions. Wallpaper near the kitchen door was curling up and burning and then flying in flaming fragments like crazy butterflies. It was growing hotter and hotter, almost unbearably so.

His eyes stretched wide with apprehension, Mr. Moncrief brought his arms tightly to his chest and with great pain lifted his legs up under him on the easy chair. He was trembling without control and his temples were throbbing fiercely. Something heavy landed hard on one shoulder as though he had been struck by a giant's truncheon.

Eleanor came up to him.

"Get up, you lazy bastard," she said loudly over the tumult. "Come on, get up and get going!" He had never seen her more emphatic. "Get your ass in gear this minute, you old has-been realtor and third-rate fisherman."

The earth's vicious shaking was subsiding, but periodic flutterings continued. The terror was now orange, red and hot. Reluctantly, even a little resentfully, he grasped the arms of the chair and pulled his aching, tremulous body upright, his legs uncertain they could bear the load. His walker had been knocked away and was under a flaming wall board. The wall of the adjoining building was now collapsing in a horrific clatter and hurling chunks of stucco and masonry against the tender ash, even striking the east wall with bone-rattling thuds. One brick fragment smashed into the window beside him and left it spider-web cracked from sill to ceiling.

"Get moving, Ethan," Eleanor said forcefully.

"I was telling Daisy about Basil," he said. Then he started coughing. The air was acrid and repellent. Scattered flames were in all directions. They were licking at his hands, his cheeks; his singeing hair was pungent in his nostrils. He lifted his handkerchief over his nose.

Eleanor was pushing him toward the french doors. "Where is Mrs. Estrada?" she said suddenly. Mrs. Estrada had been in the nook, by the decrepit stone fireplace. He turned from the nearby doors to the rear terrace and shuffled back across the burning, breathless room toward the corner nook, narrowing his eyes to mere slits in the smoke. Barely able to see her, he found Mrs. Estrada, took her hands and pulled her to her feet, clasping her under her arms. She was unconscious but, of course, light as a rag doll. He reached behind her knees and lifted her to his arms and headed back to the french doors. Burning pieces of ceiling planks were now falling, furniture was burning savagely and Mr. Moncrief was forced to hold his breath completely to avoid the scorching, suffocating smoke. Weaving his way amidst burning debris and sidestepping falling objects, with his upper hand he turned Mrs. Estrada's head so that her face was against his shoulder. Her long black hair was crinkling and smoking from the darting plumes of flame. With each step his knees were wobbling and his lower back was in an agony of pain. Not much farther. How could he handle the door knob now? With unwonted luck the door had been thrust open, severely charred and several panes broken.

He emerged and breathed in the fresh air with ecstasy. The outdoors and the smiling sun. Incredibly, the commercial buildings beyond their courtyard gardens looked normal. A gawking crowd was gathering in the street outside.

"You can set her down now," Eleanor said.

He placed Mrs. Estrada in an Adirondack chair. Her hair had been burned and her face was sooty. He took another deep breath. Mrs. Estrada opened an eye. "Santa Virgen!" she breathed out. His back was feeling a little better. He needed a chair himself.

There was the explosive sound of a massive crash as the entire ceiling of the first floor came down. Then Mr. Moncrief heard the fire trucks turning the corner from Wilshire Boulevard.

"I sold a diamond solitaire today," Eleanor said. "Poor sailor will be in hock for years. Why is it so important to them, I ask."

He lowered himself into an Adirondack chair. His thighs and butt now ached worse than his back. A fireman rushed up to him. "Are you all right, sir?"

He closed his eyes and made an okay sign.

"We'll have a gurney here in a minute." Mr. Moncrief shook his head and pointed to Mrs. Estrada.

Eleanor was leaning back in her flowered dress against the concrete balustrade of the terrace. She was smiling her smug smile. "I told you you ought to go to the Tar Pits."

"Basil said they'll be getting some lamb in this weekend -- from New Zealand -- and he's saving us four big loin chops," he said with eagerness. Mr. Moncrief liked them almost well done and with mint jelly and a baked potato. They would have some good red wine with it.

The tree would be gone. The easy chair would be gone. There was no point in letting things like this be a bother. Other people were paid to handle these matters.

Firemen were rushing here and there with hoses and ladders and axes. Huge jets of water hissed and splashed against the building now consumed by fire. Sirens were wailing and there was even a helicopter overhead. A television vehicle was pulling into the parking lot. Dogs were barking from the balconies of the next-door apartment house. Thick black and gray smoke poured from between the terracotta tiles of the roof and flooded out from open windows. Dull booms and concussions issued from the interior. Out on the lawn Daisy and the Filipina cook were waving their arms and talking to a fireman in a heavy yellow jacket and a yellow fireman's hat. Mrs. Estrada was being wheeled away on a gurney by two young paramedics. Mr. Moncrief was becoming used to his new pains and enjoying every breath he took.

Eleanor had died and they buried her. Three more weeks and she would have been eighty. A cold day with fog off the ocean. Eight people came. The trees were dripping with the fog and you could barely see to their tops. The pile of dirt beside the open hole was glistening and turning to mud.

***

Born in D.C., reared in Maryland and educated at University of Southern California, J. C. Frampton is a writer and journalist currently residing in San Diego. Some of his fiction, comic pieces and verse have appeared in recent years in Spork, in Pindeldyboz print and Web editions, in Monkeybicycle print edition, in Eclectica and the Eclectica Favorite Stories Anthology, Sweet Fancy Moses (the erstwhile Web version), Aileron, The Paumanok Review, Thieves Jargon, Slow Trains, Sidewalk's End and The Dead Mule. His first novel, The Bronze Tower, is energetically trying to thumb a ride to Barnes & Noble. Creative journalism and arts criticism have appeared in several California metro newspapers. framptonatsandotrrdotcom