Best Friends (21 page)

T
he year 1993 had one more pleasant surprise for Best Friends. Silva Lorraine's sense of a life-changing connection when she met Maria Petersen had been prescient. Since their first encounter on Thanksgiving eve almost two years earlier, the women had formed a bond of friendship that normally took decades to build into trust. And Maria proved a good friend indeed.

When, as seemed the habit of Best Friends vehicles lately, the transmission of Francis and Silva's minivan expired, leaving them stranded, Maria insisted they use one of her cars while theirs got fixed.

Maria had quickly discerned that her new friends did not sit for interminable hours in front of supermarkets for the sole purpose of raising money. She watched how they responded to people who asked advice for problems with their pets, were looking to adopt, or sought to place an animal. She was not surprised that, as the months passed, a small band of volunteers formed around the team.

Francis was able to create adoption bulletins describing animals in the area that needed loving homes. Their volunteers distributed the lists in their local stores, yoga studios, and health clubs. For Francis and Silva it was the start of a Best Friends outreach program, their way of giving back to the city that was helping them survive.

Maria, for her part, knew that in a city like L.A. it never hurt to have celebrity support. She saw to it that the couple—“You are a couple, you know”—were invited onto her director husband's sets to meet their Hollywood circle. Laura Dern became a supporter. The singer J.D. Souther sent Best Friends $1,500 for subscriptions to the magazine for his buddies Jack Nicholson, Isabella Rossellini, Don Henley of the Eagles, and others in his orbit.

And celebrity support definitely helped Best Friends stage their first-ever benefit.

 

They saw the dogs first, a dozen of the sleekest purebreds ever to strut at the end of $100 leashes. The five-foot-ten redhead who controlled them was equally striking. Silva couldn't help but notice the sassy beauty did a rather theatrical double-take as she passed their table.

Five minutes later the dog walker was back. She stopped and picked up a photo, all the while staring at Francis. “You must know you're a dead ringer for Steven Spielberg in that hat.”

Francis grinned and adjusted the brim to a more jaunty angle. “Who's Steven Spielberg?”

The redhead grimaced. “Very funny.” She stuck out her hand. “I'm Caroline Marcus, dog walker to the stars in case you didn't guess. What you got going here?”

Silva gave Caroline their brochure and adoption lists. The redhead stuffed them into her fanny pack, pulled her pooches to attention, and strolled off.

Two days later it was the same parade. “Liked your stuff,” the lady called as she sashayed past. An hour later she stopped back. “I have an idea for you. Any chance we could meet at Mezzaluna's around seven?”

 

Her idea was a benefit. “You know the Chateau Marmont, of course?” she asked, then continued before they could answer. “Well, Philip, the manager, is a friend of mine. I'm sure he'll let us use the hotel for this kind of a benefit. You
do
know Chateau Marmont?” Caroline demanded at their blank stares. She shook her head. “I'm gonna have to educate you some. But what do you think?”

“We've never done a benefit,” Francis said.

Caroline Marcus's creamy smile was positively beatific. “Neither have I.”

She sipped her cappuccino and studied them over the rim of her cup. “I looked at your brochure. Your canyon is awesome. I figure you must really need the money to haul your asses to L.A. and smell gas fumes all day.” She paused and smiled. “And I happen to like animals, in case you haven't guessed.”

The dog walker to the stars stood up and casually scanned the room. “Nobody I know here tonight. Ah, well, gotta go, kids. Leave everything to me, okay? Love that hat, Francis.” With a perfect air kiss good-bye, Caroline Marcus sauntered away into the Los Angeles evening.

Francis and Silva weren't sure what they had agreed to. They finished their coffee and signaled for the check. The waitress simpered and glanced toward the door leading to the kitchen. A stylish woman, all smiles, was immediately at their table. “My chef would like to cook you something special.”

Francis didn't understand why she would want to do this, but he had noted the menu prices. “Thank you, we have to go.”

“Oh.” The manager was obviously disappointed, but recovered quickly. “I couldn't possibly allow you to pay. It's on us. But please come back. You must try our food next time.”

Francis started to protest, but the woman would have none of it. “I love your films,” she said, as she escorted them out.

 

The Chateau Marmont was a legend in the 1930s, host to some of the most famous and infamous Hollywood movers and shakers. Overlooking the Sunset Strip in West Hollywood, it was still a very trendy, hip kind of place, imbued with the faded romance of another era. On any given night, an eclectic assortment of names checked in at the Chateau Marmont. They liked the anonymity that came with the reservation.

Caroline Marcus's friends ranged over the Los Angeles society spectrum. Corinne Lorraine, the beautiful French owner of the upscale Cafe Luna on Melrose, and hopeless animal lover, insisted on catering the event. The vintner Domaine Chandon graciously donated champagne. A decent number of Caroline's actor and director clients promised to put in an appearance.

By late October, the Malibu fires that had kept CNN viewers spellbound for days had cast gloom and ash all over the city, and the fires were still smoldering. Indeed, some of the expected guests had been literally burned out of their homes. Ticket sales for the benefit were not great. Francis had every reason to expect a disaster, and did.

Maria Petersen watched the unfolding of events with interest. “Don't worry,” she assured the nervous Silva and Francis, “Wolfgang and I will bring lots of friends. You will be a success.”

Silva and Francis walked into a clamor of glamor that first Saturday night in November. A trio mimicking the Blues Brothers, complete with shades, added smooth bass, guitar, and drums to the buzz of conversations of pretty people.

Silva thought everything was going fine, but Caroline was disappointed. “I was hoping for a better turnout,” she said.

Francis noticed his palms were sweaty. “Don't move,” Silva said and fetched them both a glass of champagne.

Suddenly, Francis would later say, “It all flamed over.” What nobody had anticipated was the attraction the benefit would hold for the hotel's guests. The party began indoors but spilled out into a courtyard. The outside area was an open-door invitation and everyone came to play.

Timothy Leary dazed onto the lawn. Claudia Schiffer, on heels to the sky, showed in a tartan micro skirt that drew the photographers like worker bees to a queen. Rene Russo arrived with Maria and Wolfgang followed by Jason Priestly, Bill Gerber, Dan Hall-stead, Sally Kirkland . . . Francis couldn't keep all the names in his head.

In no time the place was packed. The band rocked into high gear. The buzz escalated. The press were frantic. “We felt like the Muppets taking L.A.,” Francis told Michael afterward.

They didn't make much money, and the press frenzy faded with the morning. The affair did get some coverage in the
Los Angeles Times,
and, of course, Claudia's tartan appeared in tabloids around the world. More important, throughout the evening people wanted to know about Best Friends. Francis and Silva realized this could be a wonderful venue for increasing awareness of the sanctuary. The first Chateau Marmont affair would not be the last.

The man and woman whom Maria Petersen had called a couple recognized something else. In the intense months she and Francis had done their part to keep Best Friends afloat, Silva had discovered an extraordinary rapport and safety in being genuinely known for herself. She could be irritable, or terribly serious—a mood which Francis would find hysterical and jolly her out of. It didn't matter; he was always there for her.

Before Francis, Silva said, she felt that all her life she had been balancing on stones in a stream, trying not to get her feet wet. With this man of such infinite patience and gentleness, she was finally able to let go. It was such a comfort, such a joy.

They got married on Angels Landing. Maria shared a tradition from her homeland. “In Germany, if you have a good marriage you give a ring that has special meaning for you to someone you really care about as a blessing on their union.” Maria Petersen removed a slender gold band set with two diamonds from her finger and slipped it onto Silva Battista's.

Silva wears Maria's ring to this day.

I
n her Toluca Lake hotel room Silva Battista fell out of bed—hard. At first she was disoriented, and her backside hurt where she hit the floor. She heard a low rumble as from the throat of a lion before it roars, and the room swayed, sliding her into the wall. “Francis, what is it?” she screamed.

Her husband rolled over. “Come back to bed. It's only an earthquake.”

Silva struggled to her feet, staggered to the bathroom, and wedged herself between the doorjambs. “Francis, wake up. This is serious. The building could collapse.”

Francis sat up reluctantly and stared at his white-faced wife. Silva looked as if she were about to throw up. He threw back the covers, padded to her side, and wrapped her in his arms.

“It's okay, darling. If the building were going to collapse it would have done so already. But you're right, we need to get up. I think—” The shrill jangle of the hotel telephone made Silva jump. Francis grinned. “Operation Earthquake is about to begin.”

It was January 17, 1994, Martin Luther King, Jr.'s birthday. Silva and Francis were living through what Angelenos ruefully dubbed disaster #10,987,436—the Northridge Earthquake.

 

Francis called Best Friends as soon as he got a chance.

“Are you okay?” Michael asked.

“We're fine.”

“Of course; the real question is how many animals are you bringing back?”

“Gotta go,” Francis said.

The Battistas had come a long way from the man and woman who didn't know about voice mail when they arrived in the City of the Angels three years earlier. Now they carried a laptop loaded with a sophisticated data system that connected them to all the parts and pieces of their L.A. outreach program.

They were as ready as anyone for this emergency. They had become adept at organizing volunteers; they were in touch with the shelters; their lost-and-found pet hotline had been in place for over two years. Through their Hollywood connections the Battistas were media-savvy. As soon as was feasible, Francis intended to contact the television networks to scroll their hotline number to match lost animals and their persons.

But at 6:00
A.M.
all was quiet. The dawn was just fingering the sky. It was time to go outside and see what nature had wrought.

 

Francis and Silva walked into a Salvador Dalí world of the surreal. There were no lights, yet the streets were filled with people afraid to stay in their homes because of aftershocks.

Police cars crawled along the road, blue lights flashing, bullhorns urging everyone to stay calm. Fire hydrants spouted water ten feet into the air, flooding the gutters. Couples pushed baby strollers along the sidewalk, ignoring the crash of glass from a store being looted.

Like gamblers to a casino, people gravitated to the nearest Von's Supermarket parking lot, where they congregated in knots and talked animatedly with neighbors whose names they'd never known.

For Best Friends, the disaster would be a test of the fledgling outreach programs they were putting in place. For Los Angeles, the Northridge Earthquake was a turning point in the often acrimonious relationships between animal organizations and the city's shelters.

With the media spotlight upon them, the shelters and the volunteers called a truce and worked side by side. Television coverage generated interest in how the city's pounds operated, forcing long-range innovations for the benefit of both animals and their persons.

Francis likened the earthquake to Best Friends' financial heart attack. It was a disaster, but it forced nothing less than a tidal wave of change.

N
athania Gartman missed her friend Sharon St. Joan, the only one of the Best Friends who hadn't yet made her home in Angel Canyon. When their financial crisis mandated that not even another doghouse should be built, Sharon had graciously offered to caretake the Arizona ranch. By her taking on this responsibility from Virgil Barstad, the ranch was not abandoned to fall into disrepair, and Sharon's feathered friends would be with her until adequate accommodations could be built for them in the canyon.

By the spring of 1994, with Best Friends already a haven for dogs, cats, rabbits, horses, goats, ducks, geese, sheep, and a potbellied pig, the time was right for the woman who had made a name for herself as one of the finest wildlife rehabilitators in the Southwest to come home to Angel Canyon.

Paul and Virgil built a temporary aviary in the meadow by the Welcome Center. Sharon found a couple she could trust to keep an eye on the Arizona ranch. And on the first Monday in May, the woman who loved birds loaded an old Suburban with her precious cargo and set forth for Kanab.

King Ming the peacock was the first to be made comfortable. He had been found as a dehydrated brown chick struggling to stand on a sidewalk in Phoenix. Under Sharon's expert care, he matured into the most gorgeous, swaggering bird with a fantail of glossy cobalt-blue-and-emerald feathers. Peaches and Fairy Dance, his consorts, were snugged in next to their mate.

One by one Sharon made room for the disabled geese, three great horned owls, the brilliant-hued Conure parrot who liked to affectionately nibble her ear, a dozen finches, and thirty common pigeons, one of whom was cursed with a crossed beak and couldn't eat properly. Sharon's friends always marveled at the hours she spent patiently feeding the crippled creature.

The last cage she placed on the passenger seat next to her. It held a one-winged yellow-headed blackbird named Troubador. The sweet bird had been so badly abused by its owner that he could never be rehabilitated into the wild, which was always Sharon's goal. So she built him his own house with a bird-size swing. Every morning the little singer thanked her with his beautiful song.

Oftentimes, listening to Troubador's spring trilling, Sharon was reminded of the time she lived in the Colorado Rockies. She'd walk for hours entranced by nature and the long, sweet melodies of the meadowlarks. She could understand why some thought the birds were a spiritual link between heaven and earth.

Sixty feathered friends in all found their place in Sharon's van. The slender, elegant woman who knew birds as Faith and Diana knew dogs and cats, anticipated no problems on the journey to Best Friends. A weather front was moving in, but not until tomorrow. She would arrive in the canyon before sunset chilled the air for her charges.

But the snow started as she passed through Flagstaff: fluttery wisps of flakes that turned the Coconino Forest into an unforeseen winter wonderland. Sharon turned up the heat and soldiered on. Half an hour later the van was inching through a blizzard. It was 11:00
P.M.
before Sharon crawled into the canyon. The Welcome Center was dark. She maneuvered the van through a foot of powder toward a dim glow in a cabin next to the Hamlet.

Nathania was dozing on the couch. “You got here,” she yawned happily, stretching the cricks out of her neck. “I figured you might be late. Need some help unloading?”

“Thank you,” Sharon said gratefully. “We've got to move fast or the birds will catch cold.”

Nathania pulled on a fleece jacket and bounced out of the cabin. “Let's do it.”

Paul and Virgil had built the temporary aviary at the lower end of the meadow, not 50 yards from Sharon's new home. The two women worked quickly, nesting the protesting birds in the warmth of their respective quarters. Nathania's happy chatter bubbled into the night, bringing a smile to her tired friend's face—which was exactly what she intended. Nathania's laugh echoed around them. “I'm so glad you're here, Sharon. We've got so much to catch up on.”

The snow stopped as they nestled the last bird. Nathania made them a cup of chamomile tea, then she and Sharon stood side by side on the porch, bundled in scarves and gloves, gazing over a carpet of white, heeding a silence so complete and unsullied by the unsubtle sounds of the city that it begged reverence.

Suddenly in the midnight air they heard a fierce Whoo, Whoo, Whoo. “It's three owls,” Sharon whispered. “A family. Hear the little one squeak? The babies stay with their parents for six months after birth. That's what they sound like.” She cocked her head listening, then turned to the dark mass of the cliffs. “They're on the ridge behind us.”

Nathania squeezed her friend's hand. “They're welcoming you home, Sharon.”