she might catch fire

Posted on June 22, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Six

The will had been on file in Kitty’s attorney’s office for years and Bicky had full knowledge of it. He was well aware of the provisions it contained and had pestered Kitty relentlessly after Sonia’s death for her to update the document. Otherwise, he’d argued, the disposition of more than a fortune would be left to the vagaries of Sonia’s will. Bicky was reasonably sure that Sonia’s will left everything to Hart, but he saw no reason to take the chance. Besides, Hart wasn’t blood, and the events of the last few weeks had born that out in crystalline form. Unfortunately for Bicky, Kitty had ignored him, or so he thought, and soon after became sick and since his suggestions angered her so, he ultimately let the whole matter drop. At the time Bicky reasoned that with a little finagling he could fund a buyout of PGWI’s stock using his own assets as collateral and thereby retain ultimate control of Akanabi. But now? The stakes were a good deal higher and though he hated to admit it, there may not be a way to do this deal.

Bicky’s father, that bastard, had set it up so Sonia and Kitty, operating together, could overrule Bicky’s business decisions. Knowing Bicky’s relationship with his wife and what the senior Coleman perceived to be Bicky’s indifference toward his daughter, Bicky’s father made it impossible for him to leave his wife and child without risking the loss of everything. For some reason, Sonia and Kitty never took advantage of their monopoly. Even more amazing, they stayed with him all those years when, had the tables been turned, Bicky would have taken his fifty-one percent and left.

Bicky ran a hand over his stubbled chin and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. The codicil was executed three months after Sonia died. Since Kitty possessed all her faculties up until the end, it would be difficult to argue that Jerry had put her up to it.

“Christ, there’s got to be a way around this mess,” he said out loud. He punched the intercom for Phyllis.

“Yes?”

“Can you come here, please?”

“Certainly.” Phyllis was in the door in moments. “What’s up?”

“I don’t know.” He eyed Phyllis for a moment. “I think I need help.” Bicky slumped back in his seat looking older than Methuselah.

“Do you want me to call your doctor.”

“No. Not that kind of help.” Bicky dropped his head to his hands and rubbed his face. His voice cracked. “I just need a friend, is all.”

“Do you have any friends?” Phyllis asked, smiling. Bicky didn’t return the gesture.

“Do you know anything about Kitty and Jerry?”

“You mean, for instance, Kitty was your wife and Jerry has worked for you for about as long as I’ve worked for you, but now he doesn’t?”

“How did you know?” Bicky asked. His face had assumed its mask-like qualities.

Phyllis’s eyes grew wide, but if she had a quip, she kept it to herself, limiting her retort to the obvious. “With so much cabling in this place word travels fast.”

Bicky tossed a copy of Kitty’s will across the desk. “Did you already read this?”

Phyllis stepped forward, reviewed it quickly, and nodded. It was her turn to put on the mask.

“Did you know?” Bicky asked.

“Know what?”

“That they were having an affair?”

“Well, if the question is have I ever see them hiding behind the water cooler, locked in an embrace, then no, I didn’t.”

“C’mon, Phyllis. Cut the sarcasm,” Bicky replied.

“What’s it matter now, Bicky? Kitty’s gone. What would you do with the information?” Phyllis picked at a loose thread on her suit jacket.

“I just want to know, is all.”

“Well, you’re going to have to draw your own conclusions.” She looked at him with an expression that relayed it to be her final word on the matter and stood to go.

“I just want your opinion.” There was a remote quality to his voice, as if he were speaking into a fierce wind that blew all around him, sending his words to far off places. “Do you know you are the only person in my entire life that’s never judged me,” Bicky said. “Or at least if you did, you kept it to yourself. If I’ve never thanked you before, I’m doing so now.” The words had the desired effect. Phyllis sat down.

“Why did you torture her so much?”

Bicky responded in a voice that belied years of unrequited love. “Because she didn’t love me. And I was too proud to show her why she should. And now, well, all that crap about it being too late would be appropriate here.” Bicky coughed and rubbed his eyes dry. When he spoke again, his voice was level.

“This could ruin me, you know. A hostile take-over. I’ve not made many friends in this industry. I’d be out on my ass faster than stink. And if Jerry and Hart got together….”

“Ah, the truth comes out,” Phyllis said. “Maybe it’s time to take early retirement.” The sarcasm was notably absent.

“Maybe. Just let go of it all.” He traced his finger over the beautiful mahogany desktop. “That’s been my problem all along, you know. Ever since my mother died, I spent my life with my arms wrapped tight around everything I owned, squeezing the air out of it. Even my own wife.”

Phyllis reached across the desk and patted Bicky’s hand.

“I know I wasted a lot of time. Time I can’t get back.” He pulled his hand free and walked to the window. He stared out across Houston’s skyline for several minutes before continuing. “But what am I supposed to do? Roll over and die? Do you really think anyone will remember me?” Bicky slumped back in his chair looking frail and pathetic. Phyllis spoke softly, with tenderness.

“You have resources. Plenty of friends. People with fat checkbooks.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” Bicky snapped. Phyllis recoiled as if stung, all the goodwill of the last moments evaporating with a word.

Phyllis stood up and said in ice blue tones: “It’s just an observation.”

“Yeah, well keep your observations to yourself.” Phyllis focused on the back of Bicky’s head.

“I could fight this for years, but he’s still going to win. He’ll bring on witness after witness that says my wife was of sound mind and body when she executed that codicil. Witnesses that will say I was a lousy husband. Hundreds of pages of briefs will be filed and they’ll have life expectancy charts and police testimony and psychological exams. My life will be on complete display for the gossip columnist and at the end of the day, he still wins.”

Bicky rested his forehead against the cool glass and stood as if cast in bronze.

“Well if you have nothing else to say, I have something,” Phyllis said. Bicky didn’t bother to turn around. “I’m tendering my resignation. As of today. I’m giving you two weeks notice.”

Bicky was stricken, a look Phyllis couldn’t see. “Why?” he croaked.

The standard line. “I want to spend more time with my family.”

He wanted to say to say something to change her mind, tell a joke, rehash the past, anything, but words had abandoned him. He felt the weight of Phyllis’ stare, but the profundity of his misfortunes rooted him to the spot: he couldn’t even turn around. Finally, Phyllis left.

And for the first time in over thirty years, Bicky Coleman was suddenly and completely alone.

➣➣➣

Phyllis sat in front of the computer reading her email when Jerry walked into the office, looking drawn. She smiled, stood and walked around to the front of her desk. They hugged, a bit stiff, like old friends who had served in the same war, but hadn’t seen each other since experiencing all the pain and suffering they had learned to forget. When they pulled away, they both looked sad. Jerry nodded toward “the big door,” but Phyllis shook her head.

Jerry walked back out into the hall and returned with a cardboard box filled with keys. “My instructions were to leave these with you.” He set the box on the desk and backed away as if it were something extremely fragile. “Guess that’s it. Thirty years of loyal service,” Jerry said in a voice redolent with sarcasm. He laughed, a dry mirthless sound emanating from his throat, and stared at the box to see if some part of those years would replay before him.

Phyllis touched him on the shoulder and he stared at her so intently she thought she might catch fire. She bristled and looked away, breaking the connection. Jerry laughed, at first a small chuckle which grew into a giggle and then a full-fledged belly laugh, ultimately careening into complete hysteria. Phyllis stared at him in mute horror, then turned and walked to the other side of her desk, her hand on the hidden button underneath. Jerry’s laughter died down until he, too, became silent. If he noticed Phyllis’ hand on the button, he didn’t say.

“I guess you heard about Kitty’s will,” he asked.

Phyllis nodded.

“I didn’t ask her to do that, you know. I never asked her for anything. Except to just leave with me.” Jerry stared at his well-manicured nails, his tone flat and even. “She couldn’t do it. Never could bring herself to leave that son-of-a-bitch. Now she’s gone and left us both.” He looked up at Phyllis without emotion.

“I’m sorry for you.”

“You think I was wrong, don’t you? To love her like that.”

“It’s not for me to say, Jerry. Everybody has to live by the dictates of their own conscience. Otherwise you’re not living, just going through the motions. But since you asked, no, I don’t think you were wrong. Love is never wrong.”

“Maybe if I would have tried harder to convince her.” Jerry shook his head. “It was always because of Sonia, you know. That she would never leave. She didn’t want Sonia to lose out on what Kitty thought was rightfully hers and if the truth came out that…” Jerry stopped, his mouth still open, the unspoken words still on his lips.

“What?”

“Nothing.” Jerry dropped into a chair as if he were suddenly very tired. “Right now it feels as if my whole life’s been one giant lie.”

“So make it right.”

Jerry nodded, leaving Phyllis with the impression that the words were reaching him only after covering a great distance.

“How do I do that?” he finally said.

Phyllis shrugged. She’d said her peace.

After a minute, Jerry turned to stare at Bicky’s door. “You’re right.” He sighed and heaved himself up. The young, virile man was gone. An old, regretful man had taken his place.

“Thanks.”

“For?”

“Always being an ally in the war against tyranny.”

“You’re welcome.”

➣➣➣

Hours later, Bicky sat in front of the fire, stone-drunk. He paced the room like a caged animal, wringing his hands in despair. He wailed, a deep, mournful, bellowing sound that started in the pit of his stomach and ascended, higher and higher, until it reached a screeching pitch that even he couldn’t abide. He fell to the floor, covering his own ears, thrashing and hissing at the unseen demons that surrounded him, a man possessed. He banged his head on the floor, a rapid succession of syncopated rhythm. He pulled his body in close and fell over on his side into the fetal position, wrapped his arms around his knees and began to rock like a baby. He cried, using the tears he’d stockpiled for the last thirty years, until he’d drained enough of the agony from his body that he no longer felt like throwing up. Hopelessness was quick to fill the void, however, and he succumbed to the fresh onslaught.

When his body grew tired, he sat up, dried his eyes and cast an appraising glance around a room that for years had been shrouded in egotism and greed. He walked over to the side table and picked up a framed photograph of himself and Kitty on their honeymoon. The tears were back and he was about to scratch them out with his own fingers, but rubbed his eyes sharply instead, and with so much pressure that he experienced a stab of pain, causing him to stumble backwards. He shook his head to clear his vision and Hatred, Anger’s nimble first cousin, flew in, replacing the light. He screamed, raised the photo above his head and threw the picture into the fire. The glass in the metal frame shattered when it landed. Bicky stared after it, momentarily stunned, ready to accuse the perpetrator.

“Aaaaahhhhh,” he yelled, and ran to the fire. The edges of the photograph had begun to singe and without thinking, Bicky reached into the fire with his bare hand, his skin melding with the hot metal. He screamed again, this time from the burns, but he wouldn’t let go of her, never let go . The skin on his fingers began to melt so he dropped the frame. It clattered as it landed on the hardwood floor. He grabbed a pillow from the couch and blotted at the photo. His raw hand had already started to blister. He looked at the appendage as if it belonged to someone else, shook it twice then knelt down, hovering over the photo. He pushed aside the remaining pieces of broken glass with a pen from his pocket and pried the picture free, shoving the ruined frame away with his good hand. He knelt down on the floor, his chest to his legs and leaned in to kiss Kitty’s face. He traced her body with his good fingers, the lovely creme taffeta dress flowing around her like a breeze, and kissed her now browned visage before starting to cry again.

➣➣➣

At his apartment, Jerry packed one suitcase with winter clothes and a second one with shorts, T-shirts, suntan lotion and other summer weather sundries. He walked over to the bookshelf and took down a dozen of his favorite titles along with a few he hadn’t read yet and tossed them in the “warm” suitcase. He glanced around the room. Other than the floor-to-ceiling book case that lined one entire wall of his bedroom, there was nothing in this room he wanted.

He sat down on the bed and called Kitty’s lawyer giving him instructions to sell half the Akanabi stock Kitty had left him once the will was probated and to put that money in trust that named PGWI as the recipient. The fund was to be placed under the direction of David C. Hartos with specific instructions to invest the money in either a private or publicly traded company as long as Hart had an affiliation with it. Each year, the dividends earned on such a phenomenal amount of money were to be turned over to PGWI, used to drill wells and build wastewater treatment plants in developing countries all in memory of Kitty Coleman and Jerry Dixon. Should the principal devalue in any given year, the dividend was to be reinvested, thus assuring the principal remained intact.

What to do with the rest of the Akanabi stock was the more difficult question and one he’d have to deal with Bicky directly on. For now he’d instructed the lawyer to hold the stock certificates and gave him power of attorney so Jerry could access the revenue, should it be necessary, from anywhere in the world. Jerry himself had no use for the money. He’d lived a Spartan existence all these years and saved a ton of his own money, because if nothing else, Bicky paid well. And other than the gobs of money he spent on books, Jerry had no real hobbies. For him to get this kind of money now in his life meant nothing. Had he had it when she was alive, well, it may have made a difference. He shook his head. It didn’t help to think about it.

He placed two firearms in the “cool” suitcase. He’d have to notify airport security and show them his permit. Likely it would be no problem as long as the guns were stowed in the cargo hold. He snapped the suitcases shut. Leather bound and heavy, they once belonged to his father. He knew today’s models didn’t take much in the way of coordination to carry and many came on wheels, but he like the weight of them, the feel of the strength in his arms as he hefted them off the bed. He set one down, took a last look around the room, shut the light and headed out to put things right.

to be continued. . .

start with this and move on

very far away

Posted on June 17, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Five

Back in Houston, Bicky pulled the article off the fax machine and skimmed it. He huffed and sighed and stared out the bedroom window. He rubbed his head to stave off the headache that seemed inevitable.

“Dammit,” he said to no one in particular. “God dammit.” He dialed Jerry’s number and waited. The phone rang half a dozen times before Jerry picked up.

“I thought I told you to get back east and get those Goddamn kids under control,” Bicky barked into the phone.

“What?”

“The inventor’s kids! Did you check it out? No. You were too busy dicking around here doing God-knows-what.” Bicky was so angry he was sputtering.

“Kitty died. Remember? You know. Kitty. Your wife, of thirty-seven years. I was here for the funeral,” Jerry said.

“Don’t screw with me, Jerry.”

“I’m not screwing with you, Bicky. I’m telling you that some things are more important than others, which is something you haven’t learned in the last sixty years.”

“I didn’t call you for a psych session. I got a shrink for that. I called you about the kids.”

“I sent somebody. He said there was nothin’ going on.”

“Who the hell’d you send?”

“Guy that used to drive for us.”

“What guy?”

“The guy I fired a few months ago. You know. High strung.”

“You are freaking kidding me. You sent someone who didn’t work for us?”

“He was a good guy. And he had first hand knowledge, and if he got caught, he wasn’t one of us,” Jerry said. “Jesus, I’ll go check it out tomorrow.”

“Forget it. I’ll do it myself.” Bicky slammed down the receiver. He ran his hands through his hair and stared out into the darkness.

➣➣➣

Across town, Jerry hung up the phone and rubbed his eyes. An open book lay on the bed next to him and the light was still on. He roused himself and walked to the window. The night spread before him in varying shades of black like a Hollywood wardrobe.

“Damn psychotic son-of-a-bitch,” Jerry murmured.

He scanned the sparse room. A book shelf, filled to overflowing, a night stand and lamp, a single chair, behind him the silhouette of leafless trees. “What the hell am I doing?” He closed the curtain, shut the light and crawled back into bed.

➣➣➣

Jerry’s office, located in the basement of Akanabi Oil, was a tech-geek’s delight of an environment, encompassing ten thousand square feet and housing Akanabi’s main frame and various and sundry computer gadgetry. The whir and buzz of computer equipment was so intense that many of the technicians wore earplugs.

At the far end of the room, walled off from the rest of the equipment, was the closed circuitry monitoring station, Jerry’s own personal feifdom. The room had no windows and if not for the door at the far end, would appear to be a wall. Hundreds of cameras graced the offices, hallways, elevators and common areas at Akanabi Oil. Some were in plain view, some were circumspectly installed, all of them were monitored from this room. The cameras were such a ubiquitous part of the decor at Akanabi that after awhile people forgot they were being watched, an important plus from Jerry Dixon’s standpoint. These cameras in the offices of mid-management had originally been installed as a training mechanism. Surreptitious monitoring allowed suggestions as to tact and style that could be made later without embarrassing the manager in front of the customer. These had been “disabled” or so the managers thought, and could be brought back online with a few adjustments prior to a meeting should the manager request it.

The managers didn’t know what Jerry knew. The company’s fascination, it’s complete fixation with safety had morphed into something more sinister. Cameras and listening devices as small as buttons and earplugs graced every office, corridor and waiting area of Akanabi. The registered number of monitoring devices, about 1341, was more likely twice that many. Jerry kept the real list locked in a vault for which only he and Bicky had the combination.

Some days Jerry would come down to this room simply to watch. His voyeuristic desire had grown from his abject loneliness. Had you asked him, point blank, whether he was lonely he would have vehemently denied it, but the signs were there, the fastidiousness, the borderline obsessive compulsive behavior traits, the need to control his environment and to have things “just so”.

Kitty had the ability to curtail in him some of his more destructive tendencies simply by being in the room. Yet in the days since her death, he’d felt a welling up of those emotions and was at a loss as to how to channel the energy. He sat, staring at a computer screen, contemplating this very issue when Bicky burst through the door.

Jerry catapulted from his chair, rolled to the floor, drew his gun, released the safety and pointed it directly at Bicky’s head.

“Are you crazy?” he shouted from a crouching position on the floor.

Bicky said nothing, but jumped on Jerry like a feral cat, punching and clawing at his face. Jerry put up his hands to deflect the onslaught, but not before a right hook caught him in the temple. That was the last contact Bicky made. In moments, Jerry reversed positions and had Bicky pinned with a knee on one elbow, his hand holding down the other, the gun pointed at Bicky’s forehead. Jerry hovered above Bicky, relishing the role reversal. He stepped back so Bicky could stand, but offered no hand to help.

“Was that some kind of test?” Jerry laid the gun aside, but did not turn his back to his boss. Bicky brushed himself off and straightened his suit and tie. He stared at Jerry so ferociously that Jerry’s hand instinctively found his gun. Bicky threw a stack of papers at the ground.

“You’re fired. Collect your stuff. Leave your keys, your combinations, your camera equipment, and all your other stuff with Phyllis. I want you gone by the end of the day. And if I catch you anywhere near here, ever, I’ll rip your balls off with my bare hands.” He stared at Jerry for a few seconds working his jaw as if to get the tension out before speaking again.

“You were like my brother, you little prick.” Bicky spat at the ground, turned on his heel and left.

Jerry stared at the papers on the floor until his vision went soft and he leaned over to pick them up. The top paper was a codicil to the Last Will and Testament of Kitty McCain Coleman. The original will lay underneath. Jerry sat down to read.

The original will gave the portion of Kitty’s estate that she brought with her into the marriage, substantial in its own right, to Sonia. In addition, half the shares of Akanabi left to Kitty by her father-in-law went to Sonia to do with as she pleased. The other half went to The Nature Conservancy with instructions that the stocks be sold and PGWI given the fair market value of them. There were additional provisions on what PGWI should do with the money. Jerry skipped over them and continued, flipping through the document until a specific provision caught his eye. First Bicky, and then Sonia had a guaranteed thirty-day right of first refusal on the PGWI stocks. In this manner, Kitty assured that control of the company stayed within the family should the family still want it. Probably why Bicky agreed to this will in the first place. The mansion, in Kitty’s family for generations, went to Bicky. “Straight forward enough,” Jerry said to himself. He turned to the codicil and what he read made the hair on his arms stand up and his body shudder.

The codicil changed everything. Kitty had left her personal estate — everything that would have gone to Sonia which included a good deal of jewelry and other family heirlooms as well as shares of various stocks and bonds – to Hart. The mansion she left to Bicky. The remainder which consisted solely of Akanabi stock and which should have gone to Sonia and PGWI, now went solely to Jerry with instructions to sell it all and give half the proceeds to PGWI, but only if he was so inclined. Notably absent from the codicil was the provision giving Bicky a thirty-day right of first refusal. The codicil was executed three months after Sonia died. Kitty had never said a word to him.

Jerry looked up from the papers and saw, as if for the first time, the drab, windowless office. Hundreds of images blurred, a thousand sounds merged into an incessant buzzing that seemed bearable only minutes ago, and for the last thirty odd years before that. His eyes followed the bundled cabling, sitting in silence while billions of bytes of information cruised through its wires every hour and he was suddenly very tired. He inhaled deep and full, his first real breath in decades, but his nostrils were met with the dustiness of a room that never saw daylight and he coughed the breath out, his body repelling it like poison. Jerry thought he could see the rejected breath, little dust clouds riding an imaginary wave of sunlight. The stack of papers in his lap looked very far away, like something on the horizon that you knew was there, but couldn’t quite make out. A giant tear drop fell from each eye and landed neatly on the page, spreading slowly, like a virus.

to be continued. . .

go back and read this

support the arts::buy the book

Posted on June 4, 2013 by Cynthia G.

We love this book so much, we ache. Now, that’s some literary grit.

Read all about it here.

not for long

Posted on May 27, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Three

Gil sat cross-legged on the floor watching The Jerry Springer Show . Today’s episode centered around mothers who dated their daughter’s boyfriends.

“Maybe we could get on the show,” Gil said.

“For what?” Avery asked from his position on the couch.

Gil shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“Well they’re not going to pay you to just sit there. They want something sensational.”

“Well maybe we could just sit in the audience.”

“Kori would bust a gut if we told her we wanted to see Springer. And she’d bust me for sure if she knew I let you watch this.” Avery jerked his head toward the doorway, suddenly afraid Kori might be standing in it.

“How much do you think they pay them to fight like that?” Avery asked. One of the daughters on the show swung a fist at her mother’s head, making contact. The mother went down. A younger daughter, also on the show, went for the older sister’s face and prime time fisticuffs ensued. Gil’s eyes opened wide and he covered his mouth in shock.

“What do you mean?” Gil asked, his hand still over his mouth.

“I mean to keep the act going.”

“It’s not an act, Avery. It’s real. Those people are really upset.” Gil turned to look at Avery, but didn’t remove his hand.

“Gil. This crap is not for real. It’s made up for television.”

“Why would they make something like that up?”

“Makes everybody else feel like they’re not as bad off as they thought, maybe.”

Gil stood up and flicked off the television, then walked to the door and threw it open, still holding the remote.

“Hey, you little turd. Why’d you shut off the T.V.?”

“He’s almost here.”

“Who?”

“The man who’s going to help us.”

Avery walked over to Gil and looked down the street. All quiet. A cold gust of February wind blustered in, overpowering the warmer vapors lingering there. Avery shuddered and moved to close the door.

“No,” Gil said and put a hand up to stop him. “Just wait.”

Avery rolled his eyes, turned the T.V. on manually and returned to his reclining position on the couch. Gil stood at the door, refusing to move. After a minute, Avery covered himself with a blanket. After several minutes, he yelled.

“Gil! Close the door!”

In response, a car door slammed.

Hart was halfway up the drive before he noticed Gil standing in the open doorway. He stopped several steps away.

“Are you waiting for someone?” Hart asked.

“You,” Gil said.

“Me?! How’d you know I was coming?”

Gil shrugged. “Aunt Stella told me.”

“Who’s Aunt Stella?”

Avery appeared in the doorway wrapped like a pig in a blanket. Gil held out his hand and Hart stepped forward to shake it.

“Gil,” Avery said, pulling him back.

Hart introduced himself. “David Hartos. Akanabi Oil.” He held a hand out to Avery who ignored it.

“The oil spill in the Delaware?” Avery asked. “So what are you doing here?”

“I saw your picture in the paper,” Gil said.

“And I saw yours.”

“I give your performance of the last month two and a half stars,” Gil said.

“What’s that mean?”

“He’s got a rating system,” Avery said. “Like the movies. Only he’s much tougher.”

“Actually, on the performance itself I’d go as high as three and a half, but you did spill the oil in the first place and so you get an immediate deduction for error.”

Hart stared at the old creature in front of him until another gust of wind blew by and he shuddered. “Hey, do you mind if I come in? I’m from Houston and not really used to this East Coast cold.”

Gil stepped back, but Avery blocked Hart’s entry. They eyed each other a moment until Avery moved, just enough for Hart to squeeze by him. The three stood in a tight circle in the foyer, Hart waiting while the boys stared at him, Avery still wrapped in a blanket, Gil still holding the remote.

“So what do you want?” Avery asked.

“I read where you discovered a way to change trash into oil.”

Avery narrowed his eyes and bit his lip. Hart raised his eyebrows and gave Avery a tentative smile.

“Did you know that even a quarter-sized spot of oil on a bird’s feathers is enough to kill it over time?” Gil asked Hart.

“Actually, I did know that. I spent a long morning at a de-oiling station.”

“Yep. It breaks down their insulation and they can die from hypothermia. And it doesn’t just happen in the winter. But you know what? I think it’s cause they can’t stand that one oily spot. It makes them crazy. They keep trying to get it off and it won’t come off. It’s like Ophelia in Hamlet . You know the one with Mel Gibson? ‘Out, out, damn spot.’”

Hart stared at Gil, both incredulous and wary. The kid was serious and Hart wasn’t sure whether to run away or hug the crap out of him. Hands at his sides and feet rooted to the floor, he did neither. Instead, he said to Avery: “You’ve got a smart brother.”

Avery ignored the remark. “Do you have any credentials?”

Hart pulled out his Akanabi ID and handed it to Avery who looked it over cooly.

“Do you want some milk?” Gil asked.

“Love some,” Hart replied. “If it’s all right with your brother.”

Avery gave Hart the hairy eyeball. “So you’re the Chief of Engineering? What’s that about?”

“It’s about taking a lot of flak,” Hart said, accepting his credentials back.

“How’d you know about the TDU? I mean, the Thermo Depolymerization Unit? Did somebody from Cooper’s tell you? Or maybe it was your driver…”

Hart shook his head and reached into his back pocket. Avery took a step back and pulled Gil with him. Hart handed Avery the Inquirer article. In addition to the head shot, there was a photo of Gil, standing in front of the TDU.

“No way,” Avery said.

“Let me see,” Gil said, peering over the top to see his own face smiling back at him. “I hate that picture.”

“Did you know about this?” Avery asked Gil.

Gil nodded. “But I didn’t know when it was coming out. It doesn’t matter though, right? Since he’s here?”

“Who’s he ?” Avery asked. “Don’t you understand, Gil? This was in the business section of the Philadelphia Inquirer . The Sunday paper. Not Monday, not Tuesday, freaking Sunday. The whole world’s got our number now. He is just the first of many.” Avery sighed and rubbed his brow. The blanket fell to the ground. “What was she thinking?”

“Look, if this is a problem, I can come back another time.” Hart said.

“Good idea,” Avery said, grabbing Gil’s arm.

“No!” Gil grabbed Hart’s arm and held fast. “It’s okay, Avery,” Gil said. “He’s going to help us build it.”

“Gil. You can’t know that.”

“It’s him, Avery. I can feel it.”

“Build it?” Hart asked. Now it was his turn to raise his brows.

“You’re a trouble-shooter, right?” Gil asked. “Isn’t that part of your job description?”

“Yeah, but…”

“Well, we need some trouble shot. So you can do that. Plus you can help us build a bigger machine, something really big that will save the world from being buried under a gigantic trash pile. Plus, if we make our own oil, people won’t blow each other up for what’s left.”

Gil took a step forward and looked Hart directly in the eye. “My brother may be dead because of oil, but we’re not sure because my father says we can’t believe everything the government tells us. Plus, I don’t think my brother would leave us yet because we really need him.”

“Gil. Enough.” Avery wrapped the fallen blanket around Gil’s shoulders and knelt down to eye level with Gil. “How did you know he was coming?”

Gil shrugged. “I just knew.”

“Knew who was coming? Me?” Hart asked.

Gil just stared at him.

“Christ, I’m going to kill Kori.”

“Who’s Kori?”

“Our sister. She likes this guy from the newspaper and she told him all about the TDU even though Avery told her not to tell. So he’s mad at her.”

“Gil!”

“But this is a fantastic discovery. It should be made public. I mean, what if Alexander Graham Bell kept the telephone idea to himself? What you need is someone to buy the technology from you…”

“Somebody already tried to steal it from us. Twice. Once they blew up our porch and the other time they almost killed our dog. And our parents…” Gil stopped abruptly and looked at his brother.

Avery sighed and rubbed his temples as if he’d just developed a headache. He rose slowly, aging a hundred years in an instant, and, still holding Gil’s arm, turned to Hart.

“You have to leave. We can’t talk about this anymore. Not to you or anybody else.” He started shoving Hart to the door, but Gil intercepted, still holding Hart’s arm.

“No, Avery. He’s the good guys.”

“Gil. His company just spilled three hundred and fifty thousand gallons of crude in the Delaware River because they were using a forty-year old ship that, were it not for some medieval grandfather clause, would not pass half the safety requirements being imposed on today’s vessels. He is most definitely not one of the good guys. He works for Akanabi.”

“Not for long,” Gil said, certain.

Hart felt an electric jolt shoot through him at this proclamation, but shook it off, still pondering something Gil had said.

“Wait a minute. You said someone blew up your porch looking for this machine?” Something about Gil’s proclamation jarred his memory, but he wasn’t sure why.

“Yeah. They took the drawings, but they got the wrong ones,” Avery said. “Gil saw to that.” Avery smiled at his brother.

“C’mon,” Gil said. He led Hart out of the foyer while dragging Avery who was still holding fast to Gil’s arm.

“What are you doing?” Avery asked.

“He wants some milk. We’re going to the kitchen.”

“Gil…”

“We have some cookies, too,” Gil said. “Aunt Stella made them. She’s an excellent baker.” Avery shook his head and sighed, but protested no more as he followed them into the kitchen.

➣➣➣

Gil bustled about readying their snack. He served Hart himself – the first time he ever served anyone – and his pride and satisfaction wafted through the room like the aroma of breads baking, so much so, that even Avery’s heart warmed. After much probing and prodding from both Gil and Avery, Hart recounted his own unfortunate events. By the time he’d finished, the trio felt as if they’d known each other forever, or, at least, for half of this lifetime.

That’s when a profound silence seeped in like radon gas and settled over the kitchen. Gil’s discomfort with it prompted him to action. “Let’s go,” he said, and pushed them out the back door.

Gil gave Hart the tour of the barn where he explained the TDU in depth and encouraged Hart’s examination of it. By the time Gil had finished, Hart was convinced that Marty Tirabi was a genius and that Gil was no slacker either. According to Avery, the actual breakthrough on the machine’s salability came as a result of Gil’s dream about oil and water. From the start, Hart sensed something otherworldly about Gil and that information solidified his conceptions. It wasn’t just the machine either: Gil himself stretched the boundaries of the human imagination.

After the barn, they drove Hart across the fields to Trash Mountain, as they’d taken to calling it, the primary feedstock for the TDU. It was a monstrous pile, even by landfill standards, but what impressed Hart even more was the means by which they arrived there: an ATV that pulled a series of connected trailers coupled like railroad cars and built by none other than Gil Tirabi. Was there no end to this child’s inventiveness?

In the beginning of the day, if someone would have told him, as Gil tried, that Hart would be the one to help these boys raise the money to build the TDU on a grand scale, he would have laughed. Hart knew nothing about fund raising, that was more Bicky’s bailiwick, and had his doubts about a partnership with anyone. But by the end of the day, the little genius had sold him the farm, as it were, lock, stock and two technological barrels. Maybe he was going crazy, or maybe his alter ego, his “hero” persona as Sonia called it, was kicking in, but he really wanted to help these kids.

He was astonished with the ease at which Gil had taken to him and of Gil’s certainty that Hart was their man. Avery was older and more measured than Gil and Hart could sense his reticence. Whereas Gil was a full on green light, Avery was a blinking yellow. Hart felt Avery was right. It could be that they were a perfect match, but what they needed was a little time to get to know each other. It was early evening when Hart finally left with a promise to return the following afternoon for more discussion.

to be continued. . .

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Game of Thrones

Posted on May 8, 2013 by Cynthia G.

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lost memories, lost mind

Posted on May 4, 2013 by Cynthia G.

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The Philadelphia Enquirer

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Two

Waiting on the tarmac at the airport in Houston, Hart tried both Lapsley and Zenone, but was unable to raise either on his cell. He checked his watch. Even OSCs deserve Sunday night off .

After take-off, a stewardess gave him a choice between The Houston Chronicle and The Philadelphia Inquirer . He chose The Inquirer, a nod to a new life, and dropped it onto the empty seat beside him. Hart stared out the window into the upper reaches of the troposphere, a stunning black freckled with starlight older than any one of his lineal ancestors. He wouldn’t say he was at peace, but there was a calming feeling that came with his decision to take a leave of absence from Akanabi. He lowered his seat into the recline position, shut the overhead light and closed his eyes, but after an hour of chasing an elusive sleep, he flipped on the light and pulled out the Employment and Business sections of the paper.

He scanned the front page of Business first; nothing caught his attention. He flipped through until he got to B-5 where his eyes met those of a smiling Gilliam William Tirabi, inventor extraordinaire. The headline read Inventor Turns Trash Into Gold , a somewhat inflated view of the process as admitted in the first line of the article since alchemy was only involved figuratively. However, it wasn’t the headline that caught his attention, but the face itself, and the feeling that he’d met this child before. The article, written by staff writer Chris Kane, recounted the tragic death of Gil’s parents and the MIA status of his older brother. It discussed Gil’s reluctance to complete the trash project until recently when he came to terms with his father’s death and decided it was “okay”.

Hart closed his eyes and thought about this kid’s life. When he opened them again, the face of Gil Tirabi was staring right at him. Hart studied the picture until he thought he saw Gil’s lips move. He shook his head, tossed the paper aside and shut the light.

At dawn, the plane touched down in Philadelphia. Hart grabbed his carry-on and moved into the aisle.

“Sir, would you like your paper?” the stewardess asked.

“No, thanks,” Hart said. But a moment later he turned, picked up the business section and stuck it under his arm.

Hart stopped for a latte, paid the woman, and dropped the newspaper in the process. A customer behind him handed it back.

“Thanks,” Hart said.

Hart took his change, shoved the paper back under his arm and stepped out of line. He stood, lost in thought for a moment, then walked to a nearby trash can and tossed the paper in, but the face of Gil Tirabi stared back at him. Hart chuckled at his own ridiculousness and left the terminal.

Outside he flagged a cab, turned over his carry-on to the Indian driver, threw his briefcase into the back seat and climbed in after it.

“Where to, sir?”

“The Sheraton on 2nd Street.” The cabby nodded and started the meter. Hart closed his eyes and slept until the cab pulled up to the hotel. He paid the driver, retrieved his briefcase and got out of the cab and stumbled toward the lobby of the Sheraton.

“Sir. Your paper.” Hart accepted the cabbie’s offering, shoving the paper in his briefcase before heading inside to check in.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before click here

stinkin’ rich

Posted on April 22, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-One

Hart spent the night at his house and woke before dawn after a fitful rest. He’d slept in his and Sonia’s bed for the first time since her death and his sleep had been plagued by eerie, disconnected dreams. Now he puttered around the house, coffee in hand, walking from room to room with no apparent direction, a wide-eyed somnambulist. He looked at each room as if seeing it for the first time. After about an hour, he took a nap on the couch.

He awoke in the still early morning with a start, a vivid image of a pregnant Sonia emblazoned in his mind’s eye. He drank two full glasses of water from the kitchen tap then stood exactly over the spot where he had found her. He lay down there, hoping to embrace what remnants of her spirit were still caught in the tiles, but felt no trace of her, only the cold floor, more unsettling than a ghost. He turned over, folded his hands across his stomach and stared at the ceiling. He didn’t move for an hour.

“That’s it.” He stood up and blew his nose. He dialed the number for a cleaning service and asked to speak to the manager. For an exorbitant sum, he arranged for a cleaning team to come that day to scrub and shrink wrap the house. Then he called his father-in-law.

Bicky showed up a few hours later and scanned the place like a realtor performing an appraisal. The cleaning crew was well into it and some of the rooms had already been “sealed off,” vacuumed and dusted from floor to ceiling with the furniture draped as if the occupant would be absent for the season.

“What the hell’s going on?”

“I’m catchin’ a red-eye back to Philly tonight. I got an oil cleanup to close down.”

“I know that. What’s all this?” Bicky’s arm arced out elaborately, a gesture that reminded Hart of float riders during the Thanksgiving Day Parade. “It’s only going to take a couple more weeks, right?”

“It is.”

Half a dozen cleaning people scurried around, dusting and draping. Hart had promised them double pay if they finished in four hours.

“Then what are they doing?”

“Come.” Bicky followed Hart into the kitchen. Hart closed the door behind him.

“Do you want something to drink?” Hart asked. Bicky shook his head and sat down, but a second later changed his mind. He pulled a bottle of Dewar’s out of the cabinet and poured himself two fingers. He made a face, but took another swig.

“How do you drink this stuff?” Bicky walked to the fridge, tossed a couple ice cubes in his drink and poured a swig from the bottle to freshen it. Then he sat down on one of the bar stools around the island. “I’m all ears.”

“I’m not coming back.”

“What do you mean?”

“What word in the sentence didn’t you understand?”

“You have to come back. You have two more years on your contract.”

“So sue me.”

“Now how would that look if I sued you?”

“Is it always about appearances?”

Bicky shook him off and turned to look at the window. “What did you do last night? Catch a ghost or something? You sound like Sonia talking.”

“She’s been talking for a long time. It’s only now that I’ve stopped to listen.” Hart pulled up a stool. “I’ll finish the job and I’ll leave that river clean as technology can get it. But after that, I’m done.”

“Hey, you listen to me. You can’t just…”

Hart raised his hand to silence his father-in-law. “Don’t give me any grief about this, Bicky, and maybe I’ll come back as a consultant. But it’s a six-month sabbatical, at least, or no deal.”

Bicky rolled his head around, stretching the tension out of his neck. “Fine,” he said. He rubbed his temples. “I guess you finally figured out you’re rich. If you sold all the Akanabi stock Sonia left you on the open market, you’d be very rich. Stinkin’ rich.”

“You think that’s why I’m doing this? Because I suddenly have money?”

“Why else? You’re not much of the power-broker type, although you have your moments. You’re more of the ‘how can I serve you?’ mentality. It doesn’t do much for me personally, but I can see the necessity of it. We can’t all be boss, right?”

Hart scoffed: “Your single-mindedness never ceases to amaze me.”

“You’re not going to find whatever it is you’re looking for, you know. Not if you searched for a hundred years.” Bicky drained his glass and rose to go.

“Where can I reach you if I need you?”

“Cell phone,” Hart said.

Bicky sighed and stared at the spotless tile floor. “I still see her there, much as I try not to. I guess you do, too.”

Hart thought he saw Bicky’s eyes begin to water, but the old man turned before he could be certain. “You’re trying to save a world that has no interest in being saved,” Bicky called over his shoulder. “You’ll call me when you realize it.”

Hart watched him walk, stiff but proud, to the front door, an elegant man, even on the verge of defeat. Hart poured himself three fingers. The day was already turning out to be much longer than anticipated.

to be continued. . .

click here to see what came before

the shadow side of dreams

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty

The funeral had been a splendid affair as funerals go, and Bicky personally greeted each of the four hundred mourners that had been appearing at the house since mid-morning to pay their respects. Now, twelve hours later, with the mourners gone, the caterers packed up, and the musicians disbanded, the house took on an eerie quiet, punctuated by the occasional clanging dish Mrs. Banes loaded into the dishwasher. Only Bicky, Hart and Jerry Dixon remained.

“Was anyone there when it happened?” Hart asked. They were alone in his study.

Bicky sat brooding in the study where he’d come often during the day to escape the crush of people with their endless outpouring of sympathy. Now, he stared at the fire’s glowing embers, sipping a Chivas on the rocks, the distant look in his eye tipping Hart to the possibility that Bicky might not be home at present.

“When I was young, this was years before we discovered oil on our land, when we didn’t have two nickels to rub together, that is, my father used to take me and my brother, Mason, trout fishing in the back country. I don’t know if you’ve spent much time in West Virginia, but it had some of the most pristine and diverse ecocultures of all our fifty states, California and Florida notwithstanding. We’d fish for two or three days, eating to fill our bellies and stashing the rest in the mountain stream. That water came flowing down just like nectar from Mount Olympus and was colder and clearer than any spring water you’ll find on the market today. The fish stayed better there than in a fridge. We’d bring back what we caught and my Mom would cook it up with some potatoes and kale from her vegetable garden. You can’t buy fish like that today. Not even in the high end food markets. They just don’t exist anymore. So many things don’t exist anymore.” Bicky shuddered.

Hart grabbed a blanket off the couch and made to cover Bicky with it, but stopped short by embarrassment, left the blanket sitting on the arm of the chair and returned to his seat.

“Sonia used to do that all the time when she was a little girl,” Bicky said. “Cover me. But that was before she learned to hate me. Of course, she always liked my money.”

Hart had shot his emotional wad during the course of the day and didn’t want to talk about Sonia now. “Maybe you need to go back to West Virginia for a visit. Some trout fishing might help with the…with all this.” Hart waved his hand toward the study door where the sounds of dishes being stacked sliced through the silent hall.

“The West Virginia of my youth is gone. Just like everything else.” Bicky sighed and took a big swig of whiskey. “Did you know they blow the tops off of mountains there now, just to get at the seams of coal nestled underneath? They smother miles of streams with the rubble, pristine mountain streams, and call it progress. All together, in West Virginia, Tennessee, Kentucky, a couple others, the coal companies have buried over seven hundred miles of headwater streams with their little extraction business. Headwaters. That’s where the stream starts. And they say oil kills wildlife.”

Bicky gave a short, jagged laugh, drained his glass and threw it against the back wall of the fireplace where it exploded in a shower of sparks ignited by traces of whiskey. “Oopah,” he said, deadpan, turning to Hart for the first time since they’d be sitting there. “That’s what the Greeks say.”

“What the hell was that?” Jerry Dixon came running into the study, followed by Mrs. Banes. Jerry’s eyes were bloodshot. He was drunk.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Yes, Mrs. Banes. I’m fine. I regret, however, that I’ve made a mess in the fireplace.”

“Glass is it?” She stepped forward and gazed into the fire. “Shall I clean it out now?”

Bicky shook his head. “Tomorrow’ll be fine. Why don’t you go home now.”

Mrs. Banes nodded in weary gratitude. “If you’re sure you won’t be needing me.”

Bicky nodded. Mrs. Banes had been in the Coleman’s employ for over thirty years and although Kitty had come to treat her like family, Bicky rarely said a word to her unless giving an order. Mrs. Banes was wary of his silences, and his temper, having seen both in action.

“Well then, I’ll take you up on the offer. Thank you, sir.”

“Is anyone else still here?”

“No, sir. Last ones left about half an hour ago.”

“I’ll walk you out then,” Bicky said. Mrs. Banes’ eyebrows shot up, but she covered it over nicely by scratching her forehead.

“Goodnight, Mr. Hart. Mr. Dixon.”

“Goodnight, Mrs. Banes,” Hart said. He watched her move stiffly out the door, a baffled look on her face. Jerry sat down opposite Hart.

“How you doing, Jerry?”

“I’ve been better.” Jerry pulled a much-used hankie out of his back pocket and gave a full-throttled blow. Deep circles hung like end-of-the-party streamers under Jerry’s eyes and the creases in his brow appeared etched in stone. Apparently, Bicky wasn’t the only one feeling the pain of Kitty’s sudden demise.

“Of all things to go. Her heart was bigger than anyone I knew.” Jerry blew his nose again, a resounding effort culminating in a silence broken only by the crackling of burning wood.

Hart felt the hollowness of his own muscular organ, its ineffectiveness. That his eyes were dry and his breathing passages open came as no surprise. Given the sheer volume of bodily fluids that had passed through his nasal and ophthalmic cavities in the months following Sonia’s death, he wondered whether he’d ever shed another tear.

There was something now, about Jerry’s body language, about the way he rubbed his eyes, so hard and rough they might pop out of his head, that seemed scary, familiar. They sat in silence, Hart circumspectly watching Jerry, puzzling it out until he was struck with an analogy more solid than any wood iron. He stared at Jerry in disbelief until Jerry wiped his nose, stifled a sob, and confirmed it for him.

“I loved her.” Jerry coughed, covering the words that had escaped. “Too long. And yet not long enough.”

The confession hung in the air like skunk spray, fetid and impossible to ignore. To Hart, Jerry appeared caricature-like, the undeniable look of guilt spread thin across his face. Jerry swallowed hard – Hart watched his Adam’s apple wobbling under the strain – before continuing.

“I’ve been in love with her for over thirty years. There was nothing I wouldn’t do for that woman.” His eyes trailed off after his voice and Hart could almost see time winding backwards to the point that even Jerry’s voice changed, losing the throatiness, the slightly harder edge that comes with years of use.

“We met at a party Akanabi had for all its customers. In those days, they really knew the meaning of customer service. It was this swanky affair and I was handling security. I was pretty new. Only been with the company six months. Kitty gave a little toast to honor all those customers that kept Akanabi in business and then one to honor all its faithful employees. Later we chatted over the hors d’oeuvres. She was just beautiful. I made it my personal goal to find out everything I could about her. Even without digging, you could already see the cracks forming in their relationship.” Jerry took a sip of whiskey and stared at the bottom of the glass straight through to the last few decades. “For over thirty years, I loved her. And I’ll keep on loving her long after that bastard has taken a new wife.”

“So that was when they were first married?” Hart asked. “Before she had Sonia?”

Jerry stiffened. “Go ahead. Ask me,” he said.

“Did you . . . did she love you back?”

“Yes,” Jerry said, his voice smaller than a minute. “But, I didn’t know until it was almost too late.” His face contorted. “God, it feels good to finally tell someone.”

Hart heard footsteps behind him and jerked around to see Bicky walk into the room.

“Tell someone what?”

Jerry stared, wide-eyed at Bicky, but said nothing.

“About his Golden Retriever,” Hart offered. “He was saying how he hasn’t felt this bad since his Golden Retriever died.” Jerry’s look said he would lick Hart’s boots clean with his tongue next opportunity he got.

“That’s just like you, Jerry. Likening my wife to a dog.” Bicky poured himself another Scotch before dissolving in his chair. Hart could almost see Bicky’s energy draining from him, running in rivulets across the hardwood floor.

“Come to think of it, you always did enact a certain aloofness around her. Something I could never quite decipher. Bordered on downright rude, I thought.” Bicky took a big slug of his whiskey without so much as a glance in Jerry’s direction. “You couldn’t say it was justified. Kitty might have been a lot of things, but rude was the least of them.”

“I was never rude to her,” Jerry replied. “I just…. Bicky, I want to tell you something.” Hart looked at Jerry whose face had become an expressionless mask. “I…. It’s just….”

Bicky shot Jerry a withering look. The confession died in Jerry’s throat, leaving a gaseous trail in its wake. He coughed again, emitting a puff of anxiety and guilt as obvious to the casual observer as a passing cloud. But Bicky was staring into the fire, dousing his own sorrow within the prescribed confines of his cerebral cortex and his whiskey glass. He had not a brain cell to spare for observation.

Jerry stood up, wavering. “I’m gonna head out.”

Hart sighed, relieved. The male need to be territorial was pronounced even when the grand prize was six feet underground. The last thing Hart wanted was to watch a pair of middle-aged men go at it on the floor of Bicky’s study.

“I’ll see ya’,” Jerry said. Bicky sat stone-faced without taking his eyes off the fire.

Hart walked with Jerry as he stumbled down the hall to the foyer.

“How about I call you a cab? You don’t look like you’re in any shape to drive.”

“Death might be a welcome change.” Jerry said, managing a weak smile.

Hart gave Jerry’s shoulder a squeeze. “It’s not you I’m worried about.”

“I know. Always the other guy.”

Hart punched numbers into his cell phone, but Jerry grabbed it and disconnected the call. He looked Hart dead in the eye for several moments before handing the phone back.

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“What?”

“The last time you saw Kitty she had just had a stroke.”

“Jesus. I thought something was strange, but…. Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

“You know, Kitty. Doesn’t want anybody knowing her business.”

Hart noted the usage of the present tense as if Kitty were still alive. Jerry wavered and Hart reached a hand out to steady him. Jerry grabbed the door frame.

“Her right leg was gimpy after that. Little bit of paralysis. Bicky wanted her to fly to Europe – bastard that he is, he still loved her – to see this neurosurgeon. Top guy in the field. She wouldn’t go. She didn’t leave the house much… after Sonia died.” Jerry croaked.

“I saw her everyday and he never knew. Probably the best months of my life.” Jerry pawed at his eyes and studied the toes of his cowboy boots. “Now she’s gone and I’m lost.”

Hart squeezed Jerry’s shoulder and was surprised when Jerry’s arms encircled him and held on for a long, fierce hug.

“I’m really sorry.” Jerry pushed Hart away and called over his shoulder: “For everything.”

He staggered to his car, leaving Hart standing in the open doorway, alone with his questions.

Hart returned to the study, heard Bicky’s stifled sobs and took a reverse step, intent on backing out quietly, but bumped into an end table instead. One of Sonia’s baby pictures rattled and crashed on the hardwood, shattering when it hit. Hart froze.

Bicky started, then rose as if the movement caused him pain. He dragged himself over to survey the damage while sixty years of promises broken and lies lived, of the shadow side of dreams, of futures never realized, now all congealed, weighing down the sleeves and the collar and lining the pockets of Bicky’s rumpled Armani suit. Grief, noticeably absent when his daughter died, now cloaked him in full regalia, aging him exponentially and adding decades to his countenance. In the months following Sonia’s death, Hart had often wondered how Bicky hid his grief so well when Hart himself had been rendered debilitated. Perhaps Bicky hadn’t cared about his daughter, as some had suggested, or perhaps he was just being brave for Kitty. But whatever threads had held him together, they’d all snapped now. Bicky was a wreck.

He stooped, picked up the picture and brushed away the broken glass cutting his finger. He flinched, but didn’t say anything. Instead he rubbed his finger across his baby’s face, caressing her over and over as if the repetitive motion might raise the dead. Hart saw the blood oozing onto the photograph and left the room.

He returned a minute later with a wet towel and a trash can. Bicky knelt, crouched over the blood-stained photograph.

“I just hope that by the time I find the bastard, life hasn’t wrung all the vengeance out of me. I’m getting old, you know.” As if to prove it, Bicky grabbed the table and hoisted himself up, ragged and slow. Hart took the photograph, so stained with blood you could no longer make out the subject, and wrapped his father-in-law’s finger in the wet towel. Bicky nodded once, acknowledging the gesture, and squeezed Hart’s arm before shuffling over to the wet bar.

Bicky picked up a tumbler and filled it. “It’s the least I can do for my favorite son-in-law.” He tried out his famous scowling smile. It still worked.

“Bicky.” Hart picked pieces of glass off the floor and threw them in the trash can. “I’d say vengeance is overrated.”

“Ah, but the momentary relief is as good as anything I’ve ever experienced.” Bicky laughed, a dry brittle cackle. “Besides. Don’t you want to know?”

“I do know,” Hart said. “It was an accident. You saw the body. She slipped and fell. Hard. Hard enough to knock herself out. If I would have been home…” Hart dumped a big piece of glass in the trash can and it shattered. He reached for a couple shards under the table.

“You said yourself you had the feeling that someone else had been there.”

“I said a lot of things. You can’t bank on anything I said then. If you remember, I wasn’t very lucid.” Hart was still smarting over Bicky’s decision to dope him up for the two days following Sonia’s death. The lost days. Hart dumped the last bits of the glass into the trash and stood.

“I’d tell Mrs. Banes to go over this with a vacuum in the morning.” He looked over at Bicky, but the man wasn’t even in the same stratosphere. A profound feeling of fatigue settled over Hart. “Hey, Bicky, unless you need me, I’m gonna get going. I’ve got a bunch of stuff to settle at the house before my flight back to Philadelphia tomorrow night.”

“You don’t think I knew she was having an affair?”

The question startled Hart. “Who?”

“My wife, that’s who.”

“Jesus, Bicky. Ease up, would you?” Hart was not inclined to share the information Jerry had imparted. It wouldn’t do any good. That Kitty chose to share the last months of her life with a man who obviously adored her over a man who rarely gave her the time of day did not come as a shock. What came as a shock was that she waited so long to do it. He was happy that Kitty had found a bit of happiness at the end.

Bicky shook his head in defeat. “I don’t know. But if I find the son-of-a-bitch I’ll kill him, too.”

“Well, that’s two people you’re gonna kill. But hey, the night’s young.”

Bicky grimaced. “That’s why she moved across to the other side of the house, you know. So I wouldn’t catch on to her shenanigans.”

Hart sighed, tired of arguing. “Enough. Kitty loved you, otherwise she would have left your flat ass a long time ago. Cause the way I see it, you had absolutely nothing to offer her.” He smiled with the last words, meaning it as a bit of sarcasm, but immediately wished he could retract them. He searched Bicky’s face to gauge a reaction, but there was none.

“I gotta go.” Hart squeezed Bicky’s shoulder. “Call me if you need me.”

to be continued

click here to read what came before

signs of a struggle

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Nine

After checking the perimeter of the house, Matheson and Traecy crossed the backyard to the barn, their flashlights sweeping the yard like spotlights. The barn door was open.

“Hhmphh,” Matheson said.

“What?” Traecy asked.

“Nobody’s here.” Matheson’s raised eyebrow said: “I told you so.”

“And your point is?” Traecy asked.

“These kids are messin’ with us.”

“You know, I think your brain’s fried like those donuts. The house is lit up like the 4 th of July, the barn door’s flapping in the breeze, and you think these kids are messin’ with you?”

“There’s no signs of a struggle, is there? I’ve been out here half a dozen times responding to that alarm. Each time it was a different excuse.”

“Yeah, well, we’d be remiss if we didn’t at least look around.” Traecy flashed his light inside the barn before walking in. Matheson followed. They scanned the empty room.

“What’s that?” Matheson said. He strained to hear something off in the distance. The partners walked outside. A noise from beyond the copse was drawing closer. Matheson and Traecy pulled their guns and crouched down, tigers at the ready.

The ATV burst threw the treeline, groaning and whining with the effort. The frame was bent and only one headlight worked, but it was running.

“Stop,” Matheson yelled. Avery’s eyes were dead-set ahead, and he would have zoomed right past had Matheson not jumped in front of the vehicle. Avery hit the brakes and stopped. The motor wheezed like an emphysema sufferer. Max yelped. Gil’s head lolled on Avery’s arm.

“Cut the engine,” Matheson yelled.

“I can’t. I have to get him to the hospital,” Avery said, his voice gravelly and full of bravado. Matheson reached over and turned off the ignition.

“No! We have to go now!” Avery roared.

Matheson grabbed Avery’s hands and held on tight. “Tell me what happened, son.”

Avery recounted the story as quickly as possible, ending with their escape from the woods on the crippled ATV. When he was finished, Matheson grabbed his shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. Avery began to shake.

Traecy shined his light at the trees. “He’s long gone by now.”

Matheson agreed. “Do you know what’s wrong with him?” he said, nodding at Gil.

“Concussion, maybe,” Traecy said.

“He’s got epilepsy. He might be on the verge of something.” Avery gave Gil a worried look and touched the lump on the back of his head. “He’s been holed up in the barn most of the week so I’m not sure about his meds.”

“Go get the car,” Matheson said to Traecy who took off running.

“Where’s your sister?” Matheson asked.

“Out.”

Matheson checked his watch. “Kinda late, don’t you think?” he asked, and shook his head. “I got daughters. Let me tell you, I’m not looking forward to these late night vigils.” He looked back at the house. “Maybe you want to leave a note or something in case she comes home. We don’t need another call to the precinct tonight.”

Avery nodded, looked at Gil and then at Matheson. Matheson took Avery’s place behind the wheel, allowing Gil’s head to rest on his shoulder.

“Thanks,” Avery said, and ran off toward the house.

Five minutes later Avery, Gil and Max were speeding to the hospital in the back of the patrol car.

➣➣➣

It had been a slow night in the emergency room and the boys were home in less than three hours, stitched up, wrapped up, and already on the mend. They both had several cuts on their faces and arms, but nothing that required stitches. The ER Doc dressed the wounds with salve and put bandages over them with instructions to keep them dry for twenty-four hours. He even treated Max, completely against the rules, but Matheson had intervened, telling the ER Doc that, but for the noble canine, the boys might not be sitting here tonight. Matheson admonished to doctor to report any patient arriving with teeth marks in his leg. The doctor agreed and sent the boys home with packets of Tylenol with codeine for the pain.

Avery sat cocooned in a blanket on the couch. Despite the medication, he couldn’t sleep and decided to wait up for Kori. He had a spectacular view of the sunrise as it gained, then overtook the horizon, the explosion of color seeping into the dozens of smokey vapors dotting the sky, lending its luminescence to their whiteness, and adding to the overall brilliance. When you looked at a sky like this, there could be no questioning the existence of God. Although physically, Avery felt fine, it was the pain in his heart that was causing him grief, and this view, all orange and red and resplendent, was doing its damnedest to alleviate that ache.

As if drawn by the intense beauty, Gil padded down the stairs in his stocking feet, looking reasonably alert under the circumstances. He had a bandage wrapped around his head, looking like the revolutionary war boy who played the flute and marched without proper footwear. Avery stifled a laugh and turned back to the magnet that was pulling all the angst from him.

“You hungry?” he asked Gil. Gil nodded, but Avery didn’t even look. He knew what the answer would be. He began to rise, but Gil put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Just wait until this is over,” Gil said.

Avery flopped back down and offered Gil part of his blanket.

Gil sighed at the ongoing show out the window. “Did ya’ ever notice how you stare and stare at something and it just blinds you? It’s like you can’t see it at all. But if you look away, even just off to the side a little, then, you can see it clear.”

Avery tucked the blanket up under Gil’s chin. Max jumped up and sat on both of their legs. The last vestige of color wrote its name in the sky.

“Kori should be home soon,” Avery said. Gil nodded.

The sunset faded, reminiscent of life’s impermanence, into a new, blue day while Avery and Gil, stretched out on the couch side-by-side, their heads and shoulders touching, fell fast asleep.

➣➣➣

It was early morning when Kori came home to find her brothers sitting up and sound asleep. Max’s massive head was curled up on Gil’s lap, his body on Avery’s. Two things were strange: the T.V. wasn’t on, and Gil had a large white bandage tied around his head. She stood there, appraising the situation when Avery awoke.

“Hey.”

“What the heck happened to you?”

“A lot. Where’ve you been?”

“Out.”

“Well, that’s helpful.” Avery yawned and rubbed the sleep from his eyes. Kori moved in for a closer examination of Gil’s contusions and abrasions.

“What’s going on?”

Avery drew a breath. “Somebody tried to break into the barn in the middle of the night. Gil chased him down, flipped the ATV and suffered a minor concussion. Max picked up where Gil left off and had him pinned up in a tree until he got shot. I just picked up the pieces until the cops got here and took us to the hospital.” Avery stretched his neck, sore from sleeping sitting up, and sat back matter-of-factly. “How was your night?”

Kori stared at him, silent and agape.

“I said how was your night?”

“Is this some kind of a joke?” Kori asked. Avery shook his head. Gil yawned, wide as Max ever could, and opened his eyes.

“No joke, sister,” Gil said. “This is the stuff movies are made of.”

“Oh yeah?” She studied Gil’s ashen-colored face, touched the bandages to see if they were real. Gil flinched for effect. “What would you give it?”

“Four stars,” Gil said.

“Four? You’re kidding me.”

Gil shook his head, slow and serious. “It was really scary.” He pinched himself on the arm. “And we weren’t even dreaming. We could have died, huh, Avery?” He looked at Avery and then rubbed noses with Max. “If not for Max, we could have.”

Avery shuddered involuntarily.

“Is somebody going to tell me what the hell’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you if you make us breakfast,” Gil said. “A big breakfast. I’m starving.”

to be continued. . .

what came before