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Category Archives: fiction
strangers in the night
Oil in Water
Pam Lazos
Chapter Sixteen
A full moon glowed, casting an iridescent light over the farm-cum-landfill that loomed in the far distant corner of Kori’s bedroom window. The first inkling of the sun’s rays wouldn’t be seen for more than an hour on this chilly late October morning. Gil tiptoed into the room, hovering above the bed where Kori and Jack lay sleeping. He pinched his fingers around Jack’s nose, cutting off Jack’s oxygen supply. After several moments, Jack inhaled a frantic pull of air through his mouth and his eyes flew open to see Gil looming above.
“What?” Jack hissed, shoving Gil’s fingers away to rub the appendage.
“Are you awake?” Gil asked.
“I am now you, little jerk.” Face-to-face with Gil, watching his salamander eyes hold his own, Jack smiled in spite of himself. Gil could stare, unblinking, for well over ten minutes. Jack loved Gil like a brother and even with the little cretin’s exasperating habits, Jack would do anything for him.
“What time is it?” Jack asked, discouraged by the murky darkness still clinging to the curtains.
“Five o’clock.” Gil said. “C’mon. I want to show you something.” Intuiting that there would be no more sleep for him this morning, Jack allowed Gil to pull him to his feet.
“Hhhhmmmph. Briefs. I wear briefs, too,” Gil said approvingly.
Jack scrambled into his jeans, pulled a tee shirt over his head and a sweatshirt over top. He looked over at his boots and opted for bare feet. He took one more longing look at the bed, sighed and headed toward the door.
“I gotta take a whiz,” Jack announced, stopping at the bathroom. Gil tried to follow him, but Jack barred the way. Gil leaned against the closed door, tapping his foot in exaggerated fashion for the minute it took Jack to emerge, disheveled and still half asleep.
“Let’s go.” Gil led. A light clicked on in Robbie’s room as they walked by, but the door didn’t open. Gil put his finger to his lips and tiptoed down the stairs, Jack trailing him.
Once outside, Gil took off running across the lawn to the shed. Determined not to be outdone by a ten-ear old, Jack sprinted the hundred yards to the barn, but bare feet and the fact that Gil was more awake at this regrettable hour put him at a disadvantage, about fifty paces behind, he’d later estimate.
At the barn door, Gil found the lock laying on the ground, the door swung wide. “Huh?” A shadowy figure rooted through the drawers, a roll of drawings under one arm.
“Hey! What are you doing?” Gil demanded.
The figure ran, knocking Gil to the ground and whacking Jack in the face with the drawings in his bolt to the woods. The impact caused stars to jump before Jack’s eyes and he staggered, holding his nose.
“Hey! Come back here,” Gil yelled, and before Jack could clear his head, Gil took off running after the intruder. Jack ran after Gil, grabbing his arm moments before he disappeared behind the copse.
“Whoa, man. That wouldn’t be a good thing,” Jack said. Gil struggled, but Jack’s grip was firm.
“Jack. Let Go! He took something — some drawings.” Gil pried Jack’s hand off his arm and yanking free of his grip, dove to the ground. Jack grabbed his collar and pulled him back, surprised to hear his own heavy breathing. After a few deep breaths, Jack knelt down beside Gil and wrapped an arm around his waist.
“We can’t go, Gil. It’s too dangerous.”
“But he’s getting away,” Gil said.
“We want him to get away. Then he won’t hurt us.” Jack squeezed Gil’s arm gently.
“This isn’t a movie, buddy. It’s real life. And somebody really wanted something bad out here. Bad enough to break in.” Jack searched Gil’s eyes for understanding.
Gil grimaced at his besmirched barn and turned to see Robbie running toward them dressed only his underwear.
“What going on?” Robbie asked.
Jack pulled himself up to his full height. Despite their differences, at this moment they behaved as if nothing had ever come between them.
Gil darted over to Robbie and jumped in his arms, sniffling. “He took some drawings.”
Robbie ran his hands up and down Gil’s body, turning him around, checking for injuries.
Jack shook his head, reviving the dull ache in his own face. He raised his hand to his eye and probed delicately.
“He wasn’t expecting us,” Jack said. He winced as he touched his nose.
Satisfied that Gil was injury free, Robbie set him down and turned to Jack. “Did he hit you?” Robbie asked.
Jack shook his head. “Only by accident. The drawings caught me in the face when he was making his getaway. You know when people say they see stars, you always think like, ‘yeah, right.’ Well….” Jack rubbed his nose again, then his eyes. “Little brother here’s lucky he stepped aside. I think that guy was taking no prisoners.”
“Did he have a gun?”
“I don’t know. It’s so dark out here. It’s the middle of the night, for Chrissakes.”
“Yeah, so what are you doing out here?” Robbie asked.
Jack smiled and tilted his head in Gil’s direction. “The salamander woke me up.”
Gil toed the dirt in response. Jack scanned the treeline, but the light was still too dim to see anything clearly. In the opposite direction, the sun’s first rays whooped and hollered, mad streaks of reds and oranges overtaking the horizon like a five-star general.
“He’s long gone by now,” Jack said. Robbie nodded in agreement, folded his hands across his chest and rubbed his arms.
“Let’s go inside. It’s freakin’ cold out here,” Robbie said. Jack nodded and they hoofed it back to the house, pausing once to glance back over their collective shoulders.
The light clicked on as they entered the kitchen. Kori stood in the doorway wearing a revealing nightgown and suppressing a yawn. Jack shot her an approving glance which dissolved the camaraderie of the last few minutes when Robbie intercepted it.
“What are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re hunting? Why do you have Gil with you if you’re hunting,” she said to the room at large. “And why are you in your underwear?” she said to Robbie in particular.
“I heard a noise.” Robbie brushed past her on his way to the stairs.
“Where are you going?” Kori called after him.
“To put some clothes on, Kori,” he replied. “ I suggest you do the same.” Kori and Jack exchanged glances. Jack tightened his mouth so as not to smile in front of Gil and nodded in the direction of the stairs. Kori spun on her heel, leaving Jack and Gil alone.
“How about some breakfast, Salamander?” Jack asked, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it with water. “Sleuthing always makes me hungry.”
Gil said nothing, but walked out of the kitchen and to the hallway closet. He climbed way in the back in between bulky winter jackets, past umbrellas and over hiking boots. Jack heard an occasional grunt followed by several more minutes of rooting around and Gil emerged victorious, the precious bundle in hand.
He returned to the kitchen, the bundle of drawings hooked under his arm, and took a seat at the table waiting for Jack to serve him. Although already ten, up until now he had led the life of the pampered: there was very little Gilliam William Tirabi did for himself. Jack poured a bowl full of cereal, added some milk and set it before Gil.
“So they didn’t get what they were looking for?” Jack said.
Gil shook his head, set the drawings on the table and scooped up a heaping spoonful of Cheerios. His cheeks bulged and his words were drowning in milk and wheat. “After breakfast will you and Robbie help me find someplace safe to hide them?” Gil asked.
Jack nodded. “Sure.”
He pushed Gil’s hair back and sat down next to him to wait for his coffee. “Better eat up. My guess is the Spanish Inquisition’s comin’ down the stairs any minute now.”
copyright 2012
to be continued. . .
to read what came before, click here. . .
going, going, gone
copyright 2011
OIL IN WATER
a novel by
PAM LAZOS
Chapter Thirteen
Several weeks later after all porch repairs had been completed, Gil sat in a darkened room, ZiZi at his feet, watching Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome. He held a fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth, eyes wide with fear and excitement. The music swelled as the crowds called for the great showdown. Kori came up from the basement wearing a pair of overalls doused in paint, several brushes sticking out the top front pocket, the paint still on them.
Gil was so engrossed in the movie he didn’t hear her enter. She surveyed the scene, strolled casually to the coffee table, picked up the remote and pressed the off button. The T.V. went blank and Gil went ballistic. With a grunt he threw a handful of popcorn at her face with more emotion than force.
“Turn it back ON!” he shouted, reaching for the remote. Taller by a head, Kori was able to withstand this onslaught with little effort. Gil clutched and yanked and tried to knock it from her hands. “KOREEEE. TURN IT ON!”
“No.” She pulled away and walked to the window, throwing back the curtains. Sunlight blasted in, temporarily blinding him. He blinked in reptilian fashion until his eyes adjusted to the glare. Kori pulled back the rest of the curtains, flooding the room with light, and pointed to the door. On her signal, Gil’s accomplice moved to the front door where he stood, head erect, tail wagging, more than ready to take the punishment with his master.
“It’s 11 o’clock. In the morning! It’s Saturday. Go outside.”
Gil took a deep breath and blew it out in a huff before turning toward the door.
“C’mon, Zi.” He grabbed a baseball cap off the coat rack, carefully pushed his bangs to the side, and held the door open for Zizi who barked once and bounded out into the brilliant sunlight. Gil stuck his tongue out at Kori and was gone. Kori watched from the window as they played fetch the stick. She smiled, and headed back to the basement.
She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Gil’s high-pitched wail.
“Zi, Zi, no! Come, Zi! Now!
She took the stairs two at a time and threw open the front door. Gil sat in the middle of the street, ZiZi’s head on his lap. He rubbed her ears and spoke softly to the inert figure. A boy of about eighteen hovered in the background, his car door still open, radio blaring, looking on helplessly. Kori sprinted across the wide front yard to the road and dropped to her knees.
Gil was rubbing one hand softly over ZiZi’s body while the other hand scratched instinctively at her favorite spot behind her ear. There was very little blood, but one look at her and it was clear the internal injuries were tremendous. She was panting, each attempt at breath wracking her body. Kori placed her hand on ZiZi’s ribs and the dog whimpered before paroxysms of coughing began.
“Take your hands off of her,” Gil said, throwing Kori’s hand back at her as if it were diseased. “This is your fault.”
Kori opened her mouth to protest; her voice caught in her throat.
“Broken,” Gil said. ZiZi’s body looked to be shrinking. She shivered and Gil covered her with his arms. Kori touched ZiZi’s nose; it was warm.
“She’s broken and she can’t be fixed,” Gil said, rocking, his eyes locked on the dog.
Kori touched Gil’s arm. It was cold, like ZiZi’s body, and his face had turned a preternatural white. He scratched ZiZi’s ears and murmured, soft clucking noises meant to soothe. ZiZi took a deep breath and shuddered again.
“Do you have a cell phone?” Kori asked the young kid pacing behind them. The boy nodded. He looked too young to have a license. “Can you call a vet? Tell them it’s an emergency.” He nodded and ran to his car.
Gil continued his quiet incantations, alternating between stroking ZiZi’s head and scratching her ears. They were like two lovers who know the end was imminent, but continued making plans for the future.
“And after lunch, we’ll go down to the creek and look for baby minnows,” he whispered, his voice straining with the effort. “And maybe we’ll take a nap under the Willow tree.” ZiZi thumped her tail once and whimpered. She raised her face to Gil with considerable effort and licked his nose. Gil stroked her head and rubbed his face in her fur.
“What do you want for lunch, girl?” Gil asked. “How about a melted ham and cheese sandwich?” ZiZi wagged her tail twice, winced and stopped. Gil rubbed her tail. “Maybe a few chips, too, huh?” Gil rubbed his nose in the nape of her neck and she moved her head to nuzzle him.
“The vet’s tech is on his way.” The young driver was back, pleased with himself that he was able to make the arrangements, but his face fell after seeing ZiZi’s condition.
Her breath came in short bursts and recognition lit in Gil’s eyes. He’d seen this before in movies and shuddered at the thought of what was coming next. Gil had watched them all. The hurt, the hunted, the hapless, their last breaths coming in fits of fury or lackluster sighs. Gil had watched people die so often that he thought he’d become immune to it. When his Mom and Dad died, he reacted in stalwart fashion, just like the heroes on T.V., dry-eyed and tight-lipped. Now he clenched his teeth, but it couldn’t stop the tears which were pouring out of the corners of his eyes like molten lava.
“Please don’t go, Zi,” he murmured. He rested his head on ZiZi’s and she raised her nose an inch to meet him then dropped to the ground, her last breath escaping in one small sigh. Gil tightened his grip, trying to hold on even as he felt her spirit go. Gil began to cry, a low, crazy moan that sounded like death itself.
“I’m so sorry,” the young driver said. “She ran right out in the road. I didn’t see her until she was right in front of my car.” Kori nodded, but Gil had no room to hear him above the sound of everything ZiZi’d ever told him.
to be continued. . .
to read what came before, please scroll down. . .
a vital woman
copyright 2011/all rights reserved
a novel by
PAM LAZOS
CHAPTER EIGHT (b)
Kitty’s mother didn’t know a spoon from a spatula and as a result, passed on nothing that could pass for culinary art to her daughter. Kitty’s parents had a brutal and unforgiving marriage hidden behind congenial outward social appearances so Kitty believed her mother when she told her that in order to get and keep a man, Kitty needed to learn how to feed a man, her mother’s own marriage as evidence of not feeding a man. She long ago declared the kitchen off limits to the myriad servants that kept the Coleman household running. After years of study with some of the best chefs in the world, Kitty had become a first-rate chef herself, although apparently it had no measurable effect on the quality of her marriage. Still, even Bicky couldn’t deny that Kitty had perfected her art. Tonight the table was adorned by stuffed pheasant, prawns sauteed in avocado oil and cajun seasonings, baby potatoes baked in olive oil, lemon and oregano, snap peas, lightly steamed, and a lovely arugula and mixed greens salad.
Kitty was palpably relieved to have Sonia’s company at the dinner table and wondered, as she bit into a prawn, whether her daughter had fared any better in the marriage department. Sonia and Hart seemed to have a good marriage, but many who knew Kitty and Bicky would swear the same was true of them, since in public they demonstrated what appeared to be love for each other. Kitty was a vital woman, full of youthful efflorescence, not the sort that would be predisposed to abstinence, yet all the years without the companionship of her husband had taken their toll on her. She felt herself drying up on the inside, like ripe fruit left for days in the sun. Being distinctly southern with all its foibles and genteel sensibilities, sex was something Kitty could not bring herself to talk about, not even with her intimates, which included Sonia. She was sure Bicky blamed the end of their sex life on Kitty’s inability to forgive one unfortunate incident, but Kitty had seen worse growing up, and that wouldn’t have kept her from Bicky’s bed forever. Rather it was the lack of intimacy, or any kind of emotional connection with her husband that pushed her away. Bicky had shoved his emotions so far down, they lived in his feet. The man would not recognize love if it threw up on him.
These days, the Coleman’s maintained separate bedrooms in opposite wings of the mansion. The move occurred sometime after Sonia shipped off to Columbia and Kitty discovered that Bicky had kept mistresses for the last twenty years, usually for periods of six to eighteen months, like a prison term for a misdemeanor. Sensing her own interests would be served by the revelation, Kitty made her knowledge public, the public constituting Bicky and Sonia. She chose her words carefully paying particular attention to present tense syntax so neither one was ever really sure just how much Kitty knew and for how long she knew it.
To Bicky she simply said, “I know what you’re up to. And I’m leaving. Don’t try to stop me.” Bicky said nothing as usual, but waited on Kitty’s next move. Luckily, it was only across the foyer and down the hall.
Kitty knew that Bicky loved her to the extent he was capable. She also knew that had she even once confronted him, raised her voice, thrown a Chinese vase, shown some territorial frenzy over his nocturnal meanderings, Bicky would have ended his affairs. But recalling her mother’s misery, Kitty decided the best course of action was to remain complacent and aloof and so she allowed Bicky’s transgressions knowing it was her indifference more than anything that branded Bicky’s psyche and bound him to her. Kitty also knew that Bicky had come to interpret her attitude as one of intense loathing disguised by good southern breeding, and on that point, he wasn’t too far off the mark.
&&&
Dinner was delightful and Sonia couldn’t remember a time when Bicky was so charming. He told jokes that left both Sonia and her mother clutching their sides in laughter. For a moment, they were a family and Sonia felt an affinity for her father which left her feeling both sated and bereft. After dinner, Bicky sat by the fire sipping cognac while Sonia stretched on the couch, her grandmother’s handmade quilt, a swirling vortex of color pulled over her legs as a nascent, tentative bond was forming with her father.
“Tell me something about when you were young,” Sonia said.
A handsome man in any light, the glow of the fire gave Bicky a swarthy, Roman look. Somber, he sipped the amber liquid and gazed at the crackling fire.
“I had two shirts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks and a pair of shoes. My mother was constantly mending things just to keep our wardrobe together. When your grandfather struck oil, we celebrated by buying a new outfit.”
“Well, eventually he bought you more clothes.”
“Oh yeah, but that wasn’t until later. After Mason died and it was just me and him, he realized that life really wasn’t waiting for anybody.” Bicky’s voice cracked. Sonia studied him, intrigued by the uncharacteristic show of emotion.
“He was a tight-assed bastard, your grandfather. Never spent a dime. Not on us, anyway. Why do you think you have so much money?” He swirled the cognac around the tumbler.
“I don’t remember him that way,” Sonia said.
Bicky grunted and grew silent. The grandfather clock chimed ten times. Sonia yawned, stood and folded the quilt. “Thanks for a great night, Dad.” She smiled at her father, but Bicky said nothing. “I’m going to say goodbye to Mom,” she said, and left the room.
&&&
Bicky walked Sonia out to her car while Kitty stood in the archway. Sonia blew her mother a kiss and Kitty disappeared inside.
Bicky leaned in and pecked her on the cheek, flashing his perfect teeth, a smile few could resist. He patted her arm and rested it there. “Don’t forget to bring me the report tomorrow.”
“Ah, the report. I hadn’t planned on coming to town tomorrow. How about I mail it?”
“No!” Bicky’s voice was gruff and agitated. “You’re putting yourself at risk.”
“Dad, I’m not even going to be home.”
“Let me tell you, if word gets out that you have a copy of that report….”
“Is it me or you that would be in trouble?” she asked, finishing his sentence.
Bicky put his hands on the car door and straightened up. “You probably didn’t read it so you don’t understand how damaging it is.”
“I read it. And I understand. That report gets out and it could mark the beginning of World War III. That’s why you sent David to the Middle East. You want your best people surveying the world’s largest remaining oil reservoirs.”
Bicky’s face turned the color of blanched almonds; he squeezed the door frame. “Sonia…do not get messed up in this.”
“I’m already messed up in it.”
Bicky looked back at the house where Kitty had turned on the lights in her suite. His eyes wandered to his side of the house, dark and uninviting. “And he’ll be back before the sun comes up,” he said. “So let it go.”
“I would if you’d let him stay more than ten minutes before sending him off again,” she said. “Are you that desperate to have him secure your interests?”
“There are terrible people in this world, Sonia, and they do terrible things. Be happy your grandfather’s money keeps you from having to deal with them on a daily basis.”
“If you don’t want me messed up with them, why would you allow David to be?”
“Hart’s a man. And a damn good engineer.” Bicky met Sonia’s gaze at eye level. “Do you know what will happen when people realize we only have twenty or thirty years of oil reserves left? I mean, when they really stop to think about it? Pandemonium.”
“Well if it’s so precious, just charge more money and people will drive less.”
“If we charged per barrel what oil was really worth, the average consumer couldn’t afford a trip to the grocery store. Our whole economy is premised on the consumption of cheap fossil fuel, Sonia. Every aspect. It’s not just about driving your car to the movies.” He paused to let his words sink in. “Most of our products are trucked across the country. Milk and butter are cheap because oil is cheap. But higher food prices are only the beginning. The majority of our products are made from plastic, not steel, and you need oil to make it. It’s not just about baggies and milk jugs. It’s about camera bodies and television sets and lawn furniture and car parts. It’s actually a waste to burn oil as gas. It’s too valuable. Liquid gold.”
“Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away?” she asked.
“I’m serious.” The lawn sprinkler hissed to life and Sonia jumped.
“I’m not trying to scare you, dear,” he said. “I’m trying to enlighten you.” He looked from her to Kitty’s window and said, half to himself: “So much like your mother.” His eyes softened and Sonia thought she detected a trace of fear in his unshakable demeanor.
“If you wanted to avoid it, and by you I mean the energy industry, you could. You’d be pouring money into R&D, developing a cheap way to access solar power, or hydroelectric power, or any of the myriad powers that show promise. But you don’t. Why? Because you can’t make enough money. Once the technology’s there you can’t harness it for yourself and, God forbid, you don’t want people to be self-sufficient. Then they wouldn’t need you.”
Bicky raised the corner of his mouth in a mocking smile. “Touche, my dear,” he said. “Still that doesn’t make your knowledge any less dangerous. And if not the danger, think of the resulting plight of all those poor out-of-work oil company employees.”
to be continued. . .
to read previous installments, scroll down the page
mother love
copyright 2011/all rights reserved
OIL IN WATER
a novel by
PAM LAZOS
CHAPTER SIX(b)
“I don’t care how you do it. I just want it done.” Bicky’s anger was distinct even through a closed door. “And don’t come back to me until it’s finished. Capice?”
Sonia heard a muffled assent and, without even thinking, shoved the report in her brown leather backpack, knocking a cup of water across the desk in the process.
“Damn.” She grabbed a bunch of tissues and was mopping up when Bicky burst through the door.
Sonia smiled.
“Sorry. I hope it doesn’t leave a mark.”
Bicky stared at his daughter as if he couldn’t place the face before bewilderment gave way to annoyance.
Sonia jumped to her feet. “Oh, sorry, I . . . was tired. Your seat is the most comfortable.” She stood, draped her backpack over her shoulder, and exchanged places with her father.
“How long have you been here?” he barked, and with a gentle touch antithetical to his tone, moved his mother’s picture out of the water’s trajectory and onto the windowsill.
“I don’t know. Half an hour,” Sonia said, clearing her throat. “I see you got a new Dickinson.” She nodded in the direction of Bicky’s rare book collection. “Nice catch.”
“It came at quite a price, let me tell you.” He smiled and Sonia regained her composure, relieved to be on neutral territory. Bicky took his seat behind the desk, a reigning monarch, and pressed the intercom.
“Phyllis, some paper towels, please.” Bicky released the intercom before Phyllis could answer, snapped open the humidor and pulled out a cigar. Sonia cleared her throat. He shut it with a muttered apology.
“So. What can I do for you, babe?” Bicky asked, adopting an air of lightheartedness. Sonia responded by shoving clammy hands into the wide pockets of her maternity dress and wrapped them around the baby.
“It’s about David. I just wanted to know – when is he coming back?” She squared her shoulders as if getting out the words freed her to stand straighter, and thrust her belly forward, marking her question with an additional exclamation point. Bicky stared at her and she held his eye, trying to remember if growing up had always been this emotionally draining. She remembered so little of her father’s presence from childhood that it couldn’t have been the case.
“I already dispatched a guy. Your husband’ll be on the next plane home.”
“Really? Oh, Dad, thanks!” She ran around the desk and threw her arms around Bicky’s neck, a move instigated by relief and unbridled hormones. Bicky shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked to Sonia like he might run.
“Sorry,” Sonia said, stepping back.
“That’s all right,” Bicky said. He rubbed his neck gingerly, feeling for the welt.
Sonia hadn’t touched her father in so long, hadn’t wanted or needed to, and so had forgotten his adversity toward the simple act of it. She rarely saw her parents touch, much less kiss. It didn’t bother her, but under the circumstances, she never understood how she’d been conceived. She slumped in the closest armchair with relief. “So what changed your mind?”
Bicky waved his hand. “Your mother . . . she didn’t want you to be upset.”
So there it was. Kitty had trumped him. Sonia tried to summon some love for the stranger that sat across the desk sorting wet mail. Feeling none flow, she stood to leave.
“Thanks,” she said, grateful no matter what the circumstances that forced her father’s hand. Bicky dismissed the gesture with another wave and smiled, a cross between an impatient grin and a grimace. The phone buzzed and relief washed Bicky’s face clean.
“Where are the paper towels?” he barked into the intercom.
“Try the bottom drawer of your desk,” Phyllis responded, her tone syrupy sweet.
Sonia bit her lower lip. Phyllis had put up with Bicky since he came to Akanabi over thirty years ago and showed no signs of relenting. For reasons Sonia couldn’t decipher, Bicky attracted and held people in his life, quality people, like flies to the spider’s web.
The phone buzzed and Bicky checked the caller ID. “I gotta take this,” he said. He tried another unsuccessful smile as Sonia turned to go.
“Your mother wants you to come to dinner tonight,” Bicky said, reaching for the receiver. Sonia waited for any additional proclamations, but Bicky grunted and jerked his head toward the door. Sonia took this as her unmistakable cue to leave.
Sonia leaned against the smooth, polished walnut, fingering the clasp on her backpack and listening to Bicky’s imperial tone through the lavish doors. She reached in and touched the edges of the envelope. She could drop it on Phyllis’s desk, no questions asked, and walk out. Or…
“Hey there, girly. Where’ve you been?”
Sonia stumbled and Phyllis was at her side in an instant, directing her to a chair.
“I remember these days,” Phyllis said. “All top heavy and off-balance. Like one of those Weeble-Wobble toys. You remember them?”
“Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” Sonia sang.
“Isn’t it amazing how you can forget your kid’s birthday, but remember ads from twenty-five years ago,” Phyllis said. Phyllis was a lithe figure, still beautiful well into her sixtieth year, all grace and high cheekbones. She pushed an ottoman in front of Sonia’s chair.
“Feet up,” Phyllis said with the authority of a drill sergeant. She smiled and squeezed Sonia’s shoulder. Bicky’s personal line rang and Phyllis put him on speaker phone.
“Where the hell’s my report?”
“Try looking on your desk.”
Bicky ended the conversation with a dial tone. Phyllis rolled her eyes at Sonia.
“Your father,” Phyllis started, “is not big on patience.”
“Or much anything else unless there are dollar signs attached. Really, Phyllis. How do you stand it? You couldn’t pay me enough.”
“Oh, he’s not so bad. He was so green when I first got him. All eager to prove himself to your grandfather. Who knew he’d grow to be the pompous ass he is today. I think a part of him died with your grandmother and it’s been rotting inside him ever since. And between you and me, I feel a little sorry for him. He’s just a kid who really misses his mother.”
Sonia considered this a possible reason for Bicky’s strong gravitational pull: memory and pity. Memory of what the man was; pity for who he’d become. And a desire to help him crawl out of the quagmire. Sonia had made the same mistake many times, thinking that her father would then include her as a relevant part of his life only to find that Bicky considered himself a single planetary solar system, a man who shared the cosmos with no one.
From the wet bar, Phyllis grabbed a bottle of chilled Evian and handed it to Sonia.
“When my son was born, my husband was in Vietnam. I thought I would lose my mind. I got through it, though. You always do.” She smiled and stroked Sonia’s hair. “We’re tougher than they are. That’s why we bear the babies.” Phyllis strode across the room, grabbed something off her desk and handed it to Sonia.
“I printed out a copy of his itinerary. He’ll be in about the middle of the night so don’t wait up,” Phyllis admonished. She smiled, revealing a lovely set of pearly white teeth.
“Thanks, Phyllis,” Sonia said, standing. She gave the older woman a hug. “I’ll call you as soon as something happens,” she said, a hand on either side of her belly. “They have these websites now, where you can log on and see the newborns just a couple days after they’re born. You won’t even have to go to the hospital.”
“Bye love,” Phyllis said, throwing a kiss to the air. Sonia watched Phyllis bound toward her desk before turning to the elevator.
&&&
The elevator opened in the lobby and Jerry stood waiting as if summoned.
“How do you always know?” Sonia teased. Jerry tapped his chest and smiled.
“My heart beats a little more quickly when you’re around,” he said. “You let us know the minute our baby pokes its head into this world.” He smiled, dazzling her.
Sonia kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave. “I will, Uncle Jerry.”
He opened the door and watched as she walked away, their usual ritual. At the moment before Sonia rounded the corner, she turned and blew him a kiss as she’d done a million times before. His turned his cheek to catch it, reeling backwards, holding one hand on his heart and the other over the newly planted kiss so as not to let it slip away. She smiled and disappeared around the corner; the smile did not leave Jerry’s face.
&&&
Dave Hartos knelt inside the base of an oil rig, fiddling with a stalled pump. He whacked his wrench against the pipe and the wrench clanged to the ground. Even in the bowels of the derrick, the sand writhed and swirled, infesting the machinery. With a heavy sigh, he lifted himself out of the hole and climbed the metal rungs of the ladder back up to ground level.
An open-air jeep approached, a dust bowl swirling behind. Andrew Mahajan, second-in-command to Hart and his best friend, got out grinning.
“Good news. You’ve been sprung.” Mahajan handed Hart a telegram. “Go home and help your wife pop that baby out.” Mahajan clapped Hart on the back with one hand and handed him a box of Cuban cigars with the other. “For when the baby comes.”
“Hey, I don’t need to get arrested on the way home.”
“Customs won’t bother if you have less than a box,” said Mahajan. He opened the lid and removed two cigars, clipping the ends. “Now there’s less than a box.” Mahajan produced a lighter from his pocket, but desert winds foiled attempts to light it. He shrugged and pulled a bottle of Jamieson and two whiskey glasses from the jeep.
“Let’s celebrate.” He wiped his brow with a bandana and motioned toward the trailer.
“Isn’t it bad luck to toast before the baby’s born?” Hart asked.
Mahajan shook his head. “Only thing bad is not taking advantage of an opportunity when it bites you in the ass. C’mon. A driver’s coming for you soon.”
Hart grabbed the glasses out of Mahajan’s hand. “You gonna be all right here?”
“Right as rain, buddy. Right as rain.” Mahajan wrapped an arm around Hart’s shoulders and pushed him to the trailer.
to be continued. . .
pretty deceptions
copyright 2011/all rights reserved
OIL IN WATER
a novel by
PAM LAZOS
CHAPTER SIX(a)
A week later, Sonia strolled into the lavish offices of Akanabi Oil.
“Hey, Jerry. How’s it going?” She extended a gloved hand to Jerry who sat behind the security desk.
“Great now.” Jerry Dixon, Akanabi’s head of security had been hired by Sonia’s father, Bicky Coleman, over thirty years ago, primarily because of Jerry’s former incarnation as a Navy Seal. Jerry’s rugged good lucks and natty dress didn’t hurt either. He made an excellent first impression on anyone looking to retain Akanabi’s services. Now that handsome and hard face bent to kiss Sonia’s hand. “I miss you coming around.”
“Jerry, I haven’t been coming around for years.”
“That’s how long I’ve missed you.”
Sonia blushed. In the early years, before Sonia’s relationship with her father completely rutted out, Bicky would bring her into the office on Saturday mornings. But instead of spending some quality time with his daughter, Bicky would leave Sonia with Jerry to monitor hallways and closed circuit cameras, push phone buttons. They got on well – better than Sonia did with Bicky – as if their connection preceded the arrangement, while Bicky felt his paternal duty fulfilled, simply because his daughter was in the same building. Sonia’s mother, Kitty, had wanted Jerry to be Sonia’s godfather, and Bicky found that in addition to being a sharpshooter, Jerry was an excellent babysitter.
Jerry released Sonia’s hand, reached behind the counter and held his hand behind his back. Sonia smiled broadly, knowing full well what was coming next. She closed her eyes and opened her palm into which Jerry deposited a red lollipop. Sonia planted a kiss on his cheek.
“You never forget, do you?” she asked.
“Can’t say as I do, my dear.” He wrapped an avuncular arm around her shoulder and steered her to the elevator. He looked at her belly and raised his eyebrows. “That husband of yours better get back PDQ.”
“Talk to my father,” she said, a catch in her voice.
“Aawww, geez, I’m sorry. We’ll get him back in time, don’t you worry. Even if I have to fly him back myself.”
“I wish Bicky were more like you,” Sonia said. “You missed your calling, Jerry. You really should have had kids.”
Jerry smiled, but it was a sad one, and Sonia thought she’d said something wrong.
He turned a key, calling a special elevator, and waited until it arrived. He held the door for Sonia as she got in, turned the key in the lock once more.
“I’ll call Phyllis and tell her you’re on your way up,” he said, all traces of melancholy gone. “Can’t wait to see that little guy,” he added with a huge smile. Sonia blew him a kiss as the elevator doors glided to a close.
&&&
Sonia got off the elevator at the 45th floor, the doors opening with an imperceptible swish into the reception area of Akanabi Oil’s penthouse suite. As CEO, Bicky Coleman claimed the entire floor for himself. And what a floor it was, affording spectacular views over all of downtown Houston. Although Sonia despised her father’s pretensions, she had to admit he had a great eye for stunning details. Bicky not only participated in the architectural reconstruction of the building, but hand-picked the decor, right down to the ancient Chinese vases displayed prominently in niches and tastefully interspersed among the ceiling to floor French tapestries. Walking these halls gave Sonia the distinct impression that she was inside a well-endowed museum.
Phyllis was away from her desk so Sonia walked down the hall and let herself into Bicky’s prodigious office. Beyond the floor to ceiling windows, the city glittered and glistened, all glass and mirrors, in a blaze of afternoon sun. Houston’s story as an American city began in the early party of the 19th century after the founding fathers wrested control from Mexico. Although the city predated the discovery of oil, the town flourished during the boom and bust days of early oil when fortunes were made and lost on the turn of a drill bit. The first inhabitants of old Houston, the ones who built the city, combined the rugged individualism of the west with the genteel manners of the South. Walking its streets, you could almost feel the pride and bravado mixed with courtesy and goodwill that brought the city to life. But Sonia thought the newer part of Houston, where Akanabi’s offices were located, lacked the charm and distinction of old Houston with its ethnic diversity, grand architecture and historic flare.
Sonia busied herself with Bicky’s vintage book collection, rare and exquisite gems, many of which had historical significance beyond anything that Bicky Coleman would ever do with his life. Maybe it was Bicky’s subconscious desire to tame his own demons, but for whatever reason, his taste leaned toward the psychological and philosophical, original printings of Freud, Jung, and Nietzsche. He didn’t pass up an opportunity when it was offered. It was the acquisition that drove him, the thrill of the chase. Once his, he placed the item neatly on the shelf, or under glass, where he could watch without interacting.
Bicky had placed Sonia on a shelf soon after she was born and she’d spent the better part of childhood trying to get down. By thirteen, she’d given up, and now, at thirty, she was fully resigned: the man whose offices she perused with more than a hint of disdain was more fake than father. Their vibrations were at opposite ends of the light spectrum and Sonia felt she had nothing in common with the man other than the X chromosome he’d provided for her DNA to replicate itself.
Sonia sat down behind Bicky’s desk and leaned into the plush leather. Nine months of pregnancy had taken a toll on her arches. She stretched her back, cat-like, and yawned as the massive grandfather clock in the corner chimed five o’clock. Exhaustion snuck up behind her and held a gun to her head so she laid her head on her arms and would have fallen asleep, but for a piece of mail sticking into the soft, fleshy part of her arm. She dug it out for inspection.
It was a thick brown envelope marked “Urgent and Confidential. To Be Opened By Addressee Only.” The seal had already been broken and Sonia helped herself to a peek. Inside was a report with curled corners, folded pages, and a big coffee stain on the cover, all indicating heavy use. The title looked simple, and boring, enough: “World Oil Report”.
Sonia skimmed the pages, looking for something of interest before settling on a page with a folded corner.
CHAPTER 3. STATE OF THE WORLD’S OIL RESERVES.
The world’s oil reserves peaked in the mid-1970’s. All previously undiscovered oil reserves have been marked and estimated. At the current rate of usage and barring the discovery of oil reserves on other planets, the earth’s oil reserves will be depleted by the year 2025.
Sonia put the report down and stared at the cover. Could this be true? Her grandfather’s empire, her father’s world, would it soon collapse? Would they be wiped out? Her hands shook, her breath grew shallow and she could hear her heart pumping in her ears.
to be continued. . .
The Sweet By and By
It’s not really giving anything away to say that the debut novel by Todd Johnson, The Sweet By and By, will make you cry. Maybe this says more about the reviewer than about the book, but still, the fact remains that the subject matter of The Sweet By and By is tear-worthy. It’s about friendship and loyalty and big end-of-life issues like dignity and happiness and who really loves you for sure.
Lorraine is a church-going, God-smacking woman who has made a career out of taking care of other people. She is a caregiver at the Ridgecrest Nursing Home, and little gets by her. Lorraine has equal measures of patience and endurance, which she exercises each day as she looks after Margaret and Bernice, the two brightest spots at the home. Margaret has a sharp tongue and high standards, and Lorraine bears Margaret’s rebukes and criticisms with calm mother-patience. More than helping Margaret to dress and bathe, Lorraine preserves the dwindling strands of dignity that Margaret clings to.
Bernice provides comic relief in what would otherwise be too sad a story to bear. Bernice is a happy ditz and reliably out of her mind most of the time. She is Margaret’s constant companion, and they look after each other is a way that is endearing and practical. Bernice carries a stuffed monkey with her everywhere and treats him as a real person. Except of course when she hides bootleg booze deep in his throat where no one of the nursing home staff, even Lorraine, would think to look.
Rhonda is at the home by accident, if you believe such things. Rhonda survived being raised by a hateful grandmother and has grown into a decent person. As a hair stylist, she endeavors to make the world a more beautiful place. However, it is for cash that she applies to Ridgeview, never expecting to like it, much less fall in love with the ladies who line up outside the beauty parlor door each week. Despite any intention to get in, do her job, and get out, Rhonda is adopted by both Margaret and Beatrice, who see the goodness in the girl and provide the mother-encouragement for which she had been starved as a child.
One of the delights of The Sweet By and By is that it is set in North Carolina, where eccentricity is as natural as sunlight and sweet tea. This lovely bit of fiction is not nostalgic; it takes an unflinching view of who we are, what connects us, and what’s important, without being preachy. In the end, we realize it is Lorraine’s story, and Johnson leaves her narrative not with a nice neat bow, but with faith that everything will somehow work out:
“I used to hope that if I went to church long enough, all my inside weight would go away. That ain’t right. Jesus may have come to take away our sins, but he left our feelings right where they’ve always been. I still have inside me some of what I’ve always had, built up over a lifetime. I just keep adding to it, every day, like everybody else, and hope the stew gets better the more ingredients I put in.”
The Sweet By and By is perfect summer reading. It’s weighty enough to matter, but manages also to take itself lightly.
Review by Cynthia Gregory/ceegregory@aol.com
The Imperfectionists
There are certain professionals that seem to be the darlings of fiction: lawyers, doctors, cops, writers. In The Imperfectionists, Tom Rachman takes great glee in shining a light on journalists, and as the title of his debut novel implies, they are best at their worst.
Newspapers are not what they used to be. And certainly, Rachman’s unnamed global English language newspaper launched from Rome in the 1950s, is no exception. Before CNN and the Internet and iPads, there were newspapers. If you wanted hard, cold, facts, you got them printed in black and white on newsprint and by gum, there were people who ate and breathed deadlines to bring them to you.
Newsmaking was a noble profession. It was gritty and real and yet, there was something a little glamorous about the paper and the men and women who made it run.
This fact however, bears little relevance to Rachman’s book. None of his characters are quite likeable. Their noble profession is to deliver the news of the world, and to that extent, they are quite good. And yet personally? Well, it’s probably best not to look too closely.
The Imperfectionists is more a collection of short stories than a novel in the traditional sense, with all stories related by the terribly important international English language newspaper printed in Rome. Stringers in Cairo and Paris, Davos and Nairobi, feed the ravenous paper its content. Devoted editors and tyrannical staffers ensure that all twelve pages of the paper are crammed with the activities of the world and presented daily, to a circulation of 10,000. They are all perfectly imperfect, smart and sassy people giving their all to do something meaningful and right. Beyond news however, the paper is just an item on the balance sheet of the newspaper’s corporate owners, nitwit offspring of the original founder, nested safely in far away Atlanta.
Meanwhile in Rome, Herman Cohen has created an encyclopedic style guide with which he tortures his editors. Editor in chief Kathleen Solson enjoys the sophisticated patina of living abroad, even as she discovers her husband having an affair. Copy editor Ruby Zaga is a spiteful, friendless staffer who secretly hungers for connection. Business editor Hardy Benjamin is so desperate for a boyfriend that she supports her loser of an Irish lover to shield herself from living alone.
The terribly important international English language newspaper is fading by the hour. It’s gushing red ink. Its loyal readership is dying off. It’s not even on the Internet, for pity’s sake! The ship is going down, yet each character has a vested interest in believing that the ship is unsinkable. At a publishing conference at the Cavalieri Hilton in Rome, Kathleen Solson is asked if the newspaper will survive.
“Absolutely,” she tells the audience. “We’ll keep going, I assure you of that. Obviously, we’re living in an era when technology is moving at an unheralded pace. I can’t tell you if in fifty years we’ll be publishing in the same format. Actually, I can probably tell you we won’t be publishing in the same way, that we’ll be innovating then, just as we are now.” Unfortunately for Kathleen and her crew, the paper is doomed. Fortunately for the reader, it’s a heck of a ride down the rails.
Review by Cynthia Gregory/ceegregory@aol.com
From the Land of the Moon
I love a book that includes landscape as an important character almost as much as I love a story with an unreliable narrator. I also adore Italy, so for me From The Land Of The Moon, written by Milena Agus and translated from Italian by Ann Goldstein, is the trifecta of great literature.
A small book, From The Land Of The Moon is a big story of love and belonging. Our heroine remains unnamed throughout, and this is important because without a name she is no one and she is everyone. Significantly however, she is the grandmother of a girl who traces her family history as she is about to be married and create a family of her own.
Grandmother was eccentric and beautiful, and who at thirty remained shamefully unmarried. This was scandal enough to Great-Grandmother, but to make matters worse, the daughter was also a poet. She prone to kidney stones and what we would now call depression, and probably she was a little mad also. A sensitive artist, Grandmother had survived World War II in her native Sardinia, but had been unlucky in love. To her family’s great relief, a widower from Cagliari came to the family home one day, and they married their troublesome daughter off to the stranger as quickly as possible, effectively removing the taint of crazy from the family name.
Though hers was a loveless marriage, Grandmother’s husband was kind to her. He had a good job and he built her a beautiful home. Still, she felt that she was missing “that essential thing.” This, she reasoned was why she kept getting pregnant and then miscarrying: her life lacked that essential thing.
This all changed, when one year her husband sent her to the mineral springs to ‘take the cure.’ At the spa, she befriended a handsome war Veteran who had also come to take the cure at the mineral springs. Though they spent a very short time together at the spa, Grandmother fell deeply in love, and from then on the veteran played a central role in the grandmother’s life. In him, she felt that she had found what she had been missing.
Upon returning to home, Grandmother discovered that she was once again pregnant, but this time it held, and she delivered a son. She gave the boy everything and when he grew up to be a famous musician and married another musician, he left his daughter with to be raised by his mother. Lucky girl.
“My grandmother was over sixty when I was born. I remember that as a child I thought she was beautiful, and I’d watch, enthralled, when she combed her hair and made her old-fashioned crocchia, parting the hair, which never turned white or thin, then braiding it and coiling the braids into two chignons.”
To the girl, Grandmother was, and had always been beautiful and strong. Grandmother may have been delusional, her history may have been imagined, but her love was real and sustaining, and shines through as the essential thing in this sweet story.
Review by Cynthia Gregory/ceegregory@aol.com
Wench
History is a funny thing. From a narrow view, we get only a single version of the truth, somewhat like a house with just one window. But when Dolen Perkins-Valdez gave us Wench, she created an historical architecture as big as a resort hotel, thrown all the windows open to astonishing ideas.
Wench is the story of four women born to slavery in the pre-Civil War South, women who by virtues of intelligence, cunning, and beauty carve something beautiful for themselves in a life that is a virtual prison. Lizzie Drayle is a house-slave on a plantation in Tennessee. She lives a life of relative comfort compared to the field slaves, but that luxury comes at a price. When she was just 13, Master Drayle came to her in the night, and made her his lover.
In 1853, reward posters for runaway slave women referred to them as wenches, a half-truth. But in this novel, the term means more than wanton, it refers to slave women who are not merely the commercial property of landowners, but women who are sisters and daughters, lovers and mothers of children. There may be stirrings of abolition and an underground railroad to help slaves escape to freedom, but it is a faint cry, and one of impossible odds.
One year, Master Drayle takes Lizzie to Ohio, to a resort called Tawawa House, a retreat for Southern white men who want to vacation with their enslaved black mistresses. This year, while their owners enjoy the amenities of the resort, the slaves mingle, share stories and histories, tell what they know of where they came from, the families they knew, and the families they create from circumstance. There is Lizzie, accompanying the man she believes she loves and with whom she has two children. Fearless Mawu is a light-skinned, red-haired woman with a mind of her own and a cruel owner who beats her viciously. Sweet is true to her name and a mother of five by her master. Reenie is older than the rest and is captive to her brother-master and mother of a daughter-niece.
Over the course of three summers, the women gather, support one another and watch and wait patiently for the moment when freedom might open like a sly, narrow door. The question is whether they will take the offer of freedom. It seems a simple choice to make, except that the laws are rigid, the consequences brutal, and even a choice for freedom requires tragic sacrifices.
Wench is really about Lizzie. Drayle is kind to her, mostly, though there are conventions that even he won’t challenge. He seems to care for Lizzie, but he also considers her to be his property, just as he does their two children. In the end, Lizzie surrenders her own freedom by negotiating her children’s. When given the opportunity to flee one summer in Ohio, she accepts instead, a life of humiliating bondage, a bargain for the lives of her children.
Wench is a deeply moving story of dignity and survival. It is a story of our shared history, part of who we are.
Review by Cynthia Gregory/ceegregory@aol.com
persephone's step-sisters 
