the barking resumed

Posted on March 26, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Avery dropped to his knees beside his brother and looked Gil over, as best he could in the near-black woods, by putting his face within inches of Gil’s head. Because of the darkness, he gave over sight for touch, feeling the contours of Gil’s face, his head, his neck. He noted a lump on the back of Gil’s head that seemed to be growing. He performed a body check next, running his hands over every inch of Gil: torso, arms, legs. All appeared to be intact and at proper angles. He placed two fingers on Gil’s neck. His pulse was strong. Avery finished by putting his ear to Gil’s nose where he heard faint, but steady breathing. Gil was unconscious, but most definitely alive. “That’s good,” he sighed in relief.

Avery opened one of Gil’s eyes; they were rolled back so Avery could only see the whites. He released the lid and it flopped back into place like a dead fish. He had to get Gil back to the house. Avery looked around for something, anything, to do it with, but he couldn’t clear his addled brain; which seemed as dark and cloudy as the night sky.

Avery stood up, ran his hands through his hair and began to pace. Gradually, the world returned to him. He could hear the whir of the ATV’s motor and Max barking maniacally in the background, noises that had been emitting wavelengths of sound all along, but which his mind in its hyper-focused state had blocked out. For a moment Avery had a brief insight into how Gil’s mind worked during periods of intense concentration. He fumbled in the dark for the ATV’s ignition and turned the key. The motor went silent. He sat down, legs crossed, on the ground. What do I do? Tell me what to do. Lie flat. Stabilize the neck. Avery concentrated on slow breathing, in and out the way he was taught in meditation class, trying to focus the mind. How am I going to get him back to the house? He looked over at the ATV sitting on its side….

Max’s barking had reached such a fever pitch that he sounded like two dogs. What the hell is he barking about? The minute the thought crossed his mind, Avery’s blood cooled. He took a few steps in the direction of the barking, but was stopped by the sound of two successive pistol shots. Avery caught his breath. The barking resumed. On instinct, he grabbed the gun and took off running through the woods.

He used Max’s voice as a guide and immediately regretted not taking the trail. Small branches whipped at his face and clothes as he tripped his way through the dense underbrush. A branch broke open his cheek and a bit of blood oozed from the wound. He cursed and smeared it away. Max’s voice was growing hoarse, but he continued unabated. Avery was closer now and he could hear a man’s voice straining with effort, cursing the dog and brandishing the gun as if Max would understand. The man’s voice was muffled, drowned out by the consistency of Max’s barking and growling.

Avery broke through to the clearing to see the man draped over a tree branch, shining a pale green light at the ground and trying to catch Max in the circle of it. Max leapt in complete defiance of the laws of gravity, making contact with the man’s leg. The man yelped in pain and fired at Max. Avery fell, forced sideways and to the ground by shock and the wave of sound. Max yelped, then resumed with a bark so ferocious, wolves would run for cover. Max jumped and snapped again, inches from the man’s jacket, then spun back and forth beneath the tree, a whirling dervish. The man pulled his gun and aimed it.

“Noooooo!”

Avery turned to see Gil’s shadowy figure stumbling toward him, paying little heed to the tree branches slashing at his clothes and face. At the sound of his master’s voice, Max halted, but did not leave his post beneath the bottom of the tree.

“Max! Come! Now!” After a moment’s hesitation, he ran over to Gil who fell to his knees. Max licked Gil’s face and rubbed his nose all over him, leaving a sticky residue. Gil dabbed at the gooey stuff. Blood. His hands flew to Max’s snout, searching, until they fell upon the spot. A bullet had grazed Max’s left ear. Blood dripped from the wound, caught in Max’s fur where it had coagulated.

The boys heard a thud as the man in the tree hit the ground. Max ran, his jaws wide, literally going for the jugular. Avery grabbed him by the collar just as Max tore the man’s ski mask away. Recognition lit on Avery’s face. That driver?! But….

The man fired a wild shot and rolled to his side. Propelled by adrenaline, Avery reached for him. His fingers grazed the man’s coat, but he eluded Avery’s grasp and fled into the woods. Avery raised his gun, aimed, and pulled the trigger. It clicked. He stood that way for several seconds, wheezing and studying the blackness that had consumed the driver. Gil teetered forward, gripping Max’s collar. Avery pushed back a wave of nausea and scooped them both into his arms. Gil’s breath was short and ragged, the life force weak, and he slouched against his brother. Avery corralled his own erratic breath, lassoing the fear singeing his throat. He might have killed a man if the gun had been loaded.

He ran his hands over Gil’s face and the back of his head, feeling for cuts and bruises. There were many.

“Are you alright?” he asked. Gil nodded and then proceeded to pass out. Avery caught him before he hit the ground. He tilted Gil’s head back and checked his eyes.

“He just passed out,” Avery said to Max. He rubbed Max’s head and Max returned the favor by licking his hand. “Thanks.” Avery touched Max’s ear. The dog winced. A scab was forming. “C’mon. We gotta get out of here.”

He draped Gil over his shoulder, his knees buckling under the weight. They headed for the trail with Max leading the way.

to be continued. . .

this is what happened before

walking in darkness

Posted on February 17, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Six

At dinnertime, Avery walked out to the barn, but Gil wouldn’t open the door. After a few minutes, he walked away. He came back with a loaded tray and a bowl of dog food for Max which he left on top of a fifty-five gallon drum next to the door. Back inside the house, he checked the window every few minutes to see if the tray was still there.

“Would you stop. You’re making me nervous,” Kori said.

“Why won’t he come in?”

“Because he’s pissed at me.

“Why?”

“Well, let’s see. I broke up with Jack so he’s blaming me for Jack not coming around. I told Chris he could write the article about the TDU based on his suggestion that getting things out in the open would actually make it safer for us.”

Avery cocked a single eyebrow, a technique he knew annoyed Kori because she couldn’t master it.

“I didn’t think it was bad to do that. I mean, he did have his “revelation” after Aunt Stella read his cards. I’m not making him do anything he doesn’t want to do.”

“Kori, don’t you think we have enough to handle. The minute that article is printed every guy with an engineering degree is going to be calling. And that’s the legit ones. What about the scammers? We’re paving the way for every kind of miscreant to show up.”

“Oh, stop. You’re just pissed because Gil thinks he needs more help than you can give him.”

“That is so not true and you know it,” Avery said. “I want this thing built as much as anyone.” Avery checked the window to find Gil’s tray gone. “ Finalmente .” He loaded his plate from the pan of baked ziti sitting on top of the stove, grabbed a piece of garlic bread and took a bite before he even sat down. “Mmmmm.” He turned and grabbed another piece. “So he’s happy about the article then?”

Kori loaded her own plate and sat down. “No, actually. He’s mad because I gave Chris his school picture for the article.”

“The ultimate geek picture?” Avery asked.

Kori nodded.

“No wonder he’s pissed. I’d be.”

Kori tossed the salad with olive oil and balsamic vinegar. “I didn’t have another head shot. They specifically needed a head shot.” She ground pepper over the salad.

“Let’s just open up the lame file and plop that little excuse in,” Avery said.

Kori shot him an arsenic-laced stare, but Avery didn’t relent.

“You could have taken another picture. We do have a digital camera, for Godsakes.”

“Alright, I’m sorry. I panicked. Chris needed it right away and Gil was at school.” Kori forked a bit of ziti into her mouth.

“He’ll get over it, I guess.”

“You think so?” she said, mouth full of pasta. “I don’t know. He’s very one-dimensional emotionally.”

Avery shrugged, ground some pepper onto his pasta. “Like you’re deep.”

Kori frowned, but didn’t respond. “What’s he doing out there anyway,” she asked, nodding in the direction of the barn.

“Getting the TDU ready for when “the man” comes.”

“I thought there was only a few hours of work left? He’s been out there for three days.”

“He’s going over the entire machine, every nut and bolt. After Aunt Stella’s reading, he thinks someone’s going to be along any second. Have I mentioned lately what a good cook I am?” Avery took a bite and rolled his eyes dreamily, enthralled by his own culinary talents. “He even gave me the final specs for the patent. I sent it off this morning.”

“Well, somebody might call,” Kori said. She wiped her mouth and put her half-filled plate in the sink. She pulled her coat off the peg and put her shoes on.

“Where you going?”

“Out.”

“With?”

“Who do you think?”

“You never went out this many nights in a row with Jack. Is it just the idea of dating a journalist that’s appealing?”

“Yes I did go out with Jack this much. In the beginning. Don’t you remember when he and Robbie had that fight?”

A shadow fell across Avery’s face.

“What do you have against him, anyway? Other than he’s not Jack.”

“I don’t know. He’s like a bowl of alphabet soup with all the a’s missing.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Kori threw her coat over her arm, grabbed her purse and opened the door.

“It means that he’s not working with a full alphabet, what do you think? And a journalist, no less.”

Kori rolled her eyes. “Now who’s lame?”

Avery shook his head. “So is Jack completely out of the picture?”

Kori smiled big at Avery, raised her eyebrows, shrugged her shoulders and left.

Avery shook his head at the empty space. “Women.”

➣➣➣

Avery threw on a light jacket and bolted out the back door, tripping the motion sensor and flooding the deck with light. The night was balmy, unseasonably so for the second half of winter. He inhaled deeply, identifying various scents including the smell of new growth that predates the arrival of spring, as well as wet decaying leaves and cat piss. About a hundred yards from the house, the light from the motion sensor dropped off and with the moonless sky, Avery found himself walking in darkness. Gil worked by oil lamp this evening and the barn threw off only the barest illumination. Avery tripped over a half-exposed tree root and went sprawling to the ground.

“Dammit.” He brushed himself off and blinked several times, willing his rods – or was it his cones? – to become more cat-like, vowing to bring a flashlight next time.

He reached the barn and rapped on the door three times. It was quiet inside and unless Gil had earplugs in, there was no way he didn’t hear the knocking. “Gil. Open up. It’s been like four days already. You’re starting to stink. I can smell you from out here.” Avery thumbed some paint peeling off the barn door. “How much more do you have to go?” He peeled off a few strips waiting for an answer. “Don’t you think it’s time to return to civilization?”

“No,” came the monosyllabic reply. Avery smiled. That he answered the question meant that Gil was probably desperate for a shower.

“It would feel really nice, the water running all through your hair and down your back. Really, really hot water. You could stand in there so long there wouldn’t be a steam-free inch of wall space.” Avery heard some shuffling inside, but the occupants didn’t emerge.

“Hey, The Matrix is on Bravo tonight. You can stay up and watch the whole thing,” Avery said to the door. Nothing. “Well at least come inside and sleep in your own bed. Kori’s out for the night and I want to go to sleep. I’d feel better if you were inside.” He rested his head on the doorjamb and waited. “C’mon, Gil.”

Avery waited so long for an answer that he dozed off, eyes popping wide when his head hit the barn door. He made one last attempt: “Well don’t come running to me if the boogie man comes after you.” The lock clicked open, but not the door. Avery waited, but after a minute, it clicked shut, the moment lost. He rolled his eyes and walked back into the house.

Avery left the kitchen light on in case Gil decided to come in during the night, and closed the door, but didn’t lock it. He also turned the back yard’s motion sensor to the full “on” position so Gil would have a light to follow toward the house. Fixing your eyes on the outside light helped incrementally with the dark parts. He left the front porch lights on for when Kori came home, then cast an uneasy glance around the perimeter of the house, lit up like a stadium for a nighttime game. He wished everyone would come home and go to bed already, then went upstairs to his room.

At 2 o’clock, Avery’s eyes flew open and he jerked up in bed. He touched his arm, still feeling the distinct sensation of someone shaking him awake. “Hello?” He looked around, but saw nothing in the shadows. “Mom?” As soon as he said his mother’s name, a chill ran the length of his spine and his whole body shuddered. He shook his head to clear it, then tentatively stepped out of bed. He peered out the window toward the barn.

A green phosphorescent light, barely visible, swept back and forth across the length of the structure. After several sweeps the light moved around to the other side. “What the…” Another chill ran through him and he found himself pulling on his pants and shoes without any conscious effort. The light stopped, fixated on the door to the barn. Avery grabbed a sweatshirt off the chair and bolted from his bedroom.

He was down two flights of stairs and in the basement in twelve seconds flat, running to the cedar closet. He pushed through the off-season clothes hanging there: summer dresses and shorts, bathing suits, and Robbie’s one-piece surfing suit clanged noisily on their hangers as he shoved them to the side. He lunged to the back of the closet where Robbie stored his gun cabinet. Avery tried the combination lock twice and failed. “Goddamn it!” He banged on the cabinet, took a deep breath and closed his eyes. “Please.” Avery tried a third time and the lock clicked open. He grabbed the biggest shotgun without even stopping to load it. He reached the top of the stairs about the same time the roar of Gil’s ATV and sound of Max’s harsh barks flooded the silent night.

He made it outside in time to see the green light of the flashlight flick wildly across the copse and then burrow into the woods, disappearing into the blackness. Gil roared into the same abyss, Max running after him.

“Gil!” Avery ran, his heart pumping wild with fear. Again, no flashlight. “Gil!!” He stumbled and cursed, found the trail and blindly followed the sound of engine, propelled by instinct not eyesight. Until he heard the sounds that made his legs buckle.

He couldn’t distinguish one from the other at the time. It was only in recollection the sounds became clear: the creaking of a tree, the swish of dead leaves, the breaking glass, the crunching metal. Max’s fanatical barking; and the most sickening sound, a dull thud, that of a body hitting the ground. “Gil!!” The tree rebounded, its sleeping branches swatting at the empty air.

The ATV lay on its back, it’s wheels spinning into infinity, the motor grinding on and on, while its tires searched for the missing earth.

to be continued . . .

start here to read more

a hundred years from Monday

Posted on February 2, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Five

A few days later, Kori was pulling out in Ruth’s minivan when Jack cruised up the driveway, forcing her to slam on the breaks to avoid a head-on collision. He stepped out of his car, an impish smile on his face, and walked over to the driver’s side. She looked beautiful.

“Better watch where you’re going,” Jack said. “You could hit somebody.”

“Better you than me.”

“Nice to see you, too.” Kori stared straight ahead, ignoring him.

“How come you haven’t returned my calls?”

“You called?”

“Very funny, Kori. What the hell’s going on?”

“Nothing. Why do you ask?”

“I’ve been calling you all week, is why I ask, and I know you haven’t been home because I’ve driven by a dozen times. Then last night one of my buddies says he saw you and some flunky out having dinner.”

“We’re just friends.”

“Oh yeah? When was the last time you lip-locked a friend?”

Kori shrugged.

“Answer me, dammit.”

Kori stared at the woods to the side of the house. Jack yanked open the driver’s side door and pulled her out by the arm.

“Ow….”

“Oh, now I have your attention….”

Kori shook loose from his grip and stalked off across the lawn. Jack ran ahead, hampering further progress.

“What in God’s name has gotten into you? Why are you so angry?”

“Because you’re a self-centered bastard. You waste your time watching sports when you could read a book. You prefer a night of drinking with your friends to the movies with me. You have no interest in my work. But most of all, because you wouldn’t go to the Goddamn public meeting with me!” She said the last with such venom that Jack thought she was going to strike him to hammer the point home, but she just turned on her heel and walked back toward the car. He stared after her, dumbfounded, before running to catch up.

“I’m sorry. If I’d have known it meant so much I would’ve gone with you.”

“You did know.”

“I didn’t. I swear. Come here.” Jack pulled Kori in and hugged her to his chest. “I miss you. Please don’t do this.”

Kori raised her face to him.

“Besides. Robbie told me to take care of you.”

Kori grimaced and shoved Jack as hard as she could. He lost his balance and fell backwards.

“And Robbie told me to watch out for you,” she said, “but not the way you think. Anyway, Robbie’s dead. Gone. Just like you. Just like everybody.”

Jack jumped up and grabbed the back of her neck. He pushed her chin up and kissed her gruffly. “It would be a shame to lose what we have.” He wound his arms around her and whispered in her ear. “To walk away just so you can be the first to leave is a horrible waste of time. Sometimes there are things bigger and more satisfying than an indulgence of your pride.”

“Like what?

“Like happiness.”

“Oh, pull-ease”

Jack released his grip and took a step back, putting air between them. “Are you afraid to be happy with me?”

“I was happy with you until I saw what an egotistical prick you are.”

“C’mon, Kori. This is stupid.” He kissed her again and this time she responded with her mouth and her body. After a minute, she released him. He was electrified.

“Alright. You win.” She reached out and gave his dick a little squeeze. He shivered at the touch. “Call me, say, a hundred years from Monday. That should put us squarely in the next lifetime.” She strode to the van, slamming the door after her.

Jack watched as she put the transmission into all wheel drive and drove through the small forested grove to the side of the driveway, pulling out onto the road before he even registered what happened.

➣➣➣

Jack walked around to the back of the house and, hearing music, followed it to the barn. He banged on the door, but Gil didn’t hear him over the bass. He peeked in the window and saw Gil holding Max up by his front paws and dancing to the Bacon Brothers, Philadelphia Chickens. Jack knocked on the window and when Gil saw him, he screamed and dropped Max to the ground.

Gil lowered the volume on the stereo and opened the door. “You can’t sneak up on a person.”

Jack laughed. “It’s not like it was hard.”

“Where’ve you been?” Gil demanded.

“Home. At work. Out. You want a list?”

“Why not here?”

“Your sister’s not talking to me.”

“So what? I’m talking to you.”

Jack tilted his head, shrugged his shoulders and gave Gil a lopsided smile. “Gilly.”

Gil looked askance at Jack, set his lips in a grim straight line, and closed the door.

“Gil, come on,” Jack said, knocking again.

Gil locked the door and turned up the music.

to be continued. . .

to get caught up start here

little secrets

Posted on January 30, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Four

Three nights later, the doorbell rang and Gil and Max ran to answer it. Chris Kane stood at the door with a bouquet of flowers in one hand and a small bag of gourmet dog treats in the other. Gil turned toward the stairs and yelled: “Kori! Time to go.” He turned back to Chris, hand on the knob, body blocking the doorway. He did not invite him in, just stared at him while Max sniffed the bag.

“Oh, yeah,” Chris said. “These are for Max.”

Gil opened the bag and without taking his eyes off Chris, tossed a biscuit in a high arc. Max made a mad dash across the room, snatching it from the air. One corner of Gil’s mouth quirked up when Max took the first crunching bite, but his gaze didn’t waver.

Kori appeared and Chris sighed from relief and appreciation. Kori smiled, waved and disappeared into the kitchen. After a few more moments, Gil took the flowers and went to join his sister, but when Chris took a step to follow, Max ceased his crunching and growled.

“Oh, they’re beautiful,” Chris heard her say from the kitchen. “Do me a favor and put these in water?” He heard the smacking of lips as cheeks were kissed.

“Avery should be home by ten. Gil needs to go to sleep by then.”

“Awww, Kori,” Gil whined.

“Alright. Ten-thirty.” Apparently that pleased Gil because Chris heard no argument.

“You be careful now.”

An older female voice. One Chris couldn’t identify.

“I will.” Another kiss. “Thanks, Aunt Stella.” Ah, yes. The neighbor.

“Well, whether you’re early or late, you know where you’ll find me.”

“Asleep on the couch and pretending not to be.” More laughter and then she was standing before him, smiling.

“What are you doing in the doorway?” Kori asked, the smile brightening.

“Waiting for you. What else?”

Kori laughed and he grabbed her arm and led her away.

➣➣➣

“The more you delve into this stuff, the more that comes up,” Aunt Stella said. She and Gil sat at the kitchen table each with the remnants of a glass of milk and the cookie crumbs to go with it. Aunt Stella shuffled a deck of Tarot cards, tapped them tight and placed them in front of Gil. “That’s why people keep all their little secrets and don’t want to bother with them. It’s just too much for some to think about.” She smiled at Gil. “You’re still young, though. How many secrets could you possibly have?”

“Now what do I do?” Gil asked, impatient.

“Cut the cards three times to the left and then stack them up again on the pile to the right.” Gil did as instructed and waited on Aunt Stella’s next move. “We’re just going to do a short past, present, future reading right now rather than go through the whole song and dance of a lifetime reading. Although…” She placed a hand under her chin and played with an errant whisker, something her eyebrow tweezers had missed. She furrowed her brows, further accentuating the small, almost scar-like indentation that had formed over the years in the center of her eyebrows as a result of this exact facial expression. “Nah, let’s just do this.” Waving a pudgy hand to erase all contrary thoughts, she placed it on top of the cards, fanning them across the table before Gil. Although Aunt Stella had several Tarot decks at home, she preferred Aleister Crowley’s Thoth Tarot Deck as it conveyed more of a feeling of beneficence on the reader than say, the Egyptian Tarot which was to her mind overly preoccupied with the twin themes of death and destruction.

“Pick three cards and place them right to left facing down.”

Gil acquiesced and looked up, doe-eyed at Aunt Stella, waiting for the next instruction. She pushed the remainder of the deck together in a pile and set it aside. Had any of the clergy members, all males, of the Greek Orthodox Church to which Aunt Stella belonged been here to witness such adroit familiarity with the work of Satan they would have blushed crimson and then blue for lack of oxygen. But despite the ecclesiastical indoctrinations of the church, it could not, for all its gumption, usurp such traditions, steeped in mysticism and superstition, that had survived among Greek women since the seers and high priestesses of the temple brought to light the oracles at Delphi.

“You know, my mother had the Sight. She could tell you who was on the phone the minute it rang.”

“Wow. Really?” Gil asked. “I wish I could do that.”

“You can. You just need focus. And some training.” Aunt Stella tapped the first of the three cards Gil had turned over. “My sister inherited my mother’s gift. She can read the cards just by looking at them. Not me, though. I need the book.” She flipped through The Tarot Book, by Angeles Arrien, its pages worn and rounded from overuse. She placed her hand reverently on the cover and closed her eyes. “My second bible,” she said, opening her eyes. “Shall we start?”

Aunt Stella picked up Gil’s first card. “This is your recent past.”

“Why didn’t you get your Mom’s gift?”

“It only goes to one woman in the family, usually the first born, but that varies. The others get some things, sympathetic leanings and what not, but usually only one gets the whole enchilada.”

The enchilada reference triggered a visceral reaction and Gil’s stomach grumbled loudly. Aunt Stella pushed her basket of treats his way and looked up the first card in the Angeles book. Gil pulled out a white-chocolate chip and macadamia nut cookie, so loaded with nuts that there was barely enough dough to hold the cookie together.

“What happens if there’s no girls?”

“Sometimes it skips a generation. Although boys can get it, too, if that’s what you’re asking. And sometimes it does run through the male line. Your father’s told me more than once about your grandmother. Apparently she had it. I think he was always a little disappointed that he didn’t have a full-fledged dose of it, although he was very intuitive, especially for a man. Still, he didn’t rise to your level.” Aunt Stella reached across the table and squeezed Gil’s hand. “He was so proud of you.”

Gil pulled out another cookie.

“That’s enough now. You’re not going to be able to sleep.”

“Yes I will.” He bit into it while Aunt Stella read Gil’s first card.

“The Six of Swords. Excellent. And not surprising, actually. The Six of Swords represents science.” She showed Gil the page in the book depicting the card as if that were sufficient to prove its meaning. “Objective communication is represented by the planet Mercury. See it there at the top. Then there’s Aquarius at the bottom, and it’s associated with ‘originality, innovation and pioneering work.’” She squeezed Gil’s arm and smiled. “This is good, Gilly. It symbolizes the creative mind that pulls ideas from unexplainable sources of inspiration and communicates them in a way people can understand without feeling threatened.”

“It’s the TDU! You see the TDU in the cards!”

“Right there in a full-color spectrum of light,” Aunt Stella said. Gil allowed himself a moment’s smile, but replaced it with a stern countenance.

“Does it say how it’ll do?” He bounced the heel of his foot up and down, the ball of his foot stationary on the floor, a habit born of nervousness.

“Hhmmmm. I’m surprised.” Aunt Stella raised her eyebrows at him. “You usually don’t care about those things.”

Aunt Stella locked eyes with him, a penetrating gaze; he looked down and studied the lines on his hands. She moved over to his side of the table, turned his face to hers.

“You’re not your father. You can only do what you can. I know you feel the burden of trying to save the world for him. And your mother. You can’t help but get that from your parents. But Gilly, you’re only ten, honey, and practically still a baby.” She squeezed Gil then released him so she could look in his eyes. “He’ll be proud of you no matter what you do.” Aunt Stella placed Gil’s head on her massive chest and he shed a few silent tears.

“I thought you said you weren’t psychic?” Gil said, sitting up to wipe his eyes.

“Well, maybe just a little.” Aunt Stella blushed and smiled. Gil reached for another cookie then stopped in mid-swipe and looked up at Aunt Stella first, the question in his smile.

She sighed. “Alright, but that’s it.”

Gil stared at the Six of Swords as he chewed. “What else does it say?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you turn over another one?”

He flipped a card to see a man hanging upside down, bound at the ankle by a snake hanging from an Egyptian Ankh. He dropped the card. “Am I going to die?”

“Ah, the Hanged Man,” Aunt Stella said. “No, you’re not going to die, but you have to forget about everything you are if you want to move past the ego to a place where things really start happening. Break old habits. Release your fear. You’ll do great things.”

“But I don’t feel afraid of anything. I mean, sometimes I’m afraid of ghosts, but only the ones I don’t know, and sometimes the dark, but only if Max isn’t around.” At the mention of his name, Max raised his head, opened his mouth, revealing a full set of molars, and yawned. Gil scratched him behind the ears. Max put his head down and went back to sleep.

“How about this? The only limitations on you right now – since this card deals with the present – are those you put on yourself. Capice?”

Gil nodded. “What’s the last one say? The future card?”

“Turn it over.”

Gil popped the last bite of cookie in his mouth and flipped the card.

“The Seven of Wands. Excellent.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means stand by what you believe. Don’t compromise and trust your intuition.”

Gil sighed, folded his hands on his lap and looked at the cards. “Do they say anything else? Because I’m not sure I understand.”

Aunt Stella smiled and reached for the deck. She handed them to Gil who wrapped his hands around them. “Concentrate,” she said. He closed his eyes for several moments and then put the cards on the table. “Now fan them out and pick one.”

Gil flipped over a card from the middle of the deck, “The Star,” a card from the major arcana. Aunt Stella smiled.

“More of the same, Gilly. Get out there. Do something wonderful. Be the gateway for the light to come through you and out into the world. And don’t be afraid to shine.”

“Is that it?” Gil put his hands under his chin and slumped in his chair. “Aunt Stella, how can I do this by myself if I’m only ten?”

“What about Avery? Can’t he help you?”

“Yes, but…” Gil looked around behind him to make sure Avery hadn’t suddenly appeared out of thin air, and whispered to Aunt Stella, “I think I need more help than that.”

“I don’t know, Gilly. Let’s see.” Aunt Stella pointed to the cards. “One more.”

Gil scanned the row of cards, his eyes running up and down, his fingers barely touching them until of their own volition they seemed to stop and hover about one card. Aunt Stella nodded and Gil turned over the card.

“Ah, that’s what you were looking for.” Gil stared at the card: “The Prince of Disks” depicted a man with a strange helmet sitting in a chariot being pulled by a bull. “The architect has arrived.” Aunt Stella consulted the Arien book. “See that double helix right there? It indicates an ability to build new worlds.” She stopped and smiled. “Gilly, meet your new partner.”

Gil stared back and forth between Aunt Stella and The Prince of Disks for a full minute before speaking: “Thanks, Aunt Stella.” He threw his arms around her, kissed her on the cheek, and went upstairs to bed.

to be continued. . .

start by reading this

Seven Miles per Hour

Posted on January 6, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-One

Gil lay fast asleep on the hammock in the barn, his face pillowed against Max’s smooth, thick coat. The lights were off, and in the late-afternoon dusky, winter light, the figures entwined on the hammock looked like some monstrous, hibernating snow beast. Someone had turned the heat off, most likely by accident; the heat thermostat and the alarm system were side-by-side on the same wall. Gil’s breath, that is, the breath that escaped the confines of Max’s coat, rose in wispy tendrils mingling with the cold ambient air before dispersing its atoms at random. Gil breathed strong and steady and with purpose; the area of Max’s coat surrounding his nose and mouth was heavy with droplets of condensation. It was the breath of one knee-deep in REM sleep, working through the day’s problems with the help of divine guidance. Gil’s face bore an intense look which supplanted his usual innocent countenance and his eyebrows furrowed in concentration. He twitched as if throwing off some distasteful thought and buried his hands and face deeper in the folds of Max’s warmth. Max had grown considerably in the months since they’d rescued each other — Max from life as a vagabond, and Gil from loneliness and despair — giving Gil all the more surface area to burrow beneath.

Gil tossed his head vigorously from side-to-side. His dream angels must have been working overtime and what they revealed must have sat squarely on his chest, for he groped and clawed at it as if to eradicate some pain. The behemoth beside him did not jump, simply looked back at his master to see if all was in order, yawned, then laid his head down again. He returned to doggy dreamland just as Gil opened his eyes to see his brother staring at him.

“I didn’t hear you come in,” Gil said.

“That’s cause you don’t pay attention,” Robbie said. Max lifted his head and barked. He and Robbie cast appraising glances at each other. Gil patted Max’s hindquarters and, satisfied there was no threat, Max went back to sleep.

“Where were you?”

“Inside. Doin’ stuff.” Robbie inclined his head toward the house.

Gil stared at Robbie as if he were a mirage. He blinked his eyes hard and watched as Robbie strolled over to Marty’s drawings on the table. He thumbed through, studying them with intense curiosity before turning his attention back to Gil. “It’s a few days worth of work, you know.”

“I know.”

“Then why don’t you finish it?”

Gil shrugged. “It’s not that.”

“What, then?”

Gil sat up and studied his brother’s face. He looked thinner than Gil remembered and his uniform hung limply on his frame.

“Was it hard?”

Robbie nodded, a grave look momentarily alighted on his handsome face.

“Are you home for good now?”

Robbie shook his head, barely perceptible. “I still have some things to do.”

Robbie sat down on Marty’s swivel chair and pushed off hard. The chair spun. Robbie pulled his legs in close and coasted to a halt. Since they were children, the Tirabi kids played this game, seeing who could spin the most times around with one push. Being the smallest, and the lightest, Gil got the most out of his spin and held the all time record at just under four complete revolutions. Robbie pushed off again – two revolutions.

Gil watched him as happy and sad duked it out in his belly. “Do you still love us?”

Robbie abruptly placed both feet on the ground and focused on his brother: “I’ve never loved anything more in my life.”

They eyed each other a moment and then Gil smiled, his lips set in a tight thin line. He thought he might cry.

“Get to work, little brother,” Robbie said, and pushed off as hard as he could. He tucked his knees in and was spinning around once, twice, three times, when the door opened and a cold blast of arctic air preceded Avery into the barn.

Avery stood, dressed for skiing, his nose dripping. He reached for the box of tissues on the table by the door and blew profusely. Gil bolted upright and, flush with excitement, barked at his brother.

“I can’t believe you’re blowing your nose at a time like this.” Gil pointed to the chair and stared at Avery incredulously.

“You have a better time?” Avery responded, following Gil’s finger pointing to the empty chair. “Maybe I should wait until it drips down the front of my coat and then do it.”

Gil looked at the empty chair before lying back down on the hammock. He blinked and stared at the ceiling drawing quick, raw breaths.

“Hey, what’s the matter?” Avery was at his side in a flash.

Water ran from Gil’s eyes, cascaded down to form small pools in his ears. Gil plunged a finger in each side to stop the deluge. Avery sat down on the edge of the hammock upsetting the equilibrium. Max groaned, but shifted his weight.

“Did you see something when you walked in?” Gil asked.

Avery looked around the room then shook his head.

“You didn’t notice anything strange?”

“No.” He felt the edge in Gil’s voice and a chill ran up his spine. He looked around uncomfortably, the breath from his mouth coming forth like giant billows of white smoke.

“I do notice the heat’s off,” Avery said. Gil shivered involuntarily and huddled closer to Max for warmth. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”

Gil looked at his brother for a moment and buried his head in Max’s fur.

“I’m not sure.” The voice emanating from the fur was timid and full of uncertainty.

Minutes passed and Avery was beginning to wonder whether Gil had fallen asleep, huddled beneath a blanket of fur, when without warning, Gil bounded from the hammock, dropping Avery to the floor and leaving Max to swing in the breeze.

“Stay, Max.” Max whined, but Gil stifled him with a look. The dog put his head down on his paws and watched as his master zipped up his coat and donned his gloves and hat, the one with the jingle bells on it.

“Let’s go skiing,” Gil said. And before Avery could answer, he was out the door.

➣➣➣

The tractor ran at a cruising rate of seven miles per hour through the woods. Gil and Avery arrived at the back side of the landfill in ten minutes. The Stahl’s had never put a fence around this side of the fill, a trash picker’s mecca, if there was anyone interested in picking trash.

Avery cut the engine, set the brake and hopped off. He grabbed a shovel and handed Gil one. Avery groaned. The thought of digging through trash made his stomach queasy. For some strange reason, it had relaxed his father.

Avery pulled a pair of leather work gloves from his back pocket and dug a few test holes, looking for buried treasure. Some worthy items lay scattered on top: a computer monitor, a box of clothes, a pair of sneakers. This was the newer part of the landfill that Jim Stahl, Jr. had worked toward the end of his reign – before EPA shut him down last year – and much of the trash still retained its original shape. In some of the older parts the refuse had already turned to sludge. Gil said the TDU could handle the sloppy mess, but Avery wasn’t sure if his nose were up to the task so he stuck to things that looked like earlier versions of themselves. He loaded trash with speed and dexterity, musing over the potential the TDU had to eliminate landfilling in his lifetime and thinking about Jim Stahl, Jr., their neighbor, and the son of the man unwittingly responsible for providing them with this bonanza of refuse. Like a miniature volcano, the landfill burped, releasing a pocket of foul-smelling methane gas into the ambient air. Avery jumped, coughed and covered his nose. Gil giggled.

Gil could feel rather than see the aquifer, bubbling as it flowed beneath the landfill, a toxic soup thick with carcinogens as unpronounceable as they were hazardous to the health. He stood up, stretching the last hour’s hard labor from his chicken wings. He planted the shovel in the ground and gave the area another cursory view. The trailer was already heaping, but Gil spied a box of recyclables, plastic bottles and aluminum cans, and couldn’t leave without them. Made from petroleum themselves, recyclable plastics were the TDU’s gold bullion. They yielded the highest quantity and best grade of oil. And Marty’s oil, already of superior quality, bumped up a notch each time the TDU ate a batch of recyclables. He tossed the shovel in the trailer, grabbed the box, and took a seat, hesitating a moment before setting it on his lap, the only free space left.

“What a waste of time,” Gil said.

“What’s a waste of time?” Avery asked tossing his shovel in the trailer.

“People spend hours every week recycling. And it ends up in a landfill.”

“That’s cause there’s no market. You can’t make food grade plastic out of lesser grades. We need a federal law and mandatory labeling. Then a milk container could be a milk container again. And a cat litter container could be a cat litter container again,” Avery said, getting behind the wheel of the tractor. “Right now they don’t know what’s what. Besides,” he said, starting the engine, “it would be political suicide to declare recycling a failure. It makes people feel like they’re doing their part.”

“So even if your SUV only gets eleven miles to the gallon, you can still feel good?”

“Right.” Avery grimaced at the slime now on Gil’s pants. “Hey, now when I call you a slime ball, I won’t be lying.”

Avery turned the tractor around and headed for home.

➣➣➣

Kori sat at the kitchen table, cordless phone in hand, rifling through Ruth’s telephone book. Up to the F’s, she thumbed down the list, then dialed. Avery and Gil walked in, the twenty degree air on their heels. They stamped their feet, flinging snow off their boots and leaving it to puddle on the kitchen rug. Kori scowled at both the intrusion and the mess, throwing a dishtowel at Avery’s head. Avery wiped up the floor.

“Mrs. Friedler? Hi. This is Kori Tirabi. I’m calling to remind you about the public meeting tonight at the high school. Are you going?”

“Hey, Gil,” Avery said. “You want some hot chocolate?”

Kori waved Avery away, shooting him a take your conversation elsewhere look. Avery asked Gil the question again, but silently as he pantomimed liquid being poured into a cup and someone stirring. Gil responded in kind, rubbing his belly with huge circular motions and Kori giggled.

“Oh no, I wasn’t laughing at you, Mrs. Friedler. I know hemorrhoids can be dreadfully indisposing, well actually, I don’t have first hand knowledge, but my brother Avery suffers from them periodically.”

Avery’s eyes shot up and he threw the soggy dishtowel back at her. She ducked and it missed. Avery bowed low, making a sweeping motion with his arm indicative of a good loser.

“C’mon, Gil. Let’s see what’s on T.V. We’ll deal with her later.” He grabbed Gil by the shoulder and steered him in the direction of the living room.

“Well that’s great. We’ll see you tonight,” Kori said. She hung up and flipped Ruth’s directory to the G’s.

there’s more to the story if you start here

give me time

Posted on January 2, 2013 by Cynthia G.

we blush, and for good reason.

he kills everything

Posted on December 8, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Eight

Hart and Sonia sat in the kitchen of a large, turn of the century farmhouse. Sonia had lost all the “baby weight,” those amorphous extra pounds that settle around the hips and lower abdomen and stayed on like an unwanted house guest. Hart hadn’t minded. On Sonia, everything looked good. Seeing her now though, in her tight, short-sleeved pullover and Levis, he felt the pull of desire and wanted to do something about it. He squeezed her hand and smiled, but she scowled at something across the room. He followed her gaze.

Bicky! What the hell’s he doing here? Bicky smiled complacently at his daughter. On the table was a small turtle, the kind children put inside a terrarium with a little pond, some dirt, gravel, and a few ferns. Hart watched the turtle walk back and forth between his open hands.

“You can’t let him do this, David. Don’t you see what he’s up to?”

Hart strained to listen, but didn’t understand and didn’t want to confess his ignorance. If she found out he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, would she leave again? He searched her face for meaning and finding none, returned his attention to the turtle.

“David, he won’t stop here. Don’t you see? He doesn’t care. Not about anyone or anything. Do something. Please.”

Do something about what? Hart’s brain cast about, attempting to divine meaning, but the more he let loose the lure, the more tangled the lines became. So he just sat there while Sonia scowled and Bicky smiled like a Jesus wanna-be. He squeezed Sonia’s hand again, as if he could intuit her meaning through touch. Tears sprung to her eyes, but the scowl remained intact.

Without warning, Bicky reached across the table and plucked the turtle from Hart’s fingerless hold. He jumped up and headed toward the stove. A large pot bubbled away; a gas flame licked the underside of its metal belly and steam wafted up to the ceiling’s wooden beams.

“No!” Sonia shouted, pouncing on her father. He whirled away and held the turtle above her head, dangling it there like a bully would do to a smaller child.

“David, please. He kills everything. Stop him.” Before Hart could move, Sonia was on Bicky, pushing, kicking and punching. He shoved his daughter and she crashed into the kitchen door. The rickety latch gave easily; the door flew open and Sonia out with it.

“Nooo!” Hart screamed and jumped over the table reaching the door just as it banged shut. He flung it open and instead of finding his wife, lying prostrate on the front stoop, he found a large, fast-moving river. He stared after the river’s course dumbfounded, but there was no trace of Sonia.

Hart turned and leaped at Bicky, snatching the turtle from Bicky’s hand and replacing it on the table. He put his hands on either side to guard it and watched his father-in-law through narrowed eyes. Bicky pressed forward, but Hart deflected him, his arms forming a barricade. He was desperate to go after Sonia, but Bicky’s menacing presence loomed large and Hart knew that if he left, the turtle was soup. Bicky mocked him, trying to break him with derision, but Hart wouldn’t blink. Finally, he just stared at the turtle, wide-eyed, babbling something crazy. At first, Hart thought it was a trick, but curiosity beat him down. He looked. The turtle had tripled in size and was still growing.

Bicky ran a tongue over his lips. “Ah, it’s going to be even better now.”

Hart readied himself for another attack, shielding the turtle with his body. There was no assault, just the beep beep of numbers being punched into a cell phone. He looked up, expecting a trick, but Bicky was, in fact, calling someone.

“What are you doing?” Hart asked.

“What else,” Bicky said. “Calling my lawyer.”

The peal of the phone shot Hart right out of bed. He scanned the room, disoriented. Bicky was gone. So was the turtle. “Sonia.” A lament. The phone rang again, jarring him. He loosed it from its cradle.

“This is Hart.”

“It’s… Kitty.” Bicky’s voice was thick and choked sounding.

“Bicky?” Hart’s own voice sounded strangled; trepidation lingered in the ambient air.

“Kitty had an aneurysm. She’s dead.” Hart felt the sickening feeling return.

“Come back to Houston…please?”

“I’ll be there by late afternoon,” Hart said, and started packing.

to be continued. . .

to catch up, jump here

wildlife sanctuary

Posted on November 4, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fourty-Four

It was a wind like only January could send down, brutal and unforgiving. Zenone cursed under his breath and stumbled back inside the command post trailer, the wind slamming the door shut for him. It continued to beat against the trailers sides, rocking it inexorably, and he wondered if he and the command post might not end up in Kansas with Dorothy and Toto. In sharp contrast to the chaos, whipping white caps across the river, the snow clouds cast a calm, eerie light across the sky, beautiful and surreal like the color of Mars. By mid-afternoon, the increasing pain in his wrist told him the weather had all but arrived. With that ample warning, he had the foresight to shut down all beach cleanup operations for the day and radio in all seafaring vessels allowing them sufficient time to dock. So far, nine out of ten of the boats had radioed in, safely ensconced at various locations up and down the Delaware.

Zenone felt it his duty to stay put until the last boat was in and all personnel were present and accounted for, but what he really wanted was a beer. It had been a long day, eighteen hours if you counted the two hours he put in before he arrived at the command post. He knew if he drank a beer right now he’d be sleeping in the trailer, but he checked the small fridge anyway, hoping for a bit of a miracle. It was empty but for a pint of half-drunk chocolate milk and a jug of orange juice. He turned his nose up at the juice. The acid would rake his stomach and he didn’t need a full blown case of heartburn. He grabbed the chocolate milk, opened the carton and sniffed the contents, recoiling at the smell emanating from within.

“Aachhh.”

He set the milk down on the desk and made a mental note to stop at a store on his way home, that is, if he didn’t fall asleep at the wheel. He was bone weary from lack of sleep and his stomach rumbled, adding to the mix. A cheesesteak would be good right now.

The wind howled and the trailer throbbed, driving all thoughts of food from Zenone’s head. He took a stool at the drafting table, ran his hands through his hair. Outside, snow started to fall. Zenone stared at the phone, willing it to ring. The silence crept into his inner ear, as pervasive as the oil on the Delaware, making its bunk up for the night. The storm would go a ways toward breaking up the oil, but there was still too much in the water. If it could have just waited until tomorrow when they had recovered more. Then Mother Nature could get to work. He scanned the computer generated simulation Lapsley had brought him. The Coast Guard had sent a helicopter up on an overflight mission to map the extent of contamination – an aerial view of the spill was immensely helpful in these circumstances – but it was only partially successful due to the weather. The heavy cloud cover made it hard to distinguish the slick, while the clouds’ shadows cast what looked like dark stains, easily mistaken for oil, upon the water. After ascertaining the imperfection of purely visual analysis, the overflight team notified Akanabi who sent up their environmental consultant. He snapped a bunch of photos with infrared light cameras which produced a much clearer picture of the spill, then fed the reconnaissance data into a computer. The program crunched the spill data, mixed in environmental conditions such as wind and weather, and simulated the spill’s course and dispersion rate. The conclusion was that the oil was heading toward the Delaware Bay where it would likely be contained and, as a result, wouldn’t reach the Atlantic Ocean. Duh. Although in open ocean waters computer modeling could be extremely helpful in determining the direction of a spill, in this case, the Delaware only went two ways and the odds were staggering that the oil would return to the Bay with the outgoing tide.

“I’d say they got ripped off,” Zenone said. He tossed the aerial map aside and rested his head on his closed fist.

Zenone’s guys had managed to sufficiently confine the oil just short of the Bay before having to abort the mission. At that time, and by some good will of the gods, only the Pennsylvania side of the shoreline had been affected. But the way the wind was bandying the oil about now, the shores on both sides of the Delaware and likely the Bay would be gummed up by morning.

He grabbed the shoreline cleanup manual off the desk and thumbed through the various clean up methods looking for something he might have missed: removal; steam cleaning; high-pressure washing; chemical and hydraulic dispersion. Chemical and hydraulic dispersion . The eight-foot waves would take care of the hydraulic part. He would have preferred a good surface washing, lying down some rip rap and hosing off the beaches. Then they could collect the oil off the rip rap and dispose of it properly. But now the waves were going to wash the oil back into the river where it would sink to the bottom. Chemical dispersants would break it up, but…

Zenone removed his hat and scratched his head, then ran his fingers through his hair. He hadn’t thought about chemical dispersants because the Delaware was a fresh water body and chemicals had a certain degree of toxicity. What if the dispersants could be placed before the storm came, an emulsifier that would break the oil down into smaller pieces and drive it into the water column where it would more easily biodegrade. That and the oncoming wind and large waves would break it up fast. But the chemicals . The heavy oils were less toxic; they tended to sit on the surface of things rather than penetrate them, but they were tough to remove – like picking up gravel with tweezers – and smothered the smaller organisms that lived on the shore. He flipped through the manual looking for guidance. The Coast Guard had some pre-approved areas where emulsifiers could be used – he wasn’t sure without looking where they were – but how the hell were they going to get the stuff in the river before the storm, especially now since he’d recalled all seafaring vessels. He could go out himself maybe…

“Oh my God, I’m losing it.” He closed the book and pushed it aside, wishing again that he had a beer. He checked the cell phone. No new calls. He grabbed the trailer phone and laid down on the small couch. Just until I get the call . He closed his eyes and because of his exhaustion, rapid eye movement began almost at the outset.

Zenone stood on the shore watching large waves crash against it and taking with them, back to the river, the blackness that covered the land. He smiled. The oil was dissipating. Once again, Mother Nature prevailed. The snow clouds cast an eerie orange light, enough for him to see. It was all going great until the waves started dropping things on the beach; a loud thump, followed by a scattering of black, rounded clumps of solid mass.

He walked over to investigate. A large, oiled bird lay on the ground, half-dead and shivering from hypothermia. Zenone touched the animal as it opened its eyes, blinking back the oil, trying to clear its vision. He felt his own eyes sting with tears. Zenone wiped the bird’s eyes with his fingers, then his hands, removing what oil he could, but the task was impossible, like removing water from a well with a slotted spoon. He was so engrossed, he didn’t notice the wall of water behind him. The wave crashed on the shoreline, knocking Zenone to the ground and taking the bird with it. He climbed to his feet and staggered down the beach. Another crashing wave, another thump , followed by another, and another. Zenone looked up to see birds lying everywhere, landing on the beach with each successive wave. He dropped to his knees and crawled to the nearest bird. A glob of oil was stuck in the bird’s esophagus. He reached in and tried to dislodge it. The bird fought him, flapping against both the intrusion and the lack of oxygen. It clamped down hard on Zenone’s fingers and he yelped in surprise and pain.

➣➣➣

“Rise and shine,” Lapsley said, squeezing the fingers of Zenone’s hand. Zenone shrieked and Lapsley jumped back, almost dropping the pair of coffees he carried. He set the carrier down, removed his gloves and handed Zenone a cup of the steaming brew.

“What time is it?” Zenone croaked.

“Five forty-five. That would be a.m.,” Lapsley said. “You look like hell.” Lapsley noted the dark, foreboding circles under Zenone’s eyes, but said nothing more

“You’re no prince charming, yourself,” Zenone grumbled. He accepted the coffee and took a big swig. “Goddamn, that’s good.” He took another swig, walked to the table and pulled at the bag Lapsley brought, extracting a whole wheat bagel with cream cheese.

“Hungry?” Lapsley asked.

Zenone nodded and consumed half the bagel in a bite. “Never got dinner.”

Outside, the water looked choppy, but calmer than the night before.

“Chocolate mousse,” Lapsley said.

There was a loud bang at the door and Zenone jumped again spilling coffee on the table. “Damn,” he said and grabbed the bag for some napkins. He spoke through a mouth full of bagel. “Come.”

Hart entered carrying several cups of coffee and a box of donuts which he set on the table. Zenone smiled at the offering.

“If you bring food, you’re always welcome,” Zenone said, shoving bagel in his mouth. He nodded to a seat which Hart took.

“Lap and I were just talking about chocolate mousse.”

Hart raised an eyebrow. “All I brought were Munchkins.”

“And that’ll do.” Zenone routed through the box and popped one in his mouth. “You know, when oil becomes aerated, generally after the second or third day, it starts to look like chocolate mousse.”

“He’s head of engineering for Akanabi Oil. He probably knows that,” Lapsley said.

“You never know,” Zenone replied. “It’s a hell of a state. All whipped.”

“Like you before you got divorced.” Lapsley said. Zenone ignored the slur.

“In the summer, the oil turns into tarry clumps and ends up on the beach,” Hart said.

“Asphaltine,” Lapsley added. Hart nodded and Lapsley smiled. “Sorry. We’re used to dealing with the public.”

“Do you know if any of it has sunk yet?” Hart asked. “The Arabian crude is pretty heavy. It’s probably just a matter of time.”

“We’ll find out today,” Lapsley replied. “Once the water has a chance to settle.”

“I got a helicopter on standby equipped with sonar. If there are globules on the bottom, large or small, we can track it,” Hart said.

“Hey, remember that one spill?” Lapsley asked Zenone. “These big globs of oil were up and down the river like bouncy balls, back and forth with the tide.”

Zenone’s cell phone rang. The command post phone was also blinking. “Damn.”

“It came in around eleven,” Lapsley said, intuiting the source of Zenone’s concern.

“How do you know?”

“Because they called me when you didn’t answer your phone.”

Zenone nodded and sat down, visibly relieved.

“You don’t need me this morning, do you?” Lapsley asked.

“Whaddya got goin’ on?”

“We’re going to take a ride to Chesapeake to the wildlife sanctuary. Want to go?”

A shiver ran down Zenone’s spine and he stared off into space for a moment, looking at something Hart and Lapsley couldn’t see. “Nah. Go ahead.” He waived a hand to dismiss them.

“I’ll check in at Tinicum Marsh on my way back. I haven’t heard from anybody yet. Hopefully the booms held.”

Zenone drew a deep breath let it out slowly. “With a little luck….”

to be continued. . .

read how we got here, here

the coming storm

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Two

Zenone stood outside the command post, watching the river and contemplating the next move. He nodded at the clean up crew’s progress, somewhat satisfied with the speed at which the raking and shoveling at the shoreline was making a difference. He could actually see the beach in some spots whereas hours ago, there was nothing to see but brown crude. As clean up crews went, this was a savvy bunch. They got to work immediately after receiving the basic safety instructions and didn’t appear inclined to loaf. Perhaps there was hope for recovery of this shoreline. Zenone had been with the Coast Guard for twenty-two years, fourteen of which he’d been specializing in oil spill removal. In his experience, it would take years for a spill of this magnitude to lose its effect on the ecosystem and likely decades before all the oil was gone from the shorelines, if ever. But right here it wasn’t so bad. On a sensitivity scale of one to ten, the mixed sand and gravel beaches were about a five. This beach, and likely most of the beaches along the Delaware from Marcus Hook to just north of Slaughter Beach, Delaware – roughly eighty-five miles of shoreline – would recover with time using the cleanup strategies he was employing. What may not recover, however, was Tinicum Marsh.

Zenone pushed the thought back into his grey matter and coughed. He sucked in the persistent post-nasal drip that the foul smell of too much oil in the ambient air caused him and spit on the ground. He cleared his throat and swallowed. His saliva felt viscous and unnatural. He coughed and spat again.

His cell phone rang and he grabbed it off the belt at his hip, still coughing.

“Zenone.” He looked in the direction of the vacuum boat idling on the water, a small barge about twenty-five feet long that could carry four to five people. It was powered by a single-diesel engine, had a storage tank below deck and an oil skimmer above and was capable of removing thirty tons of heavy oil per hour if it could catch it. Zenone could see the Captain of the tug standing at the stern, cell phone to his ear, waiting for the signal. “Go ahead,” Zenone said into the phone, snapped it shut and replaced it on his hip.

The Captain flashed a thumbs up and the vacuum boat circumvented a thick mass of the slick, trailing a boom. The plan was to circle out and encapsulate as much of the oil as possible in the boom, like outstretched arms slowly pulling together, then swing back in, leaving the boom on the water in a V-formation. The booms were made of tough, non-corrosive plastic, rectangularly-shaped with a bulbous center mounted to a rubber skirt that rose above and below the boom and which entrained the oil, working as a dam to stop it from rushing over or under the barrier. This worked effectively enough in calm waters, but when the winds got rough and the waves picked up, increasing the water’s velocity, there was not a boom made that could stop the oil. When the boom was in place, the vacuum boat turned around and set the skimmers on the oil, munching, crunching and sucking it up using two hydraulic-driven pumps. The pressurized system funneled the oil through a tube and then to a gravity separator. Once decanted, the remaining water was pumped off and dumped back into the river. The oil was disposed of in a two thousand gallon holding tank to be dealt with later either by pumping it off back on shore, or to a small portable hundred foot barge that would intercept it and take it to shore so the vacuum boat could keep skimming.

Zenone checked his watch and then the sky, hoping the weather would hold. He had another ten vacuum boats working the entire stretch of the river, some provided by the Coast Guard, some by EPA, and some by Akanabi Oil. If he could get another ten …

His attention was drawn by the grunting and puffing of two muckers trying to stuff an oil-laden absorbent boom into a disposal bag. The third man grabbed a fresh boom off one of the trucks and headed toward the water. Zenone decided to take back what he said about them being savvy – absorbent booms weren’t to be used until the final stages of the cleanup since other methods, like vacuum extractions, worked better on large quantities of oil – until he looked at the flatbed. The hard, non-corrosive plastic booms were suspiciously absent, and in their place were the sorbent ones. Damn Akanabi Oil. More like Psycho Oil . He barked at the nearest mucker.

“Where the hell are the large plastic booms?” Zenone barked.

“I don’t know. This is all they sent us,” the man replied, then scampered off to join his comrades, leaving Zenone staring after him.

“Hey, Jim. Bring more diapers,” called a young, college-age woman, to her colleague walking toward the supply truck. The man nodded and grabbed another bale. She got down on her hands and knees and pressed absorbent pads – cloth diapers on steroids – into the sand. The pads soaked up small bits of oil, a time consuming process. She reminded Zenone of his own daughter and smiled at her fastidiousness: her little section of the beach was virtually spotless.

Zenone cast an appraising glance upward. The clouds looked more threatening than they had at daybreak, and so thick as to appear seamless. He knew a storm was coming, barely hours away. He felt it in the right wrist, the one he’d broken as a kid. It was the best weather detector he’d encountered to date. He flipped his cell phone open and dialed the number for NOAA anyway. After two rings, someone answered the phone.

“Yeah, who’s this?” Zenone asked. “Hey. It’s Zenone. I need a weather report for the whole tri-state area. Call me back the minute you got it, alright?” He flipped the phone shut.

A horn beeped and Zenone turned to see Lapsley pull up to the command post with a passenger. Zenone met them halfway.

“Hey, Chief. This is David Hartos,” Lapsley said. “Akanabi’s head engineer. He’s your contact.”

“Good to meet you,” Hart said. “Whatever Akanabi can do, please let me know.”

Hart reached out a hand and Zenone gave him a death grip that made him flinch. Zenone smiled, but covered it with a hand to his mouth and a little fake cough. He liked to put them in their place right off, so there wouldn’t be any difficulties with chain-of-command later.

“How about you check on those booms. They sent absorbent instead of plastic. And maybe find some more vacuum boats. If we could get ‘em out before the storm comes we might get somewhere. But if you really want to help, you can tell them to retire all their Goddamn single-hulled ships. They’re a menace.” Zenone grimaced and turned to Lapsley. “Where’s my helicopter?”

“Coming.”

“So’s spring.”

“Really, you’ll learn to love this guy,” Lapsley said, turning to Hart. “He’s got a tough exterior, but a heart like gold.” Lapsley turned back to Zenone, eyes glistening with humor. Zenone smiled mechanically, but his eyes reflected a hidden mirth.

“NOAA’s sending one,” Lapsley said. Everything the Coast Guard’s got was already deployed. Apparently there’s a big storm brewing down off the coast of North Carolina, heading this way, and bringing some high winds with it. Came up really fast. A few fishing boats needed to be rescued.” Zenone sighed and nodded his head absently.

“Did you notify all the local water intakes…”

“Yes.”

“…cause you know, if they don’t shut ‘em down, they’re gonna be local oil intakes…”

“ Yes ,” Lapsley said again. “It was the first thing I did this morning. Now would you chill. You’re giving me the shakes.” Lapsley smiled and Hart snickered. Storm clouds hovered like doom on the horizon.

“Alright, let’s go in.” Zenone turned to Hart. “I want to show you something that perhaps you can explain to me.”

Hart nodded and followed Zenone into the command post.

➣➣➣

Zenone poured a cup of coffee, a thick, viscous substance that looked itself like petroleum, handed it to Lapsley, then turned to Hart to see if he wanted a cup. Hart shook his head no. He’d had more than enough cups of bad coffee today.

“What? D’you pull this from the river?” Lapsley said, and took a sip anyway.

Zenone walked to the drafting table and handed Hart Akanabi’s SPCC Plan.

Hart scanned the cover and raised his eyebrows. “Is it deficient?”

“You bet it is.”

Hart opened it. Blank pages. He flipped through a couple pages at a time, but the blankness remained.

“Did you prepare that plan?” Zenone asked.

“No. And I’m not sure who did, or rather, who was supposed to,” Hart said. “Did you get this from the ship’s Captain?”

Zenone nodded. Hart rubbed his forehead.

“You know there’s a fine. Up to $32,500 for failure to have a spill plan. And another one for failure to implement it. Not to mention the fines for all the oil in the water. They accrue daily.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just so we’re straight.”

“We’re straight.” Hart stood and offered Zenone his hand.

Zenone took it, but this time Hart was ready for him. He squeezed back with equal force, forcing a smile out of Zenone.

“It’s been a pleasure, but I’ve got a dive to get ready for.”

Lapsley rose. “I’ll drive you back.”

“Inspection?” Zenone asked.

“The Ryujin, ” Hart replied. I’ll let you know what I find. And for what it matters, I wholeheartedly agree with you about the single hulls.” This time Zenone smiled for real.

to be continued. . .

to read the back story, jump here

a real life movie

Posted on July 15, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-Three

The change was gradual as most changes are. Not a sweeping, life-altering moment, like satori, that mystical state of enlightenment where all is revealed. That only happened to people in the movies whose lives fit snugly into a three-act structure. That was more Gil’s thing; his was a real life movie.

No, this change began with the industrial revolution and it was slow and steady and specious and that’s why no one noticed. Avery knew the statistics. Over two thousand species of plants and animals, making their homes in various rainforests became extinct every day. Tillable land took precedence over foraging the fertile soils for raw materials that would become medicines. Old growth forests were becoming tables and chairs and bookcases. The trees, which acted as the earth’s lungs taking in carbon dioxide and returning oxygen, were being methodically clear cut, leaving a system that ran on partial capacity, like a cancer patient who’s had a lung removed. Fertile soils, the hallmark of America, capable of producing vast quantities of a amber waves of grain, were being systematically stripped of all nutrients, thanks to agribusiness, through the overuse of pesticides and lack of diversification in farming, or worse, paved over for housing developments. The hole in the ozone layer continued to grow yet the U.S. walked away from Kyoto, citing shoddy science and uncertainty, allowing corporations to line their pockets a little deeper against the coming winter, the winter that may soon never go away. What will we do when floods and famine become the norm?

Avery really never understood it all. He knew it was bad, but what time he devoted was more for Ruth the Mother Of Us All . He sighed, folded another group of flyers and stared out the window looking for answers in the grey winter sky.

“Hey.” Avery jumped sending a stack of flyers sailing to the ground.

“Jesus, Kori. You scared the heck out of me.”

“What are you thinking about?”

“Mom,” Avery said. Kori sat down next to her brother.

“Me, too. So – how can I help?” She extended her hand. Avery put a stack of flyers in it.

“Really?”

“Really.”

“Labels. I need some…” A loud rap at the door sent more papers scattering to floor. Avery turned to see two policemen, peering in the kitchen.

“What’s going on?” she asked, and jumped up to answer the door.

Gil miraculously appeared in the kitchen. “They’re cops,” he said and sat down at the kitchen table, his knee bouncing up and down.

“No kidding, Sherlock,” Kori said, walking to the door. “Why are they here?”

“Cause I set off the alarm.”

“You little jerk,” Avery said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Cause I didn’t know until just now,” Gil said.

Kori opened the door and greeted the visitors. “Hi. Can I help you?”

“Yes, Ma’am. I’m officer Matheson. We’re investigating a call into headquarters at 14:42 hours. Report indicates the alarm in the barn was tripped. Have you been home, Ma’am?” Avery walked over and stood behind his sister.

“All afternoon, officer.”

“Have you noticed any suspicious behavior in the vicinity of your backyard, Ma’am?”

“Not suspicious, but I can tell you…” Avery pinched Kori in the back, hard. “Oowww.” She turned to glare at her brother.

He smiled sweetly, a warning in his eyes. “Nothing suspicious, Officer,” Avery said.

“Okay. Mind if we take a look?”

Avery and Kori both shook their heads.

“We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

The cops walked across the lawn and Kori closed the door behind them. Avery and Gil exchanged glances.

“All right-y, then. Somebody better tell me what’s going on.”

➣➣➣

The wind picked up as Officers Matheson and Traecy crossed the backyard. They arrived at the barn to find the door banging in the wind. Matheson checked the perimeter while Traecy investigated the interior. After several minutes they stood at the door.

“Just a false alarm. Probably forgot that it was on,” Matheson said. “This wind’s not helpin’.” He turned his collar up against a fresh onslaught and closed the barn door.

“Kids,” Matheson said. Traecy nodded in agreement.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before make a wish and click here.