not for long

Posted on May 27, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Three

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

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

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

Gil shrugged. “I don’t know.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I mean to keep the act going.”

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

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

“Why would they make something like that up?”

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

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

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

“He’s almost here.”

“Who?”

“The man who’s going to help us.”

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

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

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

“Gil! Close the door!”

In response, a car door slammed.

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

“Are you waiting for someone?” Hart asked.

“You,” Gil said.

“Me?! How’d you know I was coming?”

Gil shrugged. “Aunt Stella told me.”

“Who’s Aunt Stella?”

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

“Gil,” Avery said, pulling him back.

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

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

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

“And I saw yours.”

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

“What’s that mean?”

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

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

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

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

“So what do you want?” Avery asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Do you want some milk?” Gil asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“No way,” Avery said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Gil. You can’t know that.”

“It’s him, Avery. I can feel it.”

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

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

“Yeah, but…”

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

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

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

Gil shrugged. “I just knew.”

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

Gil just stared at him.

“Christ, I’m going to kill Kori.”

“Who’s Kori?”

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

“Gil!”

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

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

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

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

“No, Avery. He’s the good guys.”

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

“Not for long,” Gil said, certain.

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

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

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

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

“What are you doing?” Avery asked.

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

“Gil…”

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

➣➣➣

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

read this next

trickle down theory

Posted on May 22, 2013 by Cynthia G.

as blushing guardians of Gaia we could do better. . .and that’s a hard pill to swallow.

pass a glass of water, would you?

The Philadelphia Enquirer

Posted on May 2, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Thanks,” Hart said.

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

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

“Where to, sir?”

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

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

to be continued. . .

to read what came before click here

signs of a struggle

Posted on April 3, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Nine

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

“Hhmphh,” Matheson said.

“What?” Traecy asked.

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

“And your point is?” Traecy asked.

“These kids are messin’ with us.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Cut the engine,” Matheson yelled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Concussion, maybe,” Traecy said.

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

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

“Where’s your sister?” Matheson asked.

“Out.”

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

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

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

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

➣➣➣

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

➣➣➣

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

“Hey.”

“What the heck happened to you?”

“A lot. Where’ve you been?”

“Out.”

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

“What’s going on?”

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

Kori stared at him, silent and agape.

“I said how was your night?”

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

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

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

“Four stars,” Gil said.

“Four? You’re kidding me.”

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

Avery shuddered involuntarily.

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

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

to be continued. . .

what came before

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

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

contaminated water

Posted on January 13, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Two

Twenty-five years ago, when Ruth and Marty Tirabi purchased a ten-acre plot in the middle of bucolic farmland, they thought they’d landed in heaven. Unfortunately, the realtor who sold them the property neglected to tell them that beyond the tranquil, bucolic edge of their horizon, a toxic stew was brewing. At that time, no one thought much about the environmental hazards associated with home buying. But then the intermittent smell wafted in, the one hundred and fifty-seven single family dwellings rose up like a tsunami, and carloads of benzene, toluene, and perchloroethane joined truckloads of mercury, lead, nickel, perchloroethate, and a whole host of other hazardous substances with equally unpronounceable names, forming car pools and organizing marches to the aquifer below. The caravan traveled slowly, inch by careful inch, undiscovered until a quarter century later.

And water being what it was – ubiquitous by any standard – the contamination did not confine itself to any legal borders, but spread throughout the entire aquifer, a massive thing that provided water to the Stahl’s, the Tirabi’s and their neighbors in the new Hickory Hills development. Hickory Hills attracted wealthy city dwellers who pined for pristine country air and didn’t know most farmers’ propensity not only to sell what they grew, but to rent what they owned to cover the spread. Jim Stahl, Sr. had covered his spread by renting a portion of his property to the County to be used as a landfill. And since there were few, if any, instances where one person’s actions failed to affect the lives of others, Jim’s contaminated water spread to his neighbors’ homes and discreetly took up residence there, finding permanent quarter in the kitchens and bathrooms of all one hundred and fifty-seven single family dwellings.

Lawyers advised clients in hushed, confidential tones to get a blood test and a wave of pandemonium spread through the development as test after test came back positive for cancer. Children with their developing immune systems were hit especially hard. The local newspapers did their part to raise the level of hysteria. Gossip spread rumors like a middle-aged waist-line, forcing the EPA to mount a public awareness campaign. EPA went door-to-door, offering all the neighbors of Hickory Hills bottled water until the in-house filtration systems could be installed. But in many instances, it was too late.

Jim Stahl Sr. had started landfilling in 1975, thirteen years after Rachel Carson wrote Silent Spring, one year before Congress passed the Clean Water Act, and eleven years before they would enact CERCLA, the Comprehensive Environmental Response Compensation and Liability Act, also known as the Superfund. Rivers were catching on fire, leaded gas was leaving a smoke screen out on U.S. highways, and Love Canal had exploded into public awareness. At that time, there was more to worry about than a few hundred thousand pounds of unprotected trash. But if the Senior Stahl had complied with even the most primitive dumping laws in effect at the time he started landfilling, the Hickory Hills development might not be on the National Priorities List today, and Jim Stahl, Jr. would not be mired in the muck that his father’s landfill had become. The National Priorities List or NPL was a list of the nation’s most contaminated Superfund Sites. Making that list was not something to write home about.

Over the years, corrective measures were put into place – a bit of cover here, some plastic to act as leachate collection there – but no one anticipated the rapid growth of the surrounding communities or looked at the scheme of the landfill in its entirety. Jim’s father retired, passing the whole problem on to his son – the sins of the father, as it were – and Jim took to greeting government inspectors at the door with a shotgun.

Several months and meetings later, EPA dispatched an OSC, On-Scene Coordinator, who directed two dozen people dressed in hazmat suits, moon suits as Vera, Jim’s wife, called them, to construct a temporary cap over the landfill. The cap was like a big Rubbermaid mat comprised of heavy-duty geosynthetic material. For three weeks, backhoes, trackhoes, bobcats, bulldozers and cranes dotted the landscape. When the temporary cap was complete, the contractors fenced the front half in, packed up and drove away, leaving the seething menace to percolate below and promising to send the culpable parties along to finish the job soon. Two years later, the temporary cap, held in place by used tires strung together with rope, had begun to show its age.

to be continued. . .

this is how we got here

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

love for oil

Posted on January 1, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty

A fairly starved Gil started right in on the plate of eggs, sausages, and toast with butter and raspberry jam that appeared like magic before him. He didn’t care whether anyone else would be joining him. He would not be participating in conversation. He could not spare a single brain cell for anything other than the food in front of him and the inner workings of his own mind, occupied as it was, with gears, gaskets and temperature adjustments.

He could see the TDU clearly, behind the eye, all gleaming steel and aluminum, its curves and junctures, the placement of each nut and bolt. He’d studied the drawings for hours, had known since the time his father had asked what needed to be done how to correct the problems, but it was only now, with his father’s blessing, that he allowed himself the luxury of dwelling on the actual mechanics of its completion. Still, maybe fixing it was not at all what Marty was trying to tell him….

Gil missed his father terribly and wondered why his belly hurt now, months later, and whether those two things were connected. Maybe it was his Dad’s refusal to speak last night that reminded him of the truth of things. Since his death, Marty had so often visited Gil on the astral plane, that magic place where dreams intersect reality, that Gil had tricked himself into believing his father was still alive. But last night, Marty wouldn’t talk to him, no matter how much Gil pleaded. And now with Robbie…. A lump formed in his throat, a sensation he wasn’t used to, and he gulped down a mouthful of milk to wash it away.

He wiped his plate clean with the last bite of toast, downed the rest of his milk and belched. Max raised his head, wagged his tail, and went back to sleep.

“Gil!” Kori’s voice shook him from his reverie and he giggled. Avery stifled a laugh and took a bite of his eggs.

Kori was looking at him weird, like his mother used to. The resemblance was amazing, and when Kori stood and gave him a hug, he felt for a moment his mother’s arms around him, shuddered as her spirit passed over his bones. She’d want him to sleep, they both would, because his eyes were red and his nose still runny from being outside for so long, and she wouldn’t want him to get a cold. Still, he wasn’t tired, but wired with an unending series of thoughts and fractions of them. He didn’t want to sleep, he also didn’t want to think anymore; just wanted his mind to wait a little. And he sure as heck didn’t want to fight with Kori. Better go upstairs. Pretend to do what she wanted.

“May I be excused?” he asked.

Kori nodded acquiescence. “What are you going to do now? Watch a movie?”

“I’m going to go take a nap,” Gil announced.

“Oh, really.” Kori raised her eyebrows in disbelief. He smiled at her and mustered his most innocent facial expression.

“Bring your plate to the counter then.”

Gil obeyed, placing his plate and cup in the sink. “Good night,” he said and turned on his heel. He smiled to himself as he left, pleased with the deception. Max jumped up with alacrity and followed Gil out the door.

“I need to run some errands this morning,” Kori called after him. “Avery will be here if you need anything, but you probably won’t because you’ll be sleeping.” Gil turned and from the corner of his eye saw Kori and Avery exchange a glance; he feigned obliviousness.

“Okay,” Gil said. Mother instinct. They must be born with it . Plans foiled, the smile left Gil’s face as he and Max rounded the stairs to his room.

➣➣➣

Gil waited forever while Avery ran the snow blower up and down their winding driveway and Kori shoveled out the walks. He was waiting for his chance to escape to the barn. He needed to decide whether to fix the TDU and maybe looking at it would help him. He paced the floor, indulging his impatience, then sat down on the floor, closed-eyed and cross-legged, concentrating on his breathing like Avery had taught him, but neither helped. After forever and ten minutes, he threw himself on the bed, pulled a blanket up to his chin, and stared at the ceiling. Patience was not his forte. Visions of valves and pistons danced in his cerebral cortex. Gil sighed and drew a deep breath.

“You almost need an oil company,” Marty said. “Otherwise, how do you think we’ll get the oil to the dealers? UPS?”

Gil laughed. My father, the card.

The back door slammed and Gil knew Avery had come inside. He sat up and looked around, rubbed his eyes. The room was empty.

“Rats.” The clock said he’d given the last four hours to Morpheus.

Gil listened at the top of the stairs and heard Avery banging around in the kitchen. He sniffed the ambient air with a deer-like adeptness and his stomach rumbled in response. Heavenly smells wafted toward him, threatening to derail his plans. Melted ham and cheese. Impulse and hunger almost threw him over the railing.

Gil found Avery bent over the toaster oven, fiddling with the sandwich makings inside. He looked at the table set for two and a satisfied smile crossed his face. He snuck up behind his brother and peered over his shoulder.

“Whatcha’ doin’?” Gil asked.

Avery jerked, slamming the door to the toaster oven as he did so. “You…have got…to stop …doing that,” he said, turning to his brother in slow motion.

Gil shrugged, smiled. “What’s for lunch?”

“Ham and cheese.”

“Chips?”

“You know where they are.”

“When’s Kori coming home?”

“She went to Jack’s. It’s anybody’s guess.”

Gil retrieved the chips then watched as Avery pulled the melted deliciousness from the toaster oven. His mouth watered at the sight of his second favorite food in the entire world, his first being roasted pork cooked with loads of garlic, rosemary and sage, and a heaping pile of mashies on the side. Despite his culinary dispositions, Gil hadn’t thought much about how indebted he was to the pig. He opened the bag of chips, laying a handful on each plate, routed around the bag, found and stuffed the biggest chip in his mouth, and sat down.

Avery set a glass of milk in front of him and they ate in silence while Gil did a little happy dance in his chair. He finished his sandwich, downed the milk and raised his plate.

“More sandwich.”

Avery raised his eyebrows and looked at Gil point blank.

“Please,” Gil said.

Avery retrieved a second round of sandwiches from the little oven, placing one on each of their plates. Gil leaned in close and sniffed in a lung full of ham and cheese. He held it a moment, before taking a whopper of a bite.

“Avery?”

“Hmmm?”

“Did Robbie really go to Iraq for oil?”

Avery dropped the hot pad on the counter and took his seat. “I don’t know. Sometimes I think there were some factors other than economic, perhaps humanitarian, but then I think about what the real legacy of the current administration will be and I wake up.”

Gil stared at his brother, perplexed. “What are you talking about?”

“Never mind.”

Gil rinsed his food down with some milk. “Kori thinks it was for oil.”

“Kori’s a cynic. But… she’s probably right.” Avery looked over at Gil’s crumby, milk-kissed mouth and handed him a napkin. “Does that upset you? I mean, would it upset you more?”

“You mean if he died for oil instead of something else important?”

“Yeah.”

Gil nodded, gazing out the window. “Uh-huh. Especially if I can make oil out back.”

“Do you think he did?” Avery asked. “Died, I mean.”

Gil shrugged. He’d been unable to formulate a coherent opinion on the subject, and all sources of help he might have received, divine or otherwise, weren’t talking. They finished their sandwiches in silence.

“You gonna do what Dad said?” Avery asked. “Fix the TDU?”

“I’m not sure yet.” Gil shoved a few chips in his mouth, but didn’t respond.

“If you decide to, I can get a few startup loads of trash.”

Gil dropped his plate in the sink, wiped his mouth with the sponge and grabbed his coat.

“Hey, Gil.” Gil turned.

“First of all, that’s gross. Second, I don’t think Robbie’s . . . dead. But regardless, the world still needs Dad’s contraption. Even if you don’t have a reason to build it.”

Gil gave Avery the briefest of hugs, rounded on his heel and ran out the door.

to be continued. . .

start here. . .

long way home

Posted on December 15, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Nine

Snow blanketed the fields, barren, but for the odd bale of rolled hay. The wind whistled through the leafless branches, and left them creaking and moaning with its passing. With only a week until the winter solstice, the mornings rose dark and still and laden with the musings of Morpheus, still lost in the labyrinth of the dreamy night. Today, the lingering full moon cast just enough light on the earth for a trail to be visible. A lone cross-country skier glided across the top of the hill at the horizon, dipped down below on the opposite side, then resurfaced.

Avery stood at the back door watching Gil ski up and over the top, disappearing only to intermittently reappear, a small, barely distinguishable figure in the shadowy dawn. Gil wore Marty’s headlight and Avery watched the light shine and recede, shine and recede.

Avery wore his ski pants and an unzipped jacket. His gloves dangled at his side, his ski boots propped in the corner. His stockinged feet curled at the sudden gust of wind that shot through the door.

“Either in or out, huh?” Kori shuffled in, still crunchy from sleep, and clutched her robe tightly to her chest, an impenetrable shield against the wintry gust. She headed straight for the coffee pot. She had a long crease down her right cheek where the side of her face had lain, smashed into a rumpled pillow for too long. Avery closed the door and watched out the window.

“How’d you sleep,” Kori asked, her own eyes red and swollen.

“I don’t think I did.” He turned his haggard face to her. “Or if I did, I don’t remember.”

“How long’s he been out there?”

“Since about four this morning.”

“Are you going out?” she asked. Avery shrugged, but didn’t answer. Kori stood and grabbed a mug from the cabinet. “It’s pretty hard core to go out into below freezing weather at 6:30 in the morning just to get an hour of skiing in.”

“Gil’s out there.”

“If he’s been out since 4 o’clock, it’s not exactly like he needs you.” She sat down at the table and fiddled with a stray napkin, rolling it up and unwinding it again and again. “Why’d you let him go out so early? It’s so dark.”

Avery watched the horizon where his brother had just reappeared on the surface of the world. “It’s not like I have complete control over him, Kor. He went out before I got up. I heard him clanging around in the garage trying to get the skis down, is all.” He turned back to her. “He left mine on the deck.” Avery sighed, zipped up his jacket and grabbed his boots. “Did you know we were supposed to get snow?”

Kori yawned and covered her mouth, nodding her head. “School’s canceled. I saw it on the news.”

Avery laced up his boots and stood. “Bonus.” He drew a deep breath before asking his next question. “Do you think it’s true?” Concern had etched lines in his face that weren’t there the day before. He knew Kori didn’t know, that it was pointless to ask, but she was older, and therefore, wiser and Avery was looking for confirmation or consolation, anything but resignation.

Kori picked up the dog tags that were lying in the middle of the kitchen table, pulled the chain out to its full length and rested her fingers upon them. She closed her eyes as if divination could be had by mere touch. She shook her head, slowly at first, and then with more vehemence.

“Me either,” Avery said. “I just have this feeling. I hope I’m not making it up.” He put on his gloves, pulled his hat down over his ears and eyebrows, and opened the door.

Avery?” Kori walked over and stood behind her brother.

“Did Gil have any dreams?” She shrunk and inch into herself as if bracing for a blow.

Avery touched Kori’s shoulder and smiled. “I guess I’ll find out now,” he said, grabbed his skis and was gone.

Kori watched until he vanished over the hill.

➣➣➣

The moon, low in the sky and paling more with each creeping minute of dawn, looked like a magnificent deity bestowing blessings upon all who gazed at her. The last of her beneficence left a light touch, a shimmering wake across the snow-covered fields. Even the landfill looked beautiful: a white, proud mountain of refuse. Avery caught up to Gil as he approached the backside of it. They skied together in silence for the last hundred yards until Gil stopped at the foot of the landfill’s fence, flicked off his headlamp and jammed his poles into the ground. He stared at the mound of trash, deftly hidden beneath a cloud of white, and began to hum.

“Only you could hum while looking at garbage,” Avery said. He stuck his own poles in the ground and watched the trash pile intently, waiting for something to shatter the tranquility.

“I was thinking about Daddy.” Gil said.

“Really? About Dad? Not about Robbie?”

Gil shook his head, slow and deliberate, like a metronome.

“Well, what about Dad?” Gil turned Marty’s headlamp on again and focused it on a specific spot in the center of a frozen mound.

Avery followed the light and thought he could see a computer monitor, but he was only guessing. He looked at Gil’s nose, dripping profusely. Gil didn’t seem to notice. Avery grabbed a clean, but crumpled tissue from his coat pocket and pushed it toward his brother who ignored the gesture. Avery held the tissue up to Gil’s nose and Gil blew, releasing more than a single tissue full of his own goopy refuse. Avery fumbled for another tissue while still holding the first to Gil’s nose and brought it to the aid of the first. He wiped Gil’s nose and grimacing slightly, jammed the soggy remnants back into his own pocket “Anything else I can do for you?” he asked.

“He wouldn’t answer me when I asked about Robbie. I kept asking, ‘Daddy, where’s Robbie? Is he okay?’ and he just kept smiling at me. Then he took me into the barn and showed me the TDU. He fiddled around and made a few adjustments….” The trash pile still showed no signs of movement. “I think he wants me to finish it.”

Avery’s eyebrows shot up. “Did he say that?”

“He didn’t say anything. But I just thought that was what he wanted.” Gil pulled a single pole out of the snow and drove it back into the ground. “Do you think maybe Dad doesn’t know about Robbie? Like maybe, if Robbie’s alive that he can’t see him very well or something?” Gil looked at his brother. “Or maybe Robbie doesn’t want to be seen. Like maybe he’s hiding.”

Avery had contemplated this same theory, but had not voiced it. His brother was canny, knew how to live in the woods off of nuts and berries and roots and other queer stuff, knew how to build a fire from two tiny little sticks, a veritable boy scout geekazoid. He would be a great guy to have around in an apocalyptic, end-of-the-world kind of event. But disappearing without a trace from a crowded market in the middle of a suicide bombing attempt leaving nothing behind but a set of dog tags, well, things seemed a little convoluted, even for Robbie. Still it was a relief to hear Gil voice the opinion.

“I don’t know. If he is still alive, he’ll be in touch soon.”

Gil nodded. “Will you help me?”

“Absolutely. With what?”

“With the TDU?”

“I thought you didn’t want to work on that anymore?”

“Well, I don’t because of Dad, you know. But I think…” Gil’s words tumbled out in a jumbled, yet coherent flurry. “I really don’t, but what if that’s what he wants, Dad, I mean, and if I didn’t do it well then he might be mad at me and maybe he wouldn’t visit me anymore so I really should do it but it really gives me the creeps I mean what if those creepy bad guys come back so I need some back up which is why I’m asking if I did would you help me? I’d need, you know, to get the TDU up and running and help get the feedstock from the landfill and…. I guess, well maybe it’s okay, cause I think Dad wanted it….actually, I don’t know what he wanted, but he kept showing me the drawings, and some newer ones that he’d worked on for the refining part. I don’t know what he was saying since I never really looked at the refining drawings – I was more interested in the TDU – so we didn’t talk much about it, but….why do you think he just didn’t come out and say what he wanted?” Gil said finally, frustrated.

Gil’s nose was running again and this time he ran his gloved hand underneath it catching most of the watery mucus. Avery grimaced and made a mental note to wash Gil’s gloves. He stamped his ski-shod feet on the ground to tamp down the cold creeping up his legs, cold to which Gil seemed impervious.

“I don’t know. It’s near Christmas time. Maybe he was trying to be the ghost of Christmas future.”

“The one with George C. Scott?” Gil smiled. “That one was my favorite.”

“C’mon. Let’s get moving before my legs freeze off.”

“Let’s go this way,” Gil said, turning toward the woods, the long way home.

to be continued. . .

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