synomymous with Edison

Posted on December 28, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventy-Seven

At exactly 10:00 a.m. the next morning, Bicky arrived at the Tirabi residence uncharacteristically dressed in a pair of khaki pants and a polo shirt. Kori and Jack were sitting at the kitchen table when he knocked at the front door. Kori jumped.

“You expecting company?” Jack asked.

“No.” She had called Jack the minute Bicky pulled out of the driveway the previous night and Jack had picked up on the first ring as if waiting for her call. They’d talked into the small hours where night blurs into day and the grandest ideas are born. After a marathon phone session, Jack showed up on the front step looking hanged-dogged and hopeful. Kori invited him up to her room where they’d continued their conversation, among other things, and now they were pleasantly exhausted. Maybe it was the sleep deprivation, the fact that they hadn’t seen each other in a while, or that Jack had made sufficient reparations along with all the right promises, but whatever it was, when Jack proposed that they get back together, Kori acquiesced. And she hadn’t again thought, until this precise moment, about Chris Kane. So while she sat, still as garden statuary, wondering about the odds of him being on the other side of the door, and if so, how to explain it away, Jack got up and answered it.

“Kori’s in the kitchen,” she heard Jack say as he and Bicky entered the kitchen. Kori let out every cubic inch of breath she’d been holding and smiled.

“Good night, I see,” Bicky said. Kori introduced the men.

“I heard all about you yesterday,” Bicky said, extending his hand.

Jack shot Kori a quizzical look and she blushed. “I was dreaming,” Kori said. “I’ll tell you about it later.”

“And I’ll keep all further comments to myself except to say that’s a very special lady,” Bicky said. “Should you have the good fortune for her to turn her unwavering gaze upon you, I suggest you rise to meet it.”

Kori popped up, planting a wet one on Bicky’s cheek. “I take back all the bad thoughts I had about you yesterday” Kori said. She gave Bicky a squeeze which he accepted stiffly, clearing his throat.

“It’s like hugging Gil,” Kori said to Jack. Bicky blushed at his own ineptness.

“They’re out in the barn,” Kori said. “Just Gil and Hart. Avery’s at the library working on the patent.”

Bicky nodded and whispered into Kori’s ear, loud enough for Jack to hear, “I think, my dear, that a mid-morning nap might do you wonders,” and he closed the door behind him.

“I think it’s an excellent idea,” Jack said, pulling Kori close. “No time like the present.”

➣➣➣

The strains of Yo-Yo Ma’s cello on the soundtrack to Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon filled every crevice, corner and cobweb in the barn. Gil practiced the martial arts techniques he learned from the movie using a broomstick and Max as his opponent. Hart reclined on the hammock, reading a backdated version of Omni magazine, one that waxed prophetically about the brilliance of an as then little known scientist by the name of Marty Tirabi who harbored radical theories and an insatiable appetite for breaking down paradigms. The article, written in 1983, donned Marty the proverbial new messiah of the scientific world, said his star was quick and rising, and that it was just a matter of time before he stood, not only the scientific community, but the world at large on its ear with some scintillating new breakthrough.

Hart stopped to watch Gil who executed first a side and then a roundhouse kick, both flawless. He poked the air with the broom handle while Max chased the other end. Waves of tenderness flooded Hart’s chest and rippled outward to his arms and legs, his fingers and toes, and kept on rippling until he felt the room go electric with it. God had given him back something that he’d been horribly denied, something minute yet infinite, small yet limitless. He breathed in the smell, like the air after a lightning storm, both burnt and wet at the same time, and gratitude filled him up so much that he got vertigo. He tossed the magazine aside and planted his feet on the floor. He felt like he’d received a divine download, a specific, yet wordless instruction from a source higher than himself. With guidance, this child could pick up the mantle his father was so unexpectedly forced to set down. And you’ll guide him…

The knock at the door made Hart jump and set Max to barking, but both relaxed when Bicky walked in. Hart walked over to greet his father-in-law, but Gil bumped past, throwing his arms around Bicky’s neck and his legs around his waist. Bicky reeled, then caught his balance, holding firmly to Gil with one arm and a support beam with the other. It was a light gesture, yet it landed in Hart’s stomach like an unexploded grenade, threatening to detonate with the import of it. The grandson Bicky would never have.

“What took you so long?” Gil yipped right in Bicky’s ear.

Bicky grimaced, patted Gil clumsily on the back, and set him down, slow and deliberate.

“You guys had a good day yesterday, I see,” Hart said. He lowered the volume on the stereo.

“Thank you.” Bicky said, rubbing his ears. Gil’s smile effloresced, a flower in full bloom.

“He’s got all kinds of ideas for marketing the TDU,” Gil said to Hart, “and he said that we can build a special wing in Akanabi and dedicate it to my Dad. Maybe even rename part of the company. But whatever we do, people are going to know all about him. By the time Bicky’s done, he’ll be as big as Thomas Edison.”

“Bigger,” Bicky said.

“Who do you think made the bigger contribution?” Gil said. “Edison or Bell?”

“Those are just the common names.” Hart said. “What about all those physicists, toiling away in anonymity. The ones who come up with the big theories that advance our understanding of the universe. Somebody needs to thank them. It can’t all be about the light bulb.”

Gil sat down on his stool, set his lips in a tight line and moved them back and forth across his teeth, apparently in deep concentration. “I think it’s got to be about the light bulb. Without that invention, everyone else is in the dark. Eating in the dark, swimming in the dark, making phone calls in the dark, even inventing in the dark.” He looked to Bicky for confirmation.

“Then we won’t stop until his name is synonymous with Edison. How’s that?”

“Excellent.” Gil smiled and jumped off his seat. “Let’s get started then. C’mon over.”

Bicky followed Gil to the TDU and stood in front of it. “So this is the machine with a hundred and one uses,” Bicky said. He pulled open the metal door and was met with a full blast of hot air. “Whoa,” he said and took a step back.

Gil nodded and raised his eyebrows. “Should have warned you. It gets pretty hot in there. Let me show you how everything works and then we can sit down with the drawings.”

“You joining us?” Bicky asked Hart.

“Go ahead,” Hart said. “Gil and I have already talked this through a bunch of times. I would like a fresh pair of eyes, though, in case there’s something we’ve missed.” Bicky nodded.

“Okay, Mr. Bicky.” Gil said. “This machine is small for what we want to do with it. In a real facility, the scale could be increased as much as you want. Twenty to one. Fifty to one – whatever.” Gil said. “In here,” Gil opened the TDU’s door and another blast of heat escaped, “is where we feed the beast. My dad excavated it twenty feet down to a fully-lined pit. Those side doors over there slide open,” he said, pointing to the wall. “We back the ATV into the barn. It’s got this little hydraulic cylinder that raises the front of the trailer bed – just like a dump truck – so the trash slides off the trailer right into the machine.“

“By the way, I called the bank and told them I no longer needed the financing,” Hart said, returning to the hammock.

“Thanks,” Bicky said, flashing a lopsided grimace.

Gil went over every square inch of the TDU. For his part, Bicky was unwavering in his focus and seemed enthralled, both in the presence of genius and in that which genius had wrought.

➣➣➣

Half an hour later, Gil finished his tutorial and sat down on the swivel stool. “So. What do you think?” he asked. He pushed off and began spinning.

“I think,” Bicky said, “that this may be the most important, money-making invention I’ll see in my lifetime. It’ll reshape the world. Maybe even put us in Bill Gates’ league.”

Gil’s stopped spinning to scrunch his nose at Bicky, clearly not the answer he wanted.

Bicky let out a long, breathy sigh: “I’m sorry… that I never met your father. What vision. And now his dream — ”

“More like his nightmare, you mean.”

Gil jumped. Everyone turned around to see Jerry Dixon emerging from the shadows in the corner of the barn. “Because if you had the opportunity to shake his hand, well then that would mean he’d be alive and you wouldn’t be taking his product to market for him.”

“What the hell are you doing here?” Bicky hissed.

“Where did you come from?” Hart asked.

“How’d you get in?” Gil said.

“Through the door, buddy,” Jerry said. He walked over to Gil and tousled his hair as if he were a toddler. Gil grimaced and leaned away.

“I’ve been hanging out listening to all this lovey dovey crap. It is indeed heartwarming.” He glanced over at Hart. “No pun intended.”

Gil smoothed his straight hair over to the side- and scowled at Jerry.

“Just came by to see how it all turns out now that everyone’s become such fast friends.”

“Hart, get him out of here,” Bicky said.

“Bicky, what’s going on?” Hart asked.

“I fired him a few days ago.”

“Fired?”

“Fired. Just like that,” Jerry said. “Can you believe it, Hart? After thirty-three years of loyal service. And for what?”

“I’m going to give you five seconds and then I’ll remove you myself.”

“I’ll tell you for what. Because Bicky Coleman, our Commander-in-Chief, the man we’d follow blindly into battle without a care for consequence, was disappointed in me. Who knew disappointment carried such a huge price tag?” Jerry huffed, walked over to the wall phone and pulled the receiver from it’s cradle.

“Hello, Operator? What’s the number for disappointment?” He smiled at Bicky, a sardonic, dripping thing, and yanked the phone off the wall, tossing it to the ground. “She doesn’t know,” he said. He shrugged, walked over to Gil and shooed him off the stool.

At first nonplussed, Gil’s confusion over what was happening changed to obstinance. He stalwartly refused to give up his stool until Jerry gave him a shove which sent him spiraling to the floor. Max lunged at Jerry, nipping the fleshy part of his hand, before Jerry managed to put Max in a choke hold and press him to his chest. Max stood with two paws off the floor, alternating between sucking air and baring his teeth.

“I’ll break his neck.”

“No!” Gil yelled.

Hart grabbed Max’s collar and Jerry released his grip. Max collapsed on the floor, panting for air. Hart picked him up, all seventy pounds, and deposited him in the hammock.

“Jerry, what the hell is your problem?” Hart was at Gil’s side, pulling him to his feet, dusting him off. He scooped Gil up and placed him in the hammock next to Max. “Stay,” he said to both of them. Bicky stood in the corner, eyeing the bulge in Jerry’s trouser leg.

Jerry rubbed his temples with both hands as if he had a headache. “Because I had a little dalliance with a woman that he cared nothing for, other than to control her,” Jerry said, responding to a question that no one had asked.

“Dalliance, my ass,” Bicky quipped. “She left you billions of dollars. Billion does not equal a dalliance. Just how long were you screwing her?”

“It really doesn’t matter, does it, Bicky? What matters is money. It’s all that matters.”

“You son-of-a-bitch,” Bicky said. He lunged for Jerry, swung and caught him with a glancing blow to the side of the jaw. It was like hitting granite.

Jerry neither reeled, nor blinked, but caught Bicky squarely with a sucker punch to the mid-section. “Oh, does that feel good,” Jerry said on contact.

Bicky groaned and doubled over, but pulled up and swung again. Jerry blocked Bicky’s fist and returned it with his own while Max barked in time with the punches. Gil watched in fascination as if these were the recorded antics of daytime television. Jerry’s military training gave him the upper hand, but Bicky’s years spent working out with a personal trainer made him a worthy opponent. Hart stared at them, momentarily stupefied, before his brain roused his body to action. The men were locked in an angry embrace, each fueled by years of swallowing their own bitter disappointments. Hart broke up the fight and held them at arms length, a referee between two boxers.

“Knock it off, dammit. There’s nothing to be done,” Hart said.

Bicky and Jerry stood glaring at one another, less than a few feet between them, inhaling each other’s fury, fueling their own. The ambient air, dank and fetid with the ghost of so much lost love, reeked of hopelessness.

“She’s dead. You both lost.”

“Why’d you come here, Jerry?” Hart snapped. “You have a hefty inheritance. Take it and go buy an island somewhere. Have some respect and leave the man to his grief.”

“Grief? The only thing Bicky Coleman grieves for is a bad investment,” Jerry said. He spit at Bicky’s feet, splattering the warm Italian leather. “Nothing else matters to him.”

“Why don’t you say something back” Gil said to Bicky, a note of pleading in his voice. He walked over from the hammock, Max in tow. Both fear and loss were reflected in Bicky’s crystal blue eyes. “Don’t let him say those mean things.”

“It’s you he needs to say something to,” Jerry replied. “Isn’t it, Boss?” Jerry smiled grimly, a gargoyle at the palace gate. “Something he’s going to have a hard time telling.” Jerry shook Hart off and sat back down on Gil’s stool.

Hart turned to Bicky. “What’s he talking about?”

“Still didn’t tell him?” Jerry asked. “Why am I not shocked.” Gil stared wide-eyed, alternating between Bicky and Jerry. Hart moved Gil and Max back to the hammock.

“Get out,” Bicky said.

“You know, son, here’s a lesson for you. Before you go into business with someone, make sure you have a good idea of their character. And barring that, make sure you get yourself a damn good attorney,” Jerry said. “At least do a background check.”

Jerry picked at his nails as if he had all the time in the world before looking Gil straight in the eye. “Do you know if it wasn’t for this guy, you’d still have parents?” He reached down to the leg of his trousers.

“What does that mean?” Gil asked. He turned to Bicky. “What does he mean?”

“Get Out!” Bicky yelled, his rage sputtering up, threatening to blow its sides. He took a step toward Jerry just as the former head of security for Akanabi Oil stood and pointed a 9 mm. at Bicky’s mid-section. Bicky halted in mid-stride.

“I mean, Bicky ordered me to have someone tail your parents the night they were killed. He really wanted those papers over there,” Jerry said, motioning toward the desk. “Told me to use all means, which, of course, I paid extra for.” Jerry cleared his throat. “It was me, by the way, torched your porch. I’m real sorry about that. In hindsight, it was sloppy and uncalled for.”

“You’re lying!” Gil screamed. He jumped down and grabbed the closest thing he could find, a snow globe. It was a clear plastic hemisphere sitting on a pink base and filled with water and faux snow. Plastic tropical fish swam inside and stirred up snow whenever someone shook it. The globe had been purchased during a family trip to Florida and for two months after, Gil slept with it every night. Now he heaved it across the room as hard as he could. It glanced off Jerry’s shoulder, hit the floor and landed with a distinct thud . Water leaked from the newly formed crack in the plastic and spread into a small, round puddle.

Bicky grunted and lunged for Jerry’s gun. Jerry fired and for an instant the room went quiet: the only sounds a whoosh of air as the bullet hurtled through time and space to its target, the sickening sploosh as it made contact. Hart pulled Gil and Max back. Bicky screamed in pain and collapsed in a heap on the ground. Gil’s head poked out from behind Hart’s back, his face a mixture of horror and awe.

Jerry smiled at Bicky, heaped on the floor like discarded packaging, clinging with both hands to his oozing thigh. Blood spread out, covering the distance in phases as it soaked into the fine cotton twill of Bicky’s pants, the smell of it acrid and strong. Jerry raised the gun to Bicky’s head and started to laugh, a maniacal, full-bodied thing that, like the whirling dervishes of Islam, showed no signs of relenting.

to be continued. . .

it started here. . .

one loyal group

Posted on December 27, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventy-Six

Hart sat on the bed in his hotel room reading the newspaper behind closed eyelids. Two sharp raps on the door startled him awake.

“Hold on,” Hart called. He rubbed his entire face with one hand before rising to look through the peephole.

“What the — ?” Hart said, throwing the door open.

Bicky held up a hand to silence him. “May I come in?”

Hart stepped aside to allow Bicky ingress. Bicky headed straight to the window.

“I’ve been calling you all day,” Hart said. “What the hell are you doing here?” Hart grabbed two beers out of the mini-fridge, popped the tops and set one down on the window sill next to Bicky. “And what happened to your hand?”

Bicky appraised the appendage as if it were an alien species, but said nothing so Hart switched topics.

“I’ve secured financing. But it means I have to sell out. Completely sell out. Every last stock certificate.” Hart gave this information some time to sink in, but Bicky didn’t answer, just stared out the window, his face glued to the view. “Look, I know what that could do to you…to the company. And I’m not trying to undermine you, Bicky, so if you can get the money together….”

“I spent the whole day with the kids.” Bicky stood as still as Billy Penn atop City Hall Tower, staring out over the Delaware, watching the ships come in. “She came back nicely, didn’t she?” he said, nodding toward the river. “Not even a trace of the spill is visible to the naked eye. And it’s only been what? Two months? He picked up his beer and raised the neck to tap Hart’s own. “To the healing power of nature.” Bicky took a seat on the window sill and turned to Hart, his entire body engaged.

It was the atypical nature of the gesture that made Hart uneasy. “I’m guessing you didn’t come here to talk about nature.”

Bicky shook his head. “I was wrong. Too many times over these years I’ve treated you with less than the respect you deserved.” Bicky picked up the beer, but did not drink. “You’re a fine engineer, and a fine son-in-law. Probably the best I’ve ever seen in both categories.” He set his beer down and stood up. “I just wanted to tell you that.”

Hart stared at Bicky, mouth agape. In the ten years he’d known his father-in-law, Hart had received more than his share of the booty for a job well done: new cars, six-figure bonuses, vacations in exotic settings, even a boat once, but this one small comment, mixed with confession, was the most profound and heartfelt gesture Bicky had ever made. Perplexed and more out of sorts than when Bicky first walked in, Hart stood up, too.

“Thanks,” he said. He looked at Bicky queerly for a moment until Bicky’s words sunk in. “The kids? I guess you’re talking about my kids?”

“Very fascinating family. I’ve been thinking about this all day and I’m prepared to make a deal that benefits everyone. Truly benefits everyone.”

“I’m listening.”

“Tomorrow. Let’s meet at the Tirabis’ in the morning. Say ten?”

“You want to give me a glimpse into the future?”

“The thought struck me that you could benefit from an existing facility, not just for refining purposes, but for transport. We have pipelines all over the country bringing raw crude into our refineries. What if we reversed the process? Instead of pumping to us, we send the finished product, the stuff you distill from trash, away from us to be either sold or further refined around the country. We can run this without the additional capital and I predict….”

Hart’s smile was so wide, Bicky stopped in mid-sentence.

“What?” Bicky asked.

“Had you given me the chance on the phone that night…”

“Oh. You already thought of that, is it?” Bicky smiled, his trademark half-smile. “Thanks for humoring an old man.” Bicky patted Hart on the back and walked to the door. “Tomorrow.”

“The Tirabi kids know we’re coming?”

“Yes.” Bicky stood face-to-face with his son-in-law, his hand on the doorknob. “They are one loyal group. They wouldn’t deal with me at all until you were at the table. You should be proud of that. The ability to engender loyalty is a lost art.”

Hart smiled, but couldn’t formulate a response because of the large boulder in his throat. Bicky squeezed Hart’s shoulder and shook his hand at the same time.

“See you tomorrow, son.”

to be continued. . . .

this is what happened before

into the woods

Posted on October 26, 2013 by Cynthia G.

n is for nature. and nurture. and nihilist.

read our coolest review to date. here.

and then, as if that wasn’t enough, we’re even blushing about the subject.

fun with food

Posted on September 19, 2013 by Cynthia G.

we’ve done it again. . .and now our food is blush-worthy, too!

read all about it here.

the egg was airborne

Posted on September 18, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventy-One

Gil was under attack. He dodged a plastic missile and huddled under a small bush a few feet from the house. A large, old man, older than his father by a lot, was laughing. His laugh echoed, like it started down deep in the earth, and bulged and grew and it clawed its way to the top where it became fearsome and overpowering. It made Gil’s insides shake even though it was the first day of spring and pretty warm out.

The man threw empty plastic water bottles at him: Perrier, Deer Park, Evian, Crystal Springs. The small bottles bounced off, harmless. He only ducked when the man launched the larger one-gallon bottles. He looked around for an escape route and his eyes landed on the small plane parked next to the house. Kori would be pissed that he forgot to park it in the garage again, and more, that he was going to drive it without a license, but so what? He invented it. It wasn’t a conventional plane, but looked more like a giant egg laid on its side. Little claw-like chicken’s feet descended from the main compartment and kept the body steady when the plane was grounded. The wings retracted into the body. Inside the egg were two seats, a cushion on the floor for Max, and a control panel. Avery wanted to sell these planes some day, for a fraction of the cost of a Hummer.

Gil pulled a gas pump hose from an outlet below the kitchen window and crawled on his belly over to the egg, kicking plastic bottles as he went. He lifted the hatch and inserted the nozzle into the egg’s fuel tank, dodging several bottles thrown in rapid succession. The hose connected to a small TDU in the basement and was fed by the garbage disposal and the trash bin, a complete in situ unit. After a few minutes, the filling stalled and the hose went limp in Gil’s hand. He shook it, but nothing happened. He crawled back over and kicked the wall of the house like a man kicking the tires of the car. “Oowww,” he yelled, but the mini TDU failed to restart. “Dammit,” he said, then covered his mouth and looked around to see if his sister was within hearing distance.

The large man started laughing again. Gil panicked and dropped the hose. He was crawling toward the egg when he heard Max at the kitchen door, barking like a crazy dog, so he crawled back to the house and let him out. Together they ran and jumped into the egg. Gil started the engine and the little chicken legs took off running at a fast clip. The wings fanned, the thrusters thrusted and the egg was airborne, the chicken legs still running, but with no ground beneath them. When he retracted the legs, the egg shot straight up into the air. The large man bellowed, something between a laugh and a moan, and Gil accelerated. He turned around to see the man remove his Armani suit jacket, fold it neatly over his arm, and bend down to turn on an automatic ball toss machine.

“Where the heck did that come from?” Gil yelled to Max who raised his head to investigate. The machine began firing the empty plastic water bottles, pelting the egg mercilessly. Singularly, the bottles posed no harm, but collectively the force resulted in an erratic trajectory, throwing them off course while jolt after jolt caused the egg first to zig and then to zag. The large man laughed like a maniac, sending shock waves that caused the egg to tumble with each successive and inexorable guffaw.

“Hold on!” Gil yelled to Max who crouched down at Gil’s feet, his paws over his eyes. Gil steered a hard right to avoid a fresh onslaught of plastic and came close enough to see the man’s large mouth. And like the Cheshire cat, as the man’s the smile grew larger, his face shrank away until all that remained were his hideous radiating teeth, each half the size of the egg. The man threw a switch, converting the machine to fast pitch and Gil was bombarded. The egg began to plummet. A bottle cracked the window. A hole emerged and grew. Air leaked out of the cabin. Gil flicked at the overhead switches.

“We’re losing pressure,” he screamed. He pushed a button and air masks dropped from the ceiling. He covered Max’s large snout with one and was attempting to put his own mask on when the egg took another hit and rolled over on itself. The mask flew out of Gil’s hand and he lost control. He began coughing, choking for air. . .

Gil’s eyes flew open and he coughed for a full minute before regaining his breath. Images of eggs and plastic swirled in the world behind his eyelids and he was cold and sweaty. He burrowed a hand under Max’s furriness and lay his head on the dog’s massive neck. Max yawned and put his head on the bed pillow. Gil closed his eyes, but the images still danced behind the lids, so he forced himself awake and sat up in bed. He yawned. His stomach growled rudely, and the noise threw his feet over the side of the bed. He put his slippers on and went downstairs to breakfast.

to be continued . . .

start reading here and work backwards

she might catch fire

Posted on June 22, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty-Six

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

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

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

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

“Yes?”

“Can you come here, please?”

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

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

“Do you want me to call your doctor.”

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

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

“Do you know anything about Kitty and Jerry?”

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

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

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

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

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

“Did you know?” Bicky asked.

“Know what?”

“That they were having an affair?”

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

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

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

“I just want to know, is all.”

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

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

“Why did you torture her so much?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

➣➣➣

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

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

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

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

Phyllis nodded.

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

“I’m sorry for you.”

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“So make it right.”

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

“How do I do that?” he finally said.

Phyllis shrugged. She’d said her peace.

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

“Thanks.”

“For?”

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

“You’re welcome.”

➣➣➣

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

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

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

➣➣➣

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

start with this and move on

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

the shadow side of dreams

Posted on April 13, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Are you alright, sir?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Is anyone else still here?”

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

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

“Goodnight, Mr. Hart. Mr. Dixon.”

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

“How you doing, Jerry?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell someone what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I know. Always the other guy.”

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

“You didn’t know, did you?”

“What?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The question startled Hart. “Who?”

“My wife, that’s who.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued

click here to read what came before

Midlife Crisis

Posted on February 28, 2013 by Pam Lazos

I clip shoots from my rosemary plant and sauté the spiky, needle-like leaves with onions, butter and wine to make a mushroom barley soup my family loves. The scent, fragrant and alluring, makes inroads to heaven. We eat it all, every bite. I grew up in the “clean your plate” era, raised by parents who themselves were children of depression-era children. My grandparents were familiar with the demoralizing nature of such demanding times, and maybe because of this collective consciousness, I abhor wasteful habits. As kids, we didn’t question, we just cleaned our plates. I don’t force my own kids to do this, but I ask that they take only what they think they’ll eat. Leftovers aren’t a problem, a staple of the next day’s school and work lunches. Most days I pack a lunch and even give my kids incentive money to pack instead of buying which serves the twin purposes of bolstering their savings accounts and assuring me they’ll eat well. Plus they learn the value of food.

Perhaps this is why the other day my daughter brought home bags and bags of hoagie rolls. The nationwide franchise sandwich shop where she works tosses their leftover bread and starts fresh each day. Understandable, yet wasteful. Fretful and disillusioned, my 17-year old couldn’t understand her employer’s policy so she rescued the bread before it took a dumpster dive, intent on giving it to someone who could benefit. Her employer agreed to look the other way, but required that there be no mention of the bread’s origins. We’d welcome a few loaves, but four dozen would fill our freezer to bursting. We considered the list of places that would be good candidates while the liability issues ran an endless loop in my brain. Today’s litigious society is fierce even where good intentions abound, but my daughter was adamant so we brainstormed. The homeless shelter? Day care center? Women’s shelter? Church? All suggestions led back to the same quandary: how to get the food, once debuted, from place to place before it went bad, and the trickier question, what if someone got sick? Silly because it was bread, but lawsuits have been won over less (spilled hot coffee comes to mind).

When I was a kid, my parents had a delicatessen at the shore and we often gave the leftover food to the local nunnery. A few times a week I’d carry the spaghetti sauce and meatballs, pasta and tuna salads, and other prepared foods possessed of a limited shelf-life the few blocks to the nuns. They gave profuse thanks, and never once complained about the food’s second run. Today, over 30 million tons of still usable food is landfilled each year, left to rot and turn to methane.

I later discovered organizations in neighboring Philadelphia, Philabundance, and one in Northeast New Jersey, Table to Table. The latter is a self-characterized “food rescue” program. Five refrigerated trucks, and a partnership with local businesses that have good quality, no longer salable food form the core business plan. The company picks up and delivers fresh foods to non-profit organizations with a needy clientele all in the same day, marking the difference between them and a local food bank. Imagine if such an organization existed in every community — the end of leftover food’s mid-life crisis! Lacking a nearby equivalent, we distributed our stash to friends and family. Maybe next time I’ll drive to Jersey.

police + action

Posted on February 24, 2013 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The alarm that Robbie and Jack had so meticulously wired tied directly into the police station, and when tripped, notified the dispatcher of the presence of a intruder at the Tirabi residence. The dispatcher put out the call which was received by Officer Matheson and his partner, Officer Traecy, currently on their coffee break at the local diner.

Tony, the owner of the diner was a young man in his late twenty’s taking on his first business endeavor. Looking to keep costs down, he worked the midnight shift alone, alternating between bussing tables, food and coffee prep, and customer service. Right now, he was out front wiping the counters and listening to Matheson’s myriad stories of extended familial allegiances.

“I’m not kidding ya’. Bud is $3.75 a quart at Farrell’s, my uncle’s place,” Matheson said. “He’ll even give you a to-go quart cup if you want. I used to go in a lot with my cousin, Huey. Three Hueys in one family. The dad, the grandfather and my cousin. Talk about branding your kids. All part of the circle of punishing, I guess.” Matheson and Traecy laughed while Tony restocked styrofoam.

“Just like’s Mom’s,” Matheson said, taking a sip of his coffee. His radio crackled to life. The dispatcher relayed the information regarding a potential break-in at the Tirabi’s.

“We’re on it,” Matheson said, signing off. He signaled Tony for a refill which he sipped with apparent satisfaction.

“Shouldn’t we go?” Traecy asked.

“Nah. It’s the Tirabi kids again. They set that alarm off once a month.”

“Yeah, but what if…”

Matheson waved him off. “It’ll be fine. Just let me finish this and we’ll check it out.” He forked down the last bite of an omelet.

“Hey, Tony. One to go, huh?” Matheson said, holding out his styrofoam cup.

Traecy shrugged. Ten minutes after dispatch called, they were en route.

to be continued

start with what happened here