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

keep the birds warm

Posted on November 19, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Five

The Wildlife Rescue Center in northeastern Maryland, a one-stop emergency room for oiled birds and other mammals, was brimming to capacity. Trained staff and volunteers littered the aisles like road debris, working as quickly as possible to address the backlog. The temperature was set to a balmy eighty degrees to keep the birds warm, a temperature which worked quite well outside, especially with a nice crosswind, but not inside a building packed with so many CO2 breathing mammals. People were sweating profusely; a few of the workers looked like they just took a dip in the river.

The Wildlife Rescue Center was a coalition of the local SPCA, the Friends of Waterfowl, a local, well-known, bird conservancy, as well as federal, state and local government partners. The building itself was huge, about fourteen thousand square feet in the shape of an open rectangle, cordoned off with moveable walls to accommodate the varying resource needs. The largest area was set aside as the trauma center. The building sat, idle yet prepared, to be used only in the event of an oil spill. It was the coalition’s greatest hope that the money they’d invested in this building would go to waste and that the facility and its equipment would sit and collect dust. Unfortunately, today that hope was not realized as dozens of veterinarians and trained volunteers worked side-by-side, attempting to undue what might not be capable of being undone.

Doctor Alyssa Morgan, a veterinarian and Director of the Wildlife Rescue Center, was on the phone in a small walled office at the back of the room, gesticulating animatedly. Lapsley and Hart walked into the middle of the trauma center and looked around, lost children waiting for direction. Dr. Morgan caught sight of Lapsley through her office window and waved, the scowl on her face softening. Lapsley took that as a good sign.

By the time they reached the door, she hung up the phone and ushered them into the office. The office was a mere eight by twelve feet and harbored a desk with a phone, a couch which at present was a catch-all for a miscellaneous reports and papers, and a credenza with a coffee pot. Two more people could fit, but only if they took turns breathing. Realizing rather belatedly the ridiculousness of this arrangement, she hustled them out.

“Vic,” Dr. Morgan said, extending a hand. “Long time.”

“Hey, Alyssa.” Lapsley took her hand, holding it a few seconds longer than necessary. Dr. Morgan blushed.

“This is David Hartos. Chief of Engineering for Akanabi Oil.” Hart extended a hand which Dr. Morgan accepted, but the bloom faded from her face, replaced with a cold, hard stare.

“Lyss, he didn’t go out and dump the oil himself,” Lapsley said. One side of his mouth quirked in a wry smile. The joke worked.

“So what’s going on?” Lapsley said.

“You’re looking at it,” Dr. Morgan said, extending an arm in a wide arc.

“You look like hell,”Lapsley said, his gaze fixed on her face.

“Thanks. You look pretty lousy yourself.”

“You know what I mean,” Lapsley said.

Dr. Morgan nodded. “I was up most of the night cleaning oiled birds. They’re still coming in. And it’s not just the Rescue Team. Fishermen are bringing them in now. It doesn’t look like it’s going to slow down anytime soon.” She gazed around the room and back to Lapsley. “We need backup.”

A lock of hair fell into her eyes. Lapsley resisted the urge to brush it back.

“Why don’t you just put out a couple radio ads? Akanabi’ll pay for it.” Lapsley looked at Hart to make sure this was, in fact, true. Hart confirmed.

“I’m sure plenty of people would be willing to volunteer,” Hart said.

“First time at a Rescue Center, Mr. Hart?” Dr. Morgan asked. Lapsley detected the note of satisfaction in her voice and suppressed the urge to smile.

“Actually, I usually repair the leak before it gets to this stage so this is a bit out of my range, I’ll admit,” Hart said. “But I’d be happy to help.”

“You can’t. You’re not trained. All our volunteers have had a two-day intensive training. To allow you to work on these birds without the proper training would rise to the level of malpractice.”

“There’s got to be something we can do,” Lapsley said.

Dr. Morgan scanned the room. About fifteen de-oiling stations had been set up, all but one presently occupied.

“Check each of the stations and make sure they have sufficient quantities of Dawn dishwashing detergent, rags and trashbags.” Dr. Morgan said.

“I guess that means you want us to hang for awhile?” Lapsley asked.

“For awhile. You mind?”

Lapsley shook his head and smiled at her.

“When did you last take the training?” Dr. Morgan asked Lapsley.

“Probably ten years ago,” he replied. She sighed.

“Alright, you better stick close to me.” Lapsley looked at Hart and winked. He could think of nothing better he’d like to do this morning.

to be continued. . .

to read how this came to pass jump here

the coming storm

Posted on October 9, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-Two

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Coming.”

“So’s spring.”

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

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

“Did you notify all the local water intakes…”

“Yes.”

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

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

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

Hart nodded and followed Zenone into the command post.

➣➣➣

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

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

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

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

“You bet it is.”

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

“Did you prepare that plan?” Zenone asked.

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

Zenone nodded. Hart rubbed his forehead.

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

“Yeah. I know.”

“Just so we’re straight.”

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

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

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

Lapsley rose. “I’ll drive you back.”

“Inspection?” Zenone asked.

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

to be continued. . .

to read the back story, jump here

Let’s Have A Town Meeting

Posted on June 11, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-One

Kori, Avery and Gil poured out of Ruth’s minivan and staggered toward the house, drunk with the success of their mission to Cooper’s Service Station. Kori hung back watching while Avery lectured Gil about the finer points of backwards butt-kicking.

“No, it’s like this,” Avery said. “You walk next to the person and then you take your outside leg, the leg that’s farthest from them, and you swing it around and up and you kick ‘em in the butt without even breaking stride. If you can help it, you don’t even look at them, but it’s really hard not to laugh.” Avery demonstrated, giving Gil a good swift one. Gil pitched forward, but caught himself before falling, laughing at his own clumsiness.

“My turn,” Gil said. “Just pretend you don’t know I’m going to do it,” he said. Together he and Avery walked up the few steps to the back door and once on the landing, Gil swung his leg around and kicked Avery so hard he sent him hurtling head first into the back door. Avery caught himself and grimaced at Gil.

“How’d I do,” Gil asked, beaming. Avery narrowed his eyes.

“Remind me not to teach you anything anymore,” he hissed, holding the door for them.

Avery sat down at the kitchen table and began counting the bills. “Two hundred and eighty-six dollars. That should hold us for awhile, Kor.”

“Well, it won’t pay the taxes, but it’ll buy groceries for a couple weeks.” She walked to the counter and retrieved two glasses and then to the fridge for the milk. “Although the way you guys eat, it probably won’t even last that long. She handed glasses to Avery and Gil and snatched the money out of Avery’s hands while he was in mid-gulp. She stuffed the bulk of the money in a jar in the cabinet, a few bills in her wallet and handed Avery $90.

“For the field trip. And some walking-around money.” She smiled and looked at him in earnest. “I’m still a little worried, but. . . .”

“But nothing,” Avery shrugged, and polished off the rest of the milk. “We’re hot wired right into the police station, remember. As long as Einstein over here doesn’t hit the alarm by accident, we’re A-okay.” Gil ignored them, drained his glass and left the room. They heard the T.V. click on and soon the soundtrack to Holes was coming through the surround sound.

Avery leafed through the mail haphazardly separating bills, advertisements and solicitations from anything that looked like real mail. One piece caught his eye because of the address label. He shoved it across the table at Kori who turned it over again and again, considering it with reverence like it were a holy icon. Finally she opened her hands and let it drop to the table, staring after it as if it might open itself.

“Maybe we should write ‘return to sender’ on it, or ‘no longer at this address’” Kori suggested. Avery reached over and picked it up, studying the return address.

“United States Environmental Protection Agency,” he said. “It’s official.” He handed the letter back to Kori, but she didn’t reach for it. “Open it.”

“It’s Mom’s.”

“Kori . I hardly think that matters now,” Avery said, raising his eyebrows at her. She still wouldn’t take it.

Avery tore the letter open. “It’s a notice of a public meeting.” Avery’s eyes scanned the page. “Hey, there’s also a federal register notice soliciting public comment on EPA’s Record of Decision for the Stahl’s landfill.” He flipped back to the notice in the local paper, scanned it quickly and slid both across the table to Kori. “Looks like EPA’s going to have a town meeting about the farm.”

“The Stahl’s property?”

“Yeah.” Avery pulled the papers back and read something again. “It says they just completed the Record of Decision, the ROD, and they want to inform the public about the remedy they’ve chosen and give us a chance to ask questions.”

“What do you mean, us?”

“Well, I’m going. It’s only over at the high school. It’s close.”

“How you gonna get there?”

“Kori! We need to be interested in this stuff. It’s in our backyard.”

Kori shrugged in response. “That was Mom’s thing. Not mine.”

Avery rubbed hard at his temples. “It’s everyone in this house’s thing. It’s the whole planet’s thing.” Avery grabbed the envelope. The return address said U.S. EPA, but there was no name associated with the organization. “I wonder who in EPA sent this,” he said, and tossed the envelope on the table. “You know, Mom was the chairman of the citizen’s group that followed this stuff.”

“Mom was the chairman of every group that followed anything like this,” Kori said. Her face wore a blase expression.

“We gotta call somebody and tell them,” Avery said.

“Oh, no. You just turn that optimistic gaze in another direction, brother.”

“Somebody’s gotta get copies made, buy envelopes and stamps and mail this notice out to the neighbors. That’s what Mom used to do. The EPA obviously doesn’t know she’s dead.”

“How would they?” Kori snapped.

“Look, my point is, if these notices don’t go out, how’s anyone going to know about the meeting?”

“Maybe they read the paper.”

“And probably they didn’t.”

“So send them out.”

“You gotta help me. I can’t do it alone.”

“No way. I don’t have the time or the inclination. And I don’t want to get involved.”

“But you are involved.” Avery waved toward the window and beyond. “We’re all involved. Our aquifer’s contaminated. Do you realize that if Dad hadn’t built a water purification system for our well, odds are one in four of getting cancer? And that’s after drinking the water for only five years. That’s how bad the contamination is. We’ve been using that aquifer for twenty-five!” Avery opened his hands as if Kori were stupid not to see his point. “One in four, Kori. One in four people in the Hickory Hills development has contracted cancer. Which one of us do you think it would have been?” Kori mumbled something under her breath, but Avery continued.

“You know what we’d be drinking right now, if our water came straight through from the well. The components that make up gasoline, for starters. Same stuff that’s in those barrels out back.” Avery jerked a thumb in the direction of the shed. “That aquifer will take decades to fix even if it ever clears up. And until everyone wakes up and realizes that we all live downstream….”

Kori laughed out loud, walked to the fridge and poured herself a glass of water.

“You sound like an ad for the EPA. Wasn’t that one of their television spots?”

“They don’t do T.V. spots. They’re a part of the U.S. federal government. They can’t advertise. Pity, too,” Avery said, as if struck by a thought. He rubbed his hairless chin in contemplation. “Advertising,” he said mostly to himself.

Kori took a drink and stood, staring out the window. She leaned against the sink and sighed. “I’ve got paper and envelopes. Use whatever you want. I even have labels downstairs and I’m pretty sure I know where to find Mom’s mailing list on the computer. But just keep me out of it, okay?”

“Kor, just…”

“No, Avery. I can’t. Don’t you see?” She folded her arms across her chest, more of a hugging motion than an acrimonious gesture. “It’ll bring her so close, but without breaking the surface. It won’t bring her back. Nothing can.”

Kori hadn’t told Avery about the terrible nightmares she’d had following Ruth and Marty’s death. Visions of her blood-spattered parents being chased by a monster with hell in his eyes and arms that shot fire from their fingertips. They wrenched her from sleep, leaving her gasping for air, shaking and sweating, so unnerved she didn’t dare roll. Kori’s chest tightened at the thought.

“Why don’t you call the lawyer? What’s that guy’s name? Bill Gallighan? His law office would probably do all of this for you. He’s an advisor to the citizens’ group. You could at least get him to pay for postage.”

Avery shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. “He does this pro bono. His law office doesn’t give him a dime. Plus he’s gotta maintain two hundred and twenty billable hours a month or they won’t let him work on the case anymore. They’re real bastards. The firm gets all this credit and name recognition and Bill’s the one doing all the work.” Avery folded his hands and crossed his legs as if in consultation with himself.

“Well, he has more money than we do. He can pay for stamps. Maybe even copies.”

“Actually, the law firm will pay for copies. And envelopes. Not stamps though.”

“What’s the difference between paper and stamps. It all costs money.”

“They want the stuff to go out on their letterhead because it’s free advertising and then everyone thinks they’re nice guys. But they don’t want to be out of pocket for the postage.”

“How do you know that?”

“Mom told me,” Avery said. He picked up the letter again and stared at it for several moments as if he could conjure Ruth simply by holding it. “She did so much.” Avery’s voice was wistful. “Stuff we’ll never even find out about.”

“She didn’t tell me much about that.”

“You had to ask her.” Avery sighed and ran his hands over his face. The conversation had brought him down.

“Why don’t you go watch T.V.,” Kori offered.

Avery nodded and left the room.

Kori stared at mounds of mail, but made no move toward it. Outside, the rain clouds gathered.

to be continued. . .

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