jackets required

Posted on December 5, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (c)

Hart walked into the Union Club – an oxymoron since union workers were the last people that this particular club would ever admit – wearing a polo shirt and a pair of dockers and carrying his worn but stylish leather briefcase. The maitre d’, a tall man, about fifty, with jet black hair and eyes as warm as the inside of a root cellar, scanned Hart’s periphery, a distasteful job if his twitching mouth was any indication. He asked Hart between pinched lips whether he had a jacket, perhaps in the car.

Hart shook his head. “No jacket. Bicky Coleman, please.” Hart scanned the room and spotted his father-in-law holding court at the far end of the room with four expertly-tailored gentlemen. It was hard to tell one tanned face and Armani suit from the next. Hart sidestepped the maitre d’ who protested until he saw Mr. Coleman coming toward them.

“About time,” Bicky said gripping Hart’s hand in a firm, as opposed to bone crushing, hand shake. “Where the hell’ve you been?”

“I told you I was going to spend the day with…”

“Leave your Goddamn cell phone on next time.” The corners of Bicky’s mouth quivered as he attempted a smile. Hart struggled not to laugh. Bicky wrapped what might be termed an affectionate arm around Hart’s shoulder and led him to a pair of leather arm chairs set in a private alcove. A waiter materialized and asked if the gentlemen would prefer a cocktail. Bicky ordered Chivas, Hart a Jamieson, both with rocks. Hart noticed that some of the thick, brocade curtains were closed. Apparently, the rooms could get pretty cozy. Maybe I could take Sonia here sometime….

“Did your wife give you a package for me?” Bicky asked nonchalantly.

Hart opened his briefcase as the waiter set two whiskeys before them. Bicky looked at his watch and took a sip. He swirled the ice in his glass, transfixed by the beverage.

“Is this a bad time?” Hart asked. Bicky took another drink, a swig this time.

“I’m scheduled to talk to Graighton at 7:30.”

“Bill Graighton?” Hart asked. “About what?” Hart followed Bicky’s glance at a shadowy figure sitting alone in an alcove across the room, talking on the phone.

Bicky snapped his fingers and held out his palm. Hart’s remorse for Sonia’s hasty actions was replaced by a protective annoyance. Hart pulled the report from his briefcase and slapped it into Bicky’s outstretched hand. Bicky gazed at his daughter’s handwriting before opening the envelope. He scanned the cover and shoved it back in the envelope. Hart thought he caught a grimace on Bicky’s face, but the man couldn’t smile to save his life, so he wasn’t sure. Bicky nodded once, an almost imperceptible nod, and the figure in the alcove rose, closing the curtain.

Bicky turned to Hart: “I shouldn’t be more than half an hour. Go have a drink. Talk. It’s time you started making these people your own.”

Hart was about to protest, but Bicky was already standing. Hart grabbed his drink and briefcase and did the same.

“Just leave the briefcase. I’ll be back in half an hour.”

Hart looked at his watch. The image of crawling in bed next to Sonia was already dimming, but if the cloak and dagger stuff had something to do with the report, he’d better oblige Bicky for Sonia’s sake. Hart waited until Bicky entered the alcove, and headed to the bar.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

love and deception

Posted on November 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (b)

They window-shopped along the streets of Houston in a haze of love and Hart admired his wife’s reflection in every storefront they passed.

When Sonia’s feet were so swollen they seemed to spill out of her shoes, she finally called the game. “How about a decaf cappuccino? There’s a little outdoor café a couple doors up.”

Hart carried a giggling Sonia the last three hundred feet and they sat down at a corner table with an umbrella for shade. The waiter materialized, took their order, disappeared. Hart placed Sonia’s feet on his lap and began to massage them. She groaned with delight.

“So what’s in the envelope?”

“Nothing.”

“You are the worst liar.”

Sonia’s blushed and tried to remove her feet from Hart’s lap but he held firm.

“Why do you have to be so nosey?”

“Just trying to keep you out of trouble, is all.” He tweaked a baby toe.

“Ooowww.”

“Spill.”

Sonia appraised her husband with narrowed eyes, the broad shoulders and chiseled arms, the blue eyes and wavy brown hair, the air of confidence that surrounded him, the gentle look he reserved only for her. With him, she was safe. She drew a breath.

“I was at Dad’s office. There was a report sitting on his desk written for that coalition of oil companies. So I looked through it.”

“And…?”

“And, I borrowed it. I wanted to read the rest.”

“When was that?”

“Yesterday. Bicky told me that if I didn’t give it back I’d be in danger. And if I told you about it, you’d be in danger, too.”

Hart guffawed. “He said danger, not trouble? And you believed him?”

“It says we don’t have much oil left,” Sonia said in a whisper.

A light flashed in Hart’s eyes and he snickered.

“What?”

“It’s only dangerous for the oil companies because it’s overt admission. A smoking gun. If they didn’t write the report themselves they could dismiss it as rubbish. But to be caught red-handed with the information and do nothing to rectify the problem. It’s a time bomb, even to a largely self-regulated industry.”

“But Dad really believed…”

“Well, he may be right. But more than that, I think he senses a possible corruption of his power base and he’s trying to cover his tracks. He doesn’t know that you won’t do something stupid like give it to the newspaper. Not just the altruistic are passionate about causes, Sonia. I’m sure Hitler believed his own hype.”

“Are you comparing Bicky to Hitler?”

“No. Bicky’s got a better schtick. But there are one or two people that can still dwarf him in the power broker department. And he doesn’t want to piss any of them off. Sonia rubbed her head as if the whole conversation were giving her a headache.

“Why didn’t you just give it back to him last night?”

“I don’t know. I was thinking of using it to force his hand.”

“To do what?”

“To get you a job closer to home.”

Hart placed Sonia’s feet on the floor, leaned over and kissed her. “Well, I am home. For good.”

“What do you mean, for good?” Sonia asked.

“I mean, that was it. The last job for your Dad. Time to do something for us.”

Hart smiled and massaged Sonia’s fingers. Sonia stared at her husband for several moments before dropping her head back to smile at the sun.

&&&

Hart roused Sonia from a half-sleep as they pulled into the driveway sometime around 7 o’clock. He had plied her with all kinds of hot sauces at dinner because he’d heard they bring on contractions. Sonia had appeased him until her mouth couldn’t stand anymore. Hart laid a hand on Sonia’s belly, the only part of her not sleeping, when Sonia stirred.

“I think he’s doing backstroke,” he whispered. “C’mon. Let’s get you both inside.”

“Just take me with you. I’ll stay in the car.”

“And what? I go inside and drink cognac with your father? How’s that going to look?”

“It’s going to look like you can’t stand to leave me.” Sonia smiled and pouted at once. “Pleeeaaaase. Take me with you.”

“No. You need to rest. We’ve been going all day.”

“I’ll sleep in the car. I promise.”

“What if something happens. What if your water breaks? You’ll be in the car.”

“Helloooo.” Sonia pulled out her cell phone and jiggled it in Hart’s face.

“Alright, Miss Smart-Ass. Get your butt inside or I’ll kick it from here to Broad Street.”

“What if the boogy man gets me?”

“Sonia, c’mon. The longer we do this, the longer it is until I’m lying in bed with you.”

Sonia gripped the dashboard.

“Have it your way.” He ran around to the passenger side and hoisted his wife out of the car. She flailed and Hart buckled under the weight which got Sonia’s attention. She wrapped her arms around his neck and pantomimed the part of the damsel in distress. He staggered into the house and after several false starts because of mutual bouts of laughter, managed to navigate the stairs without mishap. He ceremoniously draped her across the bed, covered her with a hand-woven quilt and handed her the remote.

“There’s nothing I can say to make you change your mind?” she asked.

“It’s 7 o’clock now. I’ll be home by 9. Promise.”

“Enough of your promises, David Hartos. Call me later and let me know how late you’re going to be.” She smiled, tight-lipped and sad, and he brushed a lock of hair back from her eyes.

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed your face.”

“After tonight you can look at it as much as you want. All day in fact.” The corner of her mouth suggested a smile. He stroked her belly gently in response, slowly moving his hand lower. Sonia moaned, rising to his touch.

“Based on field research, conducted today, I’d have to say that it’s not true what they say about pregnant women?”

“At least not this pregnant woman,” she replied, kissing him.

“Maybe I should just tell Bicky I’ll see him tomorrow.”

She grabbed his hand and kissed it. “I can wait. But hurry home.” He kissed her hard and turned to go, hesitating at the door to look at her.

“What?”

“It only takes seven seconds to imprint an image in the mind forever. I’m fixing you in mine.

“Who told you that?” Sonia asked, smiling.

“My high school art teacher.”

“Well get going, Rembrandt. I’ll have use for you later.” She tossed a pillow at his head. He dodged it and headed down the hall, whistling.

Hart stood at the base of the stairs in the foyer and called up. “I’ll take the envelope for Bicky,” he yelled. From their bedroom on the second floor came Sonia’s muffled assent.

&&&

Sonia watched from their bedroom window as Hart’s car pulled out of the driveway. When he was gone she switched off the T.V., and reached in between the mattress and box spring, her hands coming to rest on a manila envelope. She pried the coffee-stained report free, made herself comfortable and began to read.

to be continued. . . .

to read more scroll down. . .

she was not fooled

Posted on October 25, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (c)

Sonia laughed in spite of herself, but she was not fooled. Under Bicky’s shiny veneer there lurked the soul of a survivor, one who made no pretense of not taking anyone with him.

“There’s got to be a way for the rich to keep on being rich and the rest of the planet to be comfortable. Not everyone longs for world domination, you know,” Sonia said.

Bicky watched the sprinkler throw tiny droplets in wide, circular arcs. The street light lent his face a preternatural glow. He shook his head and sighed, a deep heaving sigh to indicate that nothing that came before and certainly nothing that will ever come after carried quite as much weight.

“If I could do something, I would. But it’s beyond my frail powers,” Bicky said.

Sonia laughed and started the car. “Frail is not an adjective I’d use to describe you.”

Bicky stood motionless, arms locked on the door, looking like an old, weary man. His fuzzy gaze fell on Sonia’s belly and after a few moments the spark returned.

“Bring me the report in the morning, please. And don’t say anything to your husband. A little knowledge can be life threatening in certain situations. He doesn’t need that kind of information coloring his field work.” Bicky’s vacant stare signaled the end of the conversation. .

Sonia nodded. A tight, pinched smile graced Bicky’s lips. He banged twice on the car door, dismissing her. Sonia pulled out of the driveway and didn’t look back.

to be continued. . .

to read more of what came before, scroll down

surreal light

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (a)

Sonia would have regretted accepting the dinner invitation had it not been for her mother’s usual effervescence. They holed up in the kitchen chatting amiably about how the baby’s imminent arrival would change things between Sonia and Hart, about the wisdom of getting a dog before mother and child were sleeping through the night, and, of all things, wine.

“Oh for Godsakes, Sonia. The kid’s not going to get shnookered off half a glass. I drank one every night when I was pregnant with you. I even smoked an occasional cigarette, but they started making me sick so I quit.”

“What were you thinking?” Sonia asked, horrified.

“Nobody told us anything then. I never got loaded. It helped me sleep.”

“Yeah, but didn’t you at least think it might not be good? For me, I mean.”

“You’re not a dim-wit.” Kitty squeezed Sonia’s shoulder. “A half a glass of wine is not going to drop his I.Q. Not at this late date.” Kitty shoved a Cabernet into her daughter’s hand. Sonia set it down and rubbed her finger up and down the delicate stem of the glass.

“Actually, I’d rather have a Guinness,” she laughed. “I’ve been craving one for weeks. You got any?”

“I don’t drink the heathen brew.” Kitty said, peeking in the oven. She donned double mitts and hauled the roasted pheasant out for closer inspection, her slender muscles obliging her. Kitty weighed a hundred and six pounds. The pheasant had more body fat. “Check with your father.”

Sonia frowned. “Really, Mom. How have you done it all these years?”

“It’s one of my greatest joys,” Kitty replied.

“I’m not talking about cooking. I’m talking about living with him.”

“You do it for the baby, Sonia. It’s all for the babies.”

Sonia raised her glass and spoke to her belly. “Here’s to you, baby.” She took a small sip, shuddered and poured the rest of the wine in the sink.

Kitty rolled her eyes and prodded the bird lightly with a fork. “Go tell your father dinner’s ready.” Kitty said.

Sonia sighed and left in search of an audience.

&&&

She blew into Bicky’s sitting room like a sudden wind blasting through a broken window. A low fire crackled away in the hearth, emanating a warmth that offset the chilly October air. The curtains had not yet been drawn and the last rays of the sun’s daily trek left streaks across the western horizon like an early Picasso, all color and angle. The surreal light coming through the floor to ceiling windows cast odd shapes about the room. Sonia grabbed the armrest of Bicky’s chair and sank to her knees, staring out at the beauty of it.

Bicky chose that exact moment to return to the sitting room and, his seat. In the dusky light, Sonia’s inert figure was practically invisible. Bicky tripped over his daughter and, unfurling like a flag, fell headlong, ending with a thud on the slate surrounding the hearth.

“Oh my God,” Sonia said, and jumped up to turn on the light.

Bicky sat up wincing and rubbed at the red welt, already the size of a walnut, forming above his right eye. He glared at Sonia for a moment and grimaced.

“Oh, geez, Dad, I’m so sorry, I….” She snickered, then cleared her throat to cover the faux pas. “Can I get you some ice or something?”

Bicky motioned with his head toward the wet bar.

Sonia fixed her father a Chivas and water and handed him the glass. “Mom said it’s time for dinner,” she said, and left.

Using a fire poker for balance, Bicky hoisted himself up, turned off the light, and sank into his armchair. His long slender fingers probed the delicate area. He could hear Sonia rummaging around in the kitchen, sense the lowered voices of mother and daughter, feel the muffled laughter like a poker in the ribs. Bicky was scowling at the fire when Sonia returned a minute later with a plastic bag full of ice wrapped in a dishtowel. He sniffed the towel before applying it to the walnut-sized lump on his forehead.

“What, you think I’d give you a used towel?” Sonia said reading his mind.

Bicky smiled and busied himself with the ice. He didn’t say thank you, just sat in silence, recalling the many non-lectures of Sonia’s youth, willing the words to form on his tongue, yet unable to manage a syllable, for either a tongue lashing or executive pardon. Before Sonia was born he had joked that if the baby were a girl he’d throw it in the river. His first glance at Sonia was rife with disappointment, and not just because of her sex. Something deeper was at work, something Bicky couldn’t put his finger. His wife hoped that in time, he’d turn a favorable eye toward his daughter, but infants do little else but sleep and eat and poop and cry, and Bicky, the mover and shaker, didn’t have the time to invest in that kind of nonsense.

As a result, Kitty chose Sonia over him, pushing her sulking husband even farther away. Soon after Sonia’s birth, their sex life began its precipitous decline which probably would have been reversible, but for one unfortunate evening when Bicky came home, quite intoxicated, and when his advances were declined, slapped his wife in the face. Kitty never willingly slept in the same bed with her husband again. In Bicky’s mind, the two events – the birth of his daughter and the loss of a willing, companionable wife — were inextricably intertwined. Had he been able to see beyond the prominent, handsome nose on his face, he would have realized that in her inimitable southern style, Kitty was using sex, the only weapon she had in her arsenal at the time, in the hopes of bringing Bicky around to loving his daughter.

But truth often remains hidden until one trips over it – literally – and even then it’s hard to face. So Bicky sat, sullen and craggy, staring at the fire while Sonia waited patiently for a tirade that wasn’t coming. What Bicky didn’t know was that Sonia was in her early teens when she concluded that a parent who couldn’t rouse sufficient anger to correct a guilty child was a parent who didn’t give a damn.

Sonia cleared her throat and rose to go. “It’s time for dinner. If you feel up to it.”

The sun had set; the only light in the room came from the fireplace and Bicky could barely make out Sonia’s shadowy figure walking away. “Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Sonia stopped, but did not turn around.

“You know what,” he hissed.

“No… I don’t,” she said coyly.

And so went their game, and only now did Bicky give her his undivided attention. “I’m not going to ask why you took it. Although I suspect it has something to do with gaining leverage to bring your husband home.”

Bicky flicked on the lamp next to the arm chair and stood to look at his daughter. Sonia’s countenance and bearing were regal. She had her mother’s high cheekbones and slender figure. Even pregnant, her face retained its sculptured look. From the back, he would have been hard pressed to say she carried the extra weight.

Sonia stood still, head facing Bicky, body facing the kitchen, refusing to turn to him.

“I had hoped you and I could find some common ground,” Bicky said, his business voice taking over. “With this baby and all, it might be the thing we need to get past our…differences.” He strolled over, squeezed her shoulder, flashed a tight-lipped smile, meant to convey warmth.

She flinched. He lowered his hand and patted her arm. He felt her relax almost imperceptibly into the arms – arms which had withheld their support for most of her life – and then constrict again.

“I know you can’t wash years away in an evening,” he said. “But maybe we can start.” Bicky’s eyes were wide and sincere.

Sonia dropped her head to Bicky’s shoulder as if she were trying it on for size. He stiffened, but didn’t recoil. She reached up a hand to touch the knot on his forehead. He squeezed an eye shut, but allowed the invasion. She smiled, a small, tentative thing, and he squeezed her arm in response.

“Shall we dine?” he asked. Sonia nodded.

Without releasing his grip, Bicky steered his daughter into the dining room.

to be continued. . .

mother love

Posted on September 17, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SIX(b)

“I don’t care how you do it. I just want it done.” Bicky’s anger was distinct even through a closed door. “And don’t come back to me until it’s finished. Capice?”

Sonia heard a muffled assent and, without even thinking, shoved the report in her brown leather backpack, knocking a cup of water across the desk in the process.

“Damn.” She grabbed a bunch of tissues and was mopping up when Bicky burst through the door.

Sonia smiled.

“Sorry. I hope it doesn’t leave a mark.”

Bicky stared at his daughter as if he couldn’t place the face before bewilderment gave way to annoyance.

Sonia jumped to her feet. “Oh, sorry, I . . . was tired. Your seat is the most comfortable.” She stood, draped her backpack over her shoulder, and exchanged places with her father.

“How long have you been here?” he barked, and with a gentle touch antithetical to his tone, moved his mother’s picture out of the water’s trajectory and onto the windowsill.

“I don’t know. Half an hour,” Sonia said, clearing her throat. “I see you got a new Dickinson.” She nodded in the direction of Bicky’s rare book collection. “Nice catch.”

“It came at quite a price, let me tell you.” He smiled and Sonia regained her composure, relieved to be on neutral territory. Bicky took his seat behind the desk, a reigning monarch, and pressed the intercom.

“Phyllis, some paper towels, please.” Bicky released the intercom before Phyllis could answer, snapped open the humidor and pulled out a cigar. Sonia cleared her throat. He shut it with a muttered apology.

“So. What can I do for you, babe?” Bicky asked, adopting an air of lightheartedness. Sonia responded by shoving clammy hands into the wide pockets of her maternity dress and wrapped them around the baby.

“It’s about David. I just wanted to know – when is he coming back?” She squared her shoulders as if getting out the words freed her to stand straighter, and thrust her belly forward, marking her question with an additional exclamation point. Bicky stared at her and she held his eye, trying to remember if growing up had always been this emotionally draining. She remembered so little of her father’s presence from childhood that it couldn’t have been the case.

“I already dispatched a guy. Your husband’ll be on the next plane home.”

“Really? Oh, Dad, thanks!” She ran around the desk and threw her arms around Bicky’s neck, a move instigated by relief and unbridled hormones. Bicky shifted uncomfortably in his seat and looked to Sonia like he might run.

“Sorry,” Sonia said, stepping back.

“That’s all right,” Bicky said. He rubbed his neck gingerly, feeling for the welt.

Sonia hadn’t touched her father in so long, hadn’t wanted or needed to, and so had forgotten his adversity toward the simple act of it. She rarely saw her parents touch, much less kiss. It didn’t bother her, but under the circumstances, she never understood how she’d been conceived. She slumped in the closest armchair with relief. “So what changed your mind?”

Bicky waved his hand. “Your mother . . . she didn’t want you to be upset.”

So there it was. Kitty had trumped him. Sonia tried to summon some love for the stranger that sat across the desk sorting wet mail. Feeling none flow, she stood to leave.

“Thanks,” she said, grateful no matter what the circumstances that forced her father’s hand. Bicky dismissed the gesture with another wave and smiled, a cross between an impatient grin and a grimace. The phone buzzed and relief washed Bicky’s face clean.

“Where are the paper towels?” he barked into the intercom.

“Try the bottom drawer of your desk,” Phyllis responded, her tone syrupy sweet.

Sonia bit her lower lip. Phyllis had put up with Bicky since he came to Akanabi over thirty years ago and showed no signs of relenting. For reasons Sonia couldn’t decipher, Bicky attracted and held people in his life, quality people, like flies to the spider’s web.

The phone buzzed and Bicky checked the caller ID. “I gotta take this,” he said. He tried another unsuccessful smile as Sonia turned to go.

“Your mother wants you to come to dinner tonight,” Bicky said, reaching for the receiver. Sonia waited for any additional proclamations, but Bicky grunted and jerked his head toward the door. Sonia took this as her unmistakable cue to leave.

Sonia leaned against the smooth, polished walnut, fingering the clasp on her backpack and listening to Bicky’s imperial tone through the lavish doors. She reached in and touched the edges of the envelope. She could drop it on Phyllis’s desk, no questions asked, and walk out. Or…

“Hey there, girly. Where’ve you been?”

Sonia stumbled and Phyllis was at her side in an instant, directing her to a chair.

“I remember these days,” Phyllis said. “All top heavy and off-balance. Like one of those Weeble-Wobble toys. You remember them?”

“Weebles wobble, but they don’t fall down.” Sonia sang.

“Isn’t it amazing how you can forget your kid’s birthday, but remember ads from twenty-five years ago,” Phyllis said. Phyllis was a lithe figure, still beautiful well into her sixtieth year, all grace and high cheekbones. She pushed an ottoman in front of Sonia’s chair.

“Feet up,” Phyllis said with the authority of a drill sergeant. She smiled and squeezed Sonia’s shoulder. Bicky’s personal line rang and Phyllis put him on speaker phone.

“Where the hell’s my report?”

“Try looking on your desk.”

Bicky ended the conversation with a dial tone. Phyllis rolled her eyes at Sonia.

“Your father,” Phyllis started, “is not big on patience.”

“Or much anything else unless there are dollar signs attached. Really, Phyllis. How do you stand it? You couldn’t pay me enough.”

“Oh, he’s not so bad. He was so green when I first got him. All eager to prove himself to your grandfather. Who knew he’d grow to be the pompous ass he is today. I think a part of him died with your grandmother and it’s been rotting inside him ever since. And between you and me, I feel a little sorry for him. He’s just a kid who really misses his mother.”

Sonia considered this a possible reason for Bicky’s strong gravitational pull: memory and pity. Memory of what the man was; pity for who he’d become. And a desire to help him crawl out of the quagmire. Sonia had made the same mistake many times, thinking that her father would then include her as a relevant part of his life only to find that Bicky considered himself a single planetary solar system, a man who shared the cosmos with no one.

From the wet bar, Phyllis grabbed a bottle of chilled Evian and handed it to Sonia.

“When my son was born, my husband was in Vietnam. I thought I would lose my mind. I got through it, though. You always do.” She smiled and stroked Sonia’s hair. “We’re tougher than they are. That’s why we bear the babies.” Phyllis strode across the room, grabbed something off her desk and handed it to Sonia.

“I printed out a copy of his itinerary. He’ll be in about the middle of the night so don’t wait up,” Phyllis admonished. She smiled, revealing a lovely set of pearly white teeth.

“Thanks, Phyllis,” Sonia said, standing. She gave the older woman a hug. “I’ll call you as soon as something happens,” she said, a hand on either side of her belly. “They have these websites now, where you can log on and see the newborns just a couple days after they’re born. You won’t even have to go to the hospital.”

“Bye love,” Phyllis said, throwing a kiss to the air. Sonia watched Phyllis bound toward her desk before turning to the elevator.

&&&

The elevator opened in the lobby and Jerry stood waiting as if summoned.

“How do you always know?” Sonia teased. Jerry tapped his chest and smiled.

“My heart beats a little more quickly when you’re around,” he said. “You let us know the minute our baby pokes its head into this world.” He smiled, dazzling her.

Sonia kissed him on the cheek and turned to leave. “I will, Uncle Jerry.”

He opened the door and watched as she walked away, their usual ritual. At the moment before Sonia rounded the corner, she turned and blew him a kiss as she’d done a million times before. His turned his cheek to catch it, reeling backwards, holding one hand on his heart and the other over the newly planted kiss so as not to let it slip away. She smiled and disappeared around the corner; the smile did not leave Jerry’s face.

&&&

Dave Hartos knelt inside the base of an oil rig, fiddling with a stalled pump. He whacked his wrench against the pipe and the wrench clanged to the ground. Even in the bowels of the derrick, the sand writhed and swirled, infesting the machinery. With a heavy sigh, he lifted himself out of the hole and climbed the metal rungs of the ladder back up to ground level.

An open-air jeep approached, a dust bowl swirling behind. Andrew Mahajan, second-in-command to Hart and his best friend, got out grinning.

“Good news. You’ve been sprung.” Mahajan handed Hart a telegram. “Go home and help your wife pop that baby out.” Mahajan clapped Hart on the back with one hand and handed him a box of Cuban cigars with the other. “For when the baby comes.”

“Hey, I don’t need to get arrested on the way home.”

“Customs won’t bother if you have less than a box,” said Mahajan. He opened the lid and removed two cigars, clipping the ends. “Now there’s less than a box.” Mahajan produced a lighter from his pocket, but desert winds foiled attempts to light it. He shrugged and pulled a bottle of Jamieson and two whiskey glasses from the jeep.

“Let’s celebrate.” He wiped his brow with a bandana and motioned toward the trailer.

“Isn’t it bad luck to toast before the baby’s born?” Hart asked.

Mahajan shook his head. “Only thing bad is not taking advantage of an opportunity when it bites you in the ass. C’mon. A driver’s coming for you soon.”

Hart grabbed the glasses out of Mahajan’s hand. “You gonna be all right here?”

“Right as rain, buddy. Right as rain.” Mahajan wrapped an arm around Hart’s shoulders and pushed him to the trailer.

to be continued. . .

pretty deceptions

Posted on September 3, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SIX(a)

A week later, Sonia strolled into the lavish offices of Akanabi Oil.

“Hey, Jerry. How’s it going?” She extended a gloved hand to Jerry who sat behind the security desk.

“Great now.” Jerry Dixon, Akanabi’s head of security had been hired by Sonia’s father, Bicky Coleman, over thirty years ago, primarily because of Jerry’s former incarnation as a Navy Seal. Jerry’s rugged good lucks and natty dress didn’t hurt either. He made an excellent first impression on anyone looking to retain Akanabi’s services. Now that handsome and hard face bent to kiss Sonia’s hand. “I miss you coming around.”

“Jerry, I haven’t been coming around for years.”

“That’s how long I’ve missed you.”

Sonia blushed. In the early years, before Sonia’s relationship with her father completely rutted out, Bicky would bring her into the office on Saturday mornings. But instead of spending some quality time with his daughter, Bicky would leave Sonia with Jerry to monitor hallways and closed circuit cameras, push phone buttons. They got on well – better than Sonia did with Bicky – as if their connection preceded the arrangement, while Bicky felt his paternal duty fulfilled, simply because his daughter was in the same building. Sonia’s mother, Kitty, had wanted Jerry to be Sonia’s godfather, and Bicky found that in addition to being a sharpshooter, Jerry was an excellent babysitter.

Jerry released Sonia’s hand, reached behind the counter and held his hand behind his back. Sonia smiled broadly, knowing full well what was coming next. She closed her eyes and opened her palm into which Jerry deposited a red lollipop. Sonia planted a kiss on his cheek.

“You never forget, do you?” she asked.

“Can’t say as I do, my dear.” He wrapped an avuncular arm around her shoulder and steered her to the elevator. He looked at her belly and raised his eyebrows. “That husband of yours better get back PDQ.”

“Talk to my father,” she said, a catch in her voice.

“Aawww, geez, I’m sorry. We’ll get him back in time, don’t you worry. Even if I have to fly him back myself.”

“I wish Bicky were more like you,” Sonia said. “You missed your calling, Jerry. You really should have had kids.”

Jerry smiled, but it was a sad one, and Sonia thought she’d said something wrong.

He turned a key, calling a special elevator, and waited until it arrived. He held the door for Sonia as she got in, turned the key in the lock once more.

“I’ll call Phyllis and tell her you’re on your way up,” he said, all traces of melancholy gone. “Can’t wait to see that little guy,” he added with a huge smile. Sonia blew him a kiss as the elevator doors glided to a close.

&&&

Sonia got off the elevator at the 45^th floor, the doors opening with an imperceptible swish into the reception area of Akanabi Oil’s penthouse suite. As CEO, Bicky Coleman claimed the entire floor for himself. And what a floor it was, affording spectacular views over all of downtown Houston. Although Sonia despised her father’s pretensions, she had to admit he had a great eye for stunning details. Bicky not only participated in the architectural reconstruction of the building, but hand-picked the decor, right down to the ancient Chinese vases displayed prominently in niches and tastefully interspersed among the ceiling to floor French tapestries. Walking these halls gave Sonia the distinct impression that she was inside a well-endowed museum.

Phyllis was away from her desk so Sonia walked down the hall and let herself into Bicky’s prodigious office. Beyond the floor to ceiling windows, the city glittered and glistened, all glass and mirrors, in a blaze of afternoon sun. Houston’s story as an American city began in the early party of the 19^th century after the founding fathers wrested control from Mexico. Although the city predated the discovery of oil, the town flourished during the boom and bust days of early oil when fortunes were made and lost on the turn of a drill bit. The first inhabitants of old Houston, the ones who built the city, combined the rugged individualism of the west with the genteel manners of the South. Walking its streets, you could almost feel the pride and bravado mixed with courtesy and goodwill that brought the city to life. But Sonia thought the newer part of Houston, where Akanabi’s offices were located, lacked the charm and distinction of old Houston with its ethnic diversity, grand architecture and historic flare.

Sonia busied herself with Bicky’s vintage book collection, rare and exquisite gems, many of which had historical significance beyond anything that Bicky Coleman would ever do with his life. Maybe it was Bicky’s subconscious desire to tame his own demons, but for whatever reason, his taste leaned toward the psychological and philosophical, original printings of Freud, Jung, and Nietzsche. He didn’t pass up an opportunity when it was offered. It was the acquisition that drove him, the thrill of the chase. Once his, he placed the item neatly on the shelf, or under glass, where he could watch without interacting.

Bicky had placed Sonia on a shelf soon after she was born and she’d spent the better part of childhood trying to get down. By thirteen, she’d given up, and now, at thirty, she was fully resigned: the man whose offices she perused with more than a hint of disdain was more fake than father. Their vibrations were at opposite ends of the light spectrum and Sonia felt she had nothing in common with the man other than the X chromosome he’d provided for her DNA to replicate itself.

Sonia sat down behind Bicky’s desk and leaned into the plush leather. Nine months of pregnancy had taken a toll on her arches. She stretched her back, cat-like, and yawned as the massive grandfather clock in the corner chimed five o’clock. Exhaustion snuck up behind her and held a gun to her head so she laid her head on her arms and would have fallen asleep, but for a piece of mail sticking into the soft, fleshy part of her arm. She dug it out for inspection.

It was a thick brown envelope marked “Urgent and Confidential. To Be Opened By Addressee Only.” The seal had already been broken and Sonia helped herself to a peek. Inside was a report with curled corners, folded pages, and a big coffee stain on the cover, all indicating heavy use. The title looked simple, and boring, enough: “World Oil Report”.

Sonia skimmed the pages, looking for something of interest before settling on a page with a folded corner.

CHAPTER 3. STATE OF THE WORLD’S OIL RESERVES.

The world’s oil reserves peaked in the mid-1970’s. All previously undiscovered oil reserves have been marked and estimated. At the current rate of usage and barring the discovery of oil reserves on other planets, the earth’s oil reserves will be depleted by the year 2025.

Sonia put the report down and stared at the cover. Could this be true? Her grandfather’s empire, her father’s world, would it soon collapse? Would they be wiped out? Her hands shook, her breath grew shallow and she could hear her heart pumping in her ears.

to be continued. . .

the idealist, revisited

Posted on August 22, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FIVE

Dave Hartos scrambled eggs over a low flame, his broad shoulders leaning into the alchemical task as the runny, yellow liquid sizzled into tangible shape. Satisfied with their consistency, he scooped two heaping portions onto plates and flushed the pan with water, scaring the steam out of it.

Sonia found him at the sink, still holding the pan, staring out the window. She approached on silent feet, wrapping her arms around his waist, a difficult task given her considerable girth around the mid-section. Even at 5’8′, her lips reached only as high as his shoulder blades so she planted a kiss between them. Hart set the pan down and scooped her up.

“Soon my fingers won’t touch back here.” He laughed.

Sonia smacked him, then sniffed the air. “Mmmmm. Lightly scrambled with cheese.” She flopped down at the table and pulled the heaping plate to her. “Besides. You can’t care that much if you’re serving me portions like this.” She spread blackberry preserves on toast and bit into it with unbridled delight.

Hart rubbed her belly, the size of a bowling ball, in slow, concentric circles, then stopped.

“Felt that, did ya’?” She moved his hand to the side and he felt the baby kick again.

“Stronger every day.” He kissed the spot and was rewarded with a light jab to the face.

“Ow.”

“You’re a glutton for punishment,” she said, shoveling a forkful of egg into her mouth. “So. Tell me. What strange and dangerous task awaits you? Where’s he sending you?” Sonia’s eyes watered and she became preoccupied with her juice.

Hart set her glass down and took both her hands. “Iraq. I’m off to Iraq. It should only take two weeks, less if things go well, and then I swear I won’t leave your side for a second until the baby’s in college. Not even when you have to go to the bathroom.” He managed a weak smile.

“David. . . I was kidding. I knew you were going away, but. . . .” Her eyes turned hard. “Bicky’s idea, I presume?”

“Desert life’s tough on machinery. Some of the older rigs have problems. Akanabi volunteered to help get the equipment up to speed.”

“Volunteered? Since when does a corporation volunteer to do anything?” She spat out the words, sat back and folded her hands over her belly. Dark circles hung beneath Sonia’s hazel eyes, clutching weariness to them like a baby blanket.

Hart said, “What’s good for Akanabi is good for the country. The money they make will help them build their infrastructure.”

“You’ve been brainwashed,” Sonia huffed. “Likely in response to toiling under the close tutelage of my father for the last seven years.”

Hart stood and refilled his coffee. “I’ve got to assess the rigs and decide what needs to be torn down. I can’t do it from here, Sonia. I have to see them for myself.”

“And I guess Akanabi’s going to do the rebuilding, right?” She wiped her mouth with a napkin, stood, and stretched her back. “You know what I find so repugnant? The war had barely begun when American contractors were staking their claims to rebuilding the country. Don’t you find that attitude a bit imperialistic. I mean, shouldn’t the Iraqis make those kind of decisions?”

“Sonia. Please. It’s not that simple. If that country is ever going to get on its feet, it needs outside assistance.”

“Assistance. Here’s how we assisted. We bombed them into infancy in the first Gulf War, took out their power stations and hospitals, bombed the crap out of their water supply stations. Their barely crawling because of our assistance.

Hart leaned back and took a sip of his coffee. “Two weeks and I’ll be back. I promise.” “Somebody else can go. Someone who’s not about to have a baby.” She wrapped a hand around her throat to stall the inner turmoil threatening to jump her voice.

“There is nobody else.”

“David…”

“Sonia. No more.”

He brushed the hair back from her long, angular face and kissed her open mouth. She pulled back to speak, but he shushed her as one does with an agitated child, then kissed her again. She broke free and sat down.

“What happened to the idealist I fell in love with?” she asked.

“Baby, you fell in love with a chemical engineer. This is what we do.”

“It’s not all you do.”

“No, but it makes way more money than most things.” Hart said. “What if I couldn’t afford to buy you the things you’re used to? What then?”

“Money is not something we need, David. Time is.” She took her plate to the counter, dumping the eggs in the sink.

“I don’t want to leave you. I just don’t have a choice.”

“All we have are choices,” she murmured, but the hostility was gone from her voice. She rinsed her plate and ran the garbage disposal. He came up behind her and massaged her neck, lightly at first, and then with more pressure. Sonia leaned against the sink and gave over to his healing hands, allowing her neck to fall to the side.

His nimble fingers poked and prodded, kneading the muscles, banishing the knots. “I promise when I get back we’ll talk about this until you can’t stand it anymore.”

“You could be a healer, David, with hands like those. You don’t have to work in oil.”

Hart leaned into Sonia’s hair and kissed her ear. “Friends?” She tried to say something but he had moved to her lower back, rubbing with great care. Sonia moaned.

“David, what if…”

“When I come back, we’ll talk to your father. Maybe there’s something else I can do. Who knows? I may have to give him another year, but we’ll set a definite date. I promise.” He turned her face to him and kissed her nose. “The best part of my job was always the field work, but I’m less inclined to go tearing around the world now,” he said, moving his hands down to her belly.

Hart pulled Sonia over to a chair and sat her gently on his knees. She put her arm around his shoulders and rested her head in the crook of his neck, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. He smiled and whispered in her ear.

“I’m still the same idealist I was when you met me. I just got sidetracked is all.”

to be continued. . .

falling fast: in suspended animation

Posted on August 14, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FOUR (a)

Aunt Stella busied herself at the stove making hot tea for Kori and Avery, warm chocolate milk for Gil. She waddled back and forth between the stove, the microwave and the refrigerator, pulling out milk, mugs, tea bags, honey, and checking the clock on the microwave every thirty seconds. If time were about to stop, she needed to be the first to know.

“Can we call Mom and Dad again?” Kori asked.

“You already left three messages, honey.” She checked the microwave clock again.

“Well, can we have them paged?” Avery asked, walking into the kitchen.

“Anything else burning?” Kori asked.

“Nope. Just the porch still,” Avery said.

“You don’t want your parents getting into an accident on I-95 because they’re racing home to you kids, do you? You’re safe here. The firemen will take care of the rest.” Aunt Stella set a plate of chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the table. Gil reached over and grabbed three at once.

Kori smacked his hand. “One at a time.”

“Oh, for Godsakes, the boy’s starving. Let me fix you a sandwich, Gilly.” Aunt Stella shuffled back to the refrigerator and pulled out imported ham, Swiss and provolone cheeses, prosciutto, salami, sliced thin, a hunk of asiago and a giant loaf of bread.

Avery left the room; Kori’s gaze followed him. She bit her nails.

Aunt Stella cut chunks of bread with vigor, a woman in need of a purpose. She filled a basket, set the meat and cheeses on a plate, and put it all on the table, checking the kitchen clock this time, and then the clock on the stove. She knew time hadn’t stopped, not yet, but she could feel its relentless grind in that direction and the thought made her throat thick.

Stella sniffed the air: “I smell smoke.”

Kori peered around the door jamb and across the living room to where Avery stood on the front stoop, watching the fire. The open door allowed the smokey night air full ingress.

Like a giant luxury liner, Aunt Stella turned toward the smell. “Anything else?” she asked Avery.

“Still just the porch.” Avery shut the door and returned to the kitchen.

Gil reached for the bread and Aunt Stella, happy for something to do, intercepted him and made him a sandwich. He devoured it.

“Who else is hungry?” she Stella asked. Avery shook his head and Kori grimaced.

Aunt Stella sighed, letting her gaze slide across the hands of the kitchen clock. Barely two minutes had passed. She held out the plate to Avery who took a piece of cheese and placed it on the napkin in front of him. Aunt Stella rolled her eyes and set the plate in front of Kori who preferred her fingernails. Aunt Stella turned her gaze to meet the stove clock behind her.

“Well, children, the party’s got to be winding down by now. Let’s give your parents another holler, eh?” She padded to the phone.

“Nice slippers.” Gil smiled at Aunt Stella’s feet. Giant Mickey Mouse heads sat atop each one.

“I’ll get you some next time I go to Disneyworld, Gilly,” she said. She handed the phone to Avery.

“Why doesn’t Kori call,” Avery said.

“Because you’re the man of the house,” Aunt Stella replied. “At least until Robbie gets home.”

After a few rings, Ruth’s voice mail picked up. “Hey Mom. It’s Avery again. Call us as soon as you get this message. We’re still at Aunt Stella’s.” Avery hung up the phone and handed it back to Aunt Stella.

Gil took a piece of bread and made another sandwich while Stella poured him more milk. “Where the heck are they? It’s almost midnight,” Avery asked.

“Ah,” Stella said, “now the shoe’s on the other foot.”

“I’m not the curfew abuser.” Avery folded his arms and raised his eyebrows at Kori whose response was drowned by Robbie’s entrance into the house.

“What the hell happened over there?” he barked. A wave of relief passed palpably through the room as if Robbie’s mere presence alleviated all woes. Even though he was younger than Kori by two years, he was in charge when Ruth and Marty were not around. Gil ran over and threw his arms around Robbie’s muscular torso before scuttling back to his seat to finish eating. Everyone but Gil started talking at once. Robbie raised his hand; his eyes settled on Kori.

She recounted the story beginning with Gil’s imperative need to leave the house, but broke down soon after. Robbie put an arm around Kori’s shoulder, and looked at Avery who finished the story with the call to Ruth’s cellphone.

“Have you talked to the police yet?” Robbie asked.

“Yes. They’re coming back later for a statement,” Aunt Stella said.

“I give it two stars.” Gil said.

“Give what two stars?” Kori asked.

“The explosion.”

“Gil, somebody just blew up the porch. The windows even shattered,” Kori said.

“That’s why I only give it two,” Gil said, taking another bite of a cookie.

“I don’t get it,” Robbie said. “Why would someone bother with us?”

“I know,” Gil said.

Avery shrugged while Kori gnawed at her pinky nail. Robbie waited for Gil to swallow.

“They were looking for the drawings.”

“What drawings?”

“Dad’s waste-to-oil machine.”

“What would they want with that?” Robbie asked.

“What anybody would want,” Avery said. “The patent.”

“Oh c’mon,” Robbie said. “How did anyone even know?”

Avery made a line of defense with a group of crumbs on the table. “You know all those 55-gallon drums out behind the barn? There’s gas in a lot of them. I don’t know if Dad realized how much he’d refined or if he just wanted to give me an opportunity to fatten up my bank account.” Avery moved the crumbs, rearranging the line formation like a general strategizing his next move. “I sold some to Cooper’s Gas Station.

“How much?” Robbie asked.

“Four or five fifty-five gallon drums a week for the last couple months,” Avery said.

Robbie burst out laughing. “So they blew up the porch?”

Avery looked hurt and concentrated on his crumb line. “Maybe he canceled his deliveries from Akanabi Oil and the company got pissed,” Avery took a deep breath. “Maybe they found out that Marty Tirabi makes better gas then Akanabi, and he doesn’t need to drill a hole to get it.”

“Avery, think about it. Four fifty-five gallon drums a week is two hundred and twenty gallons. My tank holds twenty gallons and I fill it once a week. At that rate, you were giving Mr. Cooper enough to supply a whopping total of eleven people with gas for a week.” Robbie raised his eyebrows; Avery blushed a fiery red.

“Look. It’s not like Dad didn’t tell everyone who was even remotely interested all about the TDU,” Robbie said. “There was that magazine article in Omni a few years ago. So chill out. It wasn’t your fault.”

Gil sat back and placed his arms over his now-protruding belly. A big burp escaped and Gil giggled, covering his mouth. Avery laughed. Aunt Stella grimaced.

“Excuse me,” Gil said.

“It was pretty damn stupid though,” Robbie said.

Avery’s smile faded and he returned to rearranging crumbs. Robbie squeezed his shoulder and Avery smiled half-heartedly.

Robbie sighed. “So how do we tell Dad the drawings are gone?”

“We don’t,” Gil said, rose and walked out the kitchen door.

“Where’s he going?” Kori asked.

A minute later Gil returned with the cylinder tucked under his arm.

“The drawings!” Avery hugged Gil so hard the boy’s face turned crimson.

“Excellent!” Robbie said, spinning Gil around. “High five me.” Gil smacked Robbie’s hand.

“Try Mom and Dad again,” Robbie said. Kori obliged, but got Ruth’s voice mail.

Robbie bit the inside of his lip in concentration. “They went downtown so they’ll be coming back I-95. They may have broken down…. I’m going to go look for them,” Robbie said with an authority belying his twenty-two years.

“I’m coming with you,” Avery said.

“Me, too,” Gil said.

“You stay here, Gilly,” Aunt Stella squeezed his hand. Gil looked at her with imploring eyes, but her face was resolute.

“No. I have to go by myself.”

“I’m the one who started this,” Avery said.

Robbie shook his head. “You gotta stay here to talk to the police when they call.”

“Kori can do that.”

“Avery. Please.” Robbie tilted his head in Kori’s direction where an ash-white Kori sat, leaning against the table, hugging herself tightly..

Avery looked at Kori and sighed. “All right.”

Robbie squeezed Avery’s shoulder and Kori’s hand and kissed Gil on top of the head. He looked at Aunt Stella who checked her watch and nodded assent.

“C’mon, kids. Help me make up the beds. You can sleep here tonight,” Aunt Stella said, standing up. “I’ll speak to your parents when they call.”

“Thanks, Aunt Stella.” Robbie said.

She touched his cheek. “Be careful, eh?”

“I’ll be back with Mom and Dad before you guys are finished with the beds. After a chorus of “goodbyes” and “be carefuls,” Robbie left, the air thick and strange and still in his absence.

“Thank God you were home tonight.” Kori said, hugging Aunt Stella.

“Ditto,” Avery said, kissing her on the cheek before heading upstairs. Gil fell in, one step behind Aunt Stella, his pockets stuffed with cookies.

“Gilly, you just leave those cookies there until tomorrow,” she said without turning around. “I don’t want any crumbs in my beds.”

Gil halted in mid-step, wide-eyed, contemplating. He stared after Aunt Stella for several seconds in disbelief, emptied his pockets and ran up the stairs after her.

to be continued. . .

and then it begins

Posted on August 4, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER THREE (b)

Marty drove slowly down Market Street and took the on ramp for I-95 South. The lights of the Walt Whitman Bridge did little to illuminate the ghostly night sky which had assumed the pallor of the thick, stratus clouds, hovering close to the city. Pockets of swollen cumulo-nimbus clouds floated below the tight formation of stratus’ looking as if they might kiss the Delaware River.

“Looks like a storm’s coming,” Ruth said. She leaned back against the headrest as the car glided onto the highway.

Traffic was light. Ruth watched out the passenger window long after the city, vague and foggy with the inclement weather, disappeared from view. Marty pulled his wife in closer and wrapped an arm around her shoulder, moving over to the slow lane. Three cars back, a pickup did the same.

“First rate party, Ruthie.” He gave her arm a squeeze.

“It was, wasn’t it?” Ruth nuzzled into Marty’s shoulder.

“Remember when we were first married?” he asked. “I had that little English Ford. That thing took every bump like it was its last. Why did we get rid of it?”

“We had Kori. The car barely had room for two, let alone three,” Ruth laughed. “I really loved that car.”

“I wish I could have kept it for you.”

“We couldn’t afford it, remember?”

“Do you regret all the years you’ve spent with me, Ruthie. I mean, you could have married someone that had more ambition, money-wise.” Marty stroked his wife’s hair.

“We have plenty of money. We own our house, our cars….”

“I’m talking big money. The kind that lives longer than you do.”

“Marty, you’ve been married to me for twenty-five years and you still don’t know me, do you?” Ruth squeezed Marty’s thigh, sitting up to her full height. “Silly man.” She kissed him on the cheek and he turned to wrangle a full-blown kiss on the lips. She unbuckled her seat belt, and shifted to wrap her arms around his neck. Just as she kissed him, the pick up rear-ended them.

“What the….” Marty yelped.

The impact and sudden change of trajectory sent Ruth sprawling. Marty cut the wheel hard to the left to avoid driving off the road and after a few squeals, set the car right as Ruth crawled back up onto the seat. Marty checked the rear view mirror.

“Are you alright?” he barked. Ruth nodded and rubbed her arm which had taken a beating against the dash on the way down.

“Did you hit something?” Ruth asked. Marty pulled over to the side, but before he reached the shoulder, the pickup nicked them. Ruth screamed and turned in her seat to see two giant headlights barreling toward them.

“Oh my God,” Ruth yelled. The pickup made contact and Marty hit the accelerator. Ruth flew back and forward, banging her head on the dash as Marty cut the wheel.

“Get down.” Marty said. He tugged at her arm, but Ruth remained steadfast, watching as the pickup dropped back and began weaving back and forth.

“It’s a drunk driver!” Ruth said as the pickup began an erratic, dance between the lanes.

“Marty, he’s coming again!

“You bastard,” he mumbled. “What the hell does he want?”

“Ruth, get down and hold on,” Marty yelled, and pushed his wife to the floor; he veered back and forth across the lanes, trying to lose the pickup.

Ruth crawled onto the seat to look out the back window. “Marty, he must be drunk. Stop the car. Get the hell out of his way,” said Ruth. Marty checked his rearview mirror, sped up.

“Ruth,” Marty boomed. “Get down!” He shoved her onto the seat as the pickup side-swiped them. “This son-of-a-bitch doesn’t know who he’s dealing with,” Marty said through gritted teeth. He slammed down on the accelerator the pickup dropped back. Ruth peeked at the speedometer. It read ninety-two miles per hour.

“Marty, slow down. You’re going to kill us.”

“Better me than him.”

As they rounded the curve, the pickup accelerated and rammed into the back end on the driver’s side. The impact hurtled Marty’s car, already approaching 100 mph, off the road and through space. The car flew at first, then hung there for a moment, suspended between the finite and the infinite, between the possible and the impossible, between life and death, and at the exact moment when it seemed that Ruth and Marty Tirabi might float away, gravity reached out and throttled them to the ground. The car landed with an ear-splitting crash, a cacophony of steel and glass and metal. A loud hiss emanated from the interior as the air bags expanded.

The pickup switched on its turn signal and pulled to the side of the road behind the Tirabis’ car, but no one emerged from the wreckage. The driver opened a bottle of Mad Dog 20/20, unscrewed the cap and took a long draw on the bottle. He burped, said “excuse me” to himself, and sucked down another quarter. He rubbed the raspberry-colored liquid in his hair, poured some in his hand and flicked it with his fingers at his pants and shirt. He drained the bottle and threw the empty on the passenger’s side; the last few drops, like Chinese water torture, dripped with excruciating slowness onto the seat.

The driver unbuckled his seat belt, checked himself in the rearview mirror, took a deep breath, and floored it. There followed a spine-chilling scrunch of metal as the front of the pickup crumpled upon impact with Marty’s bumper. The Tirabi car lurched forward, condensing further like one last push on the accordion. The pickup’s air bag sprang to life, engulfing the driver who passed out. The right tail light of the pickup blinked inexorably in keeping with the rhythm of a heartbeat.

to be continued. . .

fire in the night

Posted on July 21, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER TWO (c)

Kori screamed and scrambled over the console into the back seat, squishing in with her brothers. ZiZi yelped and Kori screamed again. She was wide-eyed with terror, yet put a protective arm around Gil.

“What the hell!” Avery said, staring in amazement. Several dogs began barking. The neighbor’s car alarm, activated by the blast, began its cycle of warning. Porch lights flooded the darkness. A small blaze started on the porch, its flames licking delicately at the tattered Venetian blinds partially emerging from the broken windows.

“Our porch is on fire.” Avery said, fumbling through Kori’s purse for the cell phone. “We gotta call the fire department.” He found the phone and pushed the “on” button. Kori shook her head and grabbed the phone.

“No. We gotta call Mom and Dad,” she said. Her hands were shaking.

“Mom and Dad are in Philly. We gotta call the fire department. Otherwise it’s going to be more screwed up.” Avery grabbed the phone out of Kori’s hand. She put her hand on top of his and there they sat, locked together in a game of push me, pull you.

“Avery. We gotta call Mom and Dad!” Kori yanked the phone from Avery’s hand. He pulled it back before she had a chance to dial the first number.

Aunt Stella’s garage lights flicked on and the Tirabis watched as Aunt Stella’s stout frame, adorned in robe and slippers, lumbered across the front lawn at full throttle.

“Mmmmmm, cookies,” Gil mused.

Aunt Stella’s pudgy, round face peered in through the back window where the kids huddled together like war orphans. She opened the door, pushed the driver’s seat forward, and thrust a hand inside. Kori grabbed it and Aunt Stella yanked them out one by one.

“Are you alright? What are you doing in the car? Thank God you weren’t inside!” Aunt Stella looked at Gil who still had tissues sticking out of his ears. “What happened?” she yipped. “Did an experiment go bad or something?”

All three of them started talking at once which instigated a round of ZiZi’s agitated barking. Aunt Stella waved her hands in the air, the international symbol for enough already, and gathered them together like a head coach at halftime.

“Alright. It’ll be okay. Let’s go inside,” she said. “I already called the fire department.”

As if on cue, a fire truck screamed down the road. Everyone turned to watch as the massive vehicle docked on the Tirabi lawn. A second truck could be heard off in the distance, sirens blaring.

Aunt Stella sighed. Four firemen alighted from the truck and began assembling the hoses, their yellow emergency vests glinting in the fire light.

“Mom and Dad are in Philly,” Kori continued, her voice cracking from the strain.

“I know. Your mother called me this morning.”

Aunt Stella placed a large arm around Kori’s shoulder and held fast to Gil’s wrist with her other hand. Flames licked the front of the house. The double-wide porch swing, made of wood, canvass and macrame, crackled and spat and danced in the darkness, spitting bits of light in wide arcs over the railing. The fire chief shouted several commands and the fireman trained their hoses on the light.

“Come. They’ll soon have it under control. Robbie will know where to go.” She steered Gil and Kori in the direction of the house without releasing them. “Let’s try and call your parents.” Kori shot Avery a look and wrinkled her nose at him.

They walked across the lawn, ZiZi bringing up the rear. Aunt Stella pushed a reluctant Gil into the house.

Avery stood alone on the front stoop, mesmerized. Flames darted about the porch leaving a crackling trail of blazed, scorched wood. The macrame seat on the porch swing – Avery’s favorite reading chair – looked like a million writhing snakes. Avery grimaced as the acrid smell of burning memories reached his nostrils. He stood immobilized, clutching Kori’s cell phone, anguish pouring from him like water from a hose.

Aunt Stella popped out and grabbed Avery by the arm. “C’mon, baby, there’s nothing to be done right now. And I don’t want you having nightmares.”

Avery swiped at his eyes and followed Aunt Stella inside.

to be continued. . .