definately coming back

Posted on March 8, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Seventeen

Robbie, Kori, Gil and Avery stood in the middle Terminal C of the Philadelphia International Airport waiting on a round of coffees from the kiosk. Robbie wore the telltale uniform of a man on his way to basic training. Sunday morning terminal traffic was tranquil and, as a result, you could hear the music emanating from the stand. Gil tapped his feet and chomped on a chocolate chip muffin, his jaws moving in a ravenous, rhythmic dance.

“How many stars, Gil?” Robbie asked.

“Three and three quarters,” Gil responded.

“For a muffin?” Kori asked.

“Has he ever given anything four stars?” Robbie asked Avery.

“There was that gelati he had when Mom and Dad took us to Rome. I think he gave that four and a quarter stars. But nothing’s come even remotely close since.”

Robbie glanced over at Gil inhaling the remains of his muffin. “Well, I’d like a glimpse of whatever he deems worthy of five stars.”

“One mocha, two hot chocolates, and a decaf latte,” the coffee jock said, setting the cups on the counter.

Kori sprinkled chocolate on her latte, took a dainty sip and closed the lid. Robbie doused chocolate powder on his and took a big draw.

“Kind of redundant, don’t you think?” Kori asked as she watched Gil vigorously shaking chocolate powder all over his drink. She grabbed the shaker from Gil’s grasp and set it on the counter.

“Well, the whipped cream was still white,” Gil whined. “And the chocolate wasn’t coming out fast enough.” Avery steered Gil away.

They moved like an octopus toward the metal detectors that refused entry to all non-ticketed passengers while x-raying the bags, purses, pockets and shoes of the ticketed ones.

Gil pointed to a woman standing barefoot, one foot balanced on top of the other. “Modified flamingo pose,” he mused.

Robbie slung an arm around Gil’s shoulder. “Listen, buddy. While I’m gone, somebody’s gotta keep your sister in line. Think you can do it?” Robbie asked, poking Gil’s chest. Gil grabbed Robbie’s finger and pulled himself in close and tight, leaning into his broad chest, holding on to him like a lifeline when Kori leaned in to Robbie, too.

“I don’t know if I can do it alone,” she whispered.

Robbie smoothed her hair back and kissed her forehead. “You can. I’m only going to be gone for four months. Then I’ll be back.”

“Yeah, but once basic training’s over they’re going to send you somewhere and they’re not going to wait for world peace to do it.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “The world needs heroes, Robbie. I just wish you weren’t one of them.”

Kori slumped down in one of the quaint white rocking chairs in front of the window, closed her eyes and rocked to an internal rhythm. Robbie sat beside her and waited. Gil and Avery pretended to window shop, not wishing to disturb whatever fragile truce was being forged. After several minutes, Robbie grabbed her hand in his large paw and spoke softly to her.

“Look. I’m gonna do the basic training and then I’m going to find a way out of the rest. I won’t let you down, Kor.” His eyes searched hers. She looked down at her lap, voice cracking.

“It’s not just you being around. I can always hire someone to fix the plumbing if it breaks. But what about the money? We were barely making it with your paycheck?”

“Your business is taking off. Plus you can have my whole pay.”

She stared at the hands in her lap, hers and Robbie’s mixed. “I don’t know if I can raise Gil by myself. He’s…” she raised her free hand to her mouth to hide the treason, “…a handful .” She began rocking again, the weight of her confession resting between their hands.

“He’s work, but he’s no invalid. The kid could survive for weeks without us. He might eat nothing but cereal and never take a bath, but he’d be okay.” Kori gazed at Robbie, her eyes soft and moist. “It’ll be fine.” He squeezed her and released. “Now let’s go. I’ve got a plane to catch.”

They stood and in moments were flanked by Gil and Avery. Gil jumped on Robbie’s back and Robbie carried him until they reached the metal detectors.

“This is where you get off, Salamander.” He set Gil down and hugged him, then encircled Avery’s slender shoulders in a mighty bear lock.

“I’m trusting you with the finances,” Robbie whispered to Avery. “Kori’s a scatterbrain with numbers. You need to help her manage the books for her business, too, but without bruising her ego.” He squeezed the back of Avery’s neck and smiled. “I’ll get you through U Penn, but keep your grades up. You’re going to need at least a partial scholarship.”

“Hurry back,” Kori said. “And write to us, would ya’?”

“You’re leaving,” Gil said, a statement, not a question. Robbie put one knee on the floor and knelt at eye level with his brother.

“Are you coming back? Or are you leaving like Mom and Dad?”

Robbie did not take his eyes from Gil’s face. “Definitely coming back. That’s a promise.” A wide-mouthed smile broke across Gil’s face exposing all his teeth. Gil raised his hand for a high-five and Robbie smacked it.

“I love you,” he said, and before Gil could respond, he was up and through the metal detector, collecting his bags. “See you in a bit,” he said, and disappeared down the corridor.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .

strangers in the night

Posted on February 25, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Sixteen

A full moon glowed, casting an iridescent light over the farm-cum-landfill that loomed in the far distant corner of Kori’s bedroom window. The first inkling of the sun’s rays wouldn’t be seen for more than an hour on this chilly late October morning. Gil tiptoed into the room, hovering above the bed where Kori and Jack lay sleeping. He pinched his fingers around Jack’s nose, cutting off Jack’s oxygen supply. After several moments, Jack inhaled a frantic pull of air through his mouth and his eyes flew open to see Gil looming above.

“What?” Jack hissed, shoving Gil’s fingers away to rub the appendage.

“Are you awake?” Gil asked.

“I am now you, little jerk.” Face-to-face with Gil, watching his salamander eyes hold his own, Jack smiled in spite of himself. Gil could stare, unblinking, for well over ten minutes. Jack loved Gil like a brother and even with the little cretin’s exasperating habits, Jack would do anything for him.

“What time is it?” Jack asked, discouraged by the murky darkness still clinging to the curtains.

“Five o’clock.” Gil said. “C’mon. I want to show you something.” Intuiting that there would be no more sleep for him this morning, Jack allowed Gil to pull him to his feet.

“Hhhhmmmph. Briefs. I wear briefs, too,” Gil said approvingly.

Jack scrambled into his jeans, pulled a tee shirt over his head and a sweatshirt over top. He looked over at his boots and opted for bare feet. He took one more longing look at the bed, sighed and headed toward the door.

“I gotta take a whiz,” Jack announced, stopping at the bathroom. Gil tried to follow him, but Jack barred the way. Gil leaned against the closed door, tapping his foot in exaggerated fashion for the minute it took Jack to emerge, disheveled and still half asleep.

“Let’s go.” Gil led. A light clicked on in Robbie’s room as they walked by, but the door didn’t open. Gil put his finger to his lips and tiptoed down the stairs, Jack trailing him.

Once outside, Gil took off running across the lawn to the shed. Determined not to be outdone by a ten-ear old, Jack sprinted the hundred yards to the barn, but bare feet and the fact that Gil was more awake at this regrettable hour put him at a disadvantage, about fifty paces behind, he’d later estimate.

At the barn door, Gil found the lock laying on the ground, the door swung wide. “Huh?” A shadowy figure rooted through the drawers, a roll of drawings under one arm.

“Hey! What are you doing?” Gil demanded.

The figure ran, knocking Gil to the ground and whacking Jack in the face with the drawings in his bolt to the woods. The impact caused stars to jump before Jack’s eyes and he staggered, holding his nose.

“Hey! Come back here,” Gil yelled, and before Jack could clear his head, Gil took off running after the intruder. Jack ran after Gil, grabbing his arm moments before he disappeared behind the copse.

“Whoa, man. That wouldn’t be a good thing,” Jack said. Gil struggled, but Jack’s grip was firm.

“Jack. Let Go! He took something — some drawings.” Gil pried Jack’s hand off his arm and yanking free of his grip, dove to the ground. Jack grabbed his collar and pulled him back, surprised to hear his own heavy breathing. After a few deep breaths, Jack knelt down beside Gil and wrapped an arm around his waist.

“We can’t go, Gil. It’s too dangerous.”

“But he’s getting away,” Gil said.

“We want him to get away. Then he won’t hurt us.” Jack squeezed Gil’s arm gently.

“This isn’t a movie, buddy. It’s real life. And somebody really wanted something bad out here. Bad enough to break in.” Jack searched Gil’s eyes for understanding.

Gil grimaced at his besmirched barn and turned to see Robbie running toward them dressed only his underwear.

“What going on?” Robbie asked.

Jack pulled himself up to his full height. Despite their differences, at this moment they behaved as if nothing had ever come between them.

Gil darted over to Robbie and jumped in his arms, sniffling. “He took some drawings.”

Robbie ran his hands up and down Gil’s body, turning him around, checking for injuries.

Jack shook his head, reviving the dull ache in his own face. He raised his hand to his eye and probed delicately.

“He wasn’t expecting us,” Jack said. He winced as he touched his nose.

Satisfied that Gil was injury free, Robbie set him down and turned to Jack. “Did he hit you?” Robbie asked.

Jack shook his head. “Only by accident. The drawings caught me in the face when he was making his getaway. You know when people say they see stars, you always think like, ‘yeah, right.’ Well….” Jack rubbed his nose again, then his eyes. “Little brother here’s lucky he stepped aside. I think that guy was taking no prisoners.”

“Did he have a gun?”

“I don’t know. It’s so dark out here. It’s the middle of the night, for Chrissakes.”

“Yeah, so what are you doing out here?” Robbie asked.

Jack smiled and tilted his head in Gil’s direction. “The salamander woke me up.”

Gil toed the dirt in response. Jack scanned the treeline, but the light was still too dim to see anything clearly. In the opposite direction, the sun’s first rays whooped and hollered, mad streaks of reds and oranges overtaking the horizon like a five-star general.

“He’s long gone by now,” Jack said. Robbie nodded in agreement, folded his hands across his chest and rubbed his arms.

“Let’s go inside. It’s freakin’ cold out here,” Robbie said. Jack nodded and they hoofed it back to the house, pausing once to glance back over their collective shoulders.

The light clicked on as they entered the kitchen. Kori stood in the doorway wearing a revealing nightgown and suppressing a yawn. Jack shot her an approving glance which dissolved the camaraderie of the last few minutes when Robbie intercepted it.

“What are you doing? Don’t tell me you’re hunting? Why do you have Gil with you if you’re hunting,” she said to the room at large. “And why are you in your underwear?” she said to Robbie in particular.

“I heard a noise.” Robbie brushed past her on his way to the stairs.

“Where are you going?” Kori called after him.

“To put some clothes on, Kori,” he replied. “ I suggest you do the same.” Kori and Jack exchanged glances. Jack tightened his mouth so as not to smile in front of Gil and nodded in the direction of the stairs. Kori spun on her heel, leaving Jack and Gil alone.

“How about some breakfast, Salamander?” Jack asked, grabbing the coffee pot and filling it with water. “Sleuthing always makes me hungry.”

Gil said nothing, but walked out of the kitchen and to the hallway closet. He climbed way in the back in between bulky winter jackets, past umbrellas and over hiking boots. Jack heard an occasional grunt followed by several more minutes of rooting around and Gil emerged victorious, the precious bundle in hand.

He returned to the kitchen, the bundle of drawings hooked under his arm, and took a seat at the table waiting for Jack to serve him. Although already ten, up until now he had led the life of the pampered: there was very little Gilliam William Tirabi did for himself. Jack poured a bowl full of cereal, added some milk and set it before Gil.

“So they didn’t get what they were looking for?” Jack said.

Gil shook his head, set the drawings on the table and scooped up a heaping spoonful of Cheerios. His cheeks bulged and his words were drowning in milk and wheat. “After breakfast will you and Robbie help me find someplace safe to hide them?” Gil asked.

Jack nodded. “Sure.”

He pushed Gil’s hair back and sat down next to him to wait for his coffee. “Better eat up. My guess is the Spanish Inquisition’s comin’ down the stairs any minute now.”

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .

going, going, gone

Posted on February 2, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Thirteen

Several weeks later after all porch repairs had been completed, Gil sat in a darkened room, ZiZi at his feet, watching Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome. He held a fistful of popcorn halfway to his mouth, eyes wide with fear and excitement. The music swelled as the crowds called for the great showdown. Kori came up from the basement wearing a pair of overalls doused in paint, several brushes sticking out the top front pocket, the paint still on them.

Gil was so engrossed in the movie he didn’t hear her enter. She surveyed the scene, strolled casually to the coffee table, picked up the remote and pressed the off button. The T.V. went blank and Gil went ballistic. With a grunt he threw a handful of popcorn at her face with more emotion than force.

“Turn it back ON!” he shouted, reaching for the remote. Taller by a head, Kori was able to withstand this onslaught with little effort. Gil clutched and yanked and tried to knock it from her hands. “KOREEEE. TURN IT ON!”

“No.” She pulled away and walked to the window, throwing back the curtains. Sunlight blasted in, temporarily blinding him. He blinked in reptilian fashion until his eyes adjusted to the glare. Kori pulled back the rest of the curtains, flooding the room with light, and pointed to the door. On her signal, Gil’s accomplice moved to the front door where he stood, head erect, tail wagging, more than ready to take the punishment with his master.

“It’s 11 o’clock. In the morning! It’s Saturday. Go outside.”

Gil took a deep breath and blew it out in a huff before turning toward the door.

“C’mon, Zi.” He grabbed a baseball cap off the coat rack, carefully pushed his bangs to the side, and held the door open for Zizi who barked once and bounded out into the brilliant sunlight. Gil stuck his tongue out at Kori and was gone. Kori watched from the window as they played fetch the stick. She smiled, and headed back to the basement.

She was halfway down the stairs when she heard Gil’s high-pitched wail.

“Zi, Zi, no! Come, Zi! Now!

She took the stairs two at a time and threw open the front door. Gil sat in the middle of the street, ZiZi’s head on his lap. He rubbed her ears and spoke softly to the inert figure. A boy of about eighteen hovered in the background, his car door still open, radio blaring, looking on helplessly. Kori sprinted across the wide front yard to the road and dropped to her knees.

Gil was rubbing one hand softly over ZiZi’s body while the other hand scratched instinctively at her favorite spot behind her ear. There was very little blood, but one look at her and it was clear the internal injuries were tremendous. She was panting, each attempt at breath wracking her body. Kori placed her hand on ZiZi’s ribs and the dog whimpered before paroxysms of coughing began.

“Take your hands off of her,” Gil said, throwing Kori’s hand back at her as if it were diseased. “This is your fault.”

Kori opened her mouth to protest; her voice caught in her throat.

“Broken,” Gil said. ZiZi’s body looked to be shrinking. She shivered and Gil covered her with his arms. Kori touched ZiZi’s nose; it was warm.

“She’s broken and she can’t be fixed,” Gil said, rocking, his eyes locked on the dog.

Kori touched Gil’s arm. It was cold, like ZiZi’s body, and his face had turned a preternatural white. He scratched ZiZi’s ears and murmured, soft clucking noises meant to soothe. ZiZi took a deep breath and shuddered again.

“Do you have a cell phone?” Kori asked the young kid pacing behind them. The boy nodded. He looked too young to have a license. “Can you call a vet? Tell them it’s an emergency.” He nodded and ran to his car.

Gil continued his quiet incantations, alternating between stroking ZiZi’s head and scratching her ears. They were like two lovers who know the end was imminent, but continued making plans for the future.

“And after lunch, we’ll go down to the creek and look for baby minnows,” he whispered, his voice straining with the effort. “And maybe we’ll take a nap under the Willow tree.” ZiZi thumped her tail once and whimpered. She raised her face to Gil with considerable effort and licked his nose. Gil stroked her head and rubbed his face in her fur.

“What do you want for lunch, girl?” Gil asked. “How about a melted ham and cheese sandwich?” ZiZi wagged her tail twice, winced and stopped. Gil rubbed her tail. “Maybe a few chips, too, huh?” Gil rubbed his nose in the nape of her neck and she moved her head to nuzzle him.

“The vet’s tech is on his way.” The young driver was back, pleased with himself that he was able to make the arrangements, but his face fell after seeing ZiZi’s condition.

Her breath came in short bursts and recognition lit in Gil’s eyes. He’d seen this before in movies and shuddered at the thought of what was coming next. Gil had watched them all. The hurt, the hunted, the hapless, their last breaths coming in fits of fury or lackluster sighs. Gil had watched people die so often that he thought he’d become immune to it. When his Mom and Dad died, he reacted in stalwart fashion, just like the heroes on T.V., dry-eyed and tight-lipped. Now he clenched his teeth, but it couldn’t stop the tears which were pouring out of the corners of his eyes like molten lava.

“Please don’t go, Zi,” he murmured. He rested his head on ZiZi’s and she raised her nose an inch to meet him then dropped to the ground, her last breath escaping in one small sigh. Gil tightened his grip, trying to hold on even as he felt her spirit go. Gil began to cry, a low, crazy moan that sounded like death itself.

“I’m so sorry,” the young driver said. “She ran right out in the road. I didn’t see her until she was right in front of my car.” Kori nodded, but Gil had no room to hear him above the sound of everything ZiZi’d ever told him.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, please scroll down. . .

fire and icicles

Posted on January 1, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Ten(b)

A crowd had gathered around them. Bicky was going strong, telling tales about the early days in the oil business. Hart had made several valiant attempts to part company, but each time Bicky pulled him back into the fold, talking, joking, making introductions. Right now, Hart was sitting at the center of Houston’s power base and decided it was in his best interest to humor his father-in-law. If he were going to quit as he’d promised Sonia, he’d need a new job and the people sitting around this table listening to Bicky wax prolifically were the very people who employed ninety percent of Houston’s employable.

By 10 o’clock, Hart was feeling the effects of the past two days of travel and two hours of alcohol consumption. He wanted nothing more than to lay his head on the nearby rosewood table. He decided to call Sonia while he could still speak coherently and let her know of his plans: a brief respite in one of the alcoves to clear the cobwebs in his head; he’d drive home later.

Hart rose on unsteady legs and left the room. Raucous laughter followed him out, seeping into the hallway’s wide-open spaces only to be absorbed by the elegant, plush carpet and thick walnut walls. A series of dimly illuminated sconces lined the hallway; overstuffed leather armchairs dotted the landscape. Hart flopped down in one and rubbed his face with both hands to revive or steel himself, he wasn’t sure. He checked his watch. If only he could keep his promises. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed home.

The phone rang six times before the answering machine picked up. Hart blathered into the phone, his words tumbling out in a self-effacing rush. “Hello? Sonia? Pick up. Are you there? Are you asleep? In the shower? I know it’s past 9, and I’m not home yet. Will you pick up the phone, please? Alright. Well, I’m still here and I probably shouldn’t drive home. I’m really tired. I’m going to take a short nap in a corner somewhere and then I’ll see if I can. . .”

“Beeeeeppp.” The machine ended his little speech.

Hart banged the phone shut between his hands, “Damn.” He punched in the numbers again. The phone picked up after three rings this time. “Sonia. Pick – Up – The – Phone.” Hart waited several seconds before continuing: “Listen, Babe, don’t be mad at me. I’ll be home as soon as I can. I’ll wake you up when I get there.” Then he added as an afterthought: “Let’s sleep in all morning tomorrow.” He waited a few seconds before hanging up. “Damn.”

He replaced the cell phone on his hip and stood with a slight waver. Though only seconds had passed, he checked his phone to make sure Sonia hadn’t returned his call. The face glowed a phosphorescent green, but did little else. “No calls,” he said to no one in particular and staggered to the men’s room.

Hart washed his face and stared at his intoxicated reflection in the mirror, looking for hidden clues. A sudden, unsettling thought gripped him. What if Sonia’s not asleep, but on her way to the hospital about to give birth to their baby? He didn’t travel 6,000 miles in seven minutes only to have the baby born while he was across town. He willed his reflection to give him an answer. His normally handsome, exuberant face peered back at him, pale and haggard. He head throbbed like he was being riven in two: a meat cleaver to the head, a ragged split down the middle.

Hart loved his life and was reluctant to give up the part of it that made him feel so viable, so indispensable. How many people took the physical risks he took on a daily basis without even a second thought? His occupation, not the engineering part, even Sonia could live with that, but the field work – that’s what set him apart from the average guy, and Hart liked it that way. Hell there wasn’t enough money in all of Akanabi Oil for Hart to take a desk job, toiling away under the leak and glow of florescent lighting. Damn her need to control. Hart had noted the similarities between Sonia and Bicky long before he married her. The attributes that lurked just below the surface of genteel southern behavior had formed more distinctly with time. Some parts had broken off or withered away, while others were polished to a smooth, impenetrable finish that only water and a million or so years would be able to alter in any appreciable way. He married her because of, and in spite of, those attributes. That, and the fact that she was beautiful, and probably the most passionate woman he had ever met.

Hart himself was from a family of academics. His father was a professor of law at the University of Penn and his mother a professor of Shakespearean minutia, one of only a handful of scholars across the country with that particular nomenclature, which put her in high demand in academic circles. His mother was constantly being wooed by competing universities desirous of her services. Sabbaticals and six-week architectural tours of Europe were the norm when Hart was growing up. He’d read more literature by the age of fourteen than most people read in a lifetime. It was no surprise then, that his parents weren’t exactly thrilled when Hart went to work for Akanabi Oil. They had wanted him to choose a more scholarly occupation – as if chemical engineering was for slackers – something with a professorship attached. But his parents’ reticence, or perhaps inertia, was so entrenched they couldn’t arouse sufficient passion to convince him otherwise, so off to Columbia he went, which is where he met Sonia. To Hart, Sonia Coleman was the antithesis of his beige upbringing. Her colorful, passionate outbreaks about everything from Goethe to guacamole were something Hart had never known on any intimate level, and something he soon found he couldn’t live without.

But Hart also found that passion and the need to dominate often went hand-in-hand. Thankfully, Sonia was more like her mother than her father, and lacking Bicky’s mendacious spirit, her demands on life in general and Hart in specific were guileless, prompted by a need to be loved. He pandered to her whims when he could, and when not, they fought an aggressive fracas that could reach levels of inanity for which Hart had no frame of reference. Despite their different temperaments, they hung together. The battle scars did not run all that deep, not yet, and were still easily erased by the night of intimacy that inevitably followed. Hart knew this kind of behavior would eventually catch up with them, but they were young and he believed in the power of love.

He shook his head to clear the sense of foreboding that had begun creeping into his grey matter, checked his cell phone again. Nothing. What if something really was wrong? He closed his eyes. Sonia knew where he was and could have had him paged if he didn’t answer his cell phone.

But what if she couldn’t get to the phone. He shuddered involuntarily, threw the towel in the trash can and sprinted out of the bathroom intent on coaxing Bicky into handing over his car and driver. He found Bicky sitting in the place he’d left him, gesticulating with abandon.

Hart begged the pardon of the gathered crowed and pulled Bicky over to the bar.

“What?”

“Hey, thanks for the madcap evening, but, I gotta go.”

“Stay. Have another drink.” Bicky’s tone was sharp.

“Can’t. It’s Sonia. I can’t get her on the phone and I’m just…worried. You know, with the baby and all.” His voice cracked uttering the last bit, and Hart felt a little foolish given the way Bicky glared at him. Bicky attempted a thin-lipped smile, his head bobbing up and down mechanically, the closest thing he could manage to empathy.

“So be it. Who am I to stand between a man and his wife.”

“Do you think Manuel could run me home? I’m a little tired.”

“Sure. Sure.” Bicky snapped his fingers once and Manuel, his driver, materialized out of the shadows. Hart started, wondering how much you had to pay someone to stand within finger- snapping distance.

“Would you see to it that Mr. Hartos arrives home safely, Manuel? And come right back. I suspect I’ll be ready to leave by then.” Bicky patted Hart on the back and shook his hand. “Give my regards to my daughter,” Bicky said. His voice was sad, but Hart’s slushy brain didn’t pick up on it. Instead, he nodded thanks and followed Manuel out the door.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

the night was about to get long

Posted on December 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Ten(a)

There were few people that gave Bicky Coleman pause, but William Graighton was one of them. A large man in all respects, Graighton was also the most powerful man in the oil industry and had the last word on a host of things that the oil companies did together. If OPEC could have their little coalition, so could the giants of U.S. oil, and William Graighton was the glue that held them all together. Bicky thought he had a slightly unorthodox way of dealing with things, but Akanabi had made a ton of money since Graighton took over, leaving Bicky to assume the man was prescient. Given the state of things, having a cocktail with Graighton this evening was downright unnerving.

“Have a seat,” Graighton said.

Bicky slid into the plush velvet armchair. Two drinks were already on the table. Bicky raised his glass. The ice clanked against the sides in his shaking hands. He took a sip.

“Nervous?” Graighton asked. “You think I’d poison you?”

A corner of Bicky’s mouth quirked up in response; he coughed.

Graighton laughed out loud and grabbed Bicky’s arm, applying pressure with a firm grip. “Lighten up. It was a joke.” Graighton flashed a half-smile and took a slow slip of his whiskey. When he spoke again, it sounded gravelly and harsh, like the bottom of the barrel.

“Where’s the report?”

Bicky pushed it across the table toward Graighton who laid a gentle hand on it.

“How’d you know?”

Graighton laughed again. “I have to know.” He pushed the report back toward Bicky. “Next time…” he flashed Bicky a wry smile punctuated by the beep of his cell phone. Graighton looked at the number, waving away the rest of his words.

“Yeah,” he said into the tiny mouthpiece, all but dwarfed by his beefy hands.

Bicky tried to gauge the substance of the call, pretending to sip his drink. He watched Graighton’s large hand, resting on the envelope. Surely, he couldn’t have guessed. Graighton had his back to Bicky and was speaking in hushed tones. Despite their proximity, Bicky couldn’t hear what Graighton was saying. Well, to heck with him.

He tapped Graigthon on the arm and the big man stiffened. An electric shock ran through Bicky’s fingertips and he yanked his arm back. He mouthed the word bathroom to Graighton and rose, laying a hand across his lower abdomen. Graighton gave him a disgusted look, waving him away as one would a gnat. Bicky left the alcove and headed for the front door.

&&&

He stood on the front steps of the Union Club, waiting for his car. The valet arrived and held the door open.

“Are you sure you don’t want me to call your driver, Sir?”

“Yes.” The response was curt and conclusive. Bicky handed the valet three $100 dollar bills. “As far as you know, I never left.”

The valet nodded and shut the door as Bicky pulled away.

It was only after Bicky was out of sight that he looked down at the bills in his hand. He smiled and pocketed the money, turning up his collar against the cool night air, then turned and walked back into the foyer. A second car crept out of the parking lot, following Bicky’s car at a safe distance. The valet never saw the second car leave.

&&&

Forty-five minutes later, Bicky was at the bar, Chivas in hand, his full attention on Hart.

“So. Tell me,” Bicky said. Despite the central air conditioning, Bicky pulled out a handkerchief and wiped at the beads of sweat forming on his brow.

“Well, it’s hot. And sandy. No humidity though. Which just goes to prove that those people who say it’s not the heat, it’s the humidity, have never been to the desert.”

“What else?” Bicky arched an eyebrow and waited.

“It’s state of the art stuff. Really. Those guys didn’t skimp when it came to installation. The problem is all the sand. The finest equipment in the world doesn’t hold up with all that stuff blowing around. And it can get windy as hell there.”

“Can we make money?”

“We can always make money. You just gotta keep somebody on the job is all. But a couple hundred thousand in salaries is nothing compared to what you can pull out of the ground there. It’s like a geyser.”

“Like our wells used to be before we pumped the crap out of them?” Bicky said with a trace of melancholy. He sipped his whiskey and stared off into the alcove across the room for so long that Hart finally turned around to see what in the hell his father-in-law was looking at: empty space.

“You alright?” Hart asked.

“Yeah. Sure,” Bicky said.

Hart eyed his father-in-law with mild curiosity. “We can finish this tomorrow.”

Bicky looked to his watch. “Nonsense. Too early. Have a drink with me, boy. Wash that road dirt away.” He motioned to the waiter to bring two more whiskeys. Hart checked his own watch. The night was about to get long.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

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. . .

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. . .

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. . .

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. . .