back to the sea

Posted on September 13, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Forty-One

It was Frank Charlton, the manifold operator, who had first seen it and what he saw made his stomach tuck and roll like a Hollywood stunt man. The sun had poked a ray or two over the horizon, visible through the few breaks that existed in the rack of cumulo-stratus clouds now marching in formation across the sky. They were just getting ready to dock at the Akanabi refinery at Marcus Hook. Charlton had come out for a breath of crisp January air in the hopes it would rouse him, but caught of whiff of something thick and pungent instead. He stuck a head over the side of the ship, then ran to the stern with full knowledge of what was happening, but a need to see it first hand.

He peered down into the churning, black water below. The diffused light from the overcast sky laid a grey pallor over the water, but didn’t hide what Frank had feared. A thick trailing line of oil stretching from the stern of the Ryujin to as far south as the eye could see. He resisted the urge to vomit and, stumbling over himself, ran to the Captain’s quarters and knocked.

“Captain. Beg your pardon, sir, but we have a problem.”

The door flew open and there was Captain Reed, looking like he’d been up all night. His clothes, however, were freshly starched and pressed.

“What is it?”

“The Ryujin is leaking oil, sir. Off the stern.”

Reed’s eyes grew large. He pushed past Charlton and raced to the stern with Charlton on his heels. Sure enough, an unctuous trail of oil stretched from the stern to infinity.

“What in God’s name…?” Reed ran to the front of the ship, looking occasionally over the side as he ran, but saw nothing. He ran back to the stern and looked again, just to be sure. He rubbed his face with his hands.

“But last night…. Oh, my God. Where the hell did it come from?” Reed stopped and stared out over the black waters and the even blacker oil shimmering in the pale morning light.

“Radio the Coast Guard. No…I’ll do it,” Reed said.

Charlton nodded. “Shall I inform Pilot Anderson, sir?”

“Yes. I mean no. I’ll do that as well. Make sure the crew’s ready for landing. We’re here. We may as well dock. Get some divers down there and see what’s going on.” Reed shook his head at the river, as if she had something to do with it, raised his fist and slammed it hard on the railing. Charlton flinched, knowing that it had hurt; Reed’s face did not change.

“Go,” Reed said to Charlton without turning. Charlton scampered off to relay orders and spread the news. Reed gripped the railing with both hands and stared at the growing menace.

➣➣➣

Reed went back to his cabin, pulled out the maritime safety manual and placed it on his desk. He didn’t need to look at it. He knew what it said. He’d read it a dozen or more times just in case, but had never needed to use it. In the event of a maritime spill from a vessel, the vessel officer was to notify the National Response Center which is staffed by the Coast Guard. NRC would adopt an incident as opposed to unified command system and the Coast Guard would assign an On-Scene Coordinator, or OSC, who would be charged with overall responsibility for the incident as well as notifying the Environmental Protection Agency, the Pennsylvania Department of Environmental Protection, the state and local fire hazmats, and the County Emergency Management Association. That, times three, he thought, because the spill occurred in a tristate area and certainly Delaware and New Jersey would want to have a say in what goes. Not to mention the various and sundry agencies with interest: U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service; the PA Game Commission; the PA Boat Commission; the National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration. At least only one person would be in charge and that person, the OSC, would come from the Coast Guard.

Reed rubbed his forehead in contemplation and swallowed the thick feeling that was creeping into his throat. He too, originally came from the Coast Guard. That might help. Might . For the first time in his adult life, he felt like he might cry. In hours, the place would be crawling with personnel from dozens of agencies and he’d be in the center of it all. Damn that Anderson. For a moment he felt a stab of regret for his hasty actions the previous night and wished he wouldn’t have been so quick to intervene. Anderson was probably right. The small craft was playing chicken with them, and was not on a suicide mission. Still, the public and the media would want a scape goat and if Reed had anything to say about it, it wasn’t going to be him.

He stood, brushed the imaginary wrinkles from his heavily starched uniform and strode to the door, maritime safety regulations in hand. Time to radio the Coast Guard.

➣➣➣

Within hours roughly three dozen personnel from various agencies were swarming the banks of the Delaware like bees to the hive, loading skimmers onto pollution control vessels; unloading trucks carrying oil containment booms; spill containment berms; sonic bonded sorbent pads; emulsifiers; trash bags; overpack drums and containers for waste disposal; Tyvek suits; black sturdy rubber gloves, yellow rubber boots and shoe coverings; safety glasses and goggles; disposable earplugs; and all manner of oil spill paraphernalia. A vacuum truck sat idly by, its engine running, waiting for its first big drink of the brown, oily stuff.

Federal On-Scene Coordinator and Marine Safety Officer, Frank Zenone stood in the center of the command post, a trailer set up along the banks of the Delaware, scratching his head in sheer bliss. Having banished the itch to another realm, he ran long spindly fingers through his hair, smoothing it back into place before replacing his hat. Zenone had been up long before he got the 5 a.m. call, responding to a small oil spill upriver at the New York/New Jersey border. It had turned out to be a false alarm. He’d arrived at Marcus Hook by boat which took him substantially longer than it would have by car. Although the sun had been up for more than a few hours, the day was as bleak as any night with a cloud cover that threatened to choke the light out of it. That coupled with a threatening wind chiming in from the north and Zenone knew it was going to be a long day. He looked out the window and sighed.

The weather complicated matters, adding its weight to a job the tide had already begun. When the oil spill occurred, the waters of the Delaware River were doing their damned best to get back to the sea, taking with them roughly 350,000 gallons of oil that had managed to escape from the confines of the Ryujin’s holding tanks. Stupid bastards. Hard to blame them for not catching the trail of oil with less then a flicker of moonlight. Still they should’ve been checking every half hour, Christ every ten minutes after scraping bottom like that. Maybe they’d have seen the oily sheen. Rotten luck. He rubbed his hands up and down his face to rouse himself. He could blame them, but he wouldn’t. That wasn’t his job. His job was to get this Goddamn mess under control before the tide and coming storms did more damage.

Zenone sat down at the drafting table and turned his attention to the SPCC Plan he had taken from the Captain of the Ryujin , a bound report, about an inch thick with a nice bond cover and spiral binding. The cover page read Spill Prevention Control and Countermeasures Plan for the Ryujin dated January 2004. So, they’d either created the Plan or updated it just before sailing. Well, that was promising. He turned the page and was shocked at what he saw next: nothing. Now he could blame them. Bastards didn’t even have a plan in case of a spill. He chortled, disgusted, and looked out the window to where another two dozen workers disembarked from a large, converted school bus to join the clean up operation on the beach, a rudderless group. He huffed, rose, and walked out of the trailer, but a ringing phone drug him back.

“Zenone.”

“Yeah, Frank. It’s Lapsley. Charlton’s almost done.” Victor Lapsley, an OSC for the Environmental Protection Agency, had been the first responder on Site, almost an hour ahead of Zenone since he had come by car. As a result, Lapsley had been the Incident Commander on the scene for a brief stint, but was showing no signs of wanting his old job back.

“Who’s Charlton?”

“The manifold operator. I just talked to him. He’s almost finished pumping off the last of what was in the holding tanks.”

“Already? Jesus Christ.”

“What? I thought you’d take that as good news since the hull’s still leaking.”

“Yeah, yeah, that’s good. But that operation takes the better part of the day. So if he’s almost done, we got more oil in the water than we originally thought.”

“Nah. Akanabi got the lead out,” Lapsley said and immediately chuckled to himself. “Hey, I think there’s a pun in there.”

Zenone rolled his eyes, a gesture Lapsley apparently could feel rather than hear through the phone because he cleared his throat and continued.

“Anyway, last I saw, Akanabi had the Ryujin docked and hooked up to every available hose. They wanted the stuff out as fast as possible.

“So how much is in the water?” Zenone asked.

“Well, I think our original estimates are right. About 350,000 gallons, give or take.”

“You talk to the Captain?” Zenone coughed. The winds were picking up and the smell of oil seemed much stronger now as it meandered through his olfactory system. He could feel it inching up his nostrils into his nasal cavity and twitched his nose to ease the sensation. It didn’t work. He sneezed. Oil vapors went flying.

“Bless you,” Lapsley said. “Yeah. Reed. Also to Akanabi’s Chief Engineer. Guy named Hart. Captain seemed a little jumpy.”

“What did he say?”

“Some story about a motor boat soon after they left the Bay and the river pilot overreacting. Pilot swung out of the channel. Wasn’t using his radar. I don’t know, somethin’s weird. I’m sure the Pilot will have another story.”

Zenone coughed. “Alright, whatever. When you’re done, come on down. I’m heading out now to give two dozen clean up workers my safety spiel.”

“See you in an hour.” Lapsley hung up.

Zenone held the phone, listening to the dial tone. Out of the channel, huh ? He put the phone in its cradle, sneezed again, and headed out to greet the clean up crew.

➣➣➣

Half an hour later, after a quick synopsis of how to use the cleanup equipment followed by an even quicker recitation of the safety hazards associated with oil spill cleanups, including references to slips, trips, falls, poisonous snakes and poison ivy, Akanabi’s muckers, the untrained labor hired by the company to don Tyvek suits, rubber boots, safety goggles and gloves and do hand-to-hand combat with the enemy, were mired ankle-deep in a miasma of pure crude. They hung together in groups of two’s and three’s, working at the shore line, shoveling clumps of oil into buckets and bags and disposing of it into the dozens of overpack waste disposal drums standing by. The larger clumps were fairly easy to retrieve, but as they got down to the finer stuff it became more elusive, like trying to catch a minnow with your bare hands, and with the pre-formed plastic gloves, such minutia was impossible to be gathered. What couldn’t be bagged was raked into the gravelly sand to be dealt with later by Mother Nature herself either through erosion, weather or eventual degradation. Within half an hour, each of the muckers were covered, literally, from head to toe in oil. The Tyvek helped, keeping them from getting soaked through to the skin, as did the gloves and boots, but working as they were, surrounded by thick blobs of oil, and sometimes standing in ankle-deep water, the ubiquitous crude seeped into their eyes and ears and up their noses. And that was the worst part because you couldn’t get away from the smell, not even by holding your breath. Some of the more industrious muckers waded out into waist-deep water in pairs, stretching a five hundred foot sorbent boom across the surface and corralling the oil back to shore to a central location where the vacuum truck could suck it out with a hose. The boom was made of oleophilic, or oil loving material, a high quality polypropylene with great absorbent qualities and generally used for the last stages of a cleanup. The problem with using the absorbent booms for large doses of oil was that saturation ultimately rendered them ineffective. As a result, the muckers were going through booms like kids through candy, disposing of them after a single use, but keeping the vacuum truck busy.

The vacuum sucked up oil as well as water, but by some miracle of technology, the truck only disposed of the oil, allowing the water to settle out in the bottom of a holding tank and sending it back, sans its oily compounds, to the river where it belonged. Of course, you couldn’t get it all out. Oil was as persistent as it was pervasive and although over time the chemical compounds would break down and disperse, inevitably some portion of the oily substance would remain, infused into the water column, or in pockets on the beach, or on the underside of rocks, forever changing the face of that which it touched.

to be continued. . .

to read what led to this state of affairs jump here

anything’s possible

Posted on August 6, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-Six

That night, Kori and Jack sat huddled together on one corner of the couch and Avery at the other end. Gil and Max sat in rocking chairs, one behind the other, watching Santa Claus 2. A pizza box lay open on the coffee table with one slice left.

Gil held a toy with small tube-like arms sticking out from a colorful base. At the end of each of the four tubes was a little plastic disc that lit up in different colors. At the push of a button, the arms spiraled around and around like a propeller.

“By rights, it’s mine,” Kori said. “You guys all had two pieces.”

“What is that thing?” Jack asked, ignoring her.

“A whirligig, I think,” Avery said. “Or if not, it should be.”

“Don’t change the subject,” Kori said, pinching Jack’s side. “Technically, it’s mine.”

“Yeah, but I worked this morning. And I changed the oil in your car today and replaced your rotor cups, all in freezing cold weather. I think I should have it.” He leaned in and kissed her, but she wasn’t budging.

“Where’d you work?”

“Something went wrong with the home brain at the Callahan’s. The lights on the deck were flicking on and off and they couldn’t regulate the temperature in the hot tub. I rewired one of the circuit boards which fixed the problem, but I’m still not sure what happened.” He scrunched his eyebrows in thought.

Kori raised her own eyebrows like she wasn’t impressed.

“What?” Jack said. “You wanted me to tell them to wait until Monday?”

“It’s your business,” Kori said. “You could have.”

“Not if I want to stay in business.”

“I’m still hungry,” Gil whined. Kori looked at Jack and laughed.

“Here, Gil,” she said, offering him the last slice. “Guess you lose,” she whispered to Jack. Meticulously, Gil gnawed the edges of his slice, then up and down each side, all the while rocking and whirligigging. Not a spot remained untouched. He ripped a piece from the crust and tossed it to Max who caught and consumed it in one motion.

“Guess we need two pizzas next time,” Jack said, pulling Kori back toward him.

“Yooooohooooo,” Aunt Stella’s voice along with the smell of pastries wafted from the back door straight to Gil’s nose in the living room. He sniffed the air and tossed the rest of the slice of pizza to Max. When Aunt Stella walked into the living room, Gil jumped up, allowed her to kiss him, then took his seat while he waited for her to remove her coat and scarf.

She grabbed Gil’s chin and pulled it up so she could look in his eyes. “No worse for the wear,” she said, and tousled his hair. “You’re a tough one.” She held the basket out to him. “Go ahead then. A little bit of sweet is the answer to all life’s ailments, I say.” Aunt Stella’s belly shook as she laughed, demonstrating she took her own advice.

Gil didn’t wait for further prompting, but dug out two pieces of baklava, a square of banana-pecan coffee cake, and a napkin to catch it all. Max, still in his chair, waited for his share of the booty. Gil’s toy whirled and lighted as he chomped on his banana cake

“What, pray tell, are you doing, Gilly?” Aunt Stella said.

Gil’s mouth was full, so Kori explained for him. “They’re playing airplane. Gil’s the pilot. We’re not sure if Max is a member of the crew or all of the passengers.” Gil nodded and gave no further comment. Max circled the seat of his chair adroitly, still trying to find a position of comfort, but the chair was too small for all seventy pounds of him. He gave up and sat down, hind legs squarely on the seat, front paws on the floor.

“He looks like he has motion sickness. I wonder if they’re experiencing some turbulence?” Kori asked.

“How the hell does he get that dog to do that?” Jack said.

Avery got up, making room for Aunt Stella on the couch. She closed the pizza box with a “tsk-tsk,” muttering to herself about poor nutrition, and put the basket on top.

“Dessert,” she announced, as if it were necessary.

“Thanks, Aunt Stella,” Avery said grabbing a piece of baklava and a seat on the floor. Jack wiggled his eyebrows at Kori and she passed the basket to him just as the doorbell rang. Kori looked at her watch. It was almost eight. Max barked, jumped off his chair and ran to stand in front of the door.

“Now if we could just teach him to open it,” Jack said with a full mouth.

“If that’s one of your lame friends here to collect you so you can go out drinking…”

Jack raised his hands, palms up, as if to say “no contest.”

No one moved, but everyone looked at Avery who was propping himself up on pillows at his spot on the floor.

“No way. I just sat down. It’s Gil’s turn.”

Gil tried to ignore them, but the pressure was too great. With a sigh, he got up to answer the door.

➣➣➣

Captain Russell turned his collar up against the inexorable wind and waited. He smashed his hat down more firmly on his head and looked out over the neighboring farm fields illuminated by the light of the full moon. Frost reflected the light back, giving the appearance of a light dusting of snow. Captain Russell shivered. He’d been dreading this visit since he got the call two nights ago. Army Protocol dictates that the family should have been told immediately, but he had waited, hoping the ongoing investigation would yield some evidence that the officers had at first failed to uncover. Unfortunately, the most damning evidence arrived by courier earlier this evening, and he couldn’t put it off any longer.

Russell left his office around eight and went to the Japanese Restaurant in the strip mall purportedly for a quick dinner. He left his plate of sushi untouched, but had several shots of saki. Now the courage gained from his liquid dinner was dissipating, replaced by a smoldering hole you could drive an army jeep through. He fingered the contents of his pocket again and swallowed the rising bile. It had been a long time since he had to do this and he wished to God he was standing elsewhere. His stomach gurgled. It was a bad idea not to eat.

➣➣➣

Gil opened the door a crack, more to keep out the wind than the man standing on the other side of it, but once he got a look, the latter was closer to the truth. Something was wrong with the picture, but Gil wasn’t sure what. The man was dressed respectably in an overcoat and hat, but he looked sad. Bad news .

“Evening. Is this the Tirabi residence?” Gil nodded, but made no move to open the door. Max stood next to him, wagging his tail and trying to poke his snout through the narrow opening.

Captain Russell extended his hand. “Captain Jack Russell. May I come in? It’s wicked cold out here.”

Gil threw open the door and Captain Russell jumped in. At the sudden movement, Max began barking like crazy and Captain Russell jumped right out again. He stood on the front step, rubbing his hands together and grimacing.

Kori ran over and grabbed Max’s collar. “Take Max, please. To the living room.” Gil and Max retreated and Kori opened the door.

“Can I help you?”

“Captain Jack Russell. I’m at the recruiting station down at the Park Plaza Shopping Mall. I signed your brother, Robbie up.”

Kori stiffened. Aunt Stella appeared in the foyer behind her.

“Well child, let the man in. He’s not going to steal your television.” Aunt Stella smiled. “Come in, come in. Give me your coat and hat.”

Captain Russell stepped into the foyer for the second time that evening. “If you don’t mind, I’ll keep them. Give me a chance to warm up.”

“It’s warm inside,” Aunt Stella said, doting on Captain Russell as if he were a baby chick that lost its momma. She steered him from the foyer to the living room where everyone appeared to be watching television; the only indication that they were not was the undercurrent of motion traveling across the room. Gil rocked obsessively in his chair, Avery fluffed his pillows unable to get comfortable, and Kori kept looking at Jack as if she thought he might vanish into thin air at any minute. Captain Russell cleared his throat and Kori grabbed Jack’s hand.

“How about a nice cup of coffee or tea?” Aunt Stella asked.

“No thank you, Ma’am. I’m really sorry to intrude this evening and wouldn’t have come if it wasn’t of the utmost…”

A low wail broke from Gil’s throat and Max walked over and put his face in Gil’s lap. Avery got up and checked his brother’s eyes. Kori jumped up and did the same. She looked at Avery for confirmation.

“Couldn’t happen twice in one day, could it?

“I guess anything’s possible.” Avery checked Gil’s pulse. “You feelin’ alright, Gil?” Gil nodded. Avery let go of his wrist, less than satisfied.

“Is there anything I can do?” Captain Russell asked. Kori shook her head.

“You can tell us why you came,” Avery said, shutting off the television.

Captain Russell nodded, reached in his pocket and pulled out a set of dog tags which he placed on the table in front of them.

“Tell me that’s not what I think it is,” Kori said. She squeezed Jack’s hand so tightly his bones crackled.

“It’s my duty and my pain to tell you that we presume your brother, Robert James Tirabi, aged twenty-three, to be dead.” Kori gasped and buried her head in Jack’s shoulder. Aunt Stella coughed and put a hand to her throat. Avery fingered the dog tags, and Gil rocked furiously, eyes fixed on the blank television screen.

“Surely you’re joking,” Aunt Stella said. “We just got a letter from him yesterday.”

“That letter could have been written more than two weeks ago. The mail takes time.”

“But…how?” Kori’s voice quivered.

“Suicide car bomber. Robbie was in Khan Bani Saad. It’s a market town not far from Baghdad. A man drove a car loaded with explosives directly into an open air market. Twenty-three people were killed.”

“Where’s the body? Avery asked.

“We haven’t been able to identify it. We believe he might have been standing near the car when the bomb detonated. We found those,” Russell said, pointing to the dog tags.

“Well how do you know he’s dead?” Avery asked. “Maybe he was just wounded.”

“The wounded were all treated at the hospital. Your brother was not among them.”

“Well, how did his dog tags come off?” Kori asked.

“It wasn’t your typical explosive. It had amazing incendiary capabilities. Most things within a twenty-five yard radius were ashes when it was all done.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.” Avery said. “You’re still looking, right?” Captain Russell shook his head.

“So that’s it. You come here and you give us these lousy . . . things,” Kori picked up the dog tags as if they were a used Kleenex, “and you tell us he’s gone and you walk out the door. You don’t even know my brother.” Kori’s voice caught and Jack pulled her to his chest.

“What about his personal stuff?” Jack asked.

“It’s being shipped. You should be getting it within the week.”

A profound silence filled the room.

“Liar!” Gil jumped up from his seat, grabbed the dog tags, put them around his neck and ran from the room. He stomped up the stairs and slammed the door to his room.

“I’ll go,” Aunt Stella said, but Avery put a hand on her arm to stop her.

“If there’s anything else I can do . . .” Captain Russell’s sincere, but ineffectual offer froze in mid-air.

After several more moments of silence, Captain Russell stood to leave. “Feel free to call me if you have any questions or if you need anything at all.” He handed Aunt Stella his card. “I’m truly sorry for your loss.” Aunt Stella rose to show him to the door.

“It’s okay,” Russell said. “I can find my way out.”

They heard the door close behind him, heard his car engine engage, heard him pull out of the driveway, and then nothing more, but their own moist breathing and the ticking of the clock. The room was eerily quiet, like the last moments before dawn.

Avery traced a finger around the empty space where the dog tags had lain. “Shall I go up after him?” he asked. The question hung in the air like mist.

to be continued. . .

get up to speed & read what came before: hit this link

summer reading now!

Posted on June 7, 2012 by Cynthia G.

poolside or lakeside, bring a good book with you. it’s practically required.

simple arithmetic

Posted on March 17, 2012 by Cynthia G.

Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Eighteen

The walk-out basement was light and airy, one wall comprised completely of French doors, the opposite wall built into the bedrock below the house. Kori’s drafting table faced out to the back yard and the bucolic setting where, beyond the horizon a decomposing and noxious mountain hid at the edge of her tranquility, its spawn leaching exponentially into the groundwater while she worked.

Avery bounded down the stairs. “What are you doing?”

Kori was draped over the table. “A wedding invitation for Stacey Clinghoffer.”

“That cow?” said Avery. “Who would marry her?” Kori stifled him with a look. “Hey, Kori?” .

“What?”

“Since you’re bringing home the bacon, I want to do something to contribute – other than every single menial, yet necessary, task that goes into running a household, that is.”

“Why can’t you talk in English? I’m not sure I even understood what you just said.”

“That means, I don’t mind cooking and cleaning and helping with the laundry, but you’re not sticking me with all of it.” Avery picked up the medicine ball and bounced it off the wall.

“I never said you had to be my personal slave. It would be nice, but….”

“I was thinking of selling off all that gas and oil out in back of the barn. We must have more than a hundred of those fifty-five gallon drums. It would take a long time for us to use it all. We may as well make some money with it. At least until Robbie’s checks start coming.”

“We don’t need any trouble, Avery. I just paid off the porch repair.” She paused to look at her work. “As long as I keep getting jobs, you don’t need to. We’ll be all right. Just worry about school. You need the grades.” She flashed her steel blue eyes at him.

“I have the grades.”

“Yeah, well.” Unlike her average self, Avery was always a straight A student. Kori thought he could simply sleep with a book under his pillow and still get an A. And although he didn’t have Gil’s ingenuity when it came to inventions, he could recreate either from drawings or Gil’s verbal direction, anything Gil envisioned. Kori seethed at the ease with which Avery excelled, but then she discovered that art was her forte and forgave her brother his gifts.

“I was also thinking of creating a web page to sell some of Gil’s contraptions on the Internet. You know, he’s got that state-of-the-art juicer. And now that dog collar thingee,” he said, repeatedly tossing the ball. “A couple other things kicking around in the garage. Maybe some of the local hardware stores would want something.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Kori looked up at the incessant noise. “Could you please stop bouncing that ball. It’s hard to concentrate.”

Avery nodded. “I’m going to get started on the web page right away.”

“Let me know if you need help with the graphics,” Kori said.

Avery stood looking at her, but said nothing.

“What?”

“I could help with the checkbook, too, if you want. Especially if I’m going to start selling stuff. I’ll need access to the house account. For the deposits.” Kori didn’t even look at him.

“Robbie told you to do that, didn’t he?” she said.

Had Kori not suddenly been swamped with the responsibility of raising her siblings, the fact that she couldn’t balance a checkbook wouldn’t have bothered her. She could care less how much money she had as long as it was enough for art supplies. But phone, gas and electric bills, not to mention groceries, cost much more than art supplies and the need to know exactly how much money she had in her checking account took on new significance. She’d already been denied the use of her Mac card at the grocery store once and had to use a credit card to buy the weekly groceries because of bad planning. She was furious, and later determined there were insufficient funds in the account as a result of a simple arithmetic error on her part. Still she was too embarrassed to ever shop at that store again.

“Did he?”

Avery’s lips formed a tight line and he nodded once. When Kori didn’t answer, he went upstairs. Kori could hear him banging around in the kitchen. She wanted to jump at the offer, but to turn the checkbook over with a zero balance and not look like a moron would be tough. He’d press her to sell off that stupid oil.

“Avery!” she yelled up the stairs.

“What?”

“Let me think about it,” she said. Avery walked halfway down.

“Okay. Well do you mind if I take your car? I want to take a ride over to Cohen’s Hardware and see if I can unload a couple dog collars.”

Relieved to switch topics, Kori he tried to sound motherly, but remembered those first days, itching to get behind the wheel. She’d go anywhere with one of her parents: the gas station, the grocery store, even the dump, just for a chance to drive . “You don’t even have your license.”

“I have my permit.”

“For which you need a licensed driver.” She gave him a look, but wanted to giggle, and turned away before she lost her composure. “Take your bike.”

“Fine!” Avery stomped up the steps.

“Take Gil with you,” Kori yelled after him.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before click here. . .

Posted on February 18, 2012 by Cynthia G.

We love this so much we wanted to share. Please read and comment. Do you agree or disagree? Love it or hate it? We honestly want to know what you have to say. Sincerely yours, PSS

Reading. Writing. Spying.

“A recent study has shown many people benefit from rereading familiar stories as the encounter “reignites” their emotions and increases their knowledge.

In broad terms the research found that people were generally keen to return to a well-thumbed book or to listen again to a favourite piece of music so they could gain a “richer and deeper insight” of the experience and increase their understanding.

The study concluded: “Consumers gain richer and deeper insights into the reconsumption object itself but also an enhanced awareness of their own growth in understanding and appreciation through the lens of the reconsumption object.

“Given the immense benefits for growth and self-reflexivity, re-consuming actually appears to offer many mental health benefits.”

“Vladimir Nabokov maintained that you couldn’t say you had really read a novel till you have re-read it. On the first reading you may be gripped by the story, and so you read fast…

View original post 177 more words

boys don’t cry

Posted on February 10, 2012 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Fourteen

Kori pulled salad fixings out of the refrigerator. She piled the lettuce and veggies in the crook of her arm and squinted out the window. A shadowy figure, illuminated by the barn light, moved inside.

“That’s it,” she said.

“What’s it?” Avery walked in as Kori slammed the refrigerator door.

“I’m going to get him. He’s been out there for three days with no food and probably no sleep.” Clutching the vegetables to her chest, she peered into the darkness.

“You know what he’s doing,” Avery said.

“Actually, I don’t.” Kori whirled around to face him and the carrots flew from her arm. Avery grabbed the bag before it hit the floor.

“He’s making something for ZiZi. Or himself. Probably not you.” Avery blushed. “I’m sorry. It’s just, well, he’s processing it. That’s how he does it. And you need to let him.”

Kori dumped the her armload on the kitchen counter. “Doctor Freud, I presume?”

“Hey, I’m not the one that made them go outside.”

Kori snorted and turned her back on her brother. “It wasn’t my fault,” she murmered, but her words carried no conviction. “The point is, it’s three days and you’re not even a little concerned.”

“Oh, geez, Kori. Mom and Dad. Zizi. I’m having a hard time dealing with it all and Gil’s only ten.” Avery sat down. “He’s doing what he always does. He’ll be in when he’s done.”

Avery poured a glass of milk. As if on cue, the door flew open and Gil sauntered in, handing Avery the contraption in his hand in exchange for the glass of milk. Gil sat down, placed ZiZi’s urn on the kitchen table, and drained the glass.

Kori snapped at Avery. “You planned that!”

“Yeah, right,” Avery laughed.

Gil looked at each of them in turn and held up his empty glass. “More milk, please.” Avery refilled his glass.

“You must be starving,” Kori said.

“Just thirsty,” Gil replied, downing the second glass. “Avery brought me breakfast, lunch and dinner. Except, it’s not dinner yet, so I didn’t have that today. It’s just – well you forgot the milk at lunch.” Gil leveled an accusatory look at his brother.

“Life was getting a little too cushy out there, Gilliam. I thought if I put the pressure on, you’d snap to it.” Avery handed a half glass of milk to Gil who drained it and pushed it forward for Avery to fill again.

“That was only half,” Gil said.

“A half too much,” Kori said, grabbing the glass. “We’re going to eat dinner in an hour.” Gil shrugged, grabbed the urn and retired to the living room. Kori torpedoed an agitated glance in Avery’s direction, but humor danced on the edge of her eyes.

“Sorry,” Avery said. “I couldn’t help egging you on. You’re so…maternal these days. It doesn’t suit you.”

“I should make you do dinner for that.”

“No way, Jose. I did dinner the last three nights.” He raised two fingers in an imaginary salute, grabbed Gil’s invention and joined his brother in the living room.

➣➣➣

Gil took Mad Max, Beyond Thunderdome , out of the DVD player and replaced it with The Lord of the Rings, The Two Towers . He didn’t know if he could ever watch Mad Max again. Bummer, because it was one of his favorites. He sat, cross-legged on the floor, ZiZi’s urn wedged between his legs.

“It’s funny,” Gil said to Avery as he walked in.

“What?”

“I was in this exact same place three days ago, but I was rubbing ZiZi’s ears instead of holding a can of them.” He tapped the urn and looked at his brother matter-of-factly. Avery grimaced and sat down. “You slept outside the barn the last two nights,” Gil said, a statement not a question. “Thanks.”

Avery wrapped a protective arm around his brother’s shoulder and squeezed. “Do you want us to get you another dog?”

“There is no other dog.” Gil said. “And no other Mom and Dad.”

Gil hadn’t cried when his parents died. Nor had he processed their deaths by locking himself in the barn and building something to fix it. What he had done, after the ashes were scattered, was hang a “do not disturb” sign on his bedroom door and retreat. For a few days he surfed the web, researching the topic of drunkenness, hoping to find a cure.

“It’ll be something you can take and in fifteen minutes you’ll be okay to drive again,” was all Gil would say about his proposed brain child. He made a pill, a spray, and a lotion, all of which he tested on Robbie one night, but whether it was due to being out of his normal environment or just out of ideas, or maybe because his heart was too broken for his head to focus, Gil gave up and resorted to sleeping, watching T.V., and playing computer games. Tray upon tray of his favorite foods, placed at the bedroom door by his concerned siblings, he left on the floor, untouched. He drank only water, milk and juice.

For the first couple days the rest of the Tirabis allowed his withdrawal, but by the third day Robbie began pacing the floor and threatening to break the door down. Avery alone knew that this was what Gil needed and pleaded Gil’s case for him. It was through Avery’s intercession that Gil was allowed to continue his self-imposed isolation. At the end, he cried. On the morning of the seventh day, the door swung wide and a gaunt and starving Gil emerged, catharsis completed, despite his failure to cure drunkenness.

Avery squeezed Gil’s shoulder again before removing his arm.

“Awww, this is a good part!” Gil said. “He’s gonna toss the dwarf.” Avery fingered the collar-like contraption Gil had given him.

“Hey, Gil? What’s this?”

“A dog collar,” he responded without taking his eyes off the T.V.

“But we don’t have a dog anymore and you just said…” Avery turned it over and over in his hand, trying to figure out the mechanics.

“It’s not for us. It’s for the people who have dogs. Now their dogs won’t ever get hit by a car again.” He looked up and sighed, taking the collar back from Avery.

“It’s looks like an ordinary dog collar, just with a battery pack on it. What’s it do? Some kind of electric charge?

“A zap?” Gil asked, poking Avery. “Would you like to be zapped?”

“No. And I don’t suppose that dogs do either. Pardon my insensitivity.”

“That’s okay.” Gil reached in his pocket and pulled out a bracelet identical to the collar. “Here. Put this on your wrist.”

Avery obliged. Gil adjusted the volume and held it up to Avery’s ear.

“Ready?” Gil asked.

Avery nodded as strains of Raindrops Keep Falling on My Head poured out. “It’s different, I’ll give you that. But how do you expect a dog to keep this thing on its wrist?”

Gil’s tongue probed the interior surface of his bottom lip, a wacky smile on his lips.

“Hey, cut it out. I’m not condemning your project. I just want to know how it works.”

Gil grabbed the bracelet, his exuberance apparent, and wrapped the collar around Avery’s neck.

“It’s a training device. There’s fifteen different songs so you can train them to do whatever you want. Here.” Gil put the earphones in his own ears and pressed the remote, his head bobbing in time to music Avery couldn’t hear, but could feel. His hands flew to his neck, probing the device.

“What is this?” Avery demanded.

“The music’s in the collar,” Gil responded. “The dogs can feel it. Every song has a different vibration.”

Avery furrowed his eyebrows.

“You train them to do different things to different songs,” Gil said. “You want them to come to dinner? You play, Everybody Eats at My House . You want them to go outside and run around? You play, Who Let the Dogs Out. You want them to do tricks? You play, Jump . You want them to come right away when you call them and turn around and not run out into the street and get hit by a car, you play, Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head. Gil’s throat felt thick and it was hard to swallow and since his brain was screaming something about boys don’t cry, he squeezed his eyes shut and forced back the mighty tears trying to storm the gate of his pre-adolescent dignity. He stopped talking and slumped over the urn.

“Why, Raindrops Keep Fallin’ on My Head? ”

“Cause that was Dad’s favorite song, Avery.”

Gil opened his eyes and looked to his brother, but Avery avoided his gaze. They sat in stoned silence, each wrestling with their internal demons, until Avery’s cowed in submission and he gave Gil’s arm a light punch.

“I think it’s an awesome idea, Gil. I’ll take it over to Roley’s Hardware in the morning and see if I can talk them into buying a few.”

Gil nodded, pushed his bangs to the side and swiped at the three or four tears, running full-out down his cheeks like escaped convicts.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here. . .