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ten feet of water

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OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Three hours later, the Sea Witch’s belly had gone from four to fifteen feet below the water line as a result of its recently acquired load while the Ryujin sat that much higher. The deck hands fastening the fendering back to her side looked to Captain Reed to be no bigger than children. The Sea Witch was off, already moving upriver, while Captain Reed paced the deck, waiting impatiently for the arrival of the river pilot who would steer the Ryujin up the Delaware to the Marcus Hook refinery. The pilot was late and lateness was something Reed could not tolerate.

“Company, sir,” the first mate called.

A small water taxi, likely bearing the river pilot, was arriving. Captain Reed didn’t think much of river pilots on the whole, thought them a lazy lot, their navigational skills gone slack from disuse as a result of gliding back and forth on the same body of water – the epitome of a big fish in a little pond – but the law said that only the river pilots could take a ship upriver. The company that serviced the Delaware was run by an old codger named Lars Andersen. He was smooth and weathered like driftwood back when Reed met him fifteen years ago and despite his prejudices, Reed had come to like the man over time.

Captain Reed ceased his pacing to watch the water taxi’s approach. It pulled up close and tight to the Ryujin and a young man of about twenty-five reached for the rope ladder hanging down her side. Reed frowned and moved in to get a closer look.

➣➣➣

The water taxi bobbed on the water while Pilot Christian Anderson stood watching the swell of the waves, looking for an opportunity. The Ryujin rocked and jumped with the swell of the rising tide. The taxi was at optimal height and Anderson had a split second to decide: he grabbed for a middle rung of the rope ladder, Jacob’s ladder, and pulled hard. He threw one leg around the outside rope and hooked his foot inside a square. He grabbed another rung with his free hand just as the sea tossed the water taxi and the deck fell away. Anderson held on with ease, suspended along the side of the Ryujin , his strong, well-tuned muscles tensing and flexing under his own weight as he climbed the thirty-odd feet to the top. He swung over the side of the supertanker, dropping effortlessly onto the deck, and looked into the face of mocking disapproval.

“Who are you?” Captain Reed barked.

“Pilot Christian Anderson. At your service, sir.” He bowed his head slightly.

“Christian Anderson? Where’s Lars?”

“Dead,” Anderson said, watching Reed’s face. The eyes changed, but the face did not. No way of telling whether the Captain was friend or foe of his father since the man had equal amounts of both – one either loved or hated him – or whether he knew Lars even had a son. “Any other questions?” Anderson asked. Reed took a step back to better appraise Anderson.

Christian Anderson had been a pilot for about thirty-three seconds. Actually it had been three years, but only three weeks since his father died and he took over the family business. So far, he hadn’t been able to lose that sick feeling in his stomach that sometimes came with the weight of being in charge. He’d played the prodigal son for so long that he couldn’t get used to this new appellation. Still, that wasn’t information he was about to be offering up, especially not to this dickbag standing in front of him looking all smug and holier than thou. He’d had a hard enough time convincing the other half a dozen pilots his father employed that he was up to the task of running the business, and not into the ground , as he had heard them prognosticate under their collective breaths. This business would flourish in ways his father never had the foresight to allow. They’d see. They’d all see. Then he’d have something to flaunt. He gave Reed his own forthright appraisal, looking him over like a prized heifer. Reed’s icy glare forced Anderson to turn his own face away as if stung.

Anderson pulled out a small brown leather case and flashed his pilot’s badge, then shoved it back in his pocket; Reed put a hand on his arm to stop him. Anderson narrowed his eyes at the Captain, but pulled it out again, handing it to Reed for examination. Reed examined the license then the man himself before handing it back.

“He was your father then?”

Anderson searched Reed’s eyes for some glint of emotion, and finding none, figured it was simple curiosity that asked the question. Anderson nodded.

“When did he die?”

“Three weeks ago.”

Captain Reed made a small gesture, a slight nod of the head, turned on his heel and walked away. Whether it was meant as an offer of sympathy Anderson couldn’t tell. He stared after Reed in mute astonishment, his delicate, Swedish features turning momentarily to granite. And as the Captain turned the corner, Anderson decided it prudent to follow and sprinted after Reed.

➣➣➣

Hours later, the moon rose above the horizon at what might be considered warp speed in moon terms, bulging and engorged, a result of the last rays of the sun’s refracted light. As she climbed, she lost that overstuffed pancake look, shrunk down to normal size and simply became the moon once again, that giant, floating orb of light and beauty that possessed the mystical ability to control tides and sway men’s hearts.

Anderson, his hands set tightly on the joy stick, cast a glance up at the sky and relaxed his grip. To his right and behind stood Captain Reed, so close to Anderson’s shoulder that he could hear the man breathing although to Anderson it sounded more like a wheeze. The noise and Reed’s sheer proximity were unnerving.

“You know, you should have that looked at,” Anderson said.

“Pardon me?”

“Your lungs. It sounds like your breathing underwater.”

“I’d thank you to mind your own business .” Reed emphasized the word business and Anderson’s shoulders tightened. He couldn’t stop thinking about the messy state his father had left it in.

“I’m going down on deck for a few minutes. Try not to hit anything,” Reed said and left.

“Dickbag,” Anderson muttered. It was only a hundred and two-mile stretch of river from the Bay to the Marcus Hook refinery, but already Anderson knew it was going to be the longest hundred miles he’d ever traveled. And by night, no less. The thought sent a shiver up his spine.

Had he been given his way, the Ryujin would have waited until morning to depart, but the tide had reached high water mark and was on the way down and the Sea Witch had already taken off upriver. Reed had wanted the Ryujin to follow as soon behind as the Coast Guard would allow to take advantage of the extra draft room the high tide would provide. He was pissed, that bastard, that Anderson hadn’t taken off right away, but Anderson was adamant about inspecting the ship, acquainting himself with all her innermost workings. With so few solo trips under his belt and a business on the line, he couldn’t afford any screw ups. Mostly so he wouldn’t appear lackadaisical and just to shut Reed up, he agreed to leave when his inspection was complete. Unfortunately, by that time it was twilight.

Anderson came from a long line of sailors and sea captains, a nepotistic bunch of Swedes, brothers, uncles, and cousins who were all active in the business Anderson’s father had inherited from his own father. During early childhood, he spent many nights curled up in a sleeping bag at his father’s feet as his Dad piloted a ship upriver, listening to the low rumbling vibration of the boat, the last lines of his father’s bedtime story resonating in his ears. Except that those stories were much worse than the usual macabre of the Brothers Grimm or Hans Christian Anderson. His father’s stories were of sailors lost at sea; of monsters with terrible fangs and breath like fire; of mermaids that grabbed unsuspecting sailors off their ships and bore them down to their watery graves; of the sirens, lovely creatures that lured men too near the rocks with their songs and laughed as the waves bashed their ships against them, leaving the hapless sailors to drown in the melee. The stories had delighted and enchanted him and Anderson would look up to catch a last glimpse of his father standing behind the wheel, smiling at him as his child’s eyes became heavy with sleep.

Anderson’s head bobbed, touching his chest. He opened his eyes and for an instant, he was a boy again. He came to full consciousness, shocked with the realization that he had fallen asleep at the helm. There was no telling if it had been seconds or minutes. He blinked and rubbed his eyes, then shook himself like a wet dog, dispensing the sleepiness that had settled on him like drops of water. It had been three weeks since he’d had a good night’s sleep, haunted as he was by visions of the giant of a man he’d loved so in life.

He felt a hand on his arm and turned, half-expecting to see his father. He saw Captain Reed instead. Reed said nothing, the scoundrel, just turned and stood off to the side, staring out into the blackness in front of him, his hands clasped behind his back, the picture of urbanity. Anderson cleared his throat to break the silence and cast a glance back at Reed, the asinine bastard. He saw the Captain’s face out of the corner of his eye, baleful and unwelcoming. He glanced at the radar screen. The next three channel markers were well lit.

“So how long have you been a Captain?” Anderson asked. Safe ground.

“Longer than you’ve been alive,” Reed retorted.

Anderson rolled his eyes and puckered his lips, blowing air out slow and silent. The air in the control deck felt thick and clogged in sharp contrast to the breezy conditions on the river. Anderson moved his head from side to side, stretching the muscles in his neck. As the silent minutes ticked by, his mind drifted to his father’s last months when the Alzheimer’s had him fully in its grasp. How time must have blended together for him; his stubborn refusal to retire, even in his lucid moments. Was time really not linear, as the physicists said, and even more absurd, all happening at once? That one would wreak havoc on the history books.

Reed spoke, but Anderson missed what he said so Reed cleared his throat.

“Excuse me?” Anderson said.

“I said how long? Until we drop our load. How long?”

“What, you got a date?”

Reed didn’t even crack a smile, just gave Anderson a stultifying glare.

Anderson harrumphed. “A few hours give or take. It’s slower going at night.”

“I notice you don’t use the radar much,” Reed said.

“I use it as backup.”

Reed’s eyebrows shot up in query.

Anderson gave Reed a half-smile. “I’ve been traveling this river since I was a boy. I can tell you where every rock and shoal lies.”

Reed made a small grunting noise that originated in the back of his throat, and strode over to the radar screen. A light blipped on and off signaling the presence of something buried well below the surface out of the path of the Ryujin . He grabbed the weems plotter, a fat ruler with wheels, placed it on a line and rolled it down making a compass angle.

Anderson laughed.

“You think using a chart is funny?”

“Just laughing at the hardware.”

Reed raised his eyebrows, scanned the desk chart and then at the blinking radar screen.       “What do you think that is?”

“Nothing to be alarmed about?”

“How do you know?”

“The GPS says we’re right where we need to be,” Anderson said. “There’s nothing at that particular juncture big enough to cause injury to his boat.”

Reed snorted. His voice was so sedate that a small shiver ran up Anderson’s spine. “When was the last time you were on this river?”

“Three weeks ago.” Three weeks ago, Anderson’s father had died suddenly while at the wheel of a ship very similar to this, leaving his son to sort through the mess.

“If you know anything about rivers,” Reed said curtly, “you’ll know the last thing they are is static. Things change. How do you know that a boulder hasn’t rolled, or wasn’t just missed in the plotting, or a school bus didn’t drive off the side of the road and is now parked in our path, waiting to tear a large, gaping hole into the hull?”

Anderson sighed. “I don’t. But regardless of that nice little speech you just gave, river bottoms don’t change all that drastically. Besides, the Army Corps is always dredging this part of the river to keep the silt down so the channel stays open.”

A wry smile formed in the corner of Reed’s mouth; he turned back to the chart. “Under the Coast Guard regs, you might be temporarily in charge of this ship, but remember this, son,” Reed said. “I’m the Captain. Before, and long after you’re gone.” Reed eyed the blinking radar screen. “What’s that?”

Andersen checked the screen and scanned the dark horizon. He saw nothing. “A small speed boat, maybe? Or a fisherman still out on the water.” Thanks to Reed, he was growing a little nervous himself. The blip on the radar screen moved erratically, not a stagnant boulder half-buried in the sea bottom, that was for Goddamn sure, but something, and admitting it to this truculent son-of-a-bitch made him queasy.

“There’s been nothing reported in the last week,” Anderson said, trying to maintain an air of calm about him. “As far as the Coast Guard and the Corps are concerned, we’ve got ten feet of water between us and the bottom of the river. We’re riding anything but light. But we’ve still got the residual benefit of the flood tide even though it’s turned.” He glanced out the window at the bank of the Delaware and gave silent thanks for the red buoys. Red right returning . As long as the buoys were on the right, they were safely in the channel. He shook his head, trying to cast off the vibes of impending doom that Reed was scattering about the cabin like wildflower seeds and stole a glance at the imperial jackass as he moved the weems plotter over the nautical charts, its wheels squeaking like baby mice.

“Man, would you knock it off? You’re creeping me out.”

Reed gasped. Anderson turned in time to see Reed lunge at him. Reed tossed Anderson aside and wrenched the joy stick from his grip, and with it, the direction of the ship, slowly altering its course by forty-five degrees. But before Anderson could react, they heard it. The sound started out low, like a hum, and grew in volume until it became identifiable. A small water craft. The speed boat raced by and they both looked out the window in time to see the stern of the motor boat disappearing from view; the laughter of its occupants left behind, floating on the breeze.

“Goddamn kids,” Reed said.

A feeling of de ja vu overtook Anderson and he entered a place where time was no longer linear. He knew more than a few seconds had passed because the sound of laughter, mingled with the small boat’s engine, had receded into silence, yet he couldn’t say how long that took or what had transpired in the interim. He regained his presence of mind and looked to the river for reorientation. The buoys were on the left!

“Jesus Christ.” By instinct Anderson grabbed the joy stick, shoving Reed aside, and cut it hard, aiming the ship back into the channel. She turned slowly on her axis, a planet caught in the gravitational pull of her own sun. She spun slowly, a giant arcing whale, then resumed her forward motion, course righted. Anderson breathed a sigh as they passed the buoys on their way back into the channel. But relief was short-lived.

It was no more than a slight jolt, what one might feel when riding on a train whose tracks needed tamping.

“What the hell was that?” Reed demanded.

Anderson looked out at the river as they were clearing the buoys, then to the radar screen. Something was blinking, and he had just run over it, or through it, depending on what the hell it was. He rubbed his eyes, but the blip was still there. The two men eyeballed each other.

Anderson cleared his throat. “Why don’t you go check the water off the stern and see if we’re dragging anything,” he said. “The moon’s almost full. Should help you to see.”

“What the hell would we be dragging?” Reed sneered, his voice rising. “You hit something.”

“You mean we don’t you.” The palms of Anderson’s hands were beginning to sweat on the wheel, but he retained his outward demeanor.

“No, I mean you. You’re the pilot of this ship and…”

“And if you hadn’t thrown us out of the channel…”

“…if I hadn’t steered us out of the channel, we would have had a head on collision with a motor boat,” Reed bellowed, spitting as he did. His face had taken on a crimson hue and his eyes were bulging giving him a toad-like appearance. “And somebody would have probably died you stupid, idiotic…”

“That boat,” Anderson said, “was playing chicken with us, and you know it. A bunch of kids out joyriding. They knew enough not to take on a thousand foot ship. Trust me. They would’ve blinked.” Anderson was sweating now from the rush of adrenaline and sheer nerves.

“Go check the stern, dammit,” he barked at Reed.

Reed hesitated momentarily before scrambling out the door giving Anderson time to collect his thoughts. He reviewed the charts and saw what he was dreading. There, just outside the channel, was the topside protrusion of a large boulder that had likely been in that exact same position since the dawn of time, the kind that originated somewhere around the core of the earth and kept twisting and rising until it reached the top with just its tip peeking out. The sneaky kind. The kind that sunk the Titanic.

A shiver of fear ran down Anderson’s spine. It’s nothing. A small jolt is all. We bounced right off her. He gripped the joy stick tightly and clenched his teeth. He knew what a “small” jolt meant to a ship of this size and the kind of damage a boulder could do to a single-hulled vessel. The Ryujin was well past her prime, and although she paid lip service to the Coast Guard regulations, her body worked and reworked a dozen times trying to keep her up to the current safety standards, she stayed afloat not because of strict compliance with the law, but because of some damn grandfather clause. It was the lawmaker’s fault. A single-hulled ship had no business carrying millions of gallons of oil, yet it was done all the time since, the ship owners said, the cost to retire her and build a new doubled-hulled ship outweighed any potential environmental damage that a spill would cause. And the law said that until 2015, ship owners could continue to sail single-hulled ships no matter how many dead fish floated to the surface covered in oil.

➣➣➣

Captain Reed appeared half an hour later, looking flushed from exertion, but otherwise in good spirits, his normal dour countenance having momentarily shed its pinched expression. Anderson took this as a good sign.

“What d’ya find out?”

“Nothing,” Reed said. The briefest of smiles crossed his lips. “There is no damage to this ship.”

“You’re sure?” Anderson watched the man’s face carefully. After all, he didn’t know Reed from Adam, and now Reed held Anderson’s career between his two damn fingers.

Reed nodded. “Engines are all in working order, we’re not dragging anything, and we’re not leaking anything.”

“No sheen on the water? You looked?” Anderson asked. Reed nodded again. “How many times?”

“Three,” Reed replied. “Once at the beginning of my inspection and once at the end. And once in between. The oil is safely in the hold.”

Anderson nodded, uncertain. Whatever Reed may be, it was obvious he was a Captain foremost. He would not take kindly to any untoward incidents on the Ryujin while under his command although Anderson dimly suspected that Reed might be more concerned with the integrity of his ship than that of the Delaware River. Still, Reed’s environmental ethic was not Anderson’s concern right now. He sighed and looked out over the bow and beyond to the horizon hidden by night. Nothing much he could do but take the man’s word for it.

“Alright. Let’s get this baby to bed before she suffers another nightmare,” Anderson said. and bent to the task.

➣➣➣

The full moon was all but eclipsed by the stratus clouds that stretched out, in full battle regalia, across a winter sky. An occasional break in their ranks gave the casual observer the tiniest peek at the moon’s frothy demeanor, but the blaze of light she heretofore sent streaming down river before the Stratus’s moved into the neighborhood was gone, gone, gone. Too bad, too, for the fish, birds, flora, fauna, and various species of plankton that thrived in the river because they were about to get a rude awakening. Thirty feet below sea level, a ten-inch gash ripped through the hull of the Ryujin by an errant boulder had begun to widen, resulting in the unfortunate release of the contents of the ship’s hold into the river. The seemingly small quantity of oil leaking out at any given moment would, hours later, add up to one of the worst environmental disasters ever experienced on the Delaware.

On deck, the crew, Captain and Pilot of the Ryujin were oblivious to the danger. As they headed north, the oil headed south and without the moon to light her stern-side, the crew would not see so much as a flicker of a sheen on the black night waters.

Of course, the Stratus’s did not move into town alone. They brought with them the North Wind and He, coupled with the outbound tide, pushed that pure, Arabian crude down, down, down toward the Bay, catching the whole hundred-mile stretch of that beautiful river unaware.

 to be continued.  . .

to get up to speed with what happened before start here

copyright 2012

Slaughter Beach, Delaware

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PART TWO

The Delaware River, the longest un-dammed and only remaining major free-flowing river east of the Mississippi also lay claim to the largest freshwater port in the world. The river flowed three hundred and thirty miles from Hancock, New York and made a pit stop in the Delaware Bay before spilling out into the Atlantic Ocean. It served as the dividing line between Pennsylvania and New Jersey and serviced twenty million residents of the New York, New Jersey and Philadelphia-area with drinking water. Washington’s famous Christmas Eve ping-ponging across the Delaware began and ended on the banks of the river at Trenton, New Jersey. But the river’s abundance wasn’t limited to battles, boundary lines and the provision of potable water. She was a dichotomy in uses: heavy industry drew on her for its needs as did bald eagles and world class trout fisheries. As evidence of the latter, about one hundred and fifty miles of this magnificent river has been included in the U.S. National Wild and Scenic Rivers System.

In the late 1800’s, approximately one million Philadelphians lived within the boundaries of America’s third largest city which boasted the second largest port in the country located in the Delaware Bay. The U.S. Army Corps of Engineers, the entity charged with assuring the river’s safety, dipped its long, federally-funded fingers into a bevy of construction, flood control, and navigational projects designed to improve, among other things, the river’s navigability. In 1878, before Philadelphia had electricity or the telephone, sixteen hundred foreign trade vessels arrived a year, and six thousand coastal trade vessels docked in the river’s port. Trade vessels gave way to supertankers: today seventy million tons of cargo arrive in the river’s waters each year. From sails, to steam, to the supertankers, the Delaware River and its Bay have lent their banks and waters to the growth of the interstate and international commerce of not only Philadelphia, but the nation.

At its deepest point, the Delaware was only forty feet deep which meant the river couldn’t abide a thousand foot supertanker between her banks. Roughly the size of three and a half football fields and bearing three million gallons of oil or other cargo, a ship of that size would have forty foot drafts, the depth which the boat sits below the water line, and in the Delaware’s case, deep as her most navigable channels. Low tide, which causes the water levels in the tidally influenced channel from the Delaware Bay to Philadelphia to drop as much as eight feet, would leave a thousand foot ship incapacitated, floundering like a beached whale.

The Corps of Engineers began its first deepening project in 1855 when the depth of the Delaware stood at eighteen feet. The Corps dredged down to the current depth of forty feet during World War II and maintained this depth by periodic dredging and removal of silt buildup in the channel to the tune of about 3.4 million cubic yards a year. Since 1983, the Corps has studied the feasibility of dredging the Delaware’s main shipping channel down to forty-five feet to better accommodate the world commodities market by making the hundred and two mile shipping route from the Delaware Bay to Camden, New Jersey more accessible.

To do so, the Corps would need to remove about twenty-six million cubic yards of silt and sediment from the river bottom and continue removing another 862,000 cubic yards every year thereafter. Cost notwithstanding – the Corps estimates original construction costs at $311 million, of which the federal government would pay approximately two-thirds – the Corps needed a place to put all that sand, clay, silt and bedrock. Six federally owned sites have been identified for placement of the initial construction material, some of which will go toward wetland restoration and beach front protection. The Corps believes the project would result in safer, more efficient vessel loading and transit as well as reduced lightering costs. However, environmentalists have concluded that the possible detrimental effects – those to drinking water, aquatic and bird life, and potential contamination from the disposal of dredged material – outweigh the benefits. That story – small town need vs. corporate greed; environmental stewardship vs. environmental recklessness; the rights of the few vs. the rights of society – has been around since the dawn of creation, told and retold a million times in as many different ways and, because of constraints of space and time, is a story best saved for another day.

 Chapter Thirty-Eight

The Ryujin dropped anchor at Big Stone Anchorage at Slaughter Beach, Delaware in the mouth of the Delaware Bay. The “parking lot” in the Bay was crowded this morning with a dozen supertankers waiting to offload their cargo onto barges that would take the goods upriver to Marcus Hook or Philadelphia Harbor or Becket Street Terminal in Camden, New Jersey. Once offloaded, the supertankers were light enough to make the trip upriver themselves. Some had been waiting as much as a week while tugs and taxis cruised back and forth, bringing food and supplies to the waiting supertankers, crisscrossing the Bay like a checkerboard and leaving white caps in their wake. The great ships were parked far enough apart to allow them to spin on their anchors, a necessity when considering the vagaries of the weather. From the air it looked like a mechanical ballet: dozens of ships turning and gliding on their axes, a synchronized dance brought to life by the formidable forces of wind and tide.

The Ryujin traveled from the Arabian Gulf and had been parked in the Delaware Bay for the last week, awaiting the offloading of a million gallons of its crude oil onto a barge which would make it light enough to navigate the Delaware’s forty foot channel upriver to the Akanabi refinery in Marcus Hook. While waiting, the Ryujin took on skid loads of food, supplies and mechanical parts sufficient to tide her over until arrival at the next port. And since the suppliers were not interested in receiving credit for these transactions, the Ryujin carried vast quantities of cash to pay for those stores as well as armed guards to protect it. The ship’s superstructure housed a three-story engine room, a machine shop, steam turbine and diesel engines, a mess hall, living facilities for her Captain and crew, and a single cat who relished the job of keeping the mouse population down. Where the mice came from was anyone’s guess given that the ship had spent the last three weeks at sea.

Beside the Ryujin sat the Sea Witch , an engineless barge about the third of the size of the Ryujin , but with considerably less girth. Motored by The Grape Ape , a seventy-five foot, single-screw, diesel-powered tug boat, The Sea Witch sat, waiting to remove a million gallons of elemental crude oil from the Ryujin and shuttle it up the Delaware River channel for her. Afloat on a tidally influenced body of water, both boats were subject to the fickle, yet predictable, moods of the moon.

Named for the Dragon King of the sea, an important Japanese deity said to have the power to control the ebb and flow of the tides with his large mouth, the Ryujin wasn’t living up to its name today. It seemed that the ocean, the Bay, the moon and the tides were all in cahoots, as the Ryujin spun on its anchor at the wind’s ferocious insistence and the Sea Witch tried to make amends.

The process of lightering was a tricky one. Not only was there the danger of an oil spill during the transfer, but if the tanks were drained one at a time in order, a Captain would have a highly imbalanced keel on his hands, the bow of his ship rising higher into the air as each tank was emptied, a potentially disastrous event for a vessel whose primary need was balance in the water. Therefore, the Captain took great pains to ensure that the oil was skimmed off the top of each of the tanks in a controlled fashion, draining some from one tank, moving on to the next, and back and forth in this manner until the process was completed.

Captain Heston Reed was barking out orders like a man possessed.  After several hours of trying and dripping with the emotional and physical strain of the task, there was nothing he could really do until the barge, the Sea Witch had tied on, an event which, despite tidal fluctuations was imminently close to completion. The fendering bumpers which consisted of a large piping structure encapsulated by dozens and dozens of tires, the gestalt of which worked like a ball bearing in between the two vessels, were lowered into place, the black scrape marks from previous lightering operations still visible on both ships. With the fendering bumpers properly lined up, Captain Reed gave the command and the Sea Witch’s crew tied on to the Ryujin , latching on to the hip of the Ryujin’s stern like a newborn to its mother’s bosom. The giant mooring ropes creaked and groaned as the crew cranked down on the winches pulling them tightly into position. Satisfied that the ships were happily married with no visible gaps in between, Captain Reed signaled the operator of the Sea Witch and gave the go ahead to his own crew. The crew began the arduous process of lowering a dozen twelve-inch round, rigid rubber pipes down some twenty-five feet onto the deck of the Sea Witch . The pipes were attached by cables to small cranes. The cranes swung them into place enabling the deck hands to make the mechanical connection to a screw coupling which was part of a larger manifold system on the deck of the Sea Witch and which fed into the barge’s holding tanks. The deck hands inserted the pipes and, using a special wrench and the sheer torque of their body weight, screwed the couplings fast. The rubber pipes originated from a similar manifold system on the deck of the Ryujin and once Captain Reed and the Sea Witch’s operator were satisfied that all mechanical connections were secured, the transferring, or lightering process could begin. Captain Reed personally checked each of the connections. The individual pipes were hooked to another, larger pipe so the ship and barge operators could control, via computer, which tank would give and which tank would receive the oil.

Captain Reed gave the signal and the Ryujin began offloading its crude, the oil flowing from its holding tanks through the manifold system and into the pipes that would carry it down to the Sea Witch’s manifold system. The rigid rubber pipes lurched forward as the sudden thrust of oil was released. Frank Charlton, the manifold operator, sat in the control house on the barge electronically directing the distribution of oil into the various holding tanks and taking great pains to keep the ship’s balance.

“Alright?” Captain Reed stepped into the computer room to ascertain for himself the integrity of the operation. There’d be hell to pay if someone made an error on his ship. Charlton nodded and turned briefly to acknowledge his superior officer. Captain Reed took a deep breath and the corner of his mouth twitched, but he did not smile.

“Let me know when it’s done then. I’m going to see about the pilot.”

“Yes sir, Captain,” Charlton replied without taking his eyes off the computer screen.

 to be continued. . .

to get up to speed and read what came before, take a giant leap here

copyright 2012

it was a false alarm

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OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-Five

Change was a magical thing. Avery and Kori sat at the kitchen table, folding the notices announcing the public meeting. Avery hoped that between the two of them they could account for the dynamo that was once Ruth Tirabi. He knew it was a long shot, but time would be the judge.

Kori folded a single flyer and stuffed a single envelope. Avery’s system was to fold ten letters and stuff ten envelopes, faster at a rate of two to Kori’s one.

“So, except for some of the stuff that wasn’t blended, I got rid of the rest of it,” Avery said. “Maybe we should invest the money. We could double our profits.”

“Or lose it all. That money provides the cushion we need until my business is more routinely in the black.” She folded neatly with an artist’s eye for perfection which also accounted for her lack of speed. “Let’s not mess with a good thing, huh?”

Avery nodded and stuffed an envelope.

“I’m going to miss the extra money though. It was nice not having to count laundry change,” Kori said.

“We don’t have to miss it. If we could get Gil interested, the TDU would be up and running. We’d never have to worry about money again. And Mr. Cooper said…”

Kori shot him a look of empathy. “I think for you it’s a little more about getting your name on a patent than it is about the money, isn’t it?”

A wry smile crossed Avery’s lips. Kori was right. Avery was desperate for a patent. His father had half a dozen by this age and Gil already had several.

“But the machine itself, Kori. Just imagine what it could do for the environment. It takes millions of years under extreme pressure to create the fossil fuels we now burn as oil. This machine cuts that creation time down to hours. Just think of the greenhouse gasses it eliminates. We could keep what’s left of the ozone layer intact. Not to mention the money we could make if we held the patent on it.”

Kori nodded, but he could tell she was no longer paying attention. Avery decided not to mention Mr. Cooper’s offer just now.

“Hey, Kor?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for helping with this stuff,” he said, indicating the mounds of papers across the table. “Mom would’ve been happy.”

“You mean happy to see me finally take an interest in something other than my own trivial little dramas.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

Kori reached over and gave Avery’s hand a squeeze. “I know. It’s what I meant.”

Gil, Max and Jack burst into the kitchen. Gil shed his coat and sat next to Avery.

“First day changing the oil?” Kori asked Jack. “Geez, Gil could stay cleaner than that.”

“Shut up,” Jack said and kissed her full on the lips, smearing her mouth with oil.

Kori grimaced and headed to the sink to rinse her mouth. Gil made a paper airplane out of one of the flyers.

“Ooooohhh, you said shut up. We’re not allowed to say that in this house.”

“Yeah and who’s going to stop me?” Jack said.

“I will,” Gil said, his tone serious. He drew himself up tall in his seat, thrust out his chest and threw his airplane at Jack.

“You and what army, Gilliam?” Jack asked, reaching over to tousle Gil’s hair. “That’s a stupid rule anyway.” Jack walked to the fridge, pulled out a beer.

“Aaaahh, you said stupid.” Gil looked at Avery for assistance, but before Avery could say anything, Jack continued. “That makes you….” Gil thrust his chin forward as if tossing the word at him, but would not say it.

Jack sat down, twisted the top off his beer and took a swig. “The only stupid things are those rules,” Jack said.

Gil looked wounded. He grabbed his coat and ran out the door, Max on his heels. Avery shot Jack a dirty look and went after Gil.

“What I do?” Jack asked.

Kori, didn’t stop stuffing envelopes to look at him. “You called my mother stupid,” she said, a sad smile on her face.

“I didn’t say a thing about your mother,” Jack said.

“Those were her rules,” Kori said, looking up. “Now who’s stupid?”

➣➣➣

Avery caught up to Gil just as he slammed the barn door and threw the dead bolt, activating the alarm. Avery knocked.

“Gil. Let me in, man.” Avery knocked a bit harder. “Gil!”

“Go away.”

“Why are you taking it out on me? I didn’t say anything.”

“Exactly.”

“Gil, you ran out before I had a chance to.” Gil came around to the window of the barn, peeked out at his brother, then retreated to the inner recesses of the barn. “C’mon, Gil. You love Jack. He just said a silly thing.”

“Robbie would have flattened him.” Avery tried not to laugh. Ever since Robbie left, Avery noticed he’d been growing taller every day in Gil’s eyes. Avery pondered his most beneficial course of action before responding.

“Yeah, well, Robbie was older than I was and knew a lot more than I did.” He paused for emphasis, laying his ear against the door to better hear what was going on inside. “Sorry.” Avery could practically here Gil smiling on the other side of the door, his vindication pouring out through the crack under the door. “You gonna let me in now?”

Avery heard Gil’s soft footsteps approach and then a soft thud. He waited for the sound of Gil messing with the dead bolt, but heard nothing else.

“Gil. I said I was sorry, now open the door.” Avery heard Max’s low wail and ran over to the window. A table blocked Avery’s direct view so he stood on one of the remaining drums: he saw Gil lying on the floor, writhing, the beginnings of an epileptic fit.

“Oh, Jesus,” Avery said. The area around Gil was relatively uncluttered, but his twisting and turning took him in close proximity to table legs and the myriad tools and appliances on top of them, any one of which could end up on his head.

“Damn!” Avery bolted to the door and using his shoulder as a battering ram, ran at it full throttle. He winced. The door was sturdy and dead-bolted from the inside. It didn’t budge. Avery looked around wildly, his hands settling on a log from the nearby woodpile. He smashed the window in, immediately setting off the alarm inside the barn, the house, and, he knew, the police station. A shockwave of sound ran through his body and Avery clapped his hands to his ears. The whole world can probably hear this right now.

Avery pulled his shirt sleeve up and balled the end into his hand. He poked and smashed at the remaining bits of glass still clinging to the panes and cleared an area large enough to crawl through. He dove through feet first, sending a measuring tape, calipers, and a screw driver, clattering to the floor. The last thing he saw as he dropped into the barn was Kori and Jack running out the back door toward him.

He fell to the ground, taking a beaker with him. Shards of broken glass flew everywhere. He swept what was too close to Gil aside with his feet, but that was too slow, so he used his hands, embedding a shard in the flesh at the side. He gritted his teeth and removed a substantial piece of glass before dropping to his knees next to his brother. Blood oozed from his palm.

He mounted Gil and, in moments, had him pinned by both shoulders, his injured hand spraying blood across the collar of Gil’s shirt. Gil moaned and Max licked his face. Gil seemed to sense Max’s presence because he relaxed slightly and lifted his face toward him. Avery loosened his grip, but did not get up. Kori and Jack appeared at the window and when Kori saw the blood, she screamed, a higher-pitched wail than the alarm. Avery’s hair stood up on the back of his neck.

“He’s bleeding!” Kori screamed.

Avery shuddered. “Stop! Stop screaming! It’s my blood!” He yelled over his shoulder. “Somebody’s got to get in here and shut that Goddamn alarm off.”

Jack jumped through the window with the grace of a panther and moments later the alarm went silent. Gil seemed to relax and Avery moved off and sat next to him without letting go of his shoulders. Jack unbolted the door and Kori ran in, dropping to the floor next to Gil.

“Call the police,” Avery said to Kori. “Tell them it was a false alarm.” She rose reluctantly and ran into the kitchen.

“We gotta get a phone out here, man,” Jack said to Avery. Avery nodded, watching his brother. Gil fell into a deep sleep and began to snore.

“This is probably a good time to move him,” Avery said. “Let’s get him inside where it’s warm.”

They carried him in, Jack at his feet and Avery at his head with Max leading the way.

 to be continued. . .

to read what brought us to this point see here

copyright 2012

enough to poison

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OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty-Four

Kori sat at the computer feeding labels to the printer. Gil ran down the stairs, Max fast on his heels. The basement air which filled the room like a cumulous cloud parted, making room for their testosterone-laden, electro-energy. Gil bounded over to Kori and peered over her shoulder.

“Whatcha’ doing?

“Making address labels.”

“It looks like the letters are marrying.”

“What do you know about marriage?”

“Mom and Dad were married.” Kori reached out and grabbed Gil around his waist, pulling him in close for a hug.

“I’m bored.” Gil said.

“Why don’t you guys go outside and play?”

Gil sighed and Max yawned exposing a full and threatening set of teeth.

“Guess not,” Kori said. “I know. Why don’t you invent something.”

Gil looked to Max for approval. Max yawned again and sprawled on the carpet. Gil shook his head at Kori, dismissing the plan. “What else?”

Kori scrunched her nose in contemplation. “Why don’t you go outside and help Jack,” she said, smiling to herself. Gil looked at Max who wagged his tail at the mention of Jack’s name, but made no sign to go.

“Okay,” Gil said, and Kori released him. “C’mon, boy.” Gil snapped his finger at Max and the pair ran up the stairs, disappearing over the horizon of the top stair.

 ➣➣➣

Jack lay on a creeper under Kori’s car, his feet sticking out the side. At least under here, the infernal wind wasn’t so bad. He’d already replaced the rotor cups and pads, and was moving on to an oil change, a simple enough job, but for the below freezing temperatures. He rubbed his hands together to warm them before loosening the nut on the oil pan.

“Hey, Jack. Whatcha’ doin’?

Startled, Jack clunked his head on the oil pan. He rolled out to find Gil, squatting at the front tire. Dressed in a down parka and wearing a hat with little jingly bells hanging from three triangular flaps, Gil looked like an elf. Max sat beside him wearing a pair of reindeer antlers.

“Don’t you know not to sneak up on people like that?” Jack rubbed his head where metal had hit flesh.

“I wasn’t sneaking. Sneaking is when you tiptoe and go shhhhh, shhhhh, shhhhh. ” Gil demonstrated, putting his index finger to his lips.

“Kori told me to come out and help you,” he said, finger still at his lips.

“If Kori wants her car finished this century, you better do something else.”

Jack pursed his lips in irritation and rolled back under the car. Gil squinted after Jack’s dark form, still pleading his case.

“But you said I could try it,” he whined. “You said the next time you worked on the car I could go under with you.”

“In a minute, Gil. Just let me get this — oh, man.” Wheels on macadam followed a sloshing sound and the glug, glug, glug of oil being loosed. Moments later the oil pan clanked to the ground. Jack emerged, sliding past a still squatting Gil.

Gil giggled and covered his mouth.

“Shut up. If you say one word I swear to God…”

Gil handed Jack a rag lying on top of Jack’s tool box. Jack grabbed it out of his hands and began to swab at least a cup of oil out of his viscous, gleaming hair. He laughed despite himself.

“Did you know that a single quart of oil is enough to cause a two-acre sized oil slick on the surface of the water? Do you know how big an acre is? A little more than 43,000 square feet. So that would be 86,000 square feet worth of oil slick.” Jack listened with half an ear while he rubbed, trying to absorb the clingy liquid.

“And as you are currently demonstrating, oil is not easily removed from hair, let alone say cormorant feathers or seal fur. And not only that. It kills the aquatic organisms that the fish live on. You know how? It chokes ‘em. Binds up the oxygen and then they can’t breath.”

“If you’re referring to the oil I just spilled, let me assure you of two things. One – most of the spilled oil is in my hair. The rest is safely in the oil pan. And two – I don’t think there are any cormorants or seals for some miles from here.”

“But it’s not just that. Did you know that a single gallon of oil is enough to poison a million gallons of freshwater? Do you know what a million gallons of freshwater is? It’s a supply big enough for fifty people to drink and bathe and cook with for a whole year.”

Jack grimaced and poked a corner of the rag in his ear, soaking up drips of oil.

“And even though much of the earth is covered with water, only one percent of it’s potable. You know what potable means, right?” Gil said.

Jack nodded and rolled his eyes. The oil in his ear was slick and evasive, covering his skin like it was a second one.

“And even though we only need to drink about two to two and a half quarts of water a day, we each use about a hundred and twenty-five to a hundred and fifty gallons a day for all the other stuff. Very wasteful. About forty percent more than necessary, I think.” Gil stared at him, wide-eyed. “I’d be willing to give up baths to save water, you know.”

Jack rubbed the oil-stained rag roughly over his head and gave up. “What are you, the Encyclopedia Britannica?” He threw the towel to the ground and sighed. “Let’s take a break. Get a drink while we’re waiting for the last of it to drain. So we can be quite certain I’m not further contaminating our precious water supply.”

“Yeah, because fragments of those little spilled oil spots on driveways and roads can also end up in our water supply. When it rains it gets washed into the storm drains, and when it rains really hard, into the combined sewer outfalls which empty into the river. You know what that means, right? Sewer and rainwater together. That’s really gross.”

“Are you done now?”

Gil stood up, extending his hand to Jack. Jack grabbed the proffered appendage and allowed Gil to pull him to his feet. He rubbed his greased stained hands on his pants and together they walked inside.

 to be continued. . .

to read before, make a wish and click here

copyright 2012

no one can know

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OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Thirty

Avery pulled Ruth’s van into Cooper’s gas station. Kori sat in the passenger seat; Gil and Max were in the back reading comic books. Kori slunk down in her seat, pulled her hat low over her brow and bit her nails.

“You guys wait here, okay?” Avery said.

“All right, already. Just hurry up,” Kori snipped.

Avery blew out of the car as if he’d been sand-blasted, rolling down to the pavement and out of sight before Kori had a chance to change her mind. Max’s ears pricked up, but Gil made no move to indicate he was even listening.

 ➣➣➣

Avery crossed the parking lot as if he owned the place, a walk he’d been practicing for weeks in anticipation of this meeting. He could see Mr. Cooper’s bald head through the window, bent in concentration over a stack of papers. When he got to the door, though, Avery wavered, and rather than boldly stepping into his future, he knocked lightly, the little bell over the door tinkling as he entered. Mr. Cooper didn’t look up, but continued reviewing the stack of papers before him, initialing them one at a time as he placed them into the “completed” pile.

“Lazy bastards,” Mr. Cooper said, not quite under his breath.

“Excuse me,” Avery said, half-turning to leave. Not the welcome he expected.

Mr. Cooper’s head, gleaming like a cue ball in the florescent light, popped up to greet him. “Oh for Chrissakes. Avery Tirabi. I thought you were one of my employees in here for another cup of coffee.” He stood and offered his hand, recently washed, but still bearing the grimy remnants of what looked to be a mid-morning oil change. Avery gave him a firm shake and Mr. Cooper’s round belly, stretched over the limit’s of his size forty-two pants, jiggled in greeting.

“Sit down. Have a cup of coffee.” Mr. Cooper motioned toward the “Mr. Coffee,” formerly white plastic, now oil-stained from years of dirty, grease-stained hands. A few stacks of Styrofoam cups and a shaker of sugar sat next to the pot. Avery looked at the whole ensemble and grimaced.

“Oh, no thanks, Mr. Cooper. Don’t drink the stuff,” he lied. When he did drink coffee, Avery needed tons of sugar and milk, the latter of which was no where in sight. Instead there was a liquid plastic known as “non-dairy creamer”on the table. Avery never understand the American penchant for creating fake substitutes when the real thing was so readily available.

“So what’s up? Did you come to sell me some more of that lovely gas and oil?”

Avery brightened. Mr. Cooper was interested before he’d even opened his mouth. “Actually, I did. I’ve got a few fifty-five gallon drums outside.”

Mr. Cooper raised an eyebrow. “How’d you get them in the car? They’re monsters.”

Avery shrugged his shoulders. “I rigged a ramp.” Avery waved a hand in dismissal as if the feat were no big deal. “Car was dragging a bit on the way over though. Hell on the suspension.” Avery felt like an adult, using the word “hell” without coming off like someone who regularly used vulgarity. Mr. Cooper tried to suppress a smile, but Avery caught it. Right where I want him . “So, Mr. Cooper, you said before you’d take all the gas and oil I could deliver. Are you still thinking that way?”

“Absolutely. Finest product I’ve come across in all my thirty years of running a service station. Your father made a fine product.” A shadow crept across Mr. Cooper’s face. “Tragedy,” he said, shaking his head. “Terrible tragedy.”

Mr. Cooper shot Avery a half-smile, half-grimace, walked over and clapped him on the back. “What are we waiting for, my boy. Let’s go unload. Same price as before, I presume?”

“Actually, Mr. Cooper, I need to raise the price about 10%,” Avery said. “Overhead.”

Mr. Cooper assessed Avery for a few moments. “Anything I can do to help old Marty. Cold as he may be personally, his legacy lives on.” He squeezed Avery’s shoulder. “Your father’d be proud of you boy. Well. Why am I saying, boy? You’re not a boy. You’re a man. And a heck of a fine one, too, I might add.” Mr. Cooper opened the door and held it for Avery who was still seated.

“Mr. Cooper. There’s one more thing.”

Mr. Cooper closed the door and stood, hand on the doorknob.

“No one can know where you got this stuff.”

Mr. Cooper raised himself to his full height of five feet, nine inches and sidled up close to Avery, whispering. “What’s happened? Something else?”

Avery shook his head. “No. It’s just my sister’s still freaked out about the porch. She thinks it’s all tied together. So if anybody comes around….”

“I’ll just tell them that I’ve started buying from a competitor who wishes to remain anonymous.”

“You think that’ll do it?”

Mr. Cooper rubbed the stubble of his unshaven face, deep in thought. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll handle them. Haven’t been in business for thirty years without some savvy of my own, eh?”

“Thanks, Mr. Cooper.” Avery stood and they shook hands.

“Okay, let’s walk. We’ll talk turkey on the way.”

Avery stepped into the garage, abuzz with the whir of motors and power tools, and thought of Robbie’s penchant for mechanics. He should be home running a place like this. Maybe if I sold enough oil….

They walked out into the parking lot where the noise level dropped substantially. Mr. Cooper’s step was quick and light for a man with so much girth, and Avery had to walk fast to keep up with him.

“So how much more of this you got, and more importantly, can you make some more?” Avery was about to answer, but Mr. Cooper continued. “Frankly, I’d be happy to tell all these oil guys to go to hell. They’ve been gouging me for years. Government’s no help. Let’s ‘em get away with murdering, thieving and stealing from the American public. They say they’re a unified front to help with the foreign competition, but I call it price-fixing.” He poked Avery in the ribs. “You know what I predict? I predict it’ll come back to bite ‘em in the ass someday. I just hope I’m around to see it.” He chuckled, then laughed full out, exposing a mouthful of metal. Now standing at the back of Ruth’s minivan, Mr. Cooper lifted the hatch without waiting for a signal from Avery.

Mad Max greeted him exactly like Cerberus would have had someone tried to breach the gates of hell, green eyes ablaze and barking for all he was worth. His singular head moved so fast that he very well could have had three. Mr. Cooper jumped back a quarter mile.

“Gil! Get him under control!” Avery shouted.

Gil’s eyes peered out, an iridescent green gleaming between the barrels. He grabbed Max by the collar and pulled him down to the sit. “It’s okay, boy,” he said sweetly, rubbing Max’s ears. Max settled his head onto Gil’s lap, calmer, but still growling. The sound rolled around in his massive jowls before ricocheting off the front seat and out to Mr. Cooper who stood immobile and at a safe distance away.

“It’s all right. Gil’s got him.”

“I hate dogs,” Mr. Cooper said. “Scared to death of ‘em.”

Max barked once as if to say you should be , but Gil tugged at his collar and he relaxed again.

Mr. Cooper signaled for one of his employees to bring the hand cart. Gil gave Max an ear rub so thorough that he could do little more than roll over when Mr. Cooper’s guys unloaded the van.

 to be continued. . .

jump here to read what came before. . .

copyright 2012

letting go at last

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OIL IN WATER

Pam Lazos

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Kori rummaged through her purse, searching for spare change. Frustrated, she dumped the contents onto the bed. She picked two crumpled dollar bills and a few coins from the debris, turned to her night stand drawer and found four more coins inside.

She ran down to the basement and threw open the swinging doors to the little room where the washer and dryer sat. Perched above the machinery were two rows of six-foot long shelves which, in another incarnation, served as bleacher seats for the local high school football stadium. Marty had rescued them from the trash heap when the township had built a bigger stadium, whitewashed them and bolted them to the wall. Instead of pubescent derrieres, they now housed laundry detergents, dryer sheets and stain removing products, used sparingly since Ruth’s death.

Stepping over the mound of dirty clothes, Kori pulled a small box from the shelf, about the size of two decks of cards, and rifled through its contents. Three dozen coins, several buttons, a Sharpie magic marker, and a single ear plug – Kori had tossed the mate, mangled and melted beyond recognition — had survived the dryer, hapless travelers in an unplanned foray through the cotton cycle. She dumped the contents of the box into her hand and weeded out everything but the coins. She counted the money: $5.76. That plus the money she got from ravaging the rest of the house and she had about $13. Enough to buy a gallon of milk, some bread, peanut butter and jelly for Gil, a pack of hot dogs and buns, a head of lettuce, a few other miscellaneous items.

But what about tomorrow? They were out of fresh fruits and vegetables, the only thing left was canned goods: tuna, beans, corn and the like. She could live on the cans for a couple days, maybe even three or four, but after awhile the pallor of her skin indicated her body’s disapproval. She clenched her teeth and threw the money to the floor, scattering change to the four directions. Filled with regret, she slumped down after it, falling in a dejected heap on the floor. She sobbed for several minutes, the crescendo a high-pitched wail, and then, silence. She rolled over and lay on the floor, her breathing shallow, her eyes dazed and unseeing.

After several minutes she walked to her work area, flipped on the computer. Beyond the screen, the French doors of the walkout basement beckoned her eyes to the east, that place of peace and spiritual renewal, of new beginnings. Kori breathed in the pastoral setting, allowing the spiritual rejuvenation it afforded to settle in her bones. She took a deep breath and pulled up some client billing information.

The bill was sent two days ago. Her hand hovered above the keyboard a moment and then she began. She added a few hours to the labor, a few dollars to supplies, tweaking it here and there, enough to increase it by almost $200. Then she composed a letter of explanation.

Dear Sir or Madame,

It has come to our attention that the bill you received on 11/14 was in error. Enclosed please find a more accurate accounting of work performed on your behalf. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Also, the billing cycle has been shortened. Please remit payment to the undersigned within the twenty (20) days of the date of this letter. Please be advised that failure to pay in a timely fashion will result in incurring late charges which will begin to accrue immediately at the close of the grace period. Prompt payment is therefore, requested.

Thank you for your attention to this matter.

Very truly yours,

“Whatcha’ doing?”

Kori jumped so high she banged her thighs on the bottom of the computer table and sent the mouse flying. She turned to glare at the interloper.

“Geez, Gil. Don’t sneak up on a person like that.”

“I didn’t sneak. I walked right down the stairs. It’s not my fault if you didn’t hear me.” Gil peered over Kori’s shoulder to read what was on the computer screen. Embarrassed, Kori closed the screen before Gil had the chance to figure out what she was up to. In an attempt to change the subject, Kori focused on Gil’s attire: pants that were two inches up from the ground and shirt sleeves that didn’t come anywhere near his wrists.

“Gil, what the heck are you wearing?”

“Clothes.”

“Very funny. I meant, why are you wearing clothes that are too small for you?”

“Because I can’t find anything else.” Kori glanced over toward the alcove that housed the washer and dryer. Even from here she could see several mounds of clothes behind the swinging doors threatening to overtake the little room. Kori sighed.

“You mean you only have a week’s worth of clothes?”

“Of clothes that fit.” Gil looked out the window transfixed.

“Kori. If you keep working on the computer, can we buy that farm?” Gil asked, looking out at the broad expanse of now slumbering fields.

“The farm?” Kori shook her head and laughed. “Well, if you want to buy the farm I suggest you get busy and invent something big because that farm’s gonna cost a lot more than I’ve got in the bank.

“I’m hungry,” Gil said. “And there’s no bread. Also almost no peanut butter.”

“All right,” she said, shutting the computer. “Help me pick up the money that’s all over the floor. Then we’ll go to the grocery store.”

 ➣➣➣

Kori stood at the kitchen table unpacking the groceries: white bread, generic peanut butter and laundry detergent and a three-pack of soap, a gallon of milk. Avery walked in the door, bundled against the wind, backpack flung over his shoulder. He dropped his pack on the table, shed his hat and coat and flopped down in a chair. His cheeks looked red and chapped.

“How was school?” Kori asked.

“Fine.” He sighed without looking and absent-mindedly poked at the loaf of bread. “I need $75 to go on the field trip to D.C. To the Holocaust Museum.” Kori removed the bread from his grasp before he did further damage. “If I don’t go, I’ll have to spend the day hanging out with the kids in detention. Not that I’d be in detention, per se. It’s just that there wouldn’t be any other place to put me.” He did look at her now and Kori saw him so close to tears that her own heart threatened an emphatic split in two.

“Okay.”

“Okay, what?”

She sat down beside Avery and took a deep breath. “Go ahead and sell it.”

Avery’s eyes grew wide.

“I can’t stand this hand-to-mouth living anymore. And I can’t for the life of me figure out what else to do.”

Avery smiled, and Kori noted his eyes had taken on a translucent quality facilitated, she figured, by the wateriness in her own.

“It’ll be okay, Kori,” Avery said. “I promise.”

 to be continued. . .

to read what came before leap here

copyright 2012

salmon with lime and wasabi

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Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Twenty-Two

Street lights struggled against a foggy, moonless night, their beams of light crashing to a halt against the first heavy water particles they met. Only intermittent porch lights remained aglow; the occupants of the homes on Willow Street were asleep for the night. A car crept down the road, pulled into the Tirabi driveway and killed the lights and the engine.

Upstairs, Gil flicked on the small light next to his bed, his own invention, a forearm and claw. The light emanated from the palm of the claw and down toward the base which held it in place. Kori had helped him with the design.

Gil held his breath to better hear the outside world. He threw the covers back and walked on silent feet to the window. Despite the chilly November air, Gil slept with the window cracked. He drew back the curtain a hair’s breath, allowing only enough space for one eye to peer down to the car parked in the driveway. A Pacifica, Gil thought, but his one eye couldn’t confirm it.

Muffled sounds emanated from the car and Gil could see the windows starting to fog a little bit. The door opened a smidgen and then swung wide. Gil drew a sharp intake of breath and pulled back from the curtain. He stood in silent contemplation, eyes rolling back and forth as if trying to deduce further information. After several seconds, he bolted out the bedroom door and ran down the corridor, taking the steps two at a time. He grasped the door knob with both hands and yanked the door open where it banged against the wall, sending a shiver through the spine of the house.

“What the heck are you doing?” a disembodied voice asked as it rounded the corner and came up the front steps. Gil let out a short whelp and jumped full on at the approaching figure, wrapping his arms around its neck and squeezing for all he was worth.

Robbie dropped his bags just in time to catch his brother, but not in time to get his balance. The pair went clattering to the ground in a confused tangle of limbs, their fall broken only by the bags at Robbie’s feet. “Gil,” he grunted, more of a guttural sound than a word. Gil released his death grip and Robbie wheezed, regaining his breath. He raised himself on one elbow and Gil did the same as if lying on duffel bags on the front stoop in the middle of the night was a normal thing.

“I knew you were coming back tonight,” Gil said. “Kori said not until tomorrow, but I knew it would be today.”

“Well, technically Kori’s right since it’s after midnight, but we’re not going to tell her that, right?” Robbie asked. Gil nodded and lunged for his brother again, toppling him back and onto the ground.

“It’s been three months and twenty-seven days,” Gil said into Robbie’s neck.  Robbie rubbed Gil’s back in a circular motion.

“I missed you, too, buddy,” Robbie said. “What do you say we get out of this fog.  It’s creepin’ me out a little.” Gil helped Robbie to his feet and grabbed his duffle bag, grunting with the strain of it. Robbie smiled watching him crash and bang his way into the foyer. A light crept out from under Kori’s door and spilled down the stairs.

“Hawk at twelve o’clock,” Robbie said and Gil looked up the stairs to see Kori’s slippered feet standing at the top.

Kori’s voice spilled down the steps: “Gil. It’s the middle of the night.”

Robbie’s voice was hoarse from lack of sleep. “He did the hospitable thing and came to greet me.”

“Robbie!” Kori ran down the stairs and jumped into Robbie’s arms, knocking him down for the second time in the last five minutes. He lay sprawled out on the floor with Kori straddled on top of him. She blushed, mumbled an apology and pulled him to his feet. She held his grip and stared at him intently for a moment, a specimen under a microscope. He folded her into his arms and in a heartbeat she returned the mantle of responsibility to her younger brother.

“That bad, huh?” She shook her head and stifled the urge to cry. He squeezed tighter.  “Hey, how about a drink?”

“Yeah, hot chocolate!” Gil yelled. A moment later the hall light clicked on and a crusty-eyed Avery stumbled out of his room and into the hallway.

“Gil?” he called downstairs. “Are you alright?”

“He is now,” Robbie called back.

“Robbie!” Avery said, taking the stairs two at a time.

“When did you get home? I mean…that’s a stupid question. Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?”

“The element of surprise, my brother.” Robbie and his lopsided grin were home. “C’mon. I’m starving. What’ve you got to eat in this place.

“A little salmon with lime and Wasabi sauce,” Avery said. “My own creation.” Robbie crinkled his nose.

“A little spanikopita from Aunt Stella,” Avery said. “And some baklava for dessert.”

Robbie’s eyebrows shot up in appreciation. “God, It’s good to be home.” He wrapped his arm around Gil’s shoulder and they headed for their midnight raid on the refrigerator.

copyright 2012

to be continued. . .

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lost in the details

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Oil in Water

Pam Lazos

Chapter Twenty-One

Things happened fast after Sonia died. Hart had slept all night on top of his wife’s cold, dead body, holding the hand of the child he would never meet in life. Weaving in and out of consciousness, he recalled only fragments, dreams indistinguishable from reality. He landed in a dark, terrible place, blacker than the bottom of any ocean, a place that even the full light of day would be hard-pressed to illuminate. And there he saw Sonia and it terrified him, because she was dead, because an ocean of space and time now rippled between them.

But like most missives from the unconscious, unless you pull them to wakefulness, they languish in fallow ground, the seeds unplanted. If the key to Sonia’s death lay in Hart’s dreams, he’d be damned if he could piece together their meanings, and when the cold shock of morning came and the dream proved reality, Hart looked up to see the ashen face of his father-in-law standing above him while Hart lay prostrate, still strewn across two dead bodies.

For a moment he thought he might be accused. “I don’t know what happened.”

“It’s alright,” Bicky said, his voice surprising Hart with its tenderness. He pulled Hart to his feet, handed him a glass of water and a glass of scotch and sat him on the couch with both glasses and a tenuous hold on reality. Then Bicky attended to the details of clean up.

Hart was in an acute state of shock and asked precious few questions himself. By the time Bicky’s personal physician had administered Hart a healthy injection of morphine, “for the shock,” Hart was so confounded by pain and medication that he hadn’t the presence of mind to ask what in God’s name Bicky was doing there. He passed out just as the men in black from the funeral home carried the shroud-wrapped bodies from the house on a stretcher.

The physician’s face ebbed and flowed like the tide before Hart’s eyes. Hart wasn’t sure how long he lay between the worlds. Maybe hours, maybe days. He awoke from the sleep of the dead, ravenously hungry and with a headache that wouldn’t quit. Bicky’s physician offered him Valium, but Hart refused, choosing a blinding headache over just being blind. After a shower and a bit of lunch — apparently he’d been out for days and having eaten no food in that time, his stomach had shrunk – a car appeared driven by Bicky’s chauffeur, Manuel. The last thing Hart clearly remembered was Manuel driving him home that night.

“I’m sorry for you, Mr. Hart,” Manuel said into the rearview mirror, turning away before their eyes met. With over thirty years in, Manuel qualified for the list of people who spent most of their lifetime working for Bicky Coleman. Hart nodded, accepting the genuine grief Manuel offered, and turned to look out the window as his own tears gathered.

➣➣➣

Kitty insisted the wake be held at the Coleman estate in the rich suburbs of Houston. Overcome with grief, she lost herself in the details. It was a major undertaking, a wake of massive proportions, with over five hundred guests in attendance. Sonia was very active in the philanthropic community, a member of the Jr. League, and on several local boards, and everyone that worked for Bicky knew and loved Sonia in her own right. It seemed that all of Houston had turned out for her funeral and for that of the poor, unfortunate child.

As the day wound down, Hart sought refuge in Bicky’s study. Exhausted from a day of laughing, crying, and occasionally throwing up, he sat, hands clasped, staring at his feet. A fire had been lit against the fall chill and Hart breathed the subtle whiffs of wood smoke into his lungs. A murmured conversation was taking place in the hallway. He ignored the chatter at first, but something about the strangled urgency of the words made him perk up and listen as, through the doorway, the parties came into view. Bicky had Jerry Dixon by the lapel of his expertly tailored suit, the two men locked in a battle of wills, their voices low to maintain secrecy.

“You haven’t done a damn thing to figure this all out, have you?” Bicky asked. “I should have fired you a long time ago.”

“I should have quit a long time ago.” Jerry looked murderous. He grabbed Bicky’s wrist, forcing him to release the vice-grip he held on Jerry’s collar, and tossed the unwanted appendage aside like it were a slug.

Hart shifted and his chair creaked, calling their attention. Bicky noted Hart’s figure, silhouetted before the fire, and motioned to Jerry to leave.

He entered the room without saying a word, flopped into his overstuffed armchair and stared into the flame as if he were the only person on earth. After several minutes, he turned to Hart, eyes wet with tears. Hart narrowed his eyes at his father-in-law. He hadn’t formed words, or even the idea yet, but something in David’s heart knew. Bicky Coleman, practiced in the art of delusion, of bending people to his will, was hiding something. Hart involuntarily braced himself for Bicky’s onslaught which in his current state he knew he couldn’t defend. Bicky made a show of drying his eyes before speaking.

“I want you to go down to the Gulf of Mexico. There’s a rig that’s been waiting for repairs for a while now.”

Hart took a deep breath. Whatever he thought Bicky was going to say, it had nothing to do with work. He searched Bicky’s face, trying to divine his true motives, but as always, it was a blank sheet of paper.

“You’re telling me about work now?”

“Work’s the best thing for you right now,” Bicky said. He cleared his throat. “EPA inspected the rig while you were out.” There was a wryness in Bicky’s voice that made it sound as if Hart had been on vacation as opposed to mostly unconscious. “They say we’ve got some uncontrolled leakage. And we need a better SPCC Plan.”

Hart stared at the tongue in groove floor. Sonia had wanted him to lay a new one in their dining room – him, not a contractor, because of his skill with wood and intricate designs. A hexagon pattern. That’s what she’d wanted.

Hart looked up to find Bicky staring at him. “Spill Pollution Control and Countermeasures Plan,” he said, as if trying it remind himself. “It’s mandatory for anyone dealing with oil. And water.” He rubbed his hands together as if for warmth. “I’m just not sure that I’m going to go back. What with this…” he choked back the emotion and fell silent.

Bicky grunted. “Why? Because Sonia wanted you to quit?” He waved a hand in the air as if to sweep all of life’s little details away and wiped his eyes with the other. “Well, that hardly matters now.” He stood and walked over to the desk where a decanter and four glasses sat. Hart noted with satisfaction, Bicky’s hunched shoulders and slow, careful gate, a sure sign that his father-in-law was exhausted. The vivacious Bicky Coleman seemed to have aged overnight to reveal a chink in the armor of his unflappable demeanor. Bicky poured two glasses, measuring a couple jiggers in each, and tossed in some ice. The fire reflected off the dark amber liquid splashing and winking in the glass as Bicky crossed the room and handed a glass to Hart. “You have nothing left to you, my boy, but work. Join the club.” Bicky drained his glass and stood staring at his son-in-law.

“If you want to take some time off, you have plenty coming to you,” Bicky said.

Hart raised his glass to his lips and sniffed. He downed the whiskey in two gulps and handed it to Bicky. He swallowed the lump in his throat and swiped at his eyes.

Bicky poured two more glasses.

“The last time we talked about it I told her that by this time next year I’d be done with oil. I told her I needed to work it out with you, though. Didn’t want to leave you high and dry.”       Hart gripped the sides of the armchair as if at any minute it might take off. Bicky returned with another round, handed it to him, and sat down. The men sipped their drinks silently for several minutes.

“Now it really doesn’t really matter what I do. I just know I can’t stay in that house.” Hart hunched over his glass and stared at the fire.

“She sat right there, you know. The night she died. She came over for dinner. It was the best time we’d had in years.” Bicky rubbed his forehead and eyebrows; his drooping shoulders revealing his anguish, his tight, pinched face. A small moan emanated from his throat and he looked around as if startled by the noise.

“We didn’t get along that well, I know. But she was my daughter.” Bicky’s face was half in shadow, half illuminated by dancing fire light. Any doubts that Hart had as to Bicky’s true feelings were dispelled the instant he looked into Bicky’s eyes and saw the profundity of his sorrow.

Having shot his emotional wad over the course of the last few days, Hart’s initial impulse was to leave, but unseen forces had him rooted to the chair. He drained his glass, the alcohol working its magic on him, and stared at his shoes.

“Why don’t you stay here tonight?” Bicky asked. He grabbed the decanter and refilled both their glasses. Hart swished the whiskey around in his glass before draining it. He let his head loll against the high-backed leather chair, closed his eyes and waited for oblivion to find him.

 copyright 2012

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, click here

fire and icicles

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copyright 2012

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.

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a vital woman

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copyright 2011/all rights reserved



OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (b)

   Kitty’s mother didn’t know a spoon from a spatula and as a result, passed on nothing that could pass for culinary art to her daughter.  Kitty’s parents had a brutal and unforgiving marriage hidden behind congenial outward social appearances so Kitty believed her mother when she told her that in order to get and keep a man, Kitty needed to learn how to feed a man, her mother’s own marriage as evidence of not feeding a man.  She long ago declared the kitchen off limits to the myriad servants that kept the Coleman household running.  After years of study with some of the best chefs in the world, Kitty had become a first-rate chef herself, although apparently it had no measurable effect on the quality of her marriage.  Still, even Bicky couldn’t deny that Kitty had perfected her art.  Tonight the table was adorned by stuffed pheasant, prawns sauteed in avocado oil and cajun seasonings, baby potatoes baked in olive oil, lemon and oregano, snap peas, lightly steamed, and a lovely arugula and mixed greens salad.

Kitty was palpably relieved to have Sonia’s company at the dinner table and wondered, as she bit into a prawn, whether her daughter had fared any better in the marriage department.  Sonia and Hart seemed to have a good marriage, but many who knew Kitty and Bicky would swear the same was true of them, since in public they demonstrated what appeared to be love for each other.  Kitty was a vital woman, full of youthful efflorescence, not the sort that would be predisposed to abstinence, yet all the years without the companionship of her husband had taken their toll on her.  She felt herself drying up on the inside, like ripe fruit left for days in the sun.  Being distinctly southern with all its foibles and genteel sensibilities, sex was something Kitty could not bring herself to talk about, not even with her intimates, which included Sonia.  She was sure Bicky blamed the end of their sex life on Kitty’s inability to forgive one unfortunate incident, but Kitty had seen worse growing up, and that wouldn’t have kept her from Bicky’s bed forever.  Rather it was the lack of intimacy, or any kind of emotional connection with her husband that pushed her away.  Bicky had shoved his emotions so far down, they lived in his feet.  The man would not recognize love if it threw up on him.

These days, the Coleman’s maintained separate bedrooms in opposite wings of the mansion.  The move occurred sometime after Sonia shipped off to Columbia and Kitty discovered that Bicky had kept mistresses for the last twenty years, usually for periods of six to eighteen months, like a prison term for a misdemeanor.  Sensing her own interests would be served by the revelation, Kitty made her knowledge public, the public constituting Bicky and Sonia.  She chose her words carefully paying particular attention to present tense syntax so neither one was ever really sure just how much Kitty knew and for how long she knew it.

To Bicky she simply said, “I know what you’re up to.  And I’m leaving.  Don’t try to stop me.”   Bicky said nothing as usual, but waited on Kitty’s next move.  Luckily, it was only across the foyer and down the hall.

Kitty knew that Bicky loved her to the extent he was capable.  She also knew that had she even once confronted him, raised her voice, thrown a Chinese vase, shown some territorial frenzy over his nocturnal meanderings, Bicky would have ended his affairs.  But recalling her mother’s misery, Kitty decided the best course of action was to remain complacent and aloof and so she allowed Bicky’s transgressions knowing it was her indifference more than anything that branded Bicky’s psyche and bound him to her.  Kitty also knew that Bicky had come to interpret her attitude as one of intense loathing disguised by good southern breeding, and on that point, he wasn’t too far off the mark.

&&&

   Dinner was delightful and Sonia couldn’t remember a time when Bicky was so charming.  He told jokes that left both Sonia and her mother clutching their sides in laughter.  For a moment, they were a family and Sonia felt an affinity for her father which left her feeling both sated and bereft.  After dinner, Bicky sat by the fire sipping cognac while Sonia stretched on the couch, her grandmother’s handmade quilt, a swirling vortex of color pulled over her legs as a nascent, tentative bond was forming with her father.

“Tell me something about when you were young,” Sonia said.

A handsome man in any light, the glow of the fire gave Bicky a swarthy, Roman look.  Somber, he sipped the amber liquid and gazed at the crackling fire.

“I had two shirts, two pairs of pants, three pairs of socks and a pair of shoes.  My mother was constantly mending things just to keep our wardrobe together.  When your grandfather struck oil, we celebrated by buying a new outfit.”

“Well, eventually he bought you more clothes.”

“Oh yeah, but that wasn’t until later.  After Mason died and it was just me and him, he realized that life really wasn’t waiting for anybody.”  Bicky’s voice cracked.  Sonia studied him, intrigued by the uncharacteristic show of emotion.

“He was a tight-assed bastard, your grandfather.  Never spent a dime.  Not on us, anyway. Why do you think you have so much money?”  He swirled the cognac around the tumbler.

“I don’t remember him that way,” Sonia said.

Bicky grunted and grew silent.  The grandfather clock chimed ten times.  Sonia yawned, stood and folded the quilt.  “Thanks for a great night, Dad.”  She smiled at her father, but Bicky said nothing.  “I’m going to say goodbye to Mom,” she said, and left the room.

&&&

   Bicky walked Sonia out to her car while Kitty stood in the archway.  Sonia blew her mother a kiss and Kitty disappeared inside.

Bicky leaned in and pecked her on the cheek, flashing his perfect teeth, a smile few could resist.  He patted her arm and rested it there.  “Don’t forget to bring me the report tomorrow.”

“Ah, the report.  I hadn’t planned on coming to town tomorrow.  How about I mail it?”

“No!”  Bicky’s voice was gruff and agitated.  “You’re putting yourself at risk.”

“Dad, I’m not even going to be home.”

“Let me tell you, if word gets out that you have a copy of that report….”

“Is it me or you that would be in trouble?” she asked, finishing his sentence.

Bicky put his hands on the car door and straightened up.  “You probably didn’t read it so you don’t understand how damaging it is.”

“I read it.  And I understand.  That report gets out and it could mark the beginning of World War III.  That’s why you sent David to the Middle East.  You want your best people surveying the world’s largest remaining oil reservoirs.”

Bicky’s face turned the color of blanched almonds; he squeezed the door frame.  “Sonia…do not get messed up in this.”

“I’m already messed up in it.”

Bicky looked back at the house where Kitty had turned on the lights in her suite.  His eyes wandered to his side of the house, dark and uninviting.  “And he’ll be back before the sun comes up,” he said.  “So let it go.”

“I would if you’d let him stay more than ten minutes before sending him off again,” she said.  “Are you that desperate to have him secure your interests?”

“There are terrible people in this world, Sonia, and they do terrible things.  Be happy your grandfather’s money keeps you from having to deal with them on a daily basis.”

“If you don’t want me messed up with them, why would you allow David to be?”

“Hart’s a man.  And a damn good engineer.”  Bicky met Sonia’s gaze at eye level.  “Do you know what will happen when people realize we only have twenty or thirty years of oil reserves left?  I mean, when they really stop to think about it?  Pandemonium.”

“Well if it’s so precious, just charge more money and people will drive less.”

“If we charged per barrel what oil was really worth, the average consumer couldn’t afford a trip to the grocery store.  Our whole economy is premised on the consumption of cheap fossil fuel, Sonia.  Every aspect.  It’s not just about driving your car to the movies.”  He paused to let his words sink in.  “Most of our products are trucked across the country.  Milk and butter are cheap because oil is cheap.  But higher food prices are only the beginning.  The majority of our products are made from plastic, not steel, and you need oil to make it.  It’s not just about baggies and milk jugs.  It’s about camera bodies and television sets and lawn furniture and car parts.  It’s actually a waste to burn oil as gas.  It’s too valuable.  Liquid gold.”

“Don’t you think you’re getting a little carried away?” she asked.

“I’m serious.”  The lawn sprinkler hissed to life and Sonia jumped.

“I’m not trying to scare you, dear,” he said.  “I’m trying to enlighten you.”  He looked from her to Kitty’s window and said, half to himself:  “So much like your mother.”  His eyes softened and Sonia thought she detected a trace of fear in his unshakable demeanor.

“If you wanted to avoid it, and by you I mean the energy industry, you could.  You’d be pouring money into R&D, developing a cheap way to access solar power, or hydroelectric power, or any of the myriad powers that show promise.  But you don’t.  Why?  Because you can’t make enough money.  Once the technology’s there you can’t harness it for yourself and, God forbid, you don’t want people to be self-sufficient.  Then they wouldn’t need you.”

Bicky raised the corner of his mouth in a mocking smile.  “Touche, my dear,” he said.  “Still that doesn’t make your knowledge any less dangerous.  And if not the danger, think of the resulting plight of all those poor out-of-work oil company employees.”

to be continued. . .

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