surreal light

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sonia sighed and left in search of an audience.

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

Bicky motioned with his head toward the wet bar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what,” he hissed.

“No… I don’t,” she said coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

the idealist, revisited

Posted on August 22, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FIVE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Ow.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“There is nobody else.”

“David…”

“Sonia. No more.”

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

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

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

“It’s not all you do.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“David, what if…”

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

falling fast: in suspended animation

Posted on August 14, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FOUR (a)

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

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

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

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

“Anything else burning?” Kori asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stella sniffed the air: “I smell smoke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why doesn’t Kori call,” Avery said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I give it two stars.” Gil said.

“Give what two stars?” Kori asked.

“The explosion.”

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

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

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

“I know,” Gil said.

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

“They were looking for the drawings.”

“What drawings?”

“Dad’s waste-to-oil machine.”

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

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

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

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

“How much?” Robbie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me,” Gil said.

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

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

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

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

“Where’s he going?” Kori asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming with you,” Avery said.

“Me, too,” Gil said.

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

“No. I have to go by myself.”

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

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

“Kori can do that.”

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Aunt Stella.” Robbie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

fading away

Posted on July 28, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER THREE (a)

The fund raiser for Governor Jackson Randall was in full swing. White-gloved butlers circled the Philadelphia Visitor’s Center with delicacy-laden trays. Champagne flowed. Marty exchanged his empty glass for a full one and Ruth, declining her own, took a sip of Marty’s. The orchestra began a swing tune.

“Wanna dance?” Marty asked.

“Don’t change the subject.”

“I’m not.” Marty rolled his champagne around on his tongue and puckered.

“You know I have terrible night vision,” Ruth said.

“Duly noted. I will be clean and sober by the stroke of midnight. Now, please. Dance with me.”

Ruth basked in Marty’s adoring eyes. Resplendent in her slightly risque gown, the vigor of her convictions adding a blush to her cheeks, she looked to be a woman ten years younger. If Ruth Eugenia Tirabi missed the earlier version of herself, she never showed it. A brilliant strategist and a great campaign manager, she was courted by many a politician, even those whose social agenda ran far afield from her own. Had she been a man, she could have been governor. But soon after marriage, she got pregnant with Kori and four children and twenty-four years later, was still working politics into the peripheries. She was in no rush. Statistically speaking, Ruth had a fifteen to twenty-year greater life expectancy than her male counterparts; she could jump start her career at any time.

Ruth kissed Marty on the lips, slipping him a bit of tongue. It wasn’t lost on him.

“Let’s blow this clam bake,” Marty whispered. “I got somethin’ to show ya’.” He dipped her, and rolled his eyebrows up and down, a lewd gesture. Ruth laughed out loud as he set her upright.

“A little while longer. C’mon. Let’s dance.” Ruth grabbed Marty’s arm. Marty set his champagne down and twirled Ruth onto the dance floor, sidling up next to the Governor and his wife. Mrs. Randall laughed as if her husband had just said something supremely funny.

“Enjoying yourself, Mrs. Randall?” asked Marty.

“Immensely, Mr. Tirabi.” She looked at Ruth. “I can’t thank you enough.” Mrs. Randall whirled around so the women could dance shoulder to shoulder. “You gave him back his idealism.”

“Hey, Ruth. Sure I can’t convince you to hit the campaign trail with us tomorrow?”

“Thanks, Governor. But I must respectfully decline.” Ruth said.

“Well, aren’t you going to give me a pep talk or something?” the Governor asked.

“Give the people more than they ask for.”

Governor Randall gave Ruth a peck on the cheek. “Thank you. For everything.”

“I’m just a phone call away if you need me,” she said. Ruth squeezed the Governor’s arm, then looked at the watch on her gloved wrist.

“We gotta go. Not only am I dying to get these gloves off, but we need to get home and make sure the kids haven’t blown up the place,” said Ruth.

“Sometimes I close my eyes going down our street,” Mrs. Randall said. “Our 16-year old loves to host some wild parties.”

“Good luck, Governor,” Marty said and escorted Ruth off the dance floor. Ruth blew the Governor and his wife a kiss before fading away.

to be continued. . .

fire in the night

Posted on July 21, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER TWO (c)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mmmmmm, cookies,” Gil mused.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Avery swiped at his eyes and followed Aunt Stella inside.

to be continued. . .

dark shadows

Posted on July 17, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER TWO (b)

In exchange for driving privileges, Robbie had completely rebuilt Kori’s engine, supplying it with more torque than a freight train. The second child, Robbie was stocky and athletic and possessed of neither Kori’s prima donna attitude nor Avery’s command of the English language. Born with dyslexia, he struggled to spell sometimes, yet he was mechanically inclined and could build anything from scratch. That coupled with a keen imagination earned him the monikor, “Mr. Fix-It.”

Kori stuck the key in the ignition and the car roared to life, radio blaring. Gil covered his ears and screamed. Kori jumped and turned to see ZiZi licking Gil’s face where he lay huddled on the floor, his hands tightly clasped to his ears, his vocal cords exploding in wave after wave of high-pitched wailing.

“Gil. Easy. Gil!” Kori turned off the radio, but the engine still wailed like a colicky baby. Avery climbed in the back, pulling Gil up to a sitting position, covering his ears and rocking him gently. Gil stopped screaming, but his body continued convulsing.

“Do something before he has a fit,” Kori yelled to Avery. Avery’s gaze swiveled; his eyes settled on the glove compartment.

“Tissues,” Avery said.

Kori handed Avery a package of tissues. He folded one and rolled it between his hands, scrunched it into a conical shape and inserted one into each of Gil’s ear, grabbed Gil’s shoulders and took several deep breaths indicating Gil should mimic him. Gil’s chest rose and fell rhythmically and after a minute, his shaking, along with the tension in the car, subsided.

“Are you sure you want to leave?” Kori asked.

“Just go before he has another freakazoid attack,” Avery said. Gil looked past Avery with wide, doe eyes and a slack mouth.

“Drive!” Avery commanded.

Kori watched Gil in the rear view mirror, rocking gently in the back seat, tissues sticking out of his ears. She stifled a laugh and pulled out of the driveway; she’d only made it a few hundred feet when Gil spoke.

“Pull in here.”

“What?” Kori asked.

“Just do it, Kori,” Avery said. Kori shook her head and muttered something under her breath, but pulled into Aunt Stella’s driveway anyway, a scant three doors down from their own.

“Why are we parking at Aunt Stella’s house?” Kori asked. “we’re practically still at our house.”

“Yeah, Gil,” Avery added. “This doesn’t bode well for concealing our whereabouts.”

Kori fished through her purse for a cigarette, found the pack and pulled one out.

“You shouldn’t smoke,” Gil said.

“I don’t, really. Just once in a while,” Kori answered.

“Shut the lights and cut the engine,” Gil said.

“Stop telling me what to do,” Kori said, but obliged. “This is ridiculous.” She found her lighter, flicked it once. It didn’t take.

“No!” Gil whispered. He shoved Kori’s head down across the console. Avery bent his head down next to Gil who was crouched on the floor in the back seat.

“Jesus, Gil,” Kori said, her chest pressed against the drive shaft. “You’ve been watching too many Bruce Willis movies.” After a minute, she sat up. “Gil. Enough!”

“Get down!” Gil said, and turned to peer out the back window.

A car was creeping down the road. The driver killed the lights as it passed Aunt Stella’s house. The trio huddled together, peering out the back window as the car pulled into the Tirabi driveway. A dark figure emerged, climbed the porch steps and unscrewed the light. The porch went dim. They watched the dark silhouette playing with the lock. Moments later, the figure walked in the Tirabis’ front door.

“Did you lock the door?” Kori demanded of Avery.

“Ssshhhhhhhhh!” Gil said, staring wide-eyed and fascinated. The children saw a shadow pass by the window, followed by the erratic beam of a flashlight, sweeping the room. The figure emerged, carrying a long tube under his arm. In one fluid motion, he jumped over the railing and rolled onto the ground. The car backed out of the driveway and crawled down the street. Halfway up the block, the driver flicked on the lights and drove away.

“Let go of me,” Kori jerked away and Gil released the stranglehold grip he had on her neck. Kori breathed in short bursts trying to regain her composure.

“What just happened?” Avery asked.

“The drawings,” Gil replied.

“What drawings?” Avery asked, but even as the words left his lips, an explosion on the Tirabi porch caused their car windows to vibrate. The front door of the house blew off its hinges and several of the windows on the front porch shattered.

to be continued. . .

second sight

Posted on July 14, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER TWO (a)

Avery washed the dinner dishes while Kori sat at the table, sketching.

“The rule is, he who cooks does not clean up. That is the rule. And frankly, I’m flabbergasted to hear that you’ve never heard of it,” Avery said. “My advice? Find a guy with plenty of money cause you don’t know the first thing about work, sister.”

Tall and sinewy with inches still to go, Avery had his mother’s good looks and a healthy dose of her wavy, red hair. At sixteen, he towered above his sister, destined to be not only the tallest, but most loquacious one in the family.

“Hey, jabber jaws. Easy. I’m trying to work here,” Kori replied. She stood up, grabbed her eraser and dropped back into the chair, her shoulder length hair flouncing around her like the head of Medusa, dark, coppery strands writhing and whirling in all directions. Kori was older by five years, but looked younger than her brother. She stopped to admire her long slender fingers under the pretense of inspecting her fingernails for paint residue.

“Work? That’s not work. That’s fun. This is work.” Avery pointed to the mound of dishes awaiting rinsing and placement in the dishwasher.

“Hey, we could have had pizza.”

“Ingrate.”

“I can’t tell you how many times I cook and clean up,” Kori said.

“For yourself, yeah. But other people live here, too.”

“Robbie ate your food and he didn’t do any cleanup.”

“Robbie gets special treatment. He’s taking me to see Tom Petty this weekend.”

“Tom Petty? Jesus, Avery. He’s so old.”

“That doesn’t mean he’s not still good. It’s better than that classical crap you listen to.”

Kori shook her head. “You’re a cheap date.”

“And you’re just cheap.”

Avery fixed her with a top-that look, but it was useless. She was her father’s only daughter, blessed with grace and beauty from birth; Kori was used to entitlement. She rolled her eyes and picked at her cuticles.

Avery put the last dish in the dishwasher. “Let me just repeat – Big Fat Checking Account.”

“I’m making my own money now.”

“What, hawking second-rate oil paintings?” Avery said.

“They are not second-rate. What’s second-rate is your attempts at dating.”

“You suck.” He threw a dishtowel at her and stormed out of the room, still fuming when he sat down next to Gil in the living room.

“What a b. . . .”

“Ssshhhhh,” Gil said, covering Avery’s mouth. Gil rocked back and forth, his narrow shoulders bouncing off the couch at two-second intervals. At almost eleven, he still maintained the little boy looks that would soon be lost to puberty. He removed his hand from Avery’s mouth and drew it very deliberately across his forehead, anchoring his Justin Bieber haircut in just below his eyebrows.

Avery huffed, crossed his legs and practiced some deep breathing exercises. After a minute, he forgot all about Kori and engrossed himself in the final scenes of Die Hard. He didn’t notice Gil walk to the dining room table, roll up a stack of blueprints and stuff them into a cylinder. Nor did he notice Gil retrieving their shoes from the hall closet.

Gil placed Avery’s shoes at his feet and sat down to put on his own. “The bad guys are coming,” Gil said.

“It would appear so,” Avery said, his attention focused on the television screen.

“We have to go.”

“Hmmm?” Avery turned to see Gil slipping into his sneakers. “Gil, it’s only a movie.”

Gil picked up Avery’s shoes and handed them to him before turning off the television.

“What are you doing?” Gil scooped up the cylinder and Kori’s shoes and walked into the kitchen. Avery slipped on his shoes and followed.

Gil laid Kori’s shoes at her feet.

“What are these for?” Kori asked.

“We have to leave,” Gil said.

“Why?”

“The bad guys are coming.”

“What bad guys?”

“The bad guys on T.V.,” Avery answered for him. “C’mon, Gil. Let’s watch the end of the movie.”

“Yeah. Take a chill pill,” Kori said.

“We have to leave NOW!”

Avery and Kori both jumped. Gil covered his own mouth. His siblings exchanged glances.

“Okay, okay,” Avery said. He grabbed the car keys. “I’m driving.”

Kori slipped her feet into her sandals and swiped the keys from Avery.

“I have my permit!” he protested.

“Your learner’s permit only allows you to drive during daylight hours.” She opened the door to the pitch black night, put a hand on her hip.

“You suck.”

“That’s the second time you said that tonight.” Kori blew him a kiss and held the door for Gil and ZiZi, the family Golden Retriever, and closed the door on her brother.

to be continued. . .