the night was about to get long

Posted on December 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

Chapter Ten(a)

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

“Have a seat,” Graighton said.

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

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

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

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

“Where’s the report?”

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

“How’d you know?”

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

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

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

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

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

“Can we make money?”

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

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

“You alright?” Hart asked.

“Yeah. Sure,” Bicky said.

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

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

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

love and deception

Posted on November 26, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (b)

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

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

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

“So what’s in the envelope?”

“Nothing.”

“You are the worst liar.”

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

“Why do you have to be so nosey?”

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

“Ooowww.”

“Spill.”

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

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

“And…?”

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

“When was that?”

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

“But Dad really believed…”

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

“Are you comparing Bicky to Hitler?”

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

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

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

“To do what?”

“To get you a job closer to home.”

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

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

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

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

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ll sleep in the car. I promise.”

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

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

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

“What if the boogy man gets me?”

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

Sonia gripped the dashboard.

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

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

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

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

“Hey,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“I missed your face.”

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

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

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

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

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

“What?”

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

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

“My high school art teacher.”

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

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

&&&

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

to be continued. . . .

to read more scroll down. . .

floating in Sonia’s belly

Posted on November 6, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER NINE (a)

Hart arrived home sometime before dawn. He quickly surveyed the exterior before unlocking the door. Sometime in her seventh month, Sonia developed bionic hearing; the tiniest creak of the floor boards and she bolted up in bed. Not wishing to disturb her, Hart tiptoed across the threshold and placed his bags at the foot of the stairs with painstaking slowness. As he stood, light flooded the living room.

Sonia locked him in a bear hug. “I missed you,” she cooed, kissing his face all over. She jumped down the last two steps, grabbed a suitcase in each hand. They dangled like misplaced appendages.

“Sonia! Put ‘em down,” he commanded.

Sonia dropped the suitcases to the floor with a thud and stared wide-eyed at her husband.

“What? They were too heavy.” Hart said.

“Contraction,” she replied. She wagged a finger to a ready-packed bag in the corner. Hart leapfrogged over his own felled luggage as Sonia headed up the stairs.

“You call the doctor while I put some clothes on. I’ll meet you in the car.” She leaned over the railing and blew him a kiss before ascending.

&&&

Four hours later, they were back home, the baby still cozy, floating in Sonia’s belly.

“What are you going to do now?” Sonia pouted. Please don’t go into the office.”

Hart smiled and kissed her cheek. “I’m going to take you out for breakfast and a walk along the creek. Then we’re going to take a little nap, you and I, cause we’re both way tired, and then I’m going to do right by you.” He squeezed her hand, intoning his meaning. “Then an early dinner and only after I’ve popped a movie in and propped you up in bed will I go to the office.

“After dinner?!”

“I have to go see Bicky today. He wants a debriefing. In person. But my person is going somewhere else right now.”

“Well, hey, what are we waiting for? Why don’t we just go?” he said. “Move that stuff.” He tossed her backpack to the back seat. A large manila envelope spilled out, addressed to Bicky, marked Personal and Confidential.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing.”

“It doesn’t look like nothing.” Hart said.

Sonia released a mini tornado of air. “I should have never….” She stopped and eyed Hart up, remembering Bicky’s none-too-veiled warning. “It’s Bicky’s. I was gonna to take it to the post office today.”

“Shall I take it to him tonight?”

Sonia hesitated. “Okay. I guess.” The envelope was sealed. If Hart opened the letter, Bicky would know it. And David wasn’t one to pry. She shoved the envelope into her backpack. “I’m going to go in and squirt. I’ll be right out.”

“You never can get yourself to say the word pee can you? What are you going to tell our son? C’mon, baby. Time to squirt.”

“What’s wrong with that?” She waddled off while Hart watched her go, a gleam in his travel-weary eyes.

to be continued. . .

to read what came before, scroll down. . .

she was not fooled

Posted on October 25, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (c)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

to read more of what came before, scroll down

surreal light

Posted on October 2, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER EIGHT (a)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sonia sighed and left in search of an audience.

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

Bicky motioned with his head toward the wet bar.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You know what,” he hissed.

“No… I don’t,” she said coyly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

honor among thieves

Posted on September 28, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SEVEN

Bicky rustled through stacks of reports, shoving things around his desk in haphazard fashion. He picked up the receiver and buzzed Phyllis.

“I still can’t find the yearly report.” he snapped.

“Did you look on your desk?” she asked.

Bicky snorted. “Would you come here and lay hands on it please?”

He was still holding the receiver when Phyllis materialized. He pushed his chair back, making room while the flurry of Phyllis’s hands restored order to his finite universe.

“It’s not here,” she said, straightening.

“I know that. I’m thinking that eventually you’ll tell me what you did with it.” Phyllis raised an eyebrow in response, the equivalent of a shove.

Bicky rolled back an imperceptible inch. “Well, it didn’t walk out of here by itself,” he mumbled.

Phyllis shot him another arrow which he dodged by walking to the window.

“Did you stick it in your briefcase?”

Bicky’s briefcase sat perched on the mocha leather couch, the two leathers barely distinguishable. Bicky watched Phyllis peripherally, pretending to gaze out the window as she rifled through the bag.

“If I had put it in my briefcase, I wouldn’t need you to look for it now, would I?” Bicky turned and met her gaze with the temerity of a spoiled child.

Phyllis addressed him as one: “You can get your own report if you use that tone with me again.”

He turned back to the window. From this angle, Phyllis’s slate blue eyes would do less harm, only able to bore holes into the back of his goddamn skull as opposed to his own eyes, risking his soul. He watched her reflection in the window and she watched him watching her. She snorted and he sighed, looking down at his feet, battle lost. After all these years, Phyllis Steinman had no trouble handling Bicky Coleman.

“Get me my calendar at least,” he half-pleaded.

Phyllis turned and walked out the door returning moments later with the calendar.

“Who was here today?” Phyllis scanned the calendar entries.

“Every meeting you had today was either in the conference room or away from the office. Except for the one with Graighton which was here and which you were present for, I presume.” She scanned the pages again nodding her head once to confirm.

“Graighton didn’t take the report. He’s got his own,” Bicky barked. “Nobody else was in here?”

Phyllis scanned the pages again and stopped. Her face contorted slightly and she slammed the book, regaining her composure.

“What?” Bicky asked.

“Nothing.”

Bicky opened the book and checked the entries. It was all as Phyllis had said. He sat mulling over the days events then narrowed his eyes at her. “Sonia.”

Phyllis shrugged.

“How long was she waiting?”

“I don’t know. I was away from my desk when she got here.”

“Well, find out.”

“What does it matter? You know Sonia. She probably thought she’d use it as ammunition to get her husband out of Iraq.”

“Her husband is out of Iraq.”

“He’s not home yet.”

“I need that report.”

“I’ll order another one.”

“They’re $32,000 a copy.”

“You just gave yourself a $4 million bonus. What’d you do? Spend it all?”

“Very funny, Phyllis.”

“What is it exactly, that you would like me to do?”

He turned back from the window to face her. “I want you to get the first one back. It’s dangerous for her to have it. You know that.”

“Why? Because only a select few are privy? Besides, how do you know she has it?”

“Oh, for God sakes, woman, don’t act stupid. It doesn’t suit you,” Bicky said. “Sonia was the only one in here today.”

“That fact alone does not unequivocally prove that Sonia nicked your report,” Phyllis said wryly. “For all we know, somebody off the street could’ve marched in and grabbed it.”

“Well, unless Jerry’s lying dead in the lobby, how do you think that would be possible?”

“Maybe we have poltergeist,” Phyllis sniggered.

Bicky sighed. “Just call her…please.” He said the word please under his breath.

Phyllis shook her head. “Forget it. I’m not getting involved. This is between you and your daughter,” she bristled, “and if she’s got a bone to pick, it’s with you, not me. She probably wants a little attention. Maybe she’s trying to get you to make up for the last thirty years.”

“Spare me the armchair psychology.”

“It’s tough to swallow so much crow.” Phyllis patted his hand. “But you’re a tough guy.” She said, closing the door behind her. Bicky snorted as he watched her go.

to be continued. . .

mother love

Posted on September 17, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER SIX(b)

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

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

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

Sonia smiled.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Sorry,” Sonia said, stepping back.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Where the hell’s my report?”

“Try looking on your desk.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

&&&

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

falling fast: in suspended animation

Posted on August 14, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER FOUR (a)

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

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

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

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

“Anything else burning?” Kori asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Stella sniffed the air: “I smell smoke.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why doesn’t Kori call,” Avery said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I give it two stars.” Gil said.

“Give what two stars?” Kori asked.

“The explosion.”

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

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

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

“I know,” Gil said.

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

“They were looking for the drawings.”

“What drawings?”

“Dad’s waste-to-oil machine.”

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

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

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

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

“How much?” Robbie asked.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Excuse me,” Gil said.

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

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

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

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

“Where’s he going?” Kori asked.

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

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

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

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

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

“I’m coming with you,” Avery said.

“Me, too,” Gil said.

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

“No. I have to go by myself.”

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

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

“Kori can do that.”

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

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

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

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

“Thanks, Aunt Stella.” Robbie said.

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

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

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

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

and then it begins

Posted on August 4, 2011 by Cynthia G.

OIL IN WATER

a novel by

PAM LAZOS

CHAPTER THREE (b)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“We couldn’t afford it, remember?”

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

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

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

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

“What the….” Marty yelped.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Marty, he’s coming again!

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

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

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

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

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

“Better me than him.”

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

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

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

to be continued. . .

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. . .