The only people who had a chance to see them were the university rowers engaged in a practice session and a lone sculler making his way downriver.
“I never thought a place like this existed so close.”
Jonnie spread the blanket on the ground. “You just have to look … like a lot of things.” Then he sat down.
Veronica kneeled on the other corner, taking wrapped objects from the bag and setting them on a small tray she had included. Even a bottle of chardonnay appeared, complete with corkscrew and two glass goblets.
“You did bring everything.”
“Why have a picnic if you’re not prepared?”
He shrugged. There was no answer to that.
She continued to lay out the meal on the plates—actual crockery. “Why did you pick Theodore Roosevelt Island?”
“Why not? You can see Georgetown, the memorials, and in the fall not that many people come here. Besides,” he added practically, “I don’t know the area where you live that well.”
“How many other girls have you brought here?” Her voice was, again, almost intellectually curious.
“Two.”
Veronica made no comment, unwrapping another package.
“They both said they liked it, but I don’t think either one really did.”
“So why did you ask me?”
“I keep hoping to enjoy it with someone who also appreciates it.”
“Would you open the wine?”
Jonnie obliged, even to offering her the first sip.
She took the sip in the same gravity as he offered it, and the wisp of a smile did not escape until after she had nodded.
“You approve?”
“Of course.”
Jonnie poured both goblets half full, then set the still-cool bottle aside and took a small sip. “This is excellent!”
Veronica smiled softly. “Childhood legacy. My father’s an oenophile. Wine tasting was part of growing up. He believed that was the best defense against secret drinking and an uncultivated palate. In high school some friends were passing around a bottle of Boone’s Farm Strawberry Hill, in a paper bag, no less. I took a slug. My only reaction was ‘My God, it’s domestic!’”
Jonnie broke into laughter. “Are you as expert with food? This looks terrific.”
“I hope so. It strained my frugal budget.” She handed him a set of stainless-steel utensils.
“Real utensils to go with real food.” He took another sip of wine.
“We greenies believe in the real things.”
Jonnie almost choked at the deadpan tone as he saw another glimmer of a smile when she brushed back the long hair over her shoulder.
Threeeep. A sea gull wheeled overhead. “Noisy buggers.”
“They fill a necessary ecological niche.”
“Don’t we all?” He set down the glass. “It’s just wondering where our position is in the food chain that concerns me.” He picked up the plate, starting first on the chicken jardiniere, then followed with the wild rice. Although Veronica had purchased rather than prepared everything, with the exception of the salad, she had put some thought into selecting the meal.
“Do all consultants eat like they’re starving?”
Jonnie shook his head. “Just those who are—except Jack. Jack would use a knife and fork on fried chicken at a fast-food joint.”
“Who’s Jack?”
“The guy I work with. He probably knows more obscure environmental information than any three other lawyers or consultants in Washington. He’s also a very proper sort who married a doctor and worries whether he holds up his end.”
“He sounds insecure.”
“He should have been a lawyer, except that he knew that he couldn’t stand himself if he did. So he’s a consultant.” Jonnie took another sip of the chardonnay. “Enough of Jack. What about you? You’re from Columbus?”
Veronica nodded. “That’s true. I am … or was.”
Jonnie took another bite of the chicken.
“I was born and raised in Columbus, Ohio, salt of the earth, and a very down-to-earth town. It is also a very small big town where everyone believes in home, family, job, and the importance of Ohio State football teams.”
Jonnie listened as he polished off the rest of his chicken.
“I still don’t understand how you ended up with Ecology Now!” Jonnie finished the last sip of the chardonnay in his goblet and shifted his weight on the old army blanket.
“I told you that protecting the environment was my main concern. There’s no point in making the world a better place to live if it gets too poisoned to live on in the first place. There’s no point in having political freedom if people don’t have food and shelter. And there’s no point in having jobs, or food and shelter today, if the air and water are going to kill you tomorrow.”
Jonnie didn’t try to argue with her logic. But what was the real value of clean air to a hungry child or pure water to a man trying to support his family after he had lost his job?
“In addition to the government internships, I wanted some experience in the real world. After my sophomore year, I worked as a gofer for a trade association—forest products. That was something else. Before my senior year I took an internship with Ecology Now! I wanted to work there because they hadn’t become part of the bureaucratic environmental establishment. They also had a solid program that fits in with eventual postgrad work.”
“You really planned things out, didn’t you?”
“Sure. If you’re going to accomplish something, you need a plan. You also need to decide what price you’re willing to pay—and what price you’re not willing to pay.”
“What price have you paid?” Jonnie asked, looking Veronica in the eyes, somewhat taken aback by her unexpectedly somber tone.
“Besides my career as a Roller Derby star?” Veronica replied, the gleam returning to her eyes. “Anyway, I liked working with the group and took them up on their offer of full-time employment when I graduated. They gave me more of a hands-on operating role than anyone else would straight out of school. There’s also enough flexibility and informality so that I’m not working a rigid schedule and have time for other activities on the side.”
Nodding, Jonnie fished out a wrapped package from the picnic bag and began to unwrap the slices of ultra-chocolate cake. “Do you have a special field in mind?”
“Not exactly, and I know it’s mostly baloney, but you need a doctorate to really get people to listen to you. And I still like time to myself.” She glanced at the half-opened cake package. “You do like unwrapping things, don’t you?” A smile accompanied the remark.
Jonnie looked up and slid the larger slice of the cake onto the other dessert plate, offering it to Veronica without answering her question.
“I bet as a kid you couldn’t wait to unwrap all your birthday presents.”
“What do you mean—as a kid? I still can’t.”
Veronica giggled as the rowers headed back upstream from completing another lap on the river.
“Is everyone in the organization as committed as you are?” Jonnie’s tongue flicked chocolate crumbs off his lips.
“Oh, we get all kinds,” Veronica replied as she picked up her slice of cake. “We get some good people, and we get some real flakes. Most people are amazed at the collection of zanies that have showed up.”
“I bet you get some extremists.”
“Like you wouldn’t believe. Some of these people think that Edward Abbey was a moderate. They don’t realize or just don’t care that they’re hurting the environment more than helping it.”
“It’s tough when ideals clash with reality.”
“Some of these folks aren’t even idealists. They’re motivated by hatred, not environmental concern. They just happened to pick up on the environmental theme. There’s one group that advocates burning down the forests so they won’t be logged. They say that a good environmentalist should never be without rags and gasoline. I mean, what kind of sense does that mak
e?”
“You don’t allow people like that in, do you?”
“We can’t keep them from coming to public meetings. But Cal keeps them away from everything else. We still get some real oddballs.”
“Like who?”
“We had one guy last year who was a T.M.’er. He was a pleasant sort, kind of quiet, but did his work well. One day we were discussing the best way to introduce some legislation controlling pesticide runoff. I don’t remember what triggered it, but all of a sudden he announced in a solemn, far-off voice that the Maharishi was the wisest man in the world.”
“What did you say?”
“I told him that was okay, that I felt the same way about Jerry Garcia. He didn’t talk to me much after that.”
Jonnie began laughing.
“Hey, at least Jerry’s trying to save the rain forests,” Veronica said before joining in the laughter and moving closer to Jonnie. Her arm went around his waist.
Jonnie extended his arm around her, leaned closer to her, and licked a stray crumb from her cheek, almost from her lips.
“I thought you already had your dessert.”
“I haven’t begun to have dessert,” Jonnie whispered in her ear.
“Neither have I.”
24
“I’LL SEE IF HE’S IN, Mr. McDarvid,” said the nameless woman on the other end of the telephone.
“Thank you.” According to the EPA briefing papers, the rat studies, and the risk assessments, chlorohydrobenzilate was a probable human carcinogen. The health arguments were against JAFFE, but—
“Jack?”
“It’s me. Just like a bad penny. I had a question for you. Nothing hush-hush, but it’s hard to keep on top of everything.”
“Will this cost me my wallet or my integrity?”
“Neither … I think.” McDarvid cleared his throat softly. “Outside of North America, who are the big citrus producers? Besides Israel, I mean.”
“Brazil’s a great deal bigger than Israel. But, from our point of view, the Israelis are the ones that count.”
“Would you be concerned if someone were proposing a regulation that would hit the Israelis pretty hard?”
“Hard to tell. We can’t come down very hard on the economic stuff. Technology and financial flows are usually as far as we go. You know that. Who cares if the California citrus growers can’t get all they want into Japan? Or if the Israelis have trouble competing with the Brazilians?”
“What about OMB? Backdoor?”
“Send me a package. One of your specials, with all the arguments laid out. Then we’ll see.”
“Look. I’d like the help, but this has to be on the merits. You don’t see it that way, then let it drop. All right?” McDarvid waited.
“You got something bigger on the way?”
“Maybe. That one—well, I need a little more information, but … say a couple of weeks?”
“Let me know. Let me know.” The line clicked dead.
McDarvid took a deep breath as he put the phone down. He turned in the chair, and his fingers touched the computer keyboard as he studied the graph displayed on the screen.
After he and Jonnie finished the pesticide paper … He shook his head. He wasn’t looking forward to the trip to Savannah. But you never got a feel for the processes and the real scope of the problem without seeing the plants, and Jonnie understood numbers, not technologies.
Numbers were never enough, especially in Washington. By the time all the official numbers were clear, you’d either won or lost.
25
“MR. CORELLIAN IS HERE.”
“My God, is it lunchtime already?”
“It is twelve-fourteen.” The lilting laugh carried through the speaker.
“I’ll be right there.” Esther Saliers finished the seventh page of “A Cross-Correlated Cohort Study of Chlorohydrobenzilate Exposures in Formulation Facilities.” With the oversized yellow plastic clip lifted from the ashtray whose only use was to store assorted paper fasteners, she marked her place in the thick study and shoved it to the right side of the blotter.
As she stood, her eyes darted to the picture on the credenza—also of a brown synthetic veneer that had once resembled dark oak. The smile on the teenager’s face cast a light of its own into the small office with the single window. Esther smiled back. Keri had not yet received her scholarship notice from the Lao Foundation, but all that counted was that Keri could go to Emory, after all—the first step toward being the doctor she wanted to be.
Esther opened the door and stepped into the common area.
Andrew Corellian, brown paper bag in one hand, briefcase by his feet, sat talking to Renee. Seeing Esther, he stood. “Esther.”
“It’s good to see you.” She nodded toward the door from which she had emerged. “Just go into the office. I have to recover my lunch.”
The division chief did not wait to see if the sandy-haired man had followed her directions as she crossed the hallway into the staff bay. She retrieved her salad, contained within a plastic bowl, and the cheesecake. Carrying one in each hand, she nudged the refrigerator door shut with her hip.
He stood by her doorway, still looking like the luxury-car salesman.
“Go on. The office won’t bite you.”
His grin was almost sheepish, but he stepped inside. After setting the briefcase on the floor and the brown bag on the corner of the desk, he took the plastic chair closest to the window.
Esther set the whole untouched cheesecake on the desk blotter, and then, rather than sit behind the desk, took the other plastic chair. “I’m glad you could make it.”
“So am I. Things worked out fairly well, actually. I looked up an old acquaintance on the way.” The executive lifted a sandwich from the bag, followed by the plastic container. “Wish they didn’t pack these in plastic, but fruit salad in paper just doesn’t make it.”
Esther smiled. “You worry about disposable plastic salad bowls?”
Corellian set the bottle of natural lime soda on the desk. “I worry about anything that doesn’t degrade in five hundred years.” He looked at her bowl. “What’s that?”
“A combination of cottage cheese, lettuce, cucumbers, tomatoes, and mild salsa. It’s tangy enough that I don’t miss the calories I shouldn’t have, and allows me peace of mind when I eat things like cheesecake.”
He took a bite of the roast beef sandwich, then looked at the picture on the credenza. “She’s pretty.”
Esther swallowed a forkful of salad. “She’s also very determined. I took your advice, by the way. I haven’t said a word. It ought to be her news.”
“That makes it more exciting,” agreed the sandy-haired man. He took another measured bite from the roast beef and rye before continuing. “But you promised to explain exactly what you do. The division deals with health effects…”
“It’s more complex…” Esther stopped. “Why am I apologizing? It’s important, and you asked. It’s just that outside of EPA … I mean, DEP…”
“I understand.”
“There are trace elements in everything, and knowing what levels are necessary, what levels are harmful, and the pathways of contamination all factor into health effects. With pesticides it can get even more complicated. Take Alar, for example. Well, that’s a bad example because we never should have registered it. Chlorohydrobenzilate is a better example. It’s an insecticide—”
“Chlorohydro—what?” Corellian looked blank.
“It’s used against fruit flies—generally on oranges. But that’s the point. Do you measure the residue level in pulp or in the rind?”
“Well, people eat the pulp, but what about oranges used for juice?”
“Even more farfetched”—Esther bobbed her head—“do you measure residue traces in the rind for those few uses—like candied orange rinds or the people who grate it up and put it in cake frostings or desserts or muffins?”
“Oh…”
“Exactly! Which residue level is more accurate? We can
’t exactly publish a finding which says that the risk is ten to the minus fourth if you eat the rind, but only ten to the minus seventh if you drink orange juice. Which number do you recommend for the risk assessment?”
“Hmmmm…” Corellian sipped the unnaturally carbonated natural lime soda, still holding the sandwich in his right hand.
“With fruits, it’s even worse. Children eat a higher proportion of fruit, and they have a lower body weight and higher metabolism. Do you calculate the risk assessment and projected health impacts on children? At what age? If you pick the most sensitive segment of the population for each food, it’s likely to be different in differing classes. I mean, how many children eat artichokes or eggplant? And some pesticides are used on a range of plants.” Esther stopped and took a sip from her glass of water.
Corellian shook his head. “I knew it was complex, but I hadn’t really thought the details. You want to protect people’s health. Where do you start?”
“If I don’t eat a few more bites of this salad, I’ll get so wound up that I won’t eat, and then my blood sugar will crash at three, and I’ll end up looking for sweets or heading home like a grouch. After … Anyway, neither Keri nor I need that.” She lifted a forkful of cottage cheese.
“It would seem that you’d want to set a safe level, one with a solid margin for error. That’s what our quality-control engineers are always talking about, engineering to avoid failures. Can’t you do that here?” Corellian held up a hand. “Sorry. Don’t answer that until you finish at least three full bites of salad.” He folded the paper that had held his sandwich into a small package and replaced it in the sack, then pried open the plastic fruit salad container and prodded the contents with his plastic spoon. “After all you said, can I eat this?”
Esther managed to swallow another bite of salad despite the half-cough, half-choke. “For you and me, it’s not a problem. The ones we have to worry about are the hyperallergenics and children. Even the worst industry apologists are right when they push for looser standards based on average people. Looser standards won’t affect most people—just a few hundred or a few thousand children out of two hundred fifty million Americans. Just a little more risk of cancer for less than two tenths of one percent of the population. Put that way, it doesn’t sound so bad. But what if it’s your child?”
The Green Progression Page 10