Whatever Lola Wants

by George Szanto

  Or they could relash the pipe in place and fix the base cog later. Charlie had done this twice. But he was asleep, he’d been on, despite regulations, for twenty-two hours straight.

  Carney said, “I’ll go up.”

  “I’ll do it,” Diane said. “You haven’t climbed in, what, six months?”

  How clear their memory. “And you never have. Get me a sling and belts.”

  Carney climbed, his face masked and his hands gloved. Wish yourself into a Moment, Carney. Inside a Moment he could do no wrong. Trouble with Moments, they happen. Or, increasingly, not. They don’t arrive by wishing.

  The crane rose at a fifty-five-degree slope. It reached out across charred tires. Carrying the rope sling Carney slithered, belly to steel, doubly belted to the girder arm. At each cross-support he released the first belt, swung it above the support, relashed himself, pulled himself up, released belt two, pulled, relashed. Fifteen, twenty, thirty times.

  Dave and Carole unrolled double sheets of air-pocketed asbestos foam up the clay-foam surface, staying beneath Carney’s climb.

  At first it went fast, one double lash every two and a half minutes. The girders grew hotter. Two-thirds of the way up the heat demanded double mitts and goggles on top of the face mask. Each relashing took four minutes plus. At the loop break, steel temperature hit 195 degrees Celsius.

  Below, Dave spread the asbestos quadruple thick.

  Carney, twenty-one meters up, lowered the end of his rope. Frank tied on pulley and cable. Carney drew it up, affixed the pulley, sent down the cable end. And felt tight in the throat. Below, baked mud. Smoke. He dragged up replacement coils and binding crimps, reached for the loose piping, hooked it, levered it in place, clipped it. His throat, hard to swallow—

  The smoke and heat. Normal up here. He loosed his first belt, shinnied up, snapped himself in. Fought off the throat choke. Loosed the second belt, shinnied—

  Maybe the first belt wasn’t in place, maybe the heat made the clip slip. Maybe you weren’t concentrating, Carney.

  Carney hung by his right hand. Through the glove the girder scalded. He kicked his legs and swung out. His left hand touched. It caught. His right glove slid along steel. And off. He lunged, he dove. He squeezed his eyes shut and protected his head. He hit the asbestos, elbow and shoulder, then hip. His breath came in hard gulps, his eyes stayed closed.

  Carole, beside him now, her face white, whispered, “Carney—?” Dave called for a stretcher.

  Carney whispered, “I kinda like flying.” He twisted, lay on his back, opened his eyes, gave Carole a weak smile.

  She squeezed his mitted hand. She knew he’d fallen before, from derricks, oil platforms, a range of precipices. Many of them had. Later, mouthy as usual, she’d swear he bounced five times before settling, saying, “Can’t keep a good man up.” But right there, she shivered.

  They walked him down the asbestos to solid ground. The team gathered around. How’d he feel? He looked real graceful on the descent.

  He was fine. He’d go right back up.

  But one of his few absolutes was precaution: after an accident, a medical check. Which would prove he’d displaced his left shoulder. Which he swore he didn’t feel. The elbow was swollen, but no breakage there.

  The commotion brought Charlie from the box car. He was rested, he’d climb. He checked Carney’s sling and belts, found no apparent deficiency, went for another set anyway.

  From the ground, Carney watched. Last time he’d free-flown, more than a year back, it felt like an arm had set itself tight on his throat, dragging him down. This time hurt more. At one point while Carney worked for Adair, Red had said, “The greatest freedom I enjoy is the freedom from life insurance salesmen.” Carney too had taken this as his armor.

  Except right now the armor felt thin. And falling weakened it further. The failed Moment, its tinny surrogate, tasted sour. So, Carney, concentration going too?

  It took four hours to get the blaster working. The rain held off. Thirty-eight hours later the fire was out. The boring of weeping-drain shafts would take the best part of a week.

  First the storm, then the wind had spread toxins over hundreds of square miles. Much of it had touched ground as carbon snow, more would drift and rain to earth. Underground, water would carry oil to distant wells and irrigation lines. It would take fifty years to disperse.

  A disaster. But without Carney and Co. it could have been far worse. Only thirty percent of the tires had burned. With weeping drains as much as half the oil could be recovered. Cost of the operation would exceed $8 million. Cheap at the price, the media exclaimed, growing the Carney myth.

  Adulation gave Carney no pleasure. His bandaged-tight shoulder ached through the painkiller. The elbow stayed tender. Blow up at a mayor who nickel-and-dimed his budget? At a dump owner (who didn’t even show!) taking on ever more tires? Jail them all.

  Charlie Dart drove him in the Jaguar through a blue frozen morning up to central Vermont. The equipment would go by train back to the depot near White River Junction.

  At the farm Dart turned Carney over to the care of Mrs. Staunton.

  “You don’t look good, Boss.”

  “You never look good, Mrs. Staunton.” Carney scowled. “I’m getting more like you.”

  “You should be so lucky. You want a drink? The mail? Bath?”

  “All of them. In reverse order.”

  Wet heat eased the elbow and shoulder. He breathed away surface memories of tires. He dried and dressed. In the living room he put a match to the fire Mrs. Staunton had set, poured himself a Scotch, sat behind triple glazing, and stared out. His house, a hundred forty years old, all wiring and plumbing revamped, sat on the rim of a shallow ravine. In warmer seasons a stream flowed down there. Three summers back he’d studied his beavers as they built their dam, the pond they’d formed running to eleven feet, water deep enough for trout to survive the winter.

  East across the way, rolling horizon soothed his glance. On his four hundred and thirty acres, snow-smooth fields led to a stand of forest. The earth’s shadow glided toward and up his hills. The peace was unwordable, its hold near strong as a Moment.

  Damage control was his success. His Moments, his thorough absorption in them, had been part of his means. He was distilling his fame from his clients’ greed, growing rich enough. What he needed came his way. Except the pleasure of falling in love again, its uncomplicated joy. Jennifer was a pleasure, lithe of mind and quirky quick when she put her body to it. She was not love.

  Later he played his cello. It was clumsy, his shoulder and elbow hurt, but for half an hour thick chords and the light of burning logs drifted up to the beams. Pain retreated, cheer filled his arms and chest, his privacy as fine as that rare thing, the best human contact. He no longer played even okay, but for him the sound was pleasure.

  In mid-January a bad chemical fire near Taos took the Co. to the southwest. Three cargo jets flew their equipment down. With Carney’s shoulder mending slowly, Charlie took on the job.

  Carney had been in pain often. It had never stopped him from heading up a serious job.

  •

  Lola stared over the edge with unseeing eyes. She turned to me. “But we know he’s going to be okay, don’t we?”

  “Carney?”

  “You’ve already told me about him, how he is now.”

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes of course I did.” But for the moment I’d forgotten. I’ve never before told stories, not consciously anyway, by seeing and hearing old memories.

  “Ted?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is anything new happening with him now? With Carney, I mean?”

  I looked down. Carney was playing his cello again. On his desk, piles of file cards, and a dozen notebooks. “Not much,” I said.

  “With anybody?”

  I stared down hard. “Nope, actually. All I can see are a few more memories.”

  She grinned. “Any spicy ones?”

  “Hmm,” I said.
r />   •

  2. (1987)

  Two years ago, when she was fifteen, Sarah had told her parents she’d had sex with seven different guys. And yes, she liked them all. She loved sex, every bit of it, from the tiny eye-catch to the graceful flirtation, from the first setting down of her silent rules of power over the boy or the man—her oldest partner, Donald, just twenty-six; her youngest Cam, thirteen a year back when she was fourteen—from her power over their higher and lower brains to her incessant demand they teach her new ways, to her laughter on learning from him or him or him, from her dismissal of those who knew nothing original to treat her to.

  She loved sex in part because even then, nearly two decades after the great late-sixties love-ins, for the many puritans out there such sexual forays were still dirty, nasty, illicit. She knew Milton and Theresa saw sex as a normal part of life, and that a range of delights were her birthright, gentle Milton urging she give as good as she got, St. Theresa of the Whirlwind referring to the range of cautions she had shared with Sarah age twelve, insisting that you engage in sex for love and pleasure, that you need at least one of those or it’s no good.

  Sarah knew her mind. She knew Milton and Theresa accepted her daily life, and her convictions. So why did she tremble a little as she imagined their reactions? Because she realized she was about to make them, each in their ways, deeply disappointed in her.

  It had to be told. It could not be undone.

  She’d already spoken to Milton, alone. She had sat with him in the living room, each in one of the blue easy chairs in front of a large warming fire. Theresa, at a conference in Genoa, would be back in four days. “Milton,” Sarah had said, “I have to tell you this. I’m pregnant.”

  He’d stared at her, for seconds no words. Then a nod. He stood, came over to her, kissed her on the forehead. Suddenly she was standing also, and hugging him, hugging hard, holding on. Slowly they released each other, and Milton returned to his chair. She sat on the ground at his feet. He said, “You’ve not told Theresa.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “I only had it confirmed this morning.”

  “And who’s the father?”

  She stared at the pattern in the carpet. “Does it matter?”

  Milton raised his eyebrows. “It could.”

  “Well,” she said, “I don’t know.”

  Milton shook his head, and sighed.

  “I’ve narrowed it down to three possibilities.”

  “You’ve been busy, little one.”

  She smiled a little. “They were each quite good.”

  He sighed again. “No precautions?”

  “Yes,” she said. “Always.”

  “It happens.” He’d waited, she stayed silent. “You’ll tell Theresa, soon as she gets back.”

  She looked up at him. “Please, be there when I tell her?”

  He saw her face, her pretty gray eyes with that hint of green. For a moment she was his little girl again. “Of course.”

  Four days later, when Sarah came into the living room, no fire had been lit. Theresa knew only that Sarah wanted to talk. Milton had set up the meeting, Theresa not understanding the formality. “About what?”

  “She’ll tell you.”

  Sarah did. “Like I told Milton a few days ago, I got myself pregnant.”

  Theresa snorted a laugh. “Well, you said it right, we do it to ourselves. Who’s the father?”

  Sarah shook her head.

  “We don’t need to have him around if you don’t want him. But it’s worth knowing.”

  “I’m not sure, Theresa.”

  Now Theresa looked concerned. “What kind of comparative study was it?”

  Sarah giggled, then laughed outright.

  Theresa said, “Well, you can finish school. Then you’ll get your BA here, Milton and I’ll raise the kid till it goes to kindergarten. You’ll be less free but everything’ll work out.”

  Theresa’s response had been as Sarah had expected. “Theresa, I got rid of it yesterday.”

  Milton closed his eyes. His hand rose to cover his mouth. He felt what was coming.

  Theresa stared at Sarah. “Aborted.”

  Sarah, already embarrassed, nodded.

  “You killed it.”

  “It was barely four weeks—”

  “In our family, Sarah, you have many rights. Over your body, over your mind. But you don’t have the right to kill an other being.”

  “It wasn’t anything yet—”

  Theresa eyes blazed, her lips curled forward, she breathed at Sarah: “Who-are-you-to-judge-what-is-and-is-not-a-being?”

  Sarah had no answer.

  For this one act Theresa has never fully forgiven her daughter.

  Sarah stayed away from sex for three years. So many good men around, such a lot of good dope. But, Sarah would say of herself, I am a nun.

  •

  “Wow!” said Lola. “An all-or-nothing lady.”

  “Yep.” I had no more to report. Lola had no further comments. So I looked ahead. “It seems quiet times followed. For everybody.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I can’t see or hear another memory for quite a while.”

  “Oh. Then maybe I should go.”

  “No need. I’ll jump ahead.”

  “To?”

  “Let’s see. Eight years after Sarah’s abortion. A memory from Carney.”

  “Oh good.” She smiled. Likely thinking I enjoyed telling Carney stories most. No, I like telling many kinds of stories. But unnecessary to make an issue of it.

  •

  3. (1995)

  Jenn faded to no one. Later Carney met Lynn. Lynn agreed with Carney, morning sex was best. Today the well-tested and excellent theory had already provided another top-notch morning. He liked the idea of first-rate sex with the Chairwoman of the Montpelier Board of Education.

  Their kiss goodbye, as much out of memory as in promise, lasted longer than either expected. He walked toward his Jaguar and figured tonight they’d maybe break the pattern. Wouldn’t be the first time.

  He started the car. Marcie’s theory, right now, made him smile. He had heard from Bobbie that Marcie had married a man more suitable than Carney. Or at least more at home. They’d produced two children. Bobbie had kept in touch. Bobbie would.

  •

  Lola stood. She paced. She marched to the edge of the cloud. She stared down. She nodded. “I understand. I get what you’re doing.” She sat beside me again. “With your story.”

  Puzzled, I looked at her. “Yes? And what’s that?”

  “I know what it’s about.” Her face relaxed into self-satisfaction.

  “Hmm. You going to tell me?”

  “Yep. It’s about how families work. Three families. Kinda interesting. No families up here.”

  “Well.” I thought about that. “I mean, it’s certainly about two families, the Magnussen-Bonneherbes, and then there’s the Cochan group.”

  “One more.”

  “Yes?” She was getting such pleasure out of whatever she thought her discovery was.

  “Yours. Your family. Carney and Bobbie. And Ricardo.” The laughter left her face. “And you,” she added.

  “It’s hardly about me. A long time since I’ve been alive.”

  “But you’re still connected. Even now.”

  A provocative idea. I’d file it away for later.

  “Want to know something?” She embraced herself, rocked a little from side to side. Her certainty increased. “I think I’m going to enjoy this. I mean I already am, but—” She fell silent.

  “What?”

  “I’m not sure.” She stared northward, toward the Laurentians. “Yet.” She touched my forearm.

  •

  From the farm Carney drove over to Montpelier on mostly dirt roads. He didn’t much like Montpelier, nice-enough architecture but the men and women the voters sent there confounded him. Josiah Fairfax and Carney had fished two dozen streams together so when Joss said, “Come for lunc
h, someone I want you to meet,” Carney couldn’t easily say no. Joss said Carney likely didn’t know the man, Si Morris, and Si would tell Carney why the meeting.

  Lunch at Stenn’s was predictable: dark corners behind posts that provided privacy but slowed service, dead sound that kept the Republican group of three at Table 19 from overhearing what the ski-industry lobbyist-lady was saying to the Democratic Lieutenant Governor and two senators at Table 11 eight feet away. Carney met Joss and Si Morris at the bar. Carney said, “Just ginger ale, thanks,” though the vodka martinis in their clear cold V-glasses tempted him. Not for lunch.

  They sat, ordered. The talk remained small: some nice low-water rainbows being taken down near Rochester, Carney and Co.’s success back in April with that tar-dump fire in southern Nova Scotia, Joss’s first granddaughter. Arriving soup cut the talk. Into the momentary silence, Si said, “We’re concerned about the Governor. She’s got to be replaced.”

  “What’s wrong with her?”

  They related for him her dumb fiscal schemes, they described potential effects of nutty projects, all growing from dogma rather than a solid fiscal base.

  Carney listened, impassive. For him, politics was simple. Government existed for two reasons, the little one to set policies that’d maybe keep us all from immense disasters, and the big one to clear away the disasters after they happened. So why was Joss treating him to lunch today?

  Joss turned to Si. Si nodded. “Simply stated, Carney, we’d like you as our candidate for Governor next year. We think you could defeat her.”

  Carney grinned. “Be serious.”

  Joss said, “We are.”

  “Come on. Nobody’s ever heard of me.”

  “We can turn you into a winning candidate.” Si smiled. “And, you’re not unknown.”

  “In politics, totally.”

  Si smiled some more. His head shake suggested Carney’s naiveté. Why do war heroes and actors become such good candidates? Strong previous reputation, name and image recognition.

  What they didn’t understand: the notion of Carney as Governor of Vermont was a farce, and the acts of that farce stared Carney full in the face. At each tack from Si, from Joss, Carney only said, “Ridiculous,” or, “Get serious.” He should just say no, he didn’t want to consider this. Why not? Wasn’t he tempted? Just a little? But you can’t say a bald no to an old friend like Joss.