Whatever Lola Wants

by George Szanto

The doorbell rang. Ti-Jean and Feodora. Karl kissed Feodora’s cheek, shook hands with Ti-Jean. Ti-Jean kissed both Leonora’s cheeks, greeted Milton with a smile, and quickly shook Carney’s hand, a shy gesture now. The twin sisters stood equal in height, Feodora’s roundness beside Leonora’s angularity proof that genes leave room for daily living. They were shockingly alike in face and gesture.

  “Ginette sends her apologies.”

  “Ah,” said Karl. “Is she with her young man?”

  “In charge at the shop.”

  Feodora wore a blue shirtwaist dress cut yards from Leonora’s boutiqued bearing. Ti-Jean’s white T-shirt and blue jeans were clean.

  In the kitchen alone with Leonora, Karl said, “Stay after. A small confession.”

  “Oh?” She decided, and let guilt show. “I have one too.”

  At the table Carney sat beside Leonora, bowls of jellied consommé before them. All the family except Sarah; hard to reach her in the middle of the woods. Okay, Carney, make yourself amusing. Leonora, the others too, laughed at his wit.

  A wide-roaming meal. Nothing and many things were talked about, a time at once both free from and haunted by Theresa. Carney found it engaging, the easy give and take of the Magnussen family. Even Ti-Jean’s dour comments were convivial. But if Theresa were sitting down at the end of the table, would they even have come? Milton, his offspring—even Karl—about, seemed happy, energy and stability in a large package. Karl brought cheese and fruit.

  Feodora said, “So what’s happening at Terramac, Carney?”

  It felt like a demand. “I saw the site, I spoke with somebody Boce. I’ll go back, meet Cochan, hear him out.”

  Feodora said, “Theresa hoped you’d write an exposé of Terramac. She thinks your book’s really important.”

  “You read it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Horror stories. People like reading horror stories.” He smiled without pleasure. “Easier than actually doing something.”

  Feodora said, “Terramac’s a horror story.”

  Carney shrugged. “Lots of people live with crime and drugs all about. They think they like the country but they want to avoid the inconveniences of rural living. Maybe they think Cochan’s giving them the best of both worlds.”

  Karl said, “Be serious, Carney—”

  The doorbell rang. Karl jumped up to answer.

  An attractive woman in a bare-shouldered light-green sundress and glowing light-brown hair, clutching a red backpack, face glowering in disgust, greeted the others. Sarah Bonneherbe Magnussen, transformed. She said nothing, opened the pack, took out a plastic-over-newspaper-wrapped package, set it on the table by Karl’s cheese plate, unwound the plastic, pulled away the sopping layer of newsprint. Inside this, a clear soggy foam-filled plastic bag.

  Leonora said, “Yeaghgh.”

  Milton said, “Sarah, for godsake!”

  “Come on, get it out of here.” Karl pushed his chair far back.

  Inside the plastic, from the shape, two large fish. Patches inches in diameter between skin and scales had blistered away, oozing jaundiced bubbles, the flesh a swamp of gray-mauve pustules and foaming abscesses.

  Feodora’s head shook, a tiny vibration. “What’s this about?”

  “Washed up. Over by the spring. The water’s gone muck-green there. The stuff hovers, twenty feet wide, it doesn’t dissolve. And the spring, now it’s stopped flowing.”

  Karl shook his head, his small jaw framing a forced smile. “And the source of the pollution, Carney? Terramac.” Deepening the ache in his gut: how could his lovely Priscilla stay with a man who created such havoc?

  “Maybe.” Carney knew the syndrome. Passing along streams in the rock or rising from pockets of groundwater, some manufactured substance contacts matter stable for millions of years. Matter and substance react, find their own special chemistry, and out flows a toxic soup. Natural mercury gets released that way, flowing into lakes, poisoning fish. “Certainly something’s happened to the groundwater. But directly because of that explosion?”

  Sarah said, “The groundwater’s right under our land.”

  “Hard to tell.” Shooting him with her slingshot, tracking him down, making him sit and wait for an explosion, did Sarah do this on family orders? “You find groundwater in still ponds. And in moving streams.”

  “Carney.” Feodora spoke softly. “What can we do about it?”

  “Investigate, definitely—”

  “Carney, I was there at the meeting with the county.” Milton suddenly looked drained, weary. “Look at those fish. That’s proof aplenty that Cochan’s not living up to the terms of his agreement with the Commissioners. All that improving-the-water-table stuff, all nonsense now.”

  “You’re right. Except legally proving cause or source is often doomed beforehand. Not to mention tedious and expensive. Still it has to be tried.”

  Feasie muttered, “Give Cochan an inch, he’ll get the worm.”

  “Maybe we’ve lost perspective.” Milton leaned toward Carney. “You’re outside this. Realistically, what can we do?”

  Karl gazed at Carney, impassive. Milton, Feasie, and Ti-Jean wore hopeful smiles. Leonora looked embarrassed.

  “Begin the investigation. I’ll try to learn whatever I can. Then bring legal action.”

  They glanced toward Sarah. She paused before saying, “I’ll do what I can.”

  •

  I saw Lola in the distance, coming toward me. She’d want to hear about the fish. But when she arrived, there was defiance in her eyes. Uh-oh. “Okay,” I said. “What happened?”

  “Ha!” She grabbed me, and hugged me tight.

  I, naturally, hugged her back. “Yes?”

  “I gave them great pleasure. Just a little while ago.” She looked smug. “They delighted in surrounding me, a dozen of my brother and sister Gods, Edsel and Frank and Victoria, a whole bunch. Loved every minute of it, not letting me out of the circle. They were overjoyed when I asked what it was all about. And, guess what, their greatest enchantment came from not answering, not speaking a word, not a breath, just dancing slowly around me.”

  The Gods, shunning. “How charming.”

  “But guess what else, the very best.” She paused for effect. “I didn’t like any of it.”

  “Whoops.” Something serious here.

  “And it’s more than that. I’m not getting much pleasure at all out of being a God. That rule about everything giving pleasure—”

  “Because of my story?”

  “No idea.”

  “Lola? Do you care?”

  She thought for a moment. “I—don’t think so.” She thought some more. She glanced over the edge. “Anything new down there?”

  •

  6.

  Damn Aristide Boce, he’d lost all sense of proportion. To meet Carney tomorrow afternoon was not appropriate, no matter how famous the man might be. He had to spend more time with Dee and Melissa. And Priscilla, pregnant, so she needed him around more, that was important. Besides, Saturday belonged to the cemetery. Hank understood, lots of people at the cemetery on Saturday. Clever guy, Hank.

  But not clever Steed. A message forwarded on voice mail, for Petesake! He tried Boce’s line again. Same damn message. Had he gone to the Montreal office? Not his day to be in Montreal. Go home for lunch? Too much to do, stupid trip to Lexington. Anyway Priscilla or Diana had fed the girls by now, she was likely lying down. The new one inside her: she kept saying he. She went and got herself tested? If a boy, like Benjie? Benjie’s—replacement? Stop!

  Tomorrow at the gravesite he’d apologize to Benjie for this kind of thinking. He’d meet Carney, sure. And the cemetery afterward, no rushing back from there.

  7.

  Sarah left, then Feasie and Ti-Jean. Carney went home, Milton to the hospital. Leonora stayed to help Karl clean up. The loaded dishwasher sloshed quietly. Karl sat on the couch. “You first.”

  “What I’ve done,” Leonora dropped down beside him, “I don’t think yo
u’ll like it.”

  Karl shrugged. “Tell me.”

  “I love the Grange. But it’s going to be hard to make a case against Terramac. I hated those fish and what they might represent. But I’m not convinced that Terramac’s the cause. And besides, Shaughnessy, Vitelli, Goldman, and St.-Just has invested in a dozen Terramac condos.”

  Karl cocked his head. “They wouldn’t listen to your advice?”

  “I recommended buying.”

  “Why?”

  “Makes sense. We’re suggesting it to several of our clients, both Canadian and US. A first-rate base for our free-trade people in the Toronto, Montreal, Boston, New York circle.”

  He stared at her. “But—John Cochan’s Terramac?”

  “It meets the needs.”

  “What needs?” He felt his anger burble.

  She took a breath, and released it. “In the last eight months the firm has lost two new partners, bright people. They don’t want to live in a city. Even Montreal. They’ve moved. Eastern Townships, small towns. So their kids don’t grow up on urban streets. They want out.” She smiled, ironic. “But where they’ve gone or could go to, they’d miss the urban advantages, right?”

  “But Terramac, for godsake!”

  “Look, they can live there and still work with us. Come in to the office twice a week. Do what they need from home. Fax and Internet take them into data banks and image banks wired into every possible research system going. Full city advantages, and country living.” Preaching like a brochure. “Whatever we think of Cochan, Terramac’s a winner.”

  “It’s shit. Polluted water, polluted fish, polluted land, polluted people.”

  “Look, all sorts of institutions are buying in. Magnabank took five places for their people, Alton Life four, and an option on six more. Sapei Corp has nine, Allgemeine Werkstätte about as many. It’ll be an international town.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this.”

  “It makes sense, Karl. A computer-artist friend, he lives on the Plateau, his thirteen-year-old got raped, knife at her throat, in her school cafeteria. Nine-fifteen in the morning, for chrissake. He wants to live safer, okay? His private software plugs into Terramac’s delivery systems, his work bounces off their satellite connection and arrives anywhere in the world. Instantly just like from his Montreal office but this way he gets time with his kids.”

  “Your partners are really buying in?”

  “And get to live next to all kinds of intriguing and smart people. Not rapists.”

  Karl’s head shook as it drooped.

  A week ago she’d called on John Cochan, furious at his offers to buy the Grange’s acreage. He’d spoken with sincerity and enthusiasm, he’d never build on the land, it would become parkland for Terramac, fenced, a preserve for birds and deer, a place for woodland walks for those who needed something less than the perfection of Terramac City. He handed her an envelope. The deed to a two-bedroom unit in Terramac, valued just over $1.7 million, legally in her name. She could use it, rent it, sell it, give it to away, but even if she threw the deed in the trash the place was hers. She’d tell Karl about it maybe next month, next year. “Look, Karl. I’m sorry I upset you.” About her deal with Cochan two years back she’d wait longer than forever to speak. “Okay, I don’t like it so close to the Grange. But Terramac’s there to stay.”

  Karl’s head shook in ongoing disbelief. “And you recommended it.”

  “Yep. And better me telling you than you just hearing.”

  “Oh, great. Thanks.”

  She leaned toward him. “And I’d just as soon the others don’t find out. Not right now.”

  He smiled, grim. “Embarrassed, are we?”

  She sat straight. “Avoiding unnecessary grief.”

  “Except the little bit for me.” He sniffed a laugh.

  She smiled, and spoke brightly. “How about your confession?”

  “Not important.”

  “Yes it is.”

  He twitched a shrug. “Doesn’t matter.”

  “Come on.”

  He looked at her for a couple of seconds. “I’m in love with someone.”

  “Oh?” She felt a pang and gave him a smile.

  “She’s wonderful.”

  “Someone I know?” A big bright smile.

  He waited, as if thinking. “No,” he said finally. “No, I’m sure you don’t.”

  “Well? Who is she?”

  Karl shook his head again. “Tell you some other time. Got an appointment.” He stood.

  She got up too, took his arm, and drew him to her side. “You really won’t tell me?”

  “Maybe it’s good business, Lease. But it makes me feel, I don’t know, nauseated.”

  She pulled away. “It’s first-rate business. But he’s not going to get Magnussen Grange.”

  “Well now, that’s something.”

  If she did tell Karl about how she got Intraterra to modify its plans, maybe he would understand. No. That’d be really stupid.

  Karl bussed her cheek quickly. They walked out together.

  She drove away first. Her thoughts turned to Carney. Maybe she should get to know him better.

  8.

  Carney, back at his farm, itched with irritation. Terramac City. He saw its blacks in shades of gray, its whites shone first bright with promise, then flashy with dazzle. All too clear, and yet fuzzy. Its parts made a sense he knew, fabricated ease and comfort, mixed neighborhoods of shops and homes, work and domesticity commingled.

  But in the last minutes Carney had gone completely partisan. Two dead fish had pulled him in.

  Ti-Jean had asked Carney, “What do you think killed them?”

  Carney had said, “We could send them to the lab at—”

  Sarah had gotten up. “Leave him alone, he’s useless.” And a moment later added, “Like the rest of us.” Then she’d packed up her rotten fish and left.

  Too late for prevention at Terramac. Damage control? Of what?

  Something was off. Villages, towns, cities grow up because they’re located at crossroads, natural ports, fast water to turn spindles. Why choose the Fortier farm to build Terramac? Why buy the Grange? Then he had a thought. And it made sense. He’d only seen part of what Terramac would be. They were blasting underground not to build foundations, not because they were mining. For what? Could it be that part of Terramac would itself be underground?

  Leaving Karl’s he’d said goodbye to them individually. Feodora, upset. Ti-Jean, unreadable. Leonora, as if hesitant in the face of Terramac. Karl, confused. Milton, quietly angry. No goodbye to Sarah, she was gone, fury in a bare-shouldered sundress.

  •

  Lola said, “Why don’t you just put her hand in his?”

  I ignored her.

  •

  Carney passed a night riddled with dream fragments, hollows in woods and underground spaces and mountaintops. At eight in the morning he remembered only the notion, caves. Was Cochan blasting underground in order to build? The cost of opening up a subterranean space would be prohibitive. Unless he were simply—simply?—improving a space already there. As in, caves.

  The phone rang. Karl. “When are you meeting with Cochan?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “Come by here before. I need to talk to you about something. A real disaster.”

  “What?” Didn’t they have anyone else to talk to?

  “It’s important.”

  I specialize in disaster, breathed Carney’s rational mind. You people don’t know what a disaster is! But his thought-free self said, Interesting. And Mot whispered, Watch yourself, fella. But Carney rejected the itch. Mot had been on his case for days now and nothing had happened. Was he losing the insight arising from behind Mot’s widow’s peak? “Okay, I’ll drop by.”

  “And if you’ve got a few minutes, will you look in at the hospital? Theresa’d like that.”

  They were organizing the day for him, and he was assenting. So his “Sure,” was as much verbal shrug
as agreement. Bobbie would be with him. Well, that’d be Karl’s problem.

  He spent the morning at home Internet-researching the geography and geology around Merrimac County, from the low-lying south shore of the St. Lawrence River down to Vermont’s Granite Hills. The Grange and the Terramac tract lay in the knobby rises where flatland met the foothills. That stretch of terrain, he learned, was doubly drained, southwest into the Missisquoi River and on to Lake Champlain, north via Fortier Creek and Rivière Sabrevois to the Richelieu, on to the St. Lawrence. Fortier Creek rose from springs in Vermont and flowed north into Quebec, the national boundary an afterthought unsponsored by nature.

  •

  Lola touched my forearm. “He sounds like you.”

  I nodded. I hid my smile from her.

  •

  A nineteenth-century system of locks and canals, recently revived, makes it possible to sail from New York Harbor, head up the Hudson and along the old Barge Canal to Lake Champlain, through its hundred-mile length to the Sabrevois and Richelieu Rivers, on to the St. Lawrence and back to the Atlantic. The New England states plus the Gaspé Peninsula of southeastern Quebec, together with New Brunswick: thought of in this way, they become a huge island.

  The headwaters of the Missisquoi and the Richelieu were rapid little streams, the Sabrevois more peaceful, sluggish even. From where Fortier Creek emptied into the Sabrevois the water dropped seventy-nine feet over forty-one miles to the St. Lawrence and was navigable by pleasure boats its full length.

  The phone rang. Charlie Dart. “Checking if you’re in. Stay there. I’m coming over.”

  “Sure, but what’s—”

  “I’ll be there in half an hour.”

  What was up with Charlie? Carney went back to his research. The fist-bump north containing the Cochan and Magnussen properties was covered with shallow-earth fields. The land around was lightly forested. A granite shelf began just below the surface, now and then erupting into visible crags and low cliffs. The light soil produced patches of corn, and some hay. The roots of such pine, maple, spruce and birch as managed to grow spread broad and shallow.

  To the north, over into Quebec, lay rich farming land. Only sixty-five hundred years ago the area had been an immense lake, large as Erie. At its eastern end, on the far side of what was now Quebec City, a massive ridge creating falls to rival Niagara had dammed it in place. But under the force of erosion the St. Lawrence deepened its channel and over centuries of surge and thrust the falls collapsed. The lake emptied forever, revealing new land, a bed that had filled over millions of years with rich soil drained from the plains and prairies via the Great Lakes and the upper St. Lawrence. Now five months a year when the sun warmed the soil the land provided wondrous corn and hay, berries, apples.