Whatever Lola Wants

by George Szanto

  “It worked?” She touched her whisky glass to her brow.

  “Soon as I made my decision my throat cleared a bit, couple of weeks and it was gone. Telling a crowded hall a horror story about a mess keeps it away. The stories became the book.”

  “So everything’s okay now.”

  She was watching his face again, her eyes an invasion. Scotch re-enforced. He felt way more naked than when she’d arrived. She stared in, no words. For self-protection he looked back. Into her eyes, one to the other, the tiniest shift. Not a flicker to hers, they were gray, a flash of green, the center black and exacting. He felt hypnotized.

  She drew back, still gazing at him. “How long will they hold our reservation?”

  They drove in Carney’s Jaguar. A fine evening, the air soft. A large truck in front of them exuded gray fumes. She covered her nose.

  “I’ll drop back.” He grinned at her.

  “We smother nature to death. We turn it into an anthrosphere.”

  How quick to shunt away the earlier mood. “What’s an anthrosphere?”

  “As opposed to biosphere. A world only for humans, not for the rest,” she said. “The Old Testament God wins again. ‘Be fruitful, multiply and replenish the earth, and subdue it, and have dominion over the fish of the sea and the fowl of the air and over every living thing that moveth on the earth.’”

  At the Inn the background music was muted, undemanding. The mood soothed. They ordered, tuna for Carney, a vegetable stir-fry for Sarah, and a bottle of Australian Sauvignon Blanc. She relaxed into silence, let her eyes close. Again a lovely woman sat opposite him.

  The food arrived. They probed each other’s pasts. No, she’d never wanted children, likely too late now. He was relieved he never had any, considering his divorce, his work. In the fall she’d look for another job.

  “Tired of the human functions?”

  “Just their output.”

  “Where’ll you look?”

  “I don’t know. Not in an office or a lab.”

  “Something outside.”

  She nodded. “That was smart, making a book out of your lectures.”

  “You think so?” Right then Carney discovered he wanted Sarah to think the things he had done in his life, and what he believed, were dead-on and smart and important.

  “Yeah. Doing something. I should have divorced Driscoll years ago, done something with all that time. We had so little in common. At the end. And in the middle.” She dunked a piece of cauliflower in some sauce and popped it in her mouth. She chewed, mulled, and swallowed.

  “What kept you together?”

  She shook her head. “There’s something about divorce. To me it’s like an admission of failure. A car accident killed him. I felt guilty. Not that I could’ve kept it from happening, just I couldn’t figure how to mourn. I learned how little I’d respected his life when his death caused me so little sadness.”

  He asked, “And are you unhappy about the other break?”

  She squinted at him. “Which?”

  “Between you and your mother.”

  She thought about this. “Things can change.”

  “You felt distant from, uh, your husband”—he nearly said De Skull—“for a long time?”

  “Oh, since about when we moved to Boston. I mean, I didn’t hate him. And I don’t think he had affairs. He was married to his job. He gave me everything, time to find what I should do, what I liked doing, freedom to take the job way up in Durham.”

  “Maybe,” Carney said, “these weren’t his to give.”

  She sat still, staring. Slowly, she nodded.

  On her face only the gaze, committing more of him to memory. Mot suddenly said, Pull back. Her eyes held him to her, and—he was struck by this—her search made him shiver.

  She lifted her glass. “To you. Thank you.” Her eyes never left his face.

  He felt himself slide.

  She sipped the last of the wine. “Shall we go?”

  He paid. They drove. Neither spoke.

  Then from her silence she said, “When I was seventeen I had an abortion.”

  They drove on.

  “My mother never forgave me. My father— I told them I was pregnant. I took care of it.”

  “You were brave.”

  “Scared. Good and scared.” She shook her head. “I explained what I’d done. I’d never seen Theresa so devastated. She’d already said they’d raise the baby, she and Milton. I think they never told Leasie and Feasie, or Karl. I certainly didn’t.”

  They drove, speed unchanging, as on slick ice.

  “From fourteen-fifteen on I was pretty wild. Lots of boys. Men.” She laughed lightly. “Theresa forgave me the wildness. And the pregnancy. She didn’t forgive the abortion.”

  The wheels of the Jag made no sound.

  “Later I didn’t forgive myself.”

  “Why not?”

  “I should have respected her stance. I knew what it would be.”

  “Hmm.” But does one really, Carney wondered. “And the baby’s father?”

  “Who it was? I don’t know. Three or four possibilities.”

  “Hmm.”

  “After, I stayed away from sex for three years. A real nun.”

  “It must’ve been”—how not to sound stupid?—“tough.”

  “Yep.”

  Carney turned toward her. “Sarah—”

  Her right eyebrow arched up.

  “Thanks.”

  She nodded, and they drove. A new kind of silence. They reached his farm, and went into the living room. It had gotten to be eleven-thirty. Carney asked, strange question, “You driving back to the cabin tonight, or going to Burlington?”

  She smiled. “I’m staying here.” She gazed at his face, a glance. Then she was kissing him. The gentlest kiss, as if she didn’t dare bruise his lips. She drew back. “If you want me to.”

  He kissed her. An embrace so right and new he might never have held a woman before.

  They sipped armagnac, they laughed, for a time were too drunk or too giddy or too wonderstruck for more. Desire increased its demands, the spell of the other a magnet, a sudden sweet greed. They touched, joined. Afterward they held each other for a long time, and fell asleep. In the morning they did even better.

  •

  Six of them arrived this time, the Gods Helen, Dante, Dmitri, Elizabeth, Weng, and Edsel himself. They stood in a circle about me. Wherever I turned, one or the other would be facing me. So I stopped turning. I’d deal with the big fella himself. “What d’you want, Edsel?” Silence. “Okay,” I said. I would walk away. What could they do, close in and not let me pass? Grab me and pummel me? These great Gods who’d AAed? Unlikely. I stepped forward, between Edsel and Helen. And all of them moved with me, the circle remained, striding across the clouds. I shifted direction. So did the circle. Simon says. I stopped, I said to Dante, “You Gods are weird.” I sat down. They too sat. Monkey do. I said to Weng, “Having a good time?” Weng said, “Lola.” Amazing! They can speak, too. At least one can. “Ah, Lola,” I said. I looked around me. No Lola, just six seated Gods. I lifted the hem of my robe, flicked away some imagined dust, and looked under. “Nope. Not here.” I checked up my sleeves. “Sorry, not there either.” I picked up a piece of fuzzy cloud and looked into the hole I’d made, shrugged, smiled sadly at Weng and shook my head. I pulled the fuzz apart. “No idea, guys.” I stopped speaking to them. I had nothing to say. I lay flat, and closed my eyes. Gods to watch over me in my sleep. I think after a while they got up, and closed the circle tight by all standing around me, looking down, waiting for what? Lola, springing suddenly from my forehead. She didn’t. When I awoke, they were gone.

  Not sure what to think of all this. Could they do me any harm? No known evidence of such an act up here, at least not by me. On the other hand, I’d just stood off six Gods. I’d never heard of such a thing either. But it felt okay.

  •

  3.

  Cochan watched Sheriff Nottingham march up
the nave. Merrimac Investigation Services’s head agent, bringing his report to the President and Chief Executive Officer of Intraterra.

  “How are you, Mr. Cochan?”

  “Great, Hank. What’s happening?”

  Two things were happening. One was easy to talk about. The other the Sheriff and Jeb hadn’t investigated far enough. Suspicions. Fears. If they checked out he didn’t know if he could talk about it. He took a folded paper from his shirt pocket and spread it open. “Well, Mr. Boce was right in worrying about that Carney. We did a search on him—”

  John sat back. “Hank, I don’t need to know this. Tell Steed.”

  Henry Nottingham nodded, a kind of self-encouragement to spend as much time on Carney as possible. “Just the context, Mr. Cochan, and a couple of interesting details. You see, this Carney, he’s worth millions.”

  “So?”

  “So I read some of a book he’s written, called A Ton of Cure. It’s not pro the kind of environmentalism Terramac’s all about. Not your Econovism, sir.”

  “Hank, there’s only one real environmentalism. Let’s not get into that now. What else?”

  “Hang on, Mr. Cochan, let me finish. You see—” He glanced at his paper.

  Goddamn laconic Vermonters.

  “There’s another reason why this guy’s around. Seems he was brought here by Theresa Magnussen.”

  “I’ve already gathered that. And?”

  “He’s gone to visit the professor at the hospital several times. He’s visited the home of the son, Karl. He’s stayed at the Magnussen Grange, supposedly to fish Gambade Brook.”

  “Hank. Spare me his itinerary.” What did Carney have to do with the whoring shrink son?

  “He met with Leonora Magnussen.” The Sheriff looked up. “Couple of times.”

  “Okay, Hank.”

  “Took me longer than I hoped but everything’s solid. I’ll type it up tomorrow.”

  “That’s okay.” John smiled. He didn’t feel like smiling. “I prefer some reports verbally.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  “Good work.”

  “I’ll be going, then.”

  “Sure, thanks— Wait, wait a minute.” John had to ask. The empty coffin. He’d told Hank not to investigate. Still— “Was there anything else?”

  “Uh, no sir.” There was. But till he got it clearer, he couldn’t say anything. He handed Cochan the Magnussen file. “Take care.” He left.

  John read it through. Full of Hank’s good research, way more than he already knew about the family. Photographs. The woman who’d thrown the fish at Steed. The twins. The fatface stud. John would get him good.

  4.

  Sunday lunch at Karl’s with Milton, Leonora, Feodora, Ti-Jean, and Sarah now included Carney. Little awareness of his relationship with Sarah. Milton, his face glowing, announced to the them, “Theresa’s coming home, they’re releasing her Wednesday. She’ll go for physiotherapy every day, I’ll stay with her. We could all be at the house when she gets out, it’d give her such pleasure.” To Sarah specifically he said, “Can you come? About noon? It’d make her so happy.”

  “Of course. Her mind’s going to keep working till her heart quits.” Sarah raised an eyebrow. “I’d take odds on that.”

  Milton looked at her sadly. But Sarah had meant this as a compliment for a one-time combatant. Carney wondered if Theresa would want such a reunion. Was Milton inventing this pleasure for her sake or his own?

  Feasie said, “I think it’d be good for Theresa to spend some time at the Grange. It’s close enough to town for the physiotherapy.”

  Milton wasn’t sure. “The ground at the Grange isn’t level. I’ve got her a new chair, it’s coming this week. Twelve horsepower.”

  Ti-Jean muttered, “Too big.”

  Lunch was a roast capon smothered in tarragon, roast potatoes, asparagus. And a small multigrain casserole for Sarah. They drank Theresa’s health. Over coffee, Leonora told them about her meeting with John Cochan. “Dalton Zikorsky filed for the restraining order against the blasting and Cochan’s lawyers tried to block it right away. They’ll set the hearing date this week. Dalt’s feeling positive.” They cheered her. Good to be back on the offensive.

  All except Karl. In the last week he hadn’t called Leonora, although she’d phoned him twice. Worry about Priscilla dominated everything.

  “The hearing.” Ti-Jean squinted at her. “When could it happen?”

  “Likely not till September.”

  Ti-Jean, still muttering: “Lawyers.”

  Leonora ignored him and reported on her research. “What’s complicated is the trespassing issue. The laws of Vermont and of Merrimac County—and Johnnie Cochan’s activities have to be considered under these—these are, regarding our options, contradictory in an important way.”

  Karl muttered, “Normal.” But he did realize Leonora was diving into all this work to wash away her foolishness. Recommending buying into Terramac, for godsake!

  “In certain respects the law is all too clear. If he were mining, well he’s got the go-ahead for the Terramac project. His underground rights included.”

  Carney asked, “So what’s unclear?”

  Leonora turned to him. “Are they really building underneath our land? We don’t know.”

  “We do know he’s blasting.”

  “Specifically under Grange land?”

  Feasie said, “But if he’s building wherever, we’ve got him?”

  Leonora’s head shook. “That’s equivocal.” She had to make them see how hard she’d worked on the case. To give the Grange land the greatest possible protection. “The law’s direct enough on mineral rights, with approval you can mine or quarry your own land or with a lease you can remove ore or rock or fossil fuels from under somebody else’s. His agreement with the county lets him mine to five thousand feet. So if he’s less deep than that, and if he’s not taking anything out of there, if he’s building deeper than several sub-basements—” She shrugged. “In Vermont law, no one’s ever posed this question.”

  Ti-Jean liked his wife’s twin sister well enough, except when she epitomized the legal profession; like now. He shook his head. “You say property rights extend into the ground?”

  “Right. Except no one I’ve consulted knows how far down. So it’s not clear if his five thousand feet is legal. Some states have laws, but not Vermont. If you go down far enough into the earth, everybody’s property meets. In that sense.”

  “The only issue we should be concerned with”—Carney spoke slowly, deliberately—“is if he’s under land to which he has no rights. If so, whatever he’s doing there is illegal.”

  “Goddammit,” Feasie breathed. “The explosions, they’re under the Grange. I can feel it.”

  Milton looked baffled, discouraged. “Under his own land he can blast what he wants?”

  Leonora said, “In one sense, yes.”

  Carney turned to Milton. “Do you have underground mineral rights at the Grange?”

  “I don’t know.” Milton frowned. “My father never said. We never worried about it.”

  “You should acquire them. Before someone else does.”

  “He’s got plenty of space of his own.”

  “This is Handy Johnnie, remember?”

  Leonora felt as if she’d been set aside. She leapt in again. “Look, his prospectives for the Fortier farm have been approved by the county, his power and water and waste disposal requirements are satisfied. At least on paper. He’s self-contained and we can’t do a thing.” Leonora smiled, in control again. “But, if he has moved under our land in order to build, we can go beyond restraining orders, and lay charges. It could take years and it’ll cost. But we’ll beat him. And set important precedent.”

  “So now what? Wait?” Feasie was furious. “He’s already messed up the stream. The well water tastes, I don’t know, different.”

  Milton squinted at her. “You sure?”

  “Maybe it’s my taste buds. But Ti-Jean thinks
it’s different. Don’t you?”

  “That’s it.”

  Carney was nodding. “Like Leonora says, it’s a slow way. But it has to be done. Stop him here, you’ll stop him in other places too.” Long-term prevention. Always a patient process.

  “Sure, Carney. Slow, polite, easy.” Karl leaned forward, his face flushed. “Step back, let the bastard do what he wants. He destroys whatever’s in his way.” The land, his wife— Damn! He turned to Leonora. “You think there’s a law to deal with the likes of John Cochan? He does what he wants with whoever he wants. He beats and smashes. And by the time you get to him, it’s too late. Too fucking late.” Tears filled his eyes.

  Leonora leaned over his chair, she put her arm around his shoulder. Her neck felt hot. “I’ve got some vacation time coming. I’ll do everything I can.” With a grim smile she glanced around the table. She took Karl’s hand, he squeezed hers.

  Carney said, “It’s a shame we can’t see where the blasts have taken place, check the site with global positioning. That’d tell us all we need to know.”

  Lunch broke up. Sarah left with Carney. In full view of all they drove away.

  Monday Carney again visited Theresa. She could roll side to side now. Not up and down, she had to be pulled to a sitting position, but, Milton said, with therapy that too might return. Once up she could hold herself straight, her chest and back muscles again hard at work. Her neck had regained some strength and she could turn to face whoever was speaking. If she wanted to.

  No trouble with her hearing. But her speech was badly jumbled. Her right hand was steadier from the therapy and the doctor had started her on acupuncture. Her fingers could grasp a spoon. On the left side, no recovery. Two doctors told Milton they’d pretty much given up there.

  Milton wouldn’t believe it. He’d bring her back.

  5.

  Yak stared at blue equations on Steed’s computer screen, tabulations of around-the-dome Luciflex strength per square meter. He saw only blue lines. Go across to Johnnie’s office, let him ruminate, wind him down?

  He turned his head halfway, he watched Johnnie, but the Handyman— Well, he was sitting, more broody than in a long time, exuding cool silence. Yak would help Johnnie any way possible, if Johnnie’d let him. He did understand, he’d heard the sad news of the miscarriage. Though not from Johnnie. Wrong for John Cochan to bear this all alone.