Whatever Lola Wants (53 page)

She turned. “Hello, Sarah.” (“Eho, Gharhh.”)

“You're looking well.”

“So are you.” Sarah in jeans and a shirt. Good. Like she'd once worn.

“I'm feeling pretty good.”

She knew that, could see it all. Wonderful. “How's Carney?”

“Oh, okay.”

“A good man, Carney.”

“Yes. He is.”

“I like him. I like him a lot.”

She'd see him later. “We all like him.”

“You like him more than the rest of us do.”

“I suppose, in my way.” Nosy old woman. Sarah smiled. “Each of us, in our way.”

“I wish you'd have met him fifteen years ago.”

“What?” Sarah heard only, I wish oooghghghet him feten eehrz gho.

Theresa tried differently. “I wish the two of you had met long ago.”

She felt her cheeks warming. “Except I didn't.”

“Even ten years ago. Instead of Dreec Skl.”

She thought she heard Drip Skull. She giggled, she couldn't help herself. “What're you saying, Theresa?”

“We might've saved a lot of time, you and I.”

“Saved?”

“Instead of the anger and the fighting. We could have had better times.”

“You wouldn't take me as I was, that's all.”

“I know. I blame myself.”

She caught each word. Or thought she did. “I don't understand.”

“Sure you do.” Half Theresa's mouth twitched. “I'm sorry, Sarah. It could've been better, all these years.”

Her head was shaking, hesitant. From Theresa Magnussen, an apology? A mistake conceded? Sarah tried to smile. Her eyes filled with water. “Lots of—years.”

“No sense talking about might-have-beens.” Theresa stared at her. “Tell me about after, after now.”

She got up. Theresa touched the lever, the chair crept toward Sarah. She stood beside it, bent down, and embraced her mother's head, squeezed it to her chest, held it, felt her mother's arm around her waist. Felt her chest rock, little heaves.

Theresa had to laugh, such a strange embrace. She had to laugh, first time she'd been this close in years, till now just a peck on the cheek and that only recently, and now— She had to laugh, her tears tickled her neck. She had to laugh, they were her tears, where'd all that come from, both eyes? She had to laugh because the left eye could do more than stare, how about that.

She had to laugh, Sarah was laughing too. Sarah, standing in front of her, nose dripping, telling her mother yes she was in love with Theresa's friend Carney. Life-giving laughter.

Sarah shook her head, found a tissue, wiped her face, blew her nose. Found another, wiped her mother's cheeks.

“Like I used to wipe you. All over.”

“Oh Theresa—” She laughed, couldn't keep her eyes dry.

“Never mind. Tell me, what are your intentions?”

“My what?”

“Intentions. With Carney.”

“Oh, dishonorable.”

“And his?”

“The same, I think.”

Theresa nodded. “Then there's hope.”

“Always.”

When Sarah went off to meet Carney, she wondered could she be dishonorable to the extreme. Yes, she figured.

Your nose is running.

I think I spoke with Sarah right.

Not too much weakness. But a little.

For a confirmed anarchist, Lola, weakness too becomes a weapon.

Abstractions, abstractions.

Permit me a few.

A happy woman was Theresa Magnussen.

•

Relief. Even if Lola was plotting with Theresa. At least I can see Lola some of the time. The people can't see her at all. Except of course Theresa. Some of the time.

No. Stop. Refrain from metaphysics.

•

7.

Theresa's daughter Leonora, the solitary
Noodle, was far from happy. She sat with Karl at the Frontier Café, couple of miles from Canada. “Why?” she whispered. “Why Priscilla Cochan?”

Karl took his sister's hand. “Would it matter who?”

“But John Cochan's wife!?” Tears, held in until now, welled out.

“You meet someone, another person, and usually nothing happens. This time something did.” He squeezed Leonora's fingers. “Something wonderful, and the consequences were hideous. But the results of those consequences— Leasie, it's the best, being with Priscilla. It's that simple.”

No it wasn't that simple, it was far from simple. “Simple?”

“Yes.”

Inside her chest a hollow. Here was retribution for her link to John Cochan. She took from her mother and gave to John Cochan. The amazing ironies of coincidence. She should be laughing. But her heart ached. “I'm pleased you're—happy.”

Karl smiled. “We are. I love her.”

If she hadn't listened to Cochan four years ago maybe Terramac wouldn't have happened, maybe he'd have taken his whole family and gotten the fuck out of here.

8.

John Cochan woke early. Today,
first and at last: the rest of the Terramac land. With a flick of his mind he knew who he needed. Too early to call him at home? Nope.

A bad last
couple of days for Henry Nottingham. He'd driven around the county serving writs, a deputy's job. People weren't in. What the hell, the time was shot anyway. Over those days he'd also talked with Rebecca a half-dozen times about his weird chat with John Cochan. Just close the Investigation office. What, it takes too much time? Conflict of interest? Discovered when? Or, more dangerously, the simplest truth: his nerves couldn't take any more dealing with Cochan.

Labored discussions. Rebecca was a good listener. They talked it through one way, the money was good, she liked the business, both the job and sharing the work with Henry; and the other, his doubts, the stress. Nothing decided.

They were finishing breakfast, last of the coffee. The phone rang. From where he sat the Sheriff reached up and lifted the receiver, “Hello?”

John Cochan himself. “Like to talk to you, Hank. Mind coming over, first thing?”

“It's kind of a busy morning, uh, John—”

“I'd appreciate it.”

“Just a minute.” Henry Nottingham cupped his palm over the mouthpiece. He looked over to Rebecca, his lips sucked in, his eyes asking the question. She shook her head. He nodded. “Two or three things I've got to do right off, be there quick as I can.”

“Sooner's better, Hank.” He broke the connection.

“Choose your time,” said Rebecca.

9.

My time-below sister-in-law, Roberta Feyerlicht,
is a clever woman. Yesterday Carney brought her two presents. He told her about Sarah, she had enchanted him when he thought no woman could ever again—one part of Carney fearing it impossible, another delighted. Yes, even better than producing rarely in-tune melodies on his cello.

Well. Bobbie adored Carney and would be there for him forever. Since his parents' deaths she had been, but knew that for full-time duty she was getting old. Her love for Ricardo was for twenty-one years their unhidden secret. Her only other long-term passion.

The second present was Carney's description of dragonflies he'd watched with Sarah, and Sarah's explanation. Bobbie realized she'd been handed a moment of exquisite clarity. For others too, if she could make it so. She heard Ricardo whisper, Set it down. Immediately.

SEX

A hazy sun. Flit of a breeze and water sparkle.

A dragonfly, sheen of black, wings banded silver-blue.

He sees her.

Darting.

Feeding.

He clasps a petal of a lily.

He curves his tail, tip out to belly.

He slides open his abdominal sac.

He inserts, such easy care, his tail's tip.

He releases, slow, the precious liquid,

droplet,

droplet.

And withdraws. A full pack.

His eyes, globes, follow her flight.

His territory. His right.

Her long body knows.

He spurts over water, blue sun in his wings.

He follows as she goes.

She hunts, darts, feeds, dares.

Behind her, now above, his legs grab on,

the deed dared.

She slows, she's here for this.

They fly, paired.

He carries her.

His abdomen loops high.

Tail-hooks clasp pits, groove behind her head. They fly.

His legs let go. His tail, her neck, a coupling.

They swoop, one thing.

A sun-warm swampgrass stem. No sound.

Tail-tip circles up to sperm sac mound.

She strokes its center.

His bore enters.

Under him she's curved around.

A wheel.

They clinch coital half an hour,

their artful ways.

The droplets fill her core.

They fly apart.

Some sticks, dead bark.

She finds a hollow, wind-free, soft mud, dark.

She pushes, squeezes, lays.

A new male swoops, ill-concealed.

Her partner surges up, abdomen a shield—

The interloper sails away, his plot undone.

She rises, hovers, streaks toward the sun.

Well now. Was it all of a piece? Thank you, Carney. And Sarah. But most of all, Ricardo. As if his hand had guided hers. She laughed aloud.

Carney and his cello, a tiny bit of order. What other order is there? We've made the world a mess, he'd say to Ricardo. The isms have fallen, Ricardo agreed, commune, capital, social, modern. All isms except those beginning with post-, the empty posts. And my job, Carney had said, is to clean up after them, post-pesticide and post-fungicide, post oil slops, post plutonium slops, post-herbicide.

With Sarah, Bobbie wondered, would he learn a different order? Because there is order, with the greatest clarity Bobbie affirmed this. Order in the growth of fruit, the pathways of ants, the cycle of seasons. True that in this century these smaller orders have for most people grown invisible. True as well, there are also larger orders. The purpose of her new poem-sequence? To show how these orders fit with each other. Which helped explain the reluctance of another poem, in memory of Ricardo. It had fought her for months.

TRIANGLES

a.)

Think of it this way.

At the base, under the ground, in the soil, bacteria.

In one square yard, ten trillion.

A 1 and 13 zeros.

Broaden the base.

4,840 square yards, an acre of

pasture, a billion arthropods, the largest animal group.

Mites, spiders, springtails, aphids, millipedes, beetles.

Arthropod: jointed leg.

Recall the triangle. Above

the arthropods, birds, reptiles, small mammals. Fewer.

Above, the larger animals.

On top, humans.

b.)

A survival triangle.

Those at the top eat those below.

The bottom knows nothing of the top.

The top, little of the bottom.

Destroy the bottom—

What did it still need? She didn't know. Perhaps nothing.

Thank you again, Sarah.

•

Thank you, Bobbie.

Thirteen

1.

Rebecca Nottingham slid her plate
aside, set her cup on the table, leaned his way. “We don't need the money, Henry.”

“He'd push to keep me getting re-elected.”

“I know.”

“Maybe I'll tell him when I see him.”

“Pick your time.”

Henry Nottingham nodded. Then he stood and embraced his wife, held her tight.

He drove around for half an hour admiring Merrimac County. A glorious August morning. At a crest pull-off he stopped, got out. It'd be hot by eleven but right now everything smelled of pine and, from somewhere hidden, wild roses. So late in the season? He'd get another job, he knew the land, the people. Maybe this afternoon he'd head over to Lake Champlain, rent a boat at Wedge's Cove, try for some deep smallmouths. That felt right. Best idea all week.

He drove across to Richmond. John Cochan kept him waiting five minutes, then buzzed him in. Cochan looked sleek and ruddy. Something different about his face— Yes, the mustache was gone. Pleasantries. Let him get to his business. Then Henry Nottingham would state his.

“Sheriff, I need to contact those Magnussen people.”

The Sheriff nodded, waited.

“Got to do it the right way. Proper, but pleasant. You know what I'm saying? So a registered letter wouldn't be it. They could refuse to sign for it, right?”

“Sorry sir, I don't know.”

“No matter, I don't want that route. And they wouldn't sign for a courier message either, would they. Or listen on the phone. So we need someone they trust. You following me, Hank?”

“I'm not sure, sir.”

“I think you are. You'll find someone they can trust. Think you can think of someone?”

“Well—”

“I'm sure you can.” He reached for an envelope on his desk, folded down the adhesive seal, handed it to the Sheriff. “They ought to get it today.”

Henry Nottingham glanced at it. “Another offer?”

“An invitation.”

A white business envelope. Just, Mr. J.M. Magnussen, Professor T.B. Magnussen. No printed Intraterra emblem. No return address.

“That's all, Hank. Give a call when it's delivered, okay? Mind seeing yourself out?” Already John Cochan had punched numbers on the phone and was talking. “Yak, it's me.”

He could sit and wait till Cochan finished, then a few words. But he got up and, closed the door behind him.

2.

Without Priscilla-the-wife, John Cochan was
a man at ease. From behind his desk he smiled at Harry Clark. John, good at explaining clearly, said, “Because we have to break through is why.”

“But what's it going to prove?”

“We'll see what's back there.”

Harry shook his head, not saying no, just exasperated. As dumb a thing as John had insisted on in a long time. No merit to the idea, nothing to be gained. Go through, yes. But not in this way. And not now. Almost certainly illegal, that far over. And with that heavy a charge, bordering on hazardous. “That's not a good enough reason.”