Whatever Lola Wants (54 page)

John leaned forward, a growing smile. “I don't give a damn if it's good enough, Harry. I think I know what's there. I need to be sure.”

“Listen, that's not how we cooperate.”

“We don't cooperate at all, Harry. You cooperate with me.”

“Look. I know it must've been a terrible week, godawful, and I'm sorry. Let's not argue.”

John Cochan's smile widened. “You have no idea. So don't put your nose where it can't tell shit from porridge.”

“Maybe you should take a little time off, John. Give yourself a bit of a break from all this.”

“Harry, would you like a lot of time off? Give yourself a total break from this?”

Clark's head shook again. “I'm saying I worry about you.”

“Well don't, Harry.” The sweetest smile. “Worry about Terramac instead. Worry about showing me what's back behind there.”

“I don't understand.”

“I know you don't. That's why I'm telling you. Get Bang to worry about how to set the charge. Worry how to set the remote.”

“It could be dangerous, blasting right there with only the one charge.”

“It's a wall of stone like any other.”

“It's thicker. And from the soundings the cavern out back there is way deeper.”

“Just do it. And do it right. Okay, Harry?”

“And if I refuse?”

John pressed an intercom button. “Steed, can you come in for a minute?”

They watched Aristide Boce came out of his office, into John Cochan's. “What's up?”

“Tell Harry what happens if Bang doesn't set the charge in the wall.”

“Then Intraterra wouldn't be certain what lies beyond it.”

“Is that important, Steed?”

“If that chamber gives us potential to build more units, there could be a significant shift in profit margin in the second stage. Hence more flexibility elsewhere, hmm? It's what you're hoping for, Harry, higher unit space.”

“In a way.” Harold Clark had been hoping for all kinds of eventualities. Some had come along, others not. The deep fissure for one, that was intriguing, he'd enjoyed planning around that. A large, even an immense, cavern was only one possible hoped-for eventuality.

“And Steed, what happens if we don't build additional units.”

“Something would have to go. Say, the golf courses.”

Some kind of catechism, these guys back-and-forthing. “If I concede the golf courses?”

“It would make Terramac less than we'd hoped. And H.M. Clark could end up designing four-family apartment units for the next quarter century.”

“Oh, come on.”

Boce smiled. “John Cochan knows many people.”

“I'm not sure. I'd need the best part of the week to work it out.”

“You have two days. My guests are coming Friday evening. We'll clear the distant cavern in the late afternoon. We'll blast at 6:00
PM
.”

“I'll have to work straight through. Day and night.”

“It's all the same down there, Harry.”

Clark nodded.

“Not too soon to start, right now.”

“See you later.” Clark got up, left the office, walked slowly down the nave.

Boce said, “He'll get it done. He's good.”

Without looking up Cochan said, “Yes.”

Aristide Boce would back John Cochan in anything. He returned to his office. But it was true, he too felt uncomfortable about this one.

John put his feet up on the desk. Harry'd get it done. Magnussen and his wife must see. After the blast they'd know this was a natural extension of Terramac's Underland, the future for all the children.

Underland, the pinnacle. Johnnie smiled, delighted with his little irony.

3.

Friday Carney drove up to
Burlington for lunch, the odd invitation from Karl. Then three days with Sarah. Could she possibly really alter his life? This far along?

Karl's home despite the view of the lake felt cramped, suburban. Carney met Priscilla Cochan, a woman with red hair and a soft face gone tight. Her two daughters ignored Carney's attention, they fussed through the meal, chicken in an orange sauce. Karl handled the small ones well. A young woman named Diana who ate with them took the girls away for a separate dessert.

“Must be convenient, having a nanny.”

“Yep.” Karl nodded. “Suddenly I'm part of a ménage of five.” He grinned.

Too bright and positive, thought Carney. “A large shift.”

Priscilla smiled. “You married, Carney?”

Carney passed lightly over his long-ago divorce.

Karl smiled. “Going to marry again?”

“Lots of ways to be, right?”

The phone rang. Karl excused himself. Carney felt a strained urge to ask Priscilla Cochan about her husband. If he spoke that'd be the first question out of his mouth. He said nothing.

Priscilla began talking. Anger tumbled out, and fear—words, paragraphs, a self-scouring. She saw it clearly; in retrospect, they'd been rising to the break all last year. They'd lost their boy, Benjamin, drowned, right on their property. Johnnie hadn't been the same since.

“I'm very sorry.”

“I've been trying to think it through.” She stared at the tablecloth. She played with her dessert spoon. “But my mind's not too clear these days.”

She wanted to smile, Carney thought. “A terrible thing like that, it can be a catalyst.”

“I guess so. Last couple of weeks, that was a catalyst, sure was.” She set the spoon down and faced Carney square on. “He killed the baby I was carrying.”

Carney held her stare, sighed audibly, shook his head. How to react? “Terrible.” He looked down at the tablecloth. “Awful.” And Sarah thinks I know how to listen.

“I'd never go back. And for sure he doesn't want me back, it's done.” She shook her head. “But you know, I still love him. I've asked myself so many times, how is it possible? Is it because, if I hated him, I'd have to hate all the years I spent with him? And hate all we had.”

Here lay Karl's professional ground. Maybe he could in fact help her. Carney wouldn't say this to Priscilla Cochan. When at a loss for intelligent words, embrace the banal. “Hard questions.”

She dropped her eyes. A small nod.

“What will you do?”

“Go somewhere. Away from here.”

“You know where?”

“A city. I'm from Boston. Around Boston, that's all I can think of. It depends on Karl.”

“You'll both go?”

Again she looked over to Carney.

•

In her eyes that curious human desire: If I look hard into both your eyes I can be totally honest. I've learned it can't be done. It's a physical impossibility to look at two things at the same time.

•

Priscilla's stare shifted
from one of Carney's eyes to the other, then chose the bridge of his nose. For a moment her eyes crossed. “All of us, Diana too, if she'll come.” Priscilla Cochan released a long breath, and looked away. “The girls love her and trust her.”

“It'll be a big change.”

“It's been a big change.”

“I can imagine.”

“Karl's been so wonderful with the girls—”

Karl returned. He stared at Priscilla, then at Carney. “Amazing, that call. A first.”

“Who was it?” she said.

“My mother.” Karl sat. “I don't think I've ever talked to her on the phone. She doesn't talk on the phone.” His voice quavered. “She didn't even when I was a kid.”

“She's changed a lot,” Carney platituded. “Since the last stroke.”

Priscilla took Karl's hand. “What did she say?”

He looked down at her, tears in his eyes.

Carney thought, Damn, but I've been privy recently to lots of crying.

“She's not easy to make sense of. Even when you're right there with her.” Karl shook his head. “That's a fierce slur she's got.”

Carney asked, “Could you make out what the words were?”

“I think—” Karl looked from Priscilla to Carney, and back to Priscilla. “I think she—was telling me she loved me.” His words launched a tear down each cheek.

“Well”—Priscilla, now so sensible—“and why shouldn't she tell you?”

“She never has.” His head shook. “Not in so many words.” He forced a laugh. “And on the phone—” He shook his head, found a tissue, and wiped his eyes. “She called me—I think she called me—her little clinker.”

Priscilla said, “What does that mean?”

“I have no idea.”

“Sounds affectionate,” said Carney.

Karl dabbed his nose. “Sorry, Carney. You haven't seen me at my best.”

“You've had a lot to bear.” Full to bursting with helpful homilies, Carney.

“Maybe she's gone soppy in the head.”

“She's alert when I visit.”

“It makes me miss her ranting.”

“I'd bet she goes on saying what she wants.” Carney smiled.

They let Karl talk, he telling them about Theresa in earlier days, blasting out at the dinner table against the stupidities of the day, verbally fencing with friends.

Carney had to leave. He'd be seeing Sarah, likely Feasie too. Any messages?

None. Yesterday Karl had told Feasie about Priscilla by phone, he'd confided in Leasie a few days ago, he'd asked them both not to tell Milton, he wanted to himself. Sarah could know.

“Feasie reacted okay?”

“Oh, you know her, she'll tell Ti-Jean first, then figure out what she feels.”

That didn't sound right to Carney, but he didn't comment. He left Burlington and headed north toward the Grange, to be there to meet Sarah and her Jeep. His Jag wouldn't take to her road.

4.

Sarah drove slowly from Richmond.
She was tired but felt herself swinging between joy and reservation. Along the way some amusement, a little hesitation and a touch of doubt. The dry air was thin, a cloudless sky, and mid-afternoon promised a chilly night. Okay by her, Carney was coming out, he'd stay the weekend. The week's shopping was done. No time to straighten the cabin before picking him up? Too bad.

Halfway home by some low-lying fields the Jeep passed through a hatch of late mayflies. In half a minute five dozen bugspots had spattered her windshield. She sprayed window-wash and set the wipers whirring but only smeared the mess, nearly impossible to see out. She hated killing them. She stopped the car, found a rag, the water bottle. Mayflies everywhere, millions of them, landing on the seat, the dashboard, her arms and hair. She flicked at them, and stopped. She held out her hand. Two landed. Long narrow wings, a grace of curving thorax and abdomen and a feathery sweep of tail. Magnificent.

Never in her life had she seen so many mayflies. And never so late in the season. She decided to take the hatch as an omen. The best of omens.

She watched them, awe replacing the earlier weariness. She'd worked half a day in the lab, then had a check-up appointment for herself that finished late. She preferred her own doctor; too many of those guys, which of late included women, treat you like so much meat. But at the county, personal preference meant waiting. It had all taken longer than she expected.

She sped past the Grange turn-off and threaded the Jeep down her dirt track. Would Carney buy a four-wheel drive so she wouldn't have to pick him up? This ease of being with him, the sensual luxurious back-and-forth understanding, is that what gets called love? Would she miss him if he disappeared tomorrow, would her heart break? Yes, there'd be a good-size hole. A segment of her, unshaped till Carney came along, would be empty. Now she knew it'd be impossible to live without him, he'd always remain some elusive part of her.

Theresa his reason to come into their lives, Sarah his reason for staying: he'd said that to her a few days ago. Love with Carney, if that's what it was, was going to have to get made day by day.

The dozens of lovers, too many to remember, and then Driscoll, battles in an unending war. And during Driscoll— Poor Nate, he'd deserved better, but she'd been incapable of giving better. Was the family's great dislike of Driscoll the reason she married him? Bemused, she concentrated on the road.

Her patchwork history with men left this attraction to Carney, her feelings for him, hard to give name to. The family liked him, he came ready-approved. But clear flaws, limits; despite the years of damage control, he was fragile. His urge for privacy, his shield that kept women—men too, likely—from entering his life.

But he did attract Sarah as no one before. Not even Nate.

She put away the pastas and beans, and stored the vegetables and salmon steaks in the ice house. Yes, salmon. She'd eaten fish again since the nibble of doré up at Gouin, in a restaurant, by herself. She admitted she found it as delicious as once it had been. Maybe Theresa was right, if she'd met Carney years earlier, the time so much better used—

She stared at her pond, poor silent dying pond. Would she ice-farm this winter? For chunks of frozen chemical glop to melt into her Scotch come next summer?

She should be cleaning up the cabin. Instead she sat on her porch steps and marveled at Theresa's transformation. The shock of that outright apology still made Sarah shiver. Theresa had leaned back, looked over at her, grinned with such pleasure—

Sure, Theresa had known. Sarah laughed aloud. Dear old woman. Dear mother Theresa, the old clairvoyant. Sarah laughed, sitting on the steps she laughed, a loud laughter that suddenly hacked and she found she was crying.

A new thing, this crying. She wiped her face. She'd not cried when Driscoll died. Now the tears wouldn't stop. A wellspring, bursting out. She let it flow.

5.

Carney drove quickly. A soft
afternoon, warm and still, the road curving north. After the lunch with Karl and Priscilla, the Mot sense of things had started prickling down his back like July mosquitoes. A straight stretch. He accelerated hard. At faster than eighty he noted a County Sheriff's Department cruiser lurking on a dirt road. It pulled out, red and blue flashers blazing, the siren whining. Ah Mot, perceived and neglected. Carney slowed. Some day he'd get smart.