Revenge of the Cube Dweller (11 page)

Maria comes by to see if I want lunch, but I am too engrossed in my reading to stop. Around 4:00 I finish with 2009 and open the 2008 folder. Scanning the titles I notice a file named LEAR_2008_17_Houston_Gas and open that one up first. After starting on the narrative part of the form, I slowly put my hand to my mouth as I read.

This proposal is for a large-scale maintenance project for a gas pipeline in Houston. According to the proposal, the pipeline dates back to the 1930s and extends from West Texas to a hub near the Gulf Coast. When it was originally built, it ran through
what was considered the outskirts of Houston, but with the expansion over the last seventy-five years, it now has sections running through some heavily populated areas. The request references a report from Wagner Jones, Bishop’s former Vice President of Environmental Health and Safety, or EH&S as it is generally referred to, indicating that corrosion had been identified during pigging of another section of the line and that there could very well be something similar in the section under the Houston property.

Pigging is a pipeline term that has nothing to do with real pigs, or quirky sayings by Mark Twain. A pig is an object that is run through the pipe to collect information about the integrity of the pipe, as well as to identify obstructions or other problems that could affect performance. The initial studies about potential corrosion on the Houston pipeline were inconclusive, however, and according to the accompanying report, the pipe would have to be excavated and examined to be absolutely certain.

The records are not complete, but it seemed to the engineers that the section of pipe running under the Galleria area was slightly larger and of a different spec than the other sections. No one could explain this, but it was not uncommon back in the day to use leftover materials from another project to save a dollar or two. The size change made the pigging results unreliable, and without physical inspection the engineers could not be certain as to the condition of the pipe.

But in order to do a physical inspection, housing on top of the pipe would need to be moved or raised onto pilings to allow for excavation. Further complicating the effort, Bishop could not find the maps indicating exactly where the pipes were. They had a general idea, but could only estimate within a forty-foot range.

The LEAR file includes e-mail correspondence between the Bishop brothers, Pipeline Integrity, Operations, and the environmental team trying to get their arms around what exactly the problems are and what to do about them. There is a worst-case scenario calculation that, to my horror, estimates the dollar value of each life potentially lost that could be netted for insurance recoveries should an explosion occur. Unfortunately, that figure, though in the millions, is far less than the excavation and replacement cost of that section of the pipe.

It appears that the Bishops didn’t want to launch such a huge project on just a perceived risk rather than conclusive evidence, so they decided to defer the project and do more studies. Wagner was put in charge of coordinating with the Pipeline Integrity folks and Gas Operations and getting back to the executive team with more proposals.

Anyone who knows anything about Houston knows the rapid pace of change within the housing market. The lack of city zoning enables neighborhoods to change with astonishing frequency. Slums become haute and the other way around within just a few years. Such is the case in the Galleria area. When this LEAR was presented, the area was transitioning from rundown to upscale. The 1950s houses primarily used as rental property were being replaced by McMansions, million-dollar townhouses, and mid-rise condo buildings, including the one that was home to the Mayhews.

The initial loss calculations from the report were significantly undervalued and had not considered the recent gentrification of that particular section of the city. Even so, I am horrified that the company I work for had made a purely economic decision that had risked the safety of a community. What was the break-even
point in human lives that would have compelled Bishop to take steps to find and maintain the pipeline? I wonder if they would have approved the LEAR if the loss calculation had been based on country club members versus immigrant families like the O’Learys.

I nearly jump out of my skin as Grant walks in, home from work early to get ready for the wake.

“Oh my God, you scared me!” I say, startled.

“I live here,” he says, joking. “What’s wrong, Tanzie? You look upset.”

As much as I would love to tell Grant what I have just found, I decide to keep it to myself for the moment. I’m not sure how he would feel about me effectively stealing files.

“Oh, nothing, Grant,” I lie. “Just catching up on paperwork.”

I remove my flash drive and shut down his desktop, making sure I haven’t saved anything to his computer. Then I go upstairs to shower and get ready. The whole time, I am shaking with anger. I now have proof of serious Bishop complicity in my friends’ deaths.

Normally, I would have been terribly stressed about seeing the old gang with so little time to prepare, but I am still too furious about the incriminating file to worry about my appearance. Besides, my black dress looks great thanks to Tommy, and I wonder how good a pregnant Caroline will look. I am hoping she looks as fat as a cow, with swollen ankles and sausage fingers.

Beth came home while I was getting ready and the three of us pile into Grant’s Escalade for the ride to the funeral home.
The building is a tasteful combination of elegance and sterility—trimmed ivy covering ivory stucco with stern wrought iron accents. Gorgeous live oaks with white impatiens blooming underneath border a drive leading to the facility, and two huge porte cocheres extend outward to accommodate rows of limos in bad weather.

The parking lot is packed, but a valet is available to ease the congestion. Inside is crowded as well, and we stand in line for over fifteen minutes just to sign the guest book. This is not just any funeral home; it is Foster and Sons, the one that caters to the rich and famous of the Houston dead. They have remained independent rather than getting acquired by the funeral conglomerates and are known for their outstanding care during difficult times. In Houston, that means having a bar or two and catered hors d’oeuvres at all events.

Inside, a looping film on several flat screens shows photographs of the family from birth to their last Easter together less than a week ago. The caskets are closed, but there are large portraits of each individual, as well as a family one in black and white showing them on the beach in Galveston, all wearing jeans and white button-down shirts. I remember when Alice arranged for that sitting. I had helped her look through the proofs and select the very one on display. “You were such a great friend, and I’ve only been thinking of myself. I’m so sorry, Alice,” I whisper as I touch her casket and reflect on how awful I have been.

I feel my eyes start to burn again as I stop to look at the picture of my sweet Matty. What a handsome young man he had become. Memories come flooding back between tears. Blubber-kissing him into hysteria as a toddler; chasing him around the backyard with his little brother Eric; caddying for him during
the Jr. Club championship one year. Now I would never see how the story ended. What kind of girl he would fall in love with or what profession he would settle on. His life was slammed shut because cost projections were not finalized.

Guilt and then rage replaces my sorrow as I try to sort out my emotions. The disequilibrium sends me back to my childhood ritual in search of comfort, and I kneel by Matty’s casket, making the sign of the cross. It has been years, but I remember the prayer my mother taught me growing up and that I had in turn taught Matt as part of my godmother duties.

“O, my God, I love Thee above all things, with my whole heart and soul, because Thou art all good and worthy of all love. I love my neighbor as myself for the love of Thee—”

I stop myself as I think of the next line of the prayer, “I forgive all who have injured me.” Forgiveness is not a virtue I can embrace at the moment, so I leave it out of my casket-side vigil and go in search of something to help me compose myself and contemplate an appropriate revenge for my employer who regards my godson as nothing more than a number on a spreadsheet.

The line for the bar is mercifully short, and I have a glass of white wine in hand within minutes and survey the room. The wine feels good on my throat, raw from all the crying. I am surprised to see so many young people, but then I realize these must have been college and high school friends of the boys. Some of the faces seem familiar. Kids I’d seen at Alice’s over the years. I am afraid of rekindling my emotional meltdown so I steer clear of Matt’s friends.

As I snake through conversation circles, I see a group of ladies from the club and wander over to join in. Hugs and air kisses give way to more somber moments as we talk about how awful
the explosion was and how sad it is that the whole family has been killed. I decide not to mention that I work for Bishop, and I manage any of my answers to questions related to Tulsa so as not to reveal that particular piece of information. I will let them hear it through the grapevine after I am long gone. As comforting as it is to see these women, I desperately want to get out of there and do more exploring of the Bishop files. It has been such a long time since anything has awakened my intellect, and I can tell I’m becoming obsessed with it. I wish I had driven my own car rather than be trapped at the funeral home.

Then I hear him: “Can I get you another drink, Cookie?” It is Winston from somewhere behind me, using his pet name for me.

My drink
is
almost empty; it is thoughtful of him, if inappropriate. I close my eyes and am just about to turn around to face him when I hear Caroline respond, “No, I’m just fine.”

I take a deep breath and finally turn around. I am surprised by Winston’s appearance. He is fit and tan and not at all like the potbellied, triple-chinned ape I had last seen at my lawyer’s office. Caroline doesn’t look pregnant at all. She is the same young, pretty thing who has replaced me in every aspect of my life, even Winston’s pet name. Neither of them had seen me at all.

I have to get it over with; I walk over to greet them.

I catch Winston’s eye and he nudges Caroline to exit from her current conversation with the wife of one of Ken’s law partners. They smile at me the way winners often do when extending a consolation prize to the third runner-up.

“Glad you could come down,” Winston says, and he introduces me to the new Mrs. Lewis.

After the divorce, I thought long and hard about changing my name back to O’Leary and had my attorney, Stu, put
together the paperwork. I hated Winston and the thought of being confused with Caroline. Still, Tanzie Lewis had been the Ravenswood club champion; she had been the person who got a premier table at Houston’s better restaurants and could get a call returned with a single message. People know who Tanzie Lewis is.
I
know who Tanzie Lewis is. I wasn’t going to let Winston take one more thing from me. I sent the paperwork back to Stu unsigned.

I extend my hand and Caroline gives it a firm shake. I have seen pictures but have never met her before in person. She worked at Winston’s company, but we had never attended events together.

Winston was fairly careful in managing this sort of situation. Caroline was not his first fling during our marriage. Winston was a legendary womanizer, and I had learned long ago just to look the other way. I had thought him far too fiscally practical to divide our assets over something as frivolous as another woman. I have often wondered if things would have been different if he had just waited a little longer before going public with this affair. Winston filed for divorce just months before the 2008 stock market crash and financial crisis wreaked havoc on our accumulated wealth.

“You’re looking fit, Winston.”

“CrossFit! It’s amazing. Caroline got me hooked.” There are no comments about my appearance, and I am happy to move the perfunctory conversation along.

“I understand congratulations are in order,” I say with a smile. Years of country club socializing have made me a master of hiding true emotions. So instead of throwing the rest of my wine at the hussy, I make small talk and feign excitement over their expectant bundle of joy.

“Having a baby is saying ‘yes’ to the future,” New Cookie says and grins at Winston.

“I’m sure it is. How wonderful for you,” I say, suppressing a gag.

“Can you believe Caroline has only gained five pounds and she’s already at twenty weeks?” Winston gives her an endearing squeeze.

Ouch. Pretty sad when at five months pregnant, the new girl has a better waistline than the old girl
.

“I’m at the gym every day!” she brags. “I’ve started playing golf, too, although I don’t know how much longer I can keep that up.”

“She has a fantastic swing,” Winston adds. “A real natural. Shot an eighty-two last week, and she’s only been playing a few months. We’re thinking of going to Scotland in May with some other couples.”