Whatever Lola Wants (35 page)

•

“What? What'd she say?”

“Ah.” I explained: “Feodora, early on, invented mixed clichés. Now she can't help it.”

“Oh.” Lola thought about that. “How do you know?”

A relief, her no longer just trance-listening. “A few traces of memory from her life before, they're visible up there in her mind. Bright patches.”

“Go on with the story,” said Lola.

She gives back so little.

•

“I met your
sister Sarah along the stream.” Carney touched his elbow gently.

Feodora poured coffee. “I love Sarah, don't get me wrong. She's taken some bad turns.”

“That's it,” said Ti-Jean.

“I pointed them out to her.” She chortled. “We've had our strained moments.”

“Yeah?” Carney sipped coffee.

“Well, Sarah, as they said back then, she dropped out. From everything Theresa thought was valuable. Like, Sarah didn't have to go to any college, she could do battle wherever she wanted. Long as she fought for what she cared for.”

“Like Theresa.”

“That's it.”

“But see, for Sarah, she had to reject everything Theresa loved. Or hated. She was a kind of come-lately flower child and druggie.” Feodora thought about it. “To be fair, more flowers than drugs. But she did her share of coke and all that. Lived in an old-fashioned hippie commune three years. She got turned on to farming without chemicals, felt great on the food she grew. She told me her best highs came from corn she threw in boiling water right after picking it or peas wet off the vine or a ripe tomato warm from the sun, she ate them like apples, and juice ran down her chin. She was on to something, already then.”

“Yep,” said Ti-Jean.

“Then she dropped out of the commune too. Went to the University of Vermont, mature student, didn't have a high school diploma but they took her anyway. Finished when she was just twenty-four. She hadn't talked much to Theresa for years before then, they'd had some kind of falling out, nobody ever talks about it. Her degree was in biology, don't recall what kind.”

“Small animals.”

“No, not that. But I don't remember. So the day after she graduated she married. Driscoll Yaeger. He'd gone back himself after years away, masters in computer science. Only Karl and Milton went to the wedding. Leasie and me, we'd met Driscoll. We called him De Skull because the skin on his head was stretched tight like there wasn't enough to fit.” She laughed. “When he got nervous his scalp sweated, he had short short hair, then Leasie called him Drip Skull. But we think he and Sarah got along, at least early on.”

Ti-Jean refilled the coffee mugs. “He was a mistake.”

“You never met him.”

“Never had to.”

“Then when Sarah graduated she wanted to live in the country, at least a village. De Skull got a position as a federal welfare administrator in the middle of New Hampshire, east of Wolfeboro region, third man down in a four-man office. They bought a farmhouse and some land. His job was to bring together data on the eligibles.”

Ti-Jean nodded. “Idea was, make sure nobody's eligible for nothin'.”

“Right. In a couple of years De Skull headed the office, he was doing his job so well.”

“That's it.”

“He proved so competent they promoted him, double-step, to run the Boston office.”

Carney grinned. “Theresa must've loved him.”

She shook her head. “Never got to know him. All those years she saw Sarah only when she came up here, when she was building a cabin out back there.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “De Skull never came. The fights between him and Sarah, we didn't hear about them till later. She loved her farm, didn't want to live in a city ever. But De Skull's job offer was too good so he sold the farm and they moved right into Boston, apartment on Beacon Hill.”

“De Skull hated being in traffic jams.”

“Well, it tore Sarah up. I visited them once, only one night, more of De Skull would've been an overdose. He'd come to think he'd be in Washington in two-three years? Maybe even an assistant undersecretary at H.E.W.”

Carney tried one of his ruses for telescoping to the end of the story—“Be right back”—and went off to the bathroom.

Feodora said, “What d'you think?”

Ti-Jean shrugged.

“Doesn't talk much.”

Ti-Jean smiled. They waited.

Carney returned. “I think I'll drive around, look for an undisturbed trout stream. I'll grab a bite, then head off for Terramac City.”

“Have to finish the coffee.” Ti-Jean divided the last of it, three half cups.

“Where was I? Yeah, Boston.” She sipped. “Right. Well, Sarah got a couple of office jobs, hated them, didn't last long. She spent days out beyond the ring road, looking for green space. Down to Cape Cod, into Rhode Island, somewhere with trees. One day she found herself in Durham, up in New Hampshire, at the university. For the heck of it she went over to the Ag School, said she was looking for a research job. She filled out forms. They didn't say no, asked her for an interview, and took her. After a couple of years she went over to the Bug Institute.”

“Ah. Is that where her bug love started?”

Ti-Jean said, “She gets crazy.”

“Girl Friday to begin but pretty soon she was part of a bunch of 'em working on ants, linked up with some professors at Harvard. Since she lived down there she was the contact woman, she commuted. The commuting traffic went the other way, she felt smug about that.”

Ti-Jean nodded. “About all she and De Skull had in common.”

“And when Theresa had her stroke Sarah flew up. Nobody knew how Theresa'd react to her. The strain was there, but less. Sarah'd stay a few days every two-three months. With De Skull, they were living parallel lives.”

“But he died, you said?”

“Right. See, she loved it up here, her cabin out back there. With no De Skull around. Maybe she had a lover in Durham.”

“We hoped so.” Ti-Jean, nodding.

“Then last winter De Skull was driving on an icy street. A car skidded through a stop sign, smashed into him, he hated seat belts and his head bashed into something. The hospital said light concussion and sent him home. So next morning he called Sarah, he had a headache, he was going back to the hospital. He took a cab, to Emergency. But when the cabby turned around De Skull was unconscious and an hour later he was dead.”

“Pretty grim.”

Ti-Jean grunted. “For some.”

“Now that was March. Sarah quit everything, closed up the apartment, sold everything, retired to her cabin. And she blamed herself. If she'd been home, he wouldn't be dead. So she got herself drunk, stayed drunk for ten days. Then she wouldn't kill bugs. Or eat meat. Even fish.”

“Stupid.” Ti-Jean shook his head.

“I figure she's still in mourning, her own way. She comes by every week or two.”

“Well.” Carney made a point of draining his cup. “Thanks.”

They gave him directions to Terramac. He drove slowly down rough road. The portrait of Sarah didn't make the woman any less strange. Though being a widow in your early thirties can't be easy. If he met her again he'd just stay out of her way. But he liked Ti-Jean and Feodora.

PIKE

Sit in a boat. Raise the oars.

The river takes you, smooth aimless drift.

Lean over the gunwale,

stare through surface glaze

beyond the reflection.

A shiner.

Wait.

In middle depth at the thermocline,

arm-long, pike stalks the flow.

Something new, a rift.

He glides, waits.

Upstream a dorsal fin, ruddy. Yellow perch waits.

A burst of silver.

Perch snatches shiner across the middle.

Teeth and tongue turn it, headfirst down it goes.

Shiner tail passes perch gills.

Digestion begins.

A moment of calm.

Pike lunges, teeth spike into barred yellow scales, firm flesh.

Perch stares at cartilage inside a pike skull. A gullet

approaches. A jerk, and unexpected grace:

perch slides down,

down.

Water flows past teeth, out gills.

Pike drifts in near balance.

Perch in the gut is bitter.

Sit. Stare. Wait.

Roberta Feyerlicht

June 11/03

3.

You know what you want,
Johnnie, just head out to Terramac. Not to meet that Carney guy, not to meet anybody. To go down below. Maybe they hacked through the stone this afternoon—

•

“Hey!” Lola grabbed my arm. “There it is. Clear. Putting ideas in his head. Leading him.”

“He's just trying to convince himself, Lola.”

“Listen! I used to know all about leading a man on.”

“I never would.”

“I remember my lover saying to me—” She stopped. Her face drained to white. Her mouth opened, a long shudder shook her, “Oh—! Oh oh oh!”

“Lola!” I grabbed her wrist, to steady her. Her arm trembled lightly. “What?”

Color and control bled back. “Oh Ted— I saw his face. My last lover. Very wealthy.”

“Ah,” I said. Nothing else came to mind. Envy closing down my brain? Of course not. Jealous of a man from decades back? Nonsense. And how can she possibly remember?

“He used to say I led him on, I could lead him anywhere, leading him on turned him on.” A smile took her face as years fled from her mind. She covered my hand with hers. “It's a little different, but you're doing it to Johnnie.”

“Hardly.” This was getting irksome.

“Leading him. In bits of ways.”

I shrugged. “I'm telling you how he thinks.”

“Nope, you're manipulating.” She shivered. She smiled. “I didn't understand.”

“Lola, if I could manipulate Cochan, wouldn't I lead him away from Terramac?”

But she wasn't listening. “You're breaking the rules.” She stared at me. “I'm pretty sure.”

“I'm reinforcing what's there.” I couldn't say more, I wouldn't say less.

“Some of it.” Her eyes softened. “You surely are.” She gave me a different smile. Of wonder? Again she found my eyes, left, right. Her fingers gripped mine hard. Then she chuckled.

I could only go on.

•

John Cochan checked
his face in the mirror of his personal Intraterra North bathroom. He smoothed back his hair. He combed his thick mustache. He wet his eyelids to cool them. His cheeks he rubbed to warm away their whiteness. He pulled his black-striped shirt tight into his gray slacks, pinched the Windsor knot in his carmine necktie, buffed his black shoes.

He crossed the vestibule, stepped under the peak of the old church's wooden archway, past massive stripped doors, down marble steps. He walked across flagstones set in gravel, by rows of blazing geraniums, the lawn beside him trimmed as for bowling. Past white-clapboard houses, their green shutters drinking in the sun, past three blocks of semi-detacheds, the general store, the diner, and the gas station, and along the Common, two blocks by two blocks. Roses bloomed, a dog pooped, a couple of frisbees flew. A baseball found the hole between second and short. Ethan Allen, green shoulders pigeon-whitened, stood firm in bronze. On these warm sunny days Johnnie enjoyed returning the greetings of his fellow Richmonders. He noted with pleasure his neighbors' squared-off gardens. Important, being one with the community.

His big house, also white, stood halfway up a gentle slope. He prepared a salami sandwich, the sausage made especially for John from beef organically raised at a test farm fifteen miles from town. He kept the air of his home at a sixty-eight-degree ionized balance; as the atmosphere of Summerclime and Underland would be.

Upstairs he found Deirdre and Melissa playing hide-and-seek with Diana, their nanny. He lifted the older girl to his chest but Dee's wriggling limbs irritated him. Priscilla, in Burlington today for her weekly obstetrics appointment, usually Wednesday but this week Thursday, was due home soon. The excellent County Hospital wasn't good enough for her.

Behind the wheel of the Rolls he gave himself two minutes of quiet transition, started the motor, then headed down the drive. Richmond lay only twenty-five minutes from Terramac. The visionary distance between Terramac and Richmond was that many light years away.

In the distance Terramac beckoned, as clean a magnet as a child's call. Approaching Terramac softened Johnnie's mood. The Rolls straightened curves and smoothed the shoulder. A winged beetle ended its days as yellow cream on the windscreen.

Through the covered bridge, then in a hundred seconds he was on Intraterra land. The old farmhouse stood far on the other side of the property. Terramac began here, two miles inside.

Where they had set the guardhouse, at mile 1.1, a fence ten feet high met the road on both sides. The barrier, chain-link through brush and woods, four miles long on all four sides, was electrified. The boom blocked the road.

This Intraterra project was hardly a secret. In the months after the Commissioners' office had accepted Terramac, Summerclime was written about in popular journals and papers from
The
Times
to
The
Forum
, had been criticized, debated, analyzed, praised, and discredited by a spectrum of architectural critics, urban planners, and environmental advocates. “The City of the Third Millennium,”
U.S. News and World Report
had lauded it. Drake Shane in
The
Washington Post
annihilated the dream city sardonically. The
Small Wonders
comic strip parodied it for two weeks, turning Terramacian yuppies into beetles, lizards, and groundhogs.
The New Republic
rejoiced: in Terramac, ultimate environmental control met the grandeur of exceptional human imagination.
The Richmond Patriot
spoke of a need for controlled growth in northern Vermont. In Toronto,
The
Globe and Mail
despised it.