Platform Seven had been heralded as the new, great hope for California Oil and America’s insatiable energy appetite. Now the great hope was gushing crude, blazing fire and spreading death.
-2-
Desperation
The mall was a bad idea, Paul Kavanagh told himself. There were too many people around. It was the reason his ex had chosen to come here. It would make her feel safer: the mall cops, the crowds… and a place where there was merchandise. Buying things always made his ex feel better.
Thinking about that—the clothes for the little man, the washer and dryer she needed and tires for her rundown Ford—Paul nodded. He had to do this. His ex wouldn’t understand. She never had, but the state of the economy meant he had no choice. The Sovereign Debt Depression had supposedly eased several years ago, but tell that to a man whose Marine record ended with a dishonorable discharge. Who had a hard time finding a job. Tell that to someone whom the shrinks said had a difficult time with authority. It wasn’t authority he had trouble with, but assholes.
Paul shoved his hands into his old leather jacket and turned around, scanning the crowds. He was surprised at how many teenagers there were, seeing as it was one-fifteen in the afternoon. Weren’t they supposed to be in school? Was it a holiday now because that oil rig had exploded?
Paul ran a hand through his short brown hair. There was something dangerous in his eyes that made the obvious gang-members look away—at least the intelligent ones and those who thrived by trusting their concrete- sharpened instincts. Paul was a little over six feet, with a linebacker’s shoulders and the trim hips of his college days when he used to slam running backs into the turf. He’d tried out for the pros ten years ago, but had been too light, too small for the steroid-pumped gladiators. Marine Recon had been the next best thing—while it had lasted.
Paul sighed. Cheri was always late. So he didn’t know why he was letting it bother him. She would come, and she’d bring Mikey. She had promised over the phone.
A worried look entered Paul’s eyes. The expression didn’t fit on his tanned features. It seemed wrong, incongruous, an anomaly. What if she didn’t come? Even worse, what if she came but left Mikey home?
Paul sat abruptly on the yellow tiles of the built-up pond near the main mall entrance. His elbow hit his motorcycle helmet, which rested there. The helmet scraped against the tiles as it shot toward the water. Paul barely twisted around in time to catch the helmet, an exhibition of speed and reflexes wasted on the passing crowds. Catching his helmet made him look at the water it had nearly fallen into. Now he saw the pennies, nickels, and dimes glittering there.
He stood again, keeping hold of his helmet, and dug in his jeans pocket. There was a quarter. He made his wish and flipped the coin. It
“Paul?”
Kavanagh spun around, surprised at the quick granting of the wish. His face creased into a smile. It changed him, taking years off his features and showing a sense of vulnerability that had been missing until now.
Little Mikey held onto his mother’s hand. Mikey was six, wore an oversized SF Giant’s baseball cap and had mischievous blue eyes.
“Daddy!” he shouted, ripping his hand from Cheri’s grasp.
Mikey ran full tilt and launched himself as Paul squatted. He caught his boy, surprised at the kid’s weight and the strength of the leap. It knocked Paul back so he bumped against the tiled pond.
“I knocked you back, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.
Paul grinned, straightening himself and taking off the little man’s cap. He messed up sweaty blond hair as Mikey laughed. The peculiar odor of unwashed boy knifed Paul in the heart. In a wave of love, he clutched his son.
“Squeeze me harder, Daddy.”
Paul squeezed, and he put his nose in Mikey’s hair. What had he ever done to help make a wonder like this? By everything holy, he loved this little man.
“Are you going to move back home, Daddy?” The words were muffled in his jacket, but they were loud in Paul’s heart.
“Not just yet,” Paul heard himself say.
“When?” asked Mikey.
Paul wanted to say, “That will depend on your mother,” but he knew that wasn’t fair. It had been just as much his fault as Cheri’s.
He released Mikey and looked up at his ex-wife. She hugged herself, and for a moment, she looked so sad, almost like a lost little girl. She was beautiful, a small woman with long dark hair and a gymnast’s grace.
Long hair—she must be using extensions again. Those cost an easy three hundred. No wonder she couldn’t stay within her budget.
Maybe she saw the change in him as he thought about her spending too much money. Her shoulders stiffened. He’d wished more than once that his tracking instincts were as sharp.
“Hello, Paul,” she said.
Her voice dried the emotions in him. They let him know where he stood with her. He had known. It was just…the hope in Mikey must have transferred into him. Irrationally, he thought about taking the little that was left in his account, changing it into coins, and tossing them one after another into the wishing pond. If the quarter had worked, why not throw in more and fix his life?
He stood, and he found himself clutching the bottom rim of his motorcycle helmet. He wished he could roar like a linebacker and charge into the crowd, flailing right and left with his helmet. If he could knock everyone down, he’d get his old life back. Just the chance to try would be good enough. It was knowing he had absolutely no chance of fixing things that was so galling.
“I’m here just like I said I’d be,” Cheri told him, with her arms crossed. She wasn’t hugging herself anymore. The crossed arms were a shield.
Her tone of voice made it a struggle. Paul scowled. He looked down and saw the little man staring up at him. The shiny face, the smile, they crumpled so fast it startled Paul. Mikey’s lower lip quivered and tears welled in his eyes.
“Hey,” Paul said. He squatted, set his helmet on the scuffed floor and hugged his boy. The poor fellow bit back his sobs and he started hiccupping.
“I won’t cry, Daddy,” Mikey whispered.
“No, no, you’re a tough guy,” Paul said as he patted Mikey on the back.
The little man shoved his face against Paul’s upper chest and began to bawl, the sounds muffled against leather.
“Is this what you wanted?” Cheri asked.
Paul looked up helplessly at his ex-wife.
“No,” she said. “You’re not going to make this my fault.”
Paul stared at the floor as he continued to pat his son on the back. What a lousy world. It wasn’t supposed to work like this. A man grew up, got married, had kids and barbecued on weekends. Maybe he took his kid to a ball game on Sunday. Paul sighed as the mall crowds passed. What made it worse was feeling how threadbare Mikey’s shirt was. That shot a bolt of anger into him. Cheri must have chosen this shirt on purpose, to rub his nose in their lack of money.
“Hey, it’s okay.” Paul gently pried Mikey from his chest. He grinned, and used the end of his sleeve to wipe the little man’s runny nose. “I wanted you to come to the mall so I could tell you goodbye.”
