Bubbles Ablaze (13 page)

We stopped by Genevieve's apartment and found her waiting on the sidewalk, repacked suitcase and polished musket in hand. Jane climbed in the back and Genevieve sardined herself in the front again. She was ecstatic to hear that we were off to Limbo, to stop by the home of one Pete Zidukis.

“Pete Zidukis? The Pete Zidukis?”

“I think so,” I said. “Is he . . . somebody?”

“Only the most respected conspiracy theorist in Eastern Pennsylvania,” Genevieve said, clapping her big paws together. “His nickname's Stay Put Pete 'cause he's the one resident of Limbo who refused to leave when the U.S. government bought everyone else out of their homes after the fire started. He's a celebrity. I've got to meet him.”

I headed east on Route 22. “That might not be a good idea, Genny. We have—”

“You'll never find Limbo without me. The government's rerouted the highway and put up road signs to trick you. They've even ordered all the mapmakers to erase the town off the maps.”

“Let me check,” Jane said, opening a Pennsylvania/New Jersey AAA map. “Sure enough, there's no Limbo where it's supposed to be. You're right.”

“Of course I'm right, dear,” Genevieve said, punctuating her comment with a snort.

Since we'd been cleaned out of leftovers and cold cuts, Jane and I stopped at Mona's Lunch in Pottstown. Genevieve, who had chowed down on pickled beets, pickled herring and coleslaw at home, said she'd stay in the car and keep a lookout for any
trigger-happy coal miners, or whoever it was who was supposed to be after me.

Inside Mona's I ordered a turkey and bacon on toasted white with extra mayo, a little lettuce, a bag of potato chips and a diet A-Treat with a double chocolate brownie chaser. Jane ordered a salad with extra carrots and broccoli, vinaigrette on the side and a mineral water.

While Mona made our lunch, Jane tapped her black nails on the glass counter and studied me. I could feel it coming, the same old lecture, and I pretended to be very interested in a notice about a garage sale held last Saturday that was still left on Mona's bulletin board.

“You're killing yourself, you know,” she finally blurted. “What did you have to eat today? No. Let me take a shot.” Jane closed her eyes while I concentrated on an antique china hutch, baby carriage and assorted Fisher Price toys. No sales before 8
A
.
M
. No kidding. “Coffee, pastry, chips. Tastykakes and soda, soda, soda.”

“Croissant.” I patted my thighs. “And see? Not an ounce of fat.” I also took a “don't look/don't tell” approach when it came to cellulite. That is, when I wasn't staring at an overhead mirror.

“It's not just about beauty, Mom, it's about health.” Jane slid down the counter toward me. “Nitrates in the bacon, saturated fat, coconut oil, and white death in those brownies.”

“White death?” I asked, suddenly alarmed. “Cocaine?”

“No. Sugar. Tons of it. You'll have diabetes by forty.”

I waved her off and returned to the garage sale. “By forty I'll either be married to Stiletto or I never will.”

“Unbelievable.” Jane slapped the counter. “You and men. Left to your own devices, you'd guide your entire life according to some man. They're not our compasses you know.”

Goody. I'd been waiting for this opening ever since Jane had announced via Mama that she was holding off on higher education after graduation so she could pick grapes with G in France. It probably wouldn't have bothered me so much if she hadn't had
a 3.8 average, near 1600 SATs and offers from universities being mailed to our house daily.

“Really,” I said. “So I guess you bypassing college because of what G wants wouldn't be following a man. Per se.”

Her expression soured. “Not per se. Anyway.” She looked off. “G and I are kind of shaky these days.”

What! What was that? Did I sense a split? I bit the insides of my cheek to keep from grinning.

“Is that so?” I said casually.

Jane's glance flittered toward me with doubt. The next few minutes were crucial. How I played this could well determine my daughter's entire future. “I suppose you're glad about that, huh?”

“Wonder Bread Gobbler and Pig with extra Slime!” Mona slapped my sandwich on the counter. “Your Compost Heap is coming up, hon.” She smiled at Jane.

“Glad's not the right word,” I said, grabbing the sandwich and chips. Ecstatic was. “But you guys seemed so close. What changed?” I asked with feigned concern.

Jane batted her eyes. “It's difficult to explain. I've read that people who are intellectually curious are less likely to bond permanently with another individual because they tend to grow and evolve whereas their partners don't. This has been a topic of serious discourse at my Mensa meetings.”

“You met a hunk,” I translated.

“Not just a hunk.” Jane gripped my arm. “A mature man. A man who understands me, who can discuss Plato and black holes without cracking butt jokes.”

“Compost Heap!” Mona plunked the salad onto the counter, but Jane didn't even notice.

“I think it might be love.”

“Christ,” Mona said, wiping her hands on her apron. “They're all like that. All the Compost Heap orders. Just wait until the sex goes bad, then you'll be adding extra mayo like your ma.”

Mona and I exchanged knowing, appreciative looks about the comforts of rich, satisfying mayonnaise and crispy bacon.

“Sex!” said Jane. “We can't have sex. I'm underage. He'd get fired.”

Mona quit wiping her hands. “That'll be six forty-five,” she said, rushing to the cash register.

I counted out the change, my hands shaking. Mona returned a nickel and clasped my hand sympathetically. “My heart goes out to you, dear. If it's any consolation, these crushes usually last only a week. Maybe someone decent will come along to take her mind off the scum.”

“I don't think her mind is the problem,” I said.

“Ain't that the truth.”

I smiled at her weakly and handed Jane her salad.

“He's older than you?” I said, opening the door for her.

Jane walked ahead of me. “He teaches at Lehigh. He's European.”

European? Professor? The door slapped me on the back. Professor Tallow. It must be Professor Tallow. That's what all the college kids at the dig had been snickering about. Jane with her puppy love crush on Tallow.

Jane waited for Genevieve to heave herself out so she could get in the back. “I got a question to ask,” I said when we were all settled in.

“If this is about him being older than me, forget it. I've always been adult for my age. I'm very responsible.”

“How long has,” I cleared my throat, “this guy been interested in you?”

Jane lifted the Saran Wrap off her salad and stirred it with a plastic fork. “We've known each other since the beginning of the semester, since August, when I started auditing his course.” She bit into a lettuce leaf and thought about it. “But I'd say it's only been a few days since we've really gotten close.”

“Close?”

“Remember when I told you this morning about the Druid thingy last night, well that wasn't all.” She cracked open the mineral water, carefully avoiding my searing gaze. “Don't tell Dad,
but we spent hours afterward curled on a blanket in the field, talking, until the sun rose through the mist. It was pure Shakespeare.”

Shakespeare, huh? Did Shakespeare ever write a play about a forty-something professor taking advantage of a high school crush?

“We just talked,” Jane insisted. “He didn't kiss me or anything. He didn't even touch me.”

Genevieve and I exchanged sidewise glances. “Leave me out of this,” Genny said, raising one hand in protest. “If I was you, I'd just shoot the S.O.B. and be done with it.”

The author of
Reviving Ophelia
would be pleased to know that I did not probe further into Jane's relationship with Professor Tallow. I did not point out that there is no conceivable reason why a normal man who was a decade older than myself would be interested in my daughter. I did not ask what they discussed or in any way forbid her from seeing him again.

If Jane had Shakespeare in mind, she was thinking
Romeo and Juliet
. And from my Shakespeare for Dummies course at the Two Guys Community College, I knew that Juliet's pushy parents had ended up with the crummy end of that deal.

Except in this case I was willing to bet my pointy-toed slingbacks that Jane was going to end up the worse for wear. Her heart was going to be broken and the bright beacon of higher education would dim forever when she discovered she had been used by a professor she worshipped.

It was time to don my imaginary red cape and morph into Super Mom of a Vulnerable Teenager. I pulled into a 7-Eleven, threw a bunch of quarters into the pay phone and forced myself not to hang up when G answered.

“Eh,” he grunted. “Talk to me.” A TV blared in the background.
SpongeBob SquarePants
.

I swallowed hard. “Hello, G, this is Bubbles Yablonsky. Jane's mom.”

“Mrs. Y! Uh-oh. What have I done wrong now?” The TV went on mute.

“It's not what you've done, it's what you're going to do,” I said before diving into a lengthy explanation that if G didn't get his flabby butt to Roxanne's Slagville salon pronto there was a good chance Jane was going to fall in love with Professor Tallow.

“Who? That dinosaur? He's, like, old. Older than Stiletto even.”

I clenched my teeth. “He's not old. He's English.”

“Yeah. Chicks go for that British stuff, don't they? Wait. How's this sound? Blimey, eh? Pretty good. Though that might be Australian.”

G simply wasn't grasping the gravity of the matter.

“It's up to you, G,” I said. “I'm just giving you a heads up.”

“And to think I always thought you hated me.”

“Now where ever would you get that idea?”

There was a pause. “ 'Cause like those were your exact words. I hate you, G.”

“You must've misunderstood.”

“Okay. But I'll only get up there on certain conditions.”

Demanding little bugger. “And those are?”

“That you'll be nice to me. Make me sandwiches and stuff and don't disrespect me.”

“Perhaps.” I wasn't too sure about making sandwiches.

“And I get to call you Bub.”

“Bub?”

“Like, hey, Bub, wassup. Or could you get me a Coke, Bub? Or turn the channel, Bub, this is ‘Animal Planet.' ”

“Whatever,” I said, hanging up and looking over at Jane, who was passionately arguing with the 7-Eleven clerk about why they didn't have a system for recycling her plastic salad container.

Still, having taken steps to wean my daughter off Tallow, I was feeling a whole lot better. If I could manage the challenges of motherhood, what was there that I couldn't handle, I thought, pulling back onto the highway. Jane was in the backseat, passed out for an afternoon nap, and Genevieve was snoring beside me.

Yup. Everything was going to work out fine, like Mickey said. I'd do my due diligence with Pete Zidukis, perhaps write a follow-up and then Jane and I would drive home.

So what that I never found out who sent us to the Number Nine mine? Maybe that person had learned his lesson and I'd never hear from him again. Maybe it was merely a fluke.

But in my self absorption, I had neglected to consider my cousin. When we arrived at the Main Mane and found her crying, I realized that my unknown enemy meant business.

“I
t's just so weird.” Roxanne was sitting by the cash register, squeezing Visine into her red-rimmed eyes. “I mean, the salon's untouched and they didn't break into the cash register.”

“Am I done yet?” a client under the dryer yelled.

Roxanne checked her watch. “Two more minutes, Mrs. Foster.” Turning to me she said, “Even so, I don't want to sleep alone tonight. I saw your mother this morning before she left to look for the Nana diary and she promised she'd stay, but I'd feel better if you were here, too. What kind of gun is that, anyway?”

She nodded toward Genevieve who was on the job, marching through the house and preparing for “lockdown,” as she called it.

“It's a musket,” I said. “Don't ask.” I took out my reporter's notebook. “You got two minutes to tell me exactly what happened. I need details.”

Roxanne explained that she had fallen asleep on the living room couch while watching TV the night before. It was shortly after six that morning when she woke. She got dressed and went about her day. Later, when she got a break from the salon, she went into the guest bedroom to change the sheets, in case I wanted to stay the night, and found the top drawer of the dresser open and dumped on the bed.

“You call Donohue?”

“To tell him a dresser drawer had been overturned?” Mrs. Foster's timer went
bing!
“Even if this is only Slagville, I think the police have more important matters to take care of.”

I told her about our own burglary back in Lehigh where the
dresser drawer had been the one place our snoopers
hadn't
touched.

“Maybe there's a connection.” Roxanne was running over to turn off Mrs. Foster's timer.

“I can't tell without having a clue as to what they're searching for.” Then I had an awful thought. “What happened to the box of Stinky's documents?”

“Gone, of course.” Roxanne lifted the dryer hood and unrolled one of Mrs. Foster's curlers. “Stinky's gonna kill me.”

So was Mr. Salvo. After the move I pulled, lying to Griffin to get my story in the paper, Mr. Salvo was not going to be pleased to discover that there weren't any supporting documents available. Oh, no. What if we got sued? Mr. Salvo said that'd be the end of his career. And I'd have no evidence to pull him out of hot water.

“Premises secure, Roxanne,” Genevieve announced. “In the meantime, I suggest you survey the surroundings. Familiarize yourself with what weapons are at hand for your defense.” She pointed to a green bottle of Sani-Bac, which we beauticians use to delouse combs. “That stuff'll kill a two-hundred-pound man with one swallow. Know it. Love it. Make it your best friend.”

Mrs. Foster visibly cringed as Roxanne examined the bottle with new appreciation.

“We better get a move on, Bubbles. Jane's been waiting in the car for at least a half hour.”

Armed with Sani-Bac, Roxanne waved a reluctant farewell. Genevieve, Jane and I drove to the burning town of Limbo to meet Pete Zidukis. We took a right at Slagville's baseball field located next to the fire department at the top of the hill and passed a closed ice-cream stand. Jane kept an eye out for the Hoagie Ho place where I was supposed to meet Stinky until we jogged left, blatantly disregarding yellow
Do Not Enter
signs.

“Stop here,” Genevieve ordered. I parked the car next to a large federal warning outlining the dangers and liabilities of entering the area. We got out, read the U.S. government's disclaimer and then studied the view in awe.

Had I not driven through Limbo as a child for Thanksgiving dinner with Roxanne's family, I would never have known that the deserted grassy valley that lay before us had once been a thriving working-class town famous for its St. Patrick's Day festivities and Fourth of July fireworks.

Thirty years before, children had dragged their sleds to the top of Troutwine Hill on winter days, played softball in the overgrown park and roller skated over leaves in St. Ignatius's yard on fall afternoons. There had been dances at the American Legion Hall on Friday nights and lines at the post office on Saturday mornings where neighbors caught up on gossip.

Now there was nothing but a grid of cracked and barren streets that went nowhere. Sidewalks bordered vacant lots and driveways led to homes that long ago had been reduced to rubble and carted off. Every school, store and gas station had vanished, as though they had been sucked up by space ships. It was eerily quiet. Not even a bird chirped.

“I don't see any smoke,” Jane said.

“Yeah? Put your hand on the ground.” Genevieve bent over and touched the sidewalk.

“I can't believe it,” Jane said, her eyes wide. “It's actually hot. From the sun maybe?”

“Not from above, Sally,” Genevieve said, “from below. Underneath where we're standing right now is a fire with temperatures that reach seven hundred degrees Fahrenheit. On the surface.”

“Get out,” said Jane.

“How come this fire was never put out?” I asked.

“Local municipalities couldn't figure out who had the responsibility for putting it out. They bickered and bickered. They bickered so much that the fire spread so far it was out of control.”

“That's it?” Jane asked. “Bureaucratic squabbling led to one of the worst environmental disasters in American history?”

“There's more,” Genevieve said. “But I'll let Pete tell you about that.”

We got back in the Camaro and drove through deserted
streets to one of the few houses left standing in Limbo. It was situated on a lovely tree-lined lot and was an impeccably maintained half of a double. As with every other home in Limbo, the other half had been razed and supports had been constructed to keep its twin from falling over. The outline of the former half's stairway remained like a shadow on the external wall of the standing home.

We found Pete in the backyard raking leaves. He was more ancient than Mama and Genevieve, dressed in the kind of dull green shirt and pants that school janitors wear. His posture was stooped, his hair was thinning and snow white, but the vigor with which he raked proved he hadn't given in to old age yet.

Genevieve was so starstruck she was speechless. She could only stand a few feet away, clutching her purse and gaping like a teenybopper meeting 'N Sync.

I introduced myself as Bubbles Yablonsky, a reporter from a newspaper in Lehigh.

“Lehigh.” Pete scratched his head. “I haven't been there in a century.”

“You can't be over a hundred years old,” I said. “You don't look a day over eighty.”

Pete chuckled. “You're somewhat literal, I gather.”

“Thank you. I do read a lot.” Nice, finally, to be complimented for something besides my excellent makeup choices and spandex selection.

Jane stepped in, employing her new boldness. “My mother wrote a story today revealing that McMullen Coal had violated its permits by digging under the Dead Zone. Carl Koolball stopped by our house this morning and suggested that my mother speak to you.”

“He told Jane you would know what was missing from my story,” I added.

“Did he now.” Pete placed the rake against the house. “I ain't seen your story, but Stinky's been by the house a lot recently. Measuring and asking about the Mammoth Basin.”

“Mammoth Basin?” I asked. “What's that?”

“A gigantic deposit of anthracite worth close to one hundred billion dollars,” Genevieve said, breaking her trance. “It's located right under our feet.”

“My, my, my,” Pete said. “And where did you pick up this information, lovely lady?”

“
The Daily Conspiracy Newsletter
. ‘On Why I Stay in Limbo,' by one Peter Zidukis.” Genevieve blushed and modestly bowed her head. “I read it five times.”

Pete smiled and his watery blue eyes twinkled slightly. “Impressive. Seems to me we may have met before.”

“Y2K conference in Schnecksville,” Genevieve gushed. “Dried foods and generators seminar. You gave a speech on surviving underground in broiling temperatures.”

“You live eighty years in Limbo, you know about broiling temperatures.”

“Yeah?” piped up Jane. “Where is this so-called underground fire? I thought this place was supposed to be ablaze.”

“Oh, it is,” Pete said, hobbling past her. “Follow me.”

“Isn't he fantastic?” Genevieve whispered in my ear as we marched up the street to St. Ignatius Church and cemetery, my tiny heels taking a pounding on the pavement. “What a hunk, say?”

“He could be crazy from the underground gasses,” Jane said to me when Genevieve caught up with Pete. “He's like exhibit A, why no one should still be living here.”

Twenty minutes later Pete, Jane and I were staring at an expanse of charcoal-gray, scorched earth framed by leafless white trees, bleached from the underground fires. Behind us was St. Ignatius Church. Above us on the hill was the cemetery, precariously close to the smoldering wasteland before us.

The scene reminded me of movie battlefields after the battles. Wisps of white smoke rose from the charred ground, which was so hot in places that it had melted pieces of smashed beer bottles into brown lumps. The inside of my nose stung and the air was heavy with a biting stench similar to oven cleaner.

“Stand here any longer and pretty soon I'll be spouting conspiracies,” Jane said, covering her nose with her hand.

“This is as bad as it gets, ladies,” Pete said, waving his arms. “As you may have noticed, the rest of Limbo is untouched, except for a few potholes here and there. So why did the government spend forty-two million of your taxpaying dollars to move everyone out?”

“Logically, because living on top of a fire is unsafe,” Jane said. “But, again, that would be the logical explanation so I'm not sure it'd play in Limbo.”

“That's because it'd be wrong,” Pete said. “The U.S. government doesn't give a pig's snout about our safety. All it cares about is acquiring the rights to the Mammoth Basin—the rights that are currently held by the town of Limbo. Once they accomplish that, they'll sell the rights off to some American coal company that donated heavily to the president's reelection campaign.”

“Where exactly is the Mammoth Basin?” Jane asked.

Pete spread his arms. “It runs under all of Limbo straight through to the Dead Zone. That's why the government banned mining in the Dead Zone, because it connects to Limbo through the Mammoth Basin. Too much of a risk with the fire burning there.”

That put the Mammoth Basin directly below where Bud wanted to build the casino.

“The coal from the Mammoth Basin would be worth billions if it could be removed efficiently,” Pete said. “But ‘efficiently' means literally ripping off the town and dumping it in a valley like coal companies do in West Virginia.

“Can't strip here, that's the thing,” he went on. “If you did, you'd expose that smoldering anthracite to oxygen and this whole county would explode in flames. It's driving the collieries nuts to have this incredible deposit of coal and no way to get at it.”

“So why pay to move everyone out?” I asked.

“Think, Bubbles. You're not thinking.” Pete hitched his pants. “Let's say the fire is put out. All my neighbors and relatives and
nieces and nephews can move back to the town where they were born. Can the coal company come in, rip the top off and mine then?”

“It'd be difficult, I suppose.”

“But with the fire burning, the government has an excuse to force everyone out because of our reported safety. Let me tell you, no one ever died in Limbo from the gasses or the fire. Not one person. It's a scam. The government's been pressured by the coal industry to evacuate the town. Once Limbo ceases to exist, the mining rights are up for grabs. So, when—and I think it is when, not if—a method of extinguishing this fire comes along, that company with the rights will have carte blanche to rip up this town and make billions.”

“Do you think McMullen Coal is that company?” I asked.

Pete frowned. “Unlikely. Too small an operation. Besides, why would they have sold the mining rights to the Dead Zone, at a loss, to Price if they had been planning with the government to tear up Limbo and mine under there, too?”

“I'm surprised you haven't been offered millions to move out,” Jane said.

“Oh, I have. And I've turned them all down. There was a time there when a lawyer a day representing some party or another came knocking at my door with a big fat check. That stopped, though. My hunch is that the coal companies have given up on trying to find ways to extinguish the fire. And as long as that fire burns, that coal can't be touched.”

“Aren't you afraid for your life?” Genevieve asked. “If they kill you, that's one less obstacle to getting the mining rights.”

“If they kill me, ma'am, they're gonna have to answer to a trained militia of my buddies. We're prepared for that event. Believe you me.”