Overload (13 page)

"There were a couple of times on that TV show when you looked angry, ready

to blow," she said.

"But I didn't. I remembered the stupid rules." It wasn't necessary to

explain the management committee's "moderate line" decision. He had told

Ruth about it the same day it happened and she was sympathetic.

"Birdsong was baiting you, wasn't be?"

"The son-of-a-bitch tried." Nim scowled, remembering. "It didn't work."

Davey Birdsong, who headed an activist consumer group called 11power &

light for people," had been on the TV talk show too. Birdsong had made

caustic comments about Golden State Power & Light, ascribing the basest

motives to everything the company did. He had implied that Nim's personal

objectives were no better. He also attacked GSP & L's latest application

for an increase in rates, on which a decision was due soon. Despite all

these provocations, Nim had kept his cool, reluctantly staying within the

guidelines he bad been given.

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"This morning's Chronicle says Birdsong's group, as well as the Sequoia

Club, will oppose the plan to develop Tunipah."

"Let me see."

She passed the paper. "It's on page seven."

That was something else about Ruth. Somehow she managed to stay a jump

ahead of most others in keeping herself informed. It was cbaracteristic

that, as well as preparing breakfast, she had already been through the

Chronicle-West.

Nim riffled pages and found the item. It was brief and told him no more

than Ruth had done already. But it gave him the idea for a course of action

which made him impatient to be at his desk. He gulped the rest of his

coffee and stood up.

"Will you be home for dinner tonight?"

"I'll try to be." As Ruth smiled gently, he remembered how many times he

bad said the same thing, then for some reason failed to show. Irrationally,

as he had in his car the evening be bad gone to Ardytbe's, he wished that

once in a while Ruth would be less patient. He asked her, "Why don't you

blow up occasionally? Get mad?"

"Would it make any difference?"

He shrugged, not knowing what to make of her response, nor how to answer.

"Oh, there is one thing. Mother phoned yesterday. She and Dad would like us

to go over for dinner a week from Friday and take Leah and Beniv."

Inwardly Nim groaned. Going to the home of the Neubergers, Ruth's parents,

was like entering a synagogue; they proclaimed their Jewishness in myriad

ways. The food was always announced pointedly as kosher; there were

reminders that the Neubergers kept two separate sets of utensils and

crockery, one each for flesh and dairy food. There would be a prayer over

bread and wine before dinner as well as a cercmony over washing hands.

After dinner would be solemn prayers which the ilieubergers, in Eastern

European tradition, referred to as "benching." If there were meat at table,

Leah and Benjy would not be permittcd to drink milk, as tbev liked to do at

home. Then there would be the not-so-subtle pressures, the wondering aloud

wby Nim and Ruth failed to observe the Sabbath and holy days; glowing

descriptions of bar mitzvahs the Neubergers bad attended, along with the

implication that, of course, Benjy would attend a Hebrew school so his bar

mitzvah would take place wben he reached thirteen. And later at home,

because the children were the ages they were, and curious, there would be

questions for Nim to answer, qucsti~ns he wasn't ready for because of the

ambivalence within himself.

Ruth invariably kept quiet at such times, though he wondered occasionally

if her silence wasn't really an alliance with her parents against

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him. Fifteen years ago, when Ruth and Nim were married, Ruth made clear

she didn't care one way or the other about Jewish observances; it was an

obvious reaction to the Orthodox strictness of her home. But had she

changed? Was Ruth, beneath the surface, a traditional Jewish mother,

wanting for Lcah and Benly all the trappings her parents' faith demanded?

He recalled what she had said a few minutes ago about himself and the

children. "In fact they idolize you. Whatever you say, it's as if it came

from God." Were the words an artful reminder of his own Jewish

responsibility, a silken nudge toward religion? Nim had never made the

mistake of taking Ruth's gentleness at its face value; beneath it, he

realized, was as much real strength as any person could have.

But apart from all that, Nim knew there was no valid reason not to go to

Ruth's parents, as she asked. It didn't happen often. And Ruth demanded

very little of him, ever.

"Okay," he said, "Next week's pretty clear. When I get to the office I'll

make sure about Friday and phone you."

Ruth hesitated, then said, "Don't bother doing that. just tell me to-

night."

" Wh y?

Again a second's hesitation. "I'm leaving right after you've gone. I'll

be out all day."

"What's happening? Where are you going?"

"Oh, here and there." She laughed. "Do you tell me everywhere you go?"

So there it was again. The mystery. Nim felt a stab of jealousy against

the unknown, then rationalized: Ruth had a point. As she had reminded

him, there was plenty he didn't tell her.

"Have a good day," he said. "I'll see you this evening."

In the hallway, he put his arms around her and they kissed. Her lips were

soft; her figure beneath the housecoat felt good. What a damn fool I am,

be thought. Yes, definitely, sex tonight.

10

Despite his haste in leaving home, Nim drove downtown at a leisurely

pace, avoiding the freeway and using quiet streets. He employed the

time to think about the Sequoia Club, mentioned in this morning's

Chronicle-West.

Though it was an organization which frequently opposed the pro-

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grains of GSP&L, and sometimes thwarted them, Nim admired the Sequoia Club.

His reasoning was simple. History showed that when giant industrial concerns

like Golden State Power & Light were left to their own devices, they paid

little or no heed to protecting the environment. Therefore a responsible

restraining force was needed. The Sequoia Club filled that role.

The California-based club had achieved a national reputation for skill and

dedication in fights to preserve what remained of the natural unspoiled

beauty of America. Almost always its methods were ethical, its arguments

judicious and sound. True, the club had critics, but few failed to accord

it respect. One reason was the Sequoia Club's leadership, which, through

its eighty years of existence, had been of the highest caliber, a tradition

which the incumbent chairman-a former atomic scientist, Laura Bo

Carmichael-was continuing. Mrs. Carmichael was able, internationally

respected and, incidentally, a friend of Nim's.

He was thinking about her as he drove.

What be would do, he decided, was make a direct personal appeal to Laura Bo

Carmichael concerning Tunipah and the other two power plants which Golden

State Power proposed to build. Perhaps, if lie argued the urgent need

convincingly, the Sequoia Club might not oppose the projects or at least

would be moderate in opposition. He must arrange a meeting as soon as

possible. Preferably today.

Nim had been driving automatically, paying little attention to street

names. Now he noticed, at an arterial stop, that he was at the intersection

of Lakewood and Balboa. It reminded bim of something. What?

Suddenly he remembered. The day of the explosion and power failure two

weeks ago, the chief dispatcher had produced a map shoving life-sustaining

equipment in use in private homes. Colored circles on the map denoted

kidney dialysis machines, oxygen generating units, iron lungs and similar

apparatus. At Lakewood and Balboa a red circle had warned of a person

dependent on an iron lung or some other kind of powered respirator. The

equipment was in an apartment building. For some reason the memory had

stayed with Nim; so had the user's name -Sloan. At the time, be recalled,

be bad looked at the small red circle and wondered what Sloan was like.

There was only one apartment house at the intersection-an eiabtstory, white

stucco building, modest in design but, from its outward appearance, well

maintained. Nim's car was alongside it now. A small forecourt contained

several parking spaces, two unoccupied. Oil impulse, Nim turned in,

wheeling the Fiat into one of the empty places. He got out and approached

the apartment house entrance.

Above a series of mailboxes was a score of names, among them "K. Sloan."

Nim pressed a button beside the name.

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Moments later the front door opened. A wizened old man appeared, wearing

baggy trousers and a windbreaker. He looked like an ancient squirrel as

he peered at Nim through thick lenses. "You ring Sloan?"

"Yes, I did."

"I'm the lanitor. Rings down my place, too,"

"Can I see Mr. Sloan?"

"Ain't no Mr. Sloan."

" Oh." Nim pointed to the mailbox. "Is it Mrs. Sloan, then? Or Miss?"

Unaccountably be had assumed Sloan to be a man.

"Miss Sloan. Karen. Who're you?"

"Goldman." Nim showed a GSP & L identification card. "Am I correct in

believing Miss Sloan is an invalid?"

"You could be. Except she don't like being called that."

, 'How should I describe her, then?"

"Disabled. She's a quadriplegic. Know the difference between that and

para?"

"I think so. A paraplegic is paralyzed from the waist down, a

quadriplegic through the whole body."

"That's our Karen," the old man said. "Been that way since she was

fifteen. You want to see her?"

:'Do you know if it's convenient?"

'Soon find out." The janitor opened the front door wider. "Come in. This

way."

A small lobby matched the building's exterior; it was simple and clean.

The old man led the way to an elevator, motioned Nim inside, then

followed. As they ascended be volunteered, "Place ain't the Ritz. But we

try to keep her shipshape."

"That shows," Nim said. The interior brass of the elevator gleamed and

its machinery hummed smoothly.

They got out on the sixth floor. The janitor led the way and stopped

before a door while he selected a key from a large bunch. He opened the

door, knocked, then called out, "It's Jiminy. Brung a visitor for Karen."

"Come in," a new voice said, and Nim found himself facing a short, sturdy

woman with a dark skin and Hispanic features. She wore a pink nylon smock

similar to a nurse's uniform.

"You selling something?" The question was asked cheerfully, without

hostility.

"No. I was just passing and .

"Never mind. Miss Sloan likes visitors."

They were in a small, bright vestibule which opened onto a kitchen on one

side and what appeared to be a living roorn on the other. In the kitchen,

cheerful yellows and whites predominated; in the living room the decor

was vellow and green. Part of the living room was out of sight and from

it a pleasant voice called, "Come in-whoever you are."