Paul still watched his son. Mikey was talking to the old candy lady with a dress that went all the way to the floor. His boy pointed back at him. The old woman looked over. She was wearing dark sunglasses. Was the candy lady blind? Paul waved. The old woman smiled and waved back. Then she bent down to Mikey, spoke to him, accepted the five-dollar bill and examined the candy wagon.
“With this latest terrorist act,” Paul said, “working security on an oil rig has turned into hazardous duty. That means more than a few people who would normally do it are getting jittery. That’s good, though, because Blacksand just raised their rates. The oil companies want beefed security on all their rigs. They don’t want this happening again.”
“There must be tons of people eager for security work,” Cheri said, “especially if it pays well.”
“So why hire an ace like me?” Paul asked. “Is that what you’re saying?”
“You know that isn’t what I mean.”
“Yeah?”
“Paul, I don’t want you to die.”
“Me neither,” he said after a moment.
“What’s the second reason?” Cheri asked. “The real reason Blacksand is willing to overlook your discharge?”
“That’s the funny thing—the kicker. They want a snow-weather veteran.”
“You mean that time you fought in the Canadian Shield?”
The Canadian Shield was a huge geological region that curved around Hudson Bay like a giant horseshoe. Few people lived in the region, as it was unsuitable for agriculture. The Shield was dotted with lakes, famous resorts, vast forests and gold, copper, iron, nickel and uranium mines.
“It was northern Quebec, where it was as cold as Hell,” he said.
“Hell is hot. You fought in blizzards and snowstorms. Where do people have oil rigs in places like that? I thought most oil derricks were found in deserts.”
Paul hesitated to tell her.
“Is it going to be cold where you’re going?” she asked.
“I’m flying to the Arctic Circle,” he said.
The energy crunch meant the oil companies were hunting for crude wherever they could find it. The new bonanza was the Arctic Circle and Antarctica.
“Do you mean Alaska?” Cheri asked.
“I wish I did. No. The Arctic Circle…the rig is in the Arctic Ocean.”
“Isn’t it icy up there all the time?”
“Yeah,” he said. He remembered reading somewhere that the ice used to melt in summer, or a lot of it did. That must have been before it had gotten cold again. A new glacial period, they called it. He remembered watching a history show about the Black Death in the Middle Ages. There had been harsher weather back then, too. It had hurt the crops and vineyards just as it did these days. The whole thing went in cycles, apparently. Now it was their turn, and according to what he’d looked up, it made the Arctic almost as cold as space.
“I’m going to the closest rig to the North Pole,” he said. “I’ll be knocking on Santa Claus’s door.”
“Is it dangerous?”
It had to be dangerous if they were willing to hire him. Near the North Pole—did the wind howl all night long? It was supposed to be dark half of the year.
“I can’t see how,” he lied.
“So why do they need you then?”
“It’s all about insurance. If you look at things deeply enough it always goes back to the money.” Had that been true about them? Once the government had kicked him out of the Marines, he’d had one job after another, and they’d steadily been crappier jobs each time. The money had started drying up and so had their marriage.
Cheri glanced at the envelope in her hand. Looking thoughtful, she slid her purse off a shoulder, clicked it open and buried the two thousand in it. As she slid the loops back onto her shoulder, she looked into his eyes. “Take care of yourself up there, and try to keep this one, okay? We need the money.”
He forced himself to nod. “Are you and Mikey doing okay?”
“I’m almost finished with Beauty College. I’m already cutting hair on the side.”
“Are you seeing anyone?” he asked.
Her lips firmed. “We agreed you weren’t supposed to ask that.”
A stab of heat burned in his chest. She’d laid that down as a condition for him seeing Mikey. The courts had screwed him, giving her full custody. He supposed none of that mattered now that he was headed for the Arctic Circle.
“I’ll call you when I get there,” he said.
“Mikey will like that.”
“I’m glad you came,” he said.
She cocked her head, and her lips parted. “Try to get along more at work, okay? You’re too much of a loner.”
He hated when she said that. “I’ll tell him goodbye.”
“Don’t leave mad,” she said.
“I’m not.”
“Okay,” she said, her face tightening, “if that’s the way you want it, I’m fine with that.”
He took a deep breath and counted to three. “I’m not mad. I’m glad you came.”
Cheri studied his face. He waited for a smile to break out as it used to in the beginning. Instead, she said, “Goodbye, Paul.”
The way she said it—he paused. There was something final in her words, something almost fated. He picked up his helmet, managed to give her a nod and turned toward the candy wagon. Mikey was racing back with a bag of gummy bears clutched in his fist. His son was laughing. He liked that.
“Run harder, little man!” shouted Paul.
Mikey put his head down and he ran full out. The tennis shoes slapped the floor as he approached. Paul dropped his helmet, grabbed Mikey under the armpits and threw him into the air above his head. Mikey squealed with delight. Cheri had never liked him doing that, but who knew when he’d see his boy again. Paul caught Mikey and hugged him tightly.
“I love you, big guy.”
“Me too,” Mikey said, breathlessly.
Paul set him down and knelt on one knee. “You take care of your mother, okay?”
“I will.”
“I’ll visit you in a few months when I have some time off.”
“Promise?” Mikey asked with something close to desperation.
“Of course I promise,” Paul said.
“And call, Daddy.”
“I will,” Paul said, standing up.
“Wait, Daddy!” Mikey said. He opened his striped bag of gummy bears. “You have to eat one of these with me first.”
Paul recognized the delaying tactic, and for a moment, there was a stab of pain in his heart. If he were a better person, things might have worked between Cheri and him.
“Thanks,” Paul said, smiling at his son as he took an orange gummy bear.
“Eat it, Daddy.”
Paul did, hardly tasting a thing.
“Take some with you for the road,” Mikey said.
“You be a good boy,” Paul whispered.
Mikey nodded.
The striped bag crinkled as Paul dug out some more gummy bears. Then he turned away, heading out. He couldn’t take any more of this.
“Bye, Daddy!” Mikey shouted.
Paul turned back one last time, lifting his motorcycle helmet, waving goodbye. He waved an extra time for Cheri, as she stepped up to Mikey. Then Paul Kavanagh was stumbling for the mall entrance, oblivious to the gang members he brushed out of the way.
Someday, he was going to do things right.
The growing, seething mob chanted angrily. Many waved their fists at the video cameras, the ubiquitous cams that hung from streetlights, buildings, and sometimes from tethered balloons. A few of the rioters shook rocks or sticks. The glass buildings surrounding the street reverberated with their chants. A packed mob, they filled the street and sidewalks like rush-hour pedestrians in any major Chinese city. Chest-to-chest, shoulder-to-shoulder, they swayed with repressed power. They were hungry, cold and bitter.
It was blustery, and most of the crowd wore gray overcoats. Over eighty percent were men under thirty and they were uniformly thin. They pressed against each other, shoving at times, often asking if it was true: