Calamity

by Gail McCormick

  “Oh?”

  “You’re not tracking the drought and dying crops there. If I’m paid to put it out, it could help make ends meet.”

  “That sounds great,” Camellia said.” She knew his family had moved to the U.S. from South Korea when he was a child. “We’ll be sure to celebrate when you graduate. What’s the date?”

  “August 10th.”

  “Let me note it.” She pulled her phone out and scrolled to her calendar, punching in the date. “I’ll make reservations for Tavern on the Green. Bobby will like sitting outside provided this horrendous heat lets up.”

  “Sounds wonderful.”

  Kyle walked over and took a seat in one of the vacant chairs across from Camellia’s desk. His hair was cut a little shorter. He wore a jacket, blue shirt, slacks, boots, but no tie.

  As the program began Camellia said, “I have a treat for viewers tonight, a world expert on climate change. Thank you for joining us, Dr. Harden. I’ve already shared footage of our Siberian trip with viewers. What’s your response to Senator Trotford’s statement that melting permafrost isn’t a problem?”

  “Glad to be here in the lion’s den. I’d say that Senator Trotford is seriously mistaken. With the Arctic warming at least twice as fast as other parts of our planet, the permafrost in Siberia, Alaska, Canada and Greenland is thawing rapidly. He still advocates drilling for oil and gas everywhere. I hoped he would learn from our trip that we should at least stay out of those areas. Some experts think if we do, we just might avoid coming into contact with revived lethal viruses, not to mention avoid potential massive release of carbon dioxide and methane.”

  “What do you mean? Our viewers could use a little help with this.”

  “Most Americans don’t realize that centuries old buried victims of smallpox and bubonic plague, for instance, could be exposed as the permafrost thaws. That was true of Senator Trotford until we tried to educate him. I see we failed.”

  She nodded but didn’t comment.

  “We don’t know if revitalized lethal bacteria or viruses could harm humans,” he continued. “But taking a chance is insane. If we drill for oil and gas, workers could be infected and bring deadly diseases back home, creating new pandemics. The Russians are already drilling in areas where it’s thawing.”

  Camellia turned to her audience. “That’s darned sobering.”

  “It could be a Pandora’s box,” Kyle said. And it’s one more reason to hold back unstoppable climate change as best we can, at least slow down thawing.”

  “Well, it’s a lot to think about whatever our viewers are inclined to believe. It certainly sounds scary to me. Again, thanks for joining us.”

  As Kyle got up to leave, two other guests took his place. “And now we have two Republican legislators who want to weigh in. Good to see you again Senator Gomez and Senator Conklin. What do you make of Senator Trotford’s comments?”

  Senator Conklin was from Louisiana. She wore a turban and bright colors that complimented her dark skin.

  “I’m afraid I agree with Dr. Harden. From what I’ve learned, Arctic warming is going to be a huge problem. You know how worried we are in Louisiana about sea level rise and more intense hurricanes. Katrina nearly destroyed us. Some of my relatives lost their homes and weren’t compensated by their insurers. People don’t realize that after all the years, we still haven’t entirely recovered. It’s not clear that we ever will.”

  Camellia turned to Senator Gomez who was only 35 and relatively new to his position. He had curly black hair cut short to keep it manageable. “What is your take on Dr. Harden’s comments, Senator Gomez?”

  “Climate change is a serious issue. Mayors in Florida do get it with Miami streets already flooding regularly, not to mention the category five hurricanes. It’s predicted that all of south Florida could wind up under water. Some Cubans, like my family, who live in Miami, are really worried. We lost our homes when we came here from Cuba. Now we may lose them again.”

  “Yes, I know,” Camellia said. “And it’s even more to think about. Thanks for sharing with us. That’s it for today. Good night friends. Back tomorrow. Count on it.”

  Owen joined her after she left the anchor desk. “I got here in time to catch the program. That guy really knows his stuff. I like his thinking. Good mind.”

  “He’s a Brainiac.”

  “And I can see you’ve got his attention. Has he moved on you yet?”

  “No, well not really.”

  “Then I’m beginning to like him even more.”

  “You and no doubt all his female students.”

  “That’s an interesting comment. Single, right?”

  “Yes, and we’ve already covered that. Hey, you normally have more than one oar in the water and being from the South you know just what I mean.” I’m only too aware now of the fact that he’s single, she thought. And I’m not going to let that affect me.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  NEXT MORNING

  ON THE STREET

  MANHATTAN

  CAMELLIA HAD THE FEELING SHE WAS BEING FOLLOWED. She was on her way to the Cho’s apartment, her arms loaded with packages. They lived in Brooklyn, and she needed to decide whether to take the subway or a cab. She couldn’t pinpoint exactly why, but that impression had become increasingly keen since she left home. The recent attack had heightened her senses.

  She paused in front of a clothing store with a large plate glass window and pretended to be considering a dress on a plastic manikin. In fact, she was studying what she could see reflected in the glass. She caught a glimpse of a tall man moving quickly into the shelter of a nearby doorway. She moved on and stopped again, dropping a package so that she’d be able to check out more of what was going on around her. As she retrieved the package and stood up, she glanced to her left, where she had seen the man. This time she caught a flash of black as someone appeared to be taking cover behind a different doorway. It could well be the same man.

  The subway might be a good ploy, she decided. She headed for the entrance on Prince Street. It would mean a change in trains, but that didn’t matter. There was a flight of stairs down to the turnstiles where she inserted her card and headed onto the platform. It was early afternoon so there weren’t a lot of people waiting for the train. She stood away from the tracks with her back against a wall and watched everyone who was anywhere near her. A tall man dressed entirely in black except for a blue cap caught her eye. The cap made the danger instantly clear. She hadn’t noticed it while she was on the street or he had just put it on. He was undoubtedly the one who had attacked her. The train pulled in. When it stopped, she saw it was unexpectedly jam-packed, and she froze. Can I do it? she wondered. She avoided crowded subway cars since they made her feel constricted. Actually, she avoided empty subway cars too, for that matter. Damn! She forced herself to get on. The man quickly moved in as close to her as possible. Definitely a problem. Just as the doors started to close, she barely managed to squeeze back out. She could see that he was trying to prevent them from closing fully, but it was too late. The doors snapped shut, trapping him. Camellia ran back up the stairs, breathed in the outside air with an enormous sigh of relief, and caught a cab.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  SAME DAY

  FRANK CHO’S APARTMENT

  BROOKLYN

  NEW YORK

  CAMELLIA WAS STILL REELING when she got out of the taxi. She pulled herself together with an effort. “I see what Frank meant. Are you sure it’s not triplets, maybe even quadruplets?” she asked as she entered Frank’s apartment, loaded with packages. She put them down and hugged Sujin. Four-year-old Bobby ran over and wrapped his arms around her legs.

  Korean woodblock prints hung on the sunny yellow living room walls. The couch was protected by a red and yellow flowered slipcover. An armchair faced it. Next to that was a table with magazines heaped on top. A large box of toys, mostly wooden blocks and small cars took up much of a corner of the room. Bobby
was building a garage for his cars with the blocks. He had his parents’ black hair and small frame. He’d lost a baby tooth early so there was a gap in his front teeth. A window air conditioner was trying hard, but failing to keep the room cool enough. Camellia noted that and frowned.

  “Just one very large baby, bouncing around inside like crazy. Bobby loves to feel it move,” Sujin replied. The sleeveless silk tunic edged with orange lace she wore barely managed to stretch around her very large belly but fit the rest of her diminutive frame. Long black hair hung in a braid down her back. “What on earth is all this?”

  “Baby stuff. But this one is for Bobby. Hey fella, want to open it?”

  As she held out the largest package, he tore off the paper and found a box filled with miniature toy cars and trucks.

  “Look, I can put them with the ones Daddy got me!” He took her hand and pulled her over to his collection of vehicles. They sat on the floor, and he pulled out a tow truck to show her. “I like this best. Or maybe this.” The second one was a dump truck. He turned to his mother. “How soon will daddy be home? I want him to see these.”

  Sujin opened the other packages while they were checking out the trucks. “Soon.” then she spoke to Camellia. “This is way too much. You’re too generous.”

  “Never too much for you, my friend. I know it’s hard to manage especially since he’s helping his parents too. I remember what it’s like. When he gets his degree and can sell some articles it will be easier.”

  “Yes, Frank’s father hasn’t been able to work in years. He was injured in a factory accident when he was helping build diesel trucks.” Sujin wiped sweat from her forehead. It was over 80 degrees in the room. “Without you and Frank,” she continued, “I couldn’t cope. Poor guy comes home and does all the cooking, cleaning, puts the trash out, gets Bobby to bed, and then stays up late to keep up with his courses. In this heat I’m useless. I couldn’t possibly manage without him. He’s one in a million.”

  “More likely one in a trillion.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  SAME DAY

  EVENING

  LIVING ROOM

  CAMELLIA’S TOWNHOUSE

  “YOU CUT YOUR HAIR FOR THE PROGRAM,” Camellia protested as she let Kyle in.

  “You indicated you thought it needed cutting,” he replied, surprised by her seeming disapproval. The top of the t-shirt he wore didn’t quite reach his new hairline. It read MORE OIL? And below that WE’LL BOIL.

  “That was just to get your goat.” She certainly wasn’t about to admit that she found his hair, not to mention the rest of his appearance, all too attractive. “Went with your persona. That t-shirt really gets it right. What, is it still over ninety out there?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. My hair will grow back. You’ll have plenty of time to see that,” he said emphasizing the word plenty, as they went into the living room.

  Framed prints covering one wall focused on the great depression along with a few of endangered birds. Alone on another wall was an original Jacob Lawrence painting showing African American women ironing clothes. A bright blue couch faced two lime green armchairs, one with a matching footstool. The coffee table standing between them had a top made of a slab of wood carved from a Southern pine. This time she had Gershwin’s Rhapsody in Blue playing.

  “That’s one of my favorite pieces,” Kyle remarked as he walked over to survey her painting of women ironing. “This would go well with a Romare Bearden lithograph I have. The one of a girl in a garden.”

  “I love that one,” Camellia said as she took fragile glasses and a bottle of Chocolate liqueur from a small Art Deco liquor cabinet and poured them a drink. “Here’s to a successful debut on NIP. That wasn’t so horrible for you, was it? Seems to me Trotford got the short end of the stick. I have to admit though that I’m getting serious push back from some fanatical viewers. It wasn’t a big problem when we got back from Siberia, maybe because I made male viewers happy by taking more off than usual. Guys would be grinning like a possum eatin a sweet tater.” With that ironic allusion she grimaced. “And I nearly froze to death. But since yesterday there’ve been really angry calls to the station and vicious emails.”

  Kyle took the glass and sat down on one of the green chairs. “I’m sorry to hear that. But I doubt that it did much good with the rest of your audience either.” He raised his glass with little enthusiasm.

  Camellia sat on the couch, leaned back against one of the arms and extended her legs along its length. “Hey, they’re people even if you don’t agree with them. They’re just uninformed or misinformed for the most part or have arguments that don’t hold up by your exacting standards. They’re by no means necessarily lamebrains no matter what you Northerners think.” With her bare feet visible at the end of the couch, she wiggled her toes. “Good old Alabama bare feet. Y’all think none of us wear shoes, right?”

  “Are we that bad?”

  Camellia was wearing a different tank top and loose sweatpants cut off above the ankle. She wiggled her toes again. They were painted to match her fingernails and lipstick. “Worse. Some of you don’t even think we have indoor plumbing. Or that not one of us could conceivably be the sharpest tool in the shed. Of course we do actually wear shoes, no matter how poor we are. You can catch nasty things down yonder with bare feet. Fortunately, it’s okay up here. But see, I was smart enough to get the color right this time.”

  He got up and went over to the couch, bent down and put his hand under one of her feet, lifting it enough to get a good look. “I see you do have the color right. And it’s a lovely foot,” he added, running his fingers slowly along the surface.

  She immediately drew her foot back as if he had scorched her and tucked both feet under her body. She looked flustered but didn’t say anything.

  He raised his eyebrows and went back to the green chair. “But whoa,” he said. “That’s harsh.” He sighed. “Sorry. Of course you’re right about not degrading people. I need to work on it. I’m definitely not one to give up, but it’s pretty discouraging at times. And I feel such a sense of urgency. We’re so out of step with the rest of the world right now. Makes me want to tear my hair out.” He ran a hand through it. “What’s left of it anyhow,” he added, dropping his hand. “Now we have attacks on the National Science Foundation funding to train meteorologists about climate change. The public trusts weather forecasters, and they really want help from scientists. With this record heat it’s vital for them to make the connection with rising carbon dioxide and methane levels. The naysayers argue that the NSF is funding something political. Maddening.” He leaned forward. “When things like this happen, I want to go up to the top of the Empire State building and shout at the top of my lungs, ‘Climate change is not political!’”

  I do know about NSF,” Camellia said. “But I think most people don’t, so you should cut at least those people some slack.”

  “Sorry. You’re right again. Ignorance is a huge problem, and I’m too intolerant. But we’ve run out of time. We can’t afford to ignore what’s happening. We simply can’t!” he insisted.

  “What created the burr under your saddle? Why do you care so much?”

  He picked up his glass and leaned back. “It started in high school when I learned about the burning of the Amazon rainforest. They’re part of the world’s lungs after all. My mother inspired me. She was worried about habitat loss for birds long before most people realized it was a problem. As a matter of fact, I thought of her when I finally had the brains to check out your bio.”

  “You checked me out?” She was surprised.

  “Yes. But I think the final blow was when my sister’s husband was killed two years ago. He was a forest firefighter, a so-called hotshot. Not the safest profession for sure. They’re some of the bravest people on earth.” He paused, took a sip of his drink and put the glass down again. “He lost his life trying to save a prize stallion in one of those fast moving, out of control California wildfires. Gerry
didn’t have a chance to get under a protective tarp.” Kyle looked down at his hands, clasped together. “When they found him, he had his arm around the horse’s neck and was holding its halter. His hands were so badly burned they were hardly recognizable as human.”

  Camellia sat up straight and planted her feet on the floor. She was horrified.

  “His clothes were seared to his body and couldn’t be peeled off, so he was buried in them,” Kyle continued. “They did manage to straighten out his singed hair, but his face was so blistered they used a closed coffin at the funeral home memorial. The horse was cremated.” He formed fists, tapped them together and frowned. “That was the kind of fire caused these days partly by climate change induced record heat and drought.”

  Camellia reached over and put her hand on his but then drew back. “Oh. I’m so sorry.”

  “Yeah, well Laura was left with two small children. I see them as often as I can which isn’t often enough since they live in Arizona now. I take them to zoos, museums, places like that. Not that it really helps. I’m certainly no substitute for their father. And I think about the kind of world they’re going to inherit. Boils my blood. And darn near breaks my heart, to tell you the truth.”

  “You might be underestimating your value to them but yes, I do get your concern about the future. I have two nieces and a nephew myself. They still live in Alabama which at the rate it’s warming could become too hot to be habitable. The heatwave there makes D.C. and New York seem like a refrigerator. But you did manage to bring up methane and carbon dioxide.” She picked up the liqueur. “Refill?”

  “No thanks. Well, I guess getting those in is something. I also did more checking on Trotford. Turns out he has four homes.” He counted off on his fingers. “The apartment in DC, a pretty luxurious one at that, a colossal mansion on an island off New Zealand, an apartment in Paris, also luxurious, and a castle-like house in Ohio, his home State. That’s where his wife spends most of her time.” He picked up his glass again, took a last swig and set it down. “He’s bought his two kids stately homes in Connecticut. He has a Mercedes, a Lamborghini, an antique Aston Martin, and a battered Ford pickup truck.” He counted those off on his fingers too. “That’s probably to show voters he’s an ordinary guy. He rides around in it when he’s campaigning.”