Flux, chapter 1

Circulation Density

Late October 2009

Dr. Grace Evans yawns and stretches from the long drive. They’re flaring again. So loud it feels personal. A sulfurous, rotten stench hangs over the site. She can almost feel the air suffering. They say you’re invisible, she whispers. They say you’re intangible, odorless, colorless. That you’re out there. Would they act differently if they understood that you’re inside them? In lungs and cells, yes. But also in thoughts. In imaginations. And assumptions.

The quiet time at Warbird of dawn and a shift change is the best time here—if such a place can be said to have a best. She peers through her infrared camera at the stack. Its plume spews hot carbon dioxide. Methane boils from every joint and valve.

She yawns again. Needs to pee. The porta-john is hell here, but the crossroads gas station is worse.

She’s exhausted from a late night of torturing her research budget, trying to do more with already threadbare funds. Being denied the interview she expected for her department’s tenure-track position was bad enough. But for the dean to offer a measly one-year contract as a visiting professor was beyond insulting. She slept under her desk, dreading the search for a new position by next summer.

Warbird’s site is called “the pad” by the crew. That word reminds Grace of her father leaving a box of Stayfree Ultra Plus outside the bathroom door while she sat horrified by ruby red drops gathering in the bowl. What else could he do, as the single parent of a teenage daughter?

The pad is the size of three football fields, that manly, mindless unit of measure. Five acres hacked from a forested hillside, stripped bare, flattened. It might still hint of pine needles and wood chips, if not for the diesel and burning and sand. Ribbons of razor wire adorn ten-foot chain link. The drilling platform dominates the landscape of corn and soy and dairy. The red and white tower of steel trusses could be steadying a rocket for launch.

She pushes through sound thick as quicksand. Wearing a minor’s headlamp, she makes the rounds to her equipment with quick efficiency. She’s recalibrating a monitor in the far corner when the foreman Scott’s battered Toyota pickup, dust-coated black with an orange passenger door, slips among United Energy Holdings’ new white F-150s. Their blue and green logo is part spiral, part leaf, part water droplet—pure fantasy cooked up by a New York image consultant. After Scott steps out, James’ silver car glides to a stop beside him.

On the drive here, Grace realized something so obvious she could kick herself for telling James no all summer. Her research is too important, too urgent to waste on academia’s nonsense. She’ll accept his offer to set up her lab at their New York headquarters. No more time lost teaching and grading, no more grant proposals and begging for money. No more conference papers, peer review, panels and posters. No more bullshit politics and pointless committees, no more grabby, backstabbing colleagues. She’ll be on the inside, her research guiding James’ work to improve site operations. She’ll help curtail actual emissions in less time than it takes one of her papers to be published and read by a few dozen people.

She watches Scott step into the job trailer, pictures him holding a cup of bitter coffee and standing at the grimy window. He’ll watch the low sun scatter gold across the misty fields beyond the pad and draw a breath. Ready for another day.

After their first meeting in May, Grace read up on James Cowan, VP of New Energy. A fawning profile in an industry rag, Energy Today, described his “Sibling Rivalry” with older brother Hank, competing for the top spot to “bring energy independence to America.”

The author led with insider jargon: “Of the 400 trillion cubic feet (TCF) of technically recoverable natural gas reserves in the Marcellus Shale region, United Energy Holdings is poised to claim at least 345 TCF. Wealth that languished underground will now flow into shareholders’ accounts.” Then several paragraphs glorified the men and machines “turning a failing agricultural region into an energy powerhouse.” Not that anyone around here asked them to.

The second half profiled the two brothers, casting Hank as the sober guardian of supply-side economics and James as the visionary inventor. Bland family man Hank posed with his two children and trophy wife on a beach in Bali. A paparazzi-style photograph of James with a philanthropist film star was captioned: “James Cowan is one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.” The article credited his Aikido black belt with his “infallible ability to exploit setbacks into advantages.”

Grace prides her own infallible ability to mess with eligible bachelors. The Aikido intrigues her. Her collegiate red belt was thrown to the mat by her career. She amuses herself sometimes with a fantasy of sparring with James in a dojo. Arms on shoulders, arms across necks, hands on torsos, hands on backs. Hands grip, pull forearms, twist wrists. Skin sweat, body drop, mat slap. She bests him again and again and he leaps up for more.

On the way to the trailer, she rehearses her pitch. I’m ready to accept your offer. The timing is perfect, with your recent expansions. I’ve been working on a business plan. That’s a lie, but she can brainstorm in the car on her way back to Baltimore. You always say go big or go home. Let’s gear up and revolutionize this filthy industry.

He’ll ask, What about the hydrology and geology? Once she leaves academia, who will be willing to collaborate? She’ll throw some names around. Certain she can convince at least a few of them. Money talks.

Her chest is tight. She hacks a dry cough. Takes a swig of water. Curse this place that is already so cursed. Her childhood asthma was dormant for years before she started coming out here. The occasional stress-induced flare-up was easily managed with a puff or two of albuterol. Or caffeine in a pinch.

Inside, James and Scott confer over a large map spread on the folding table. Scott is a burly man in faded navy coveralls worn at the edges. The second “t” of his name scripted on the chest pocket frays an accordion of white threads. James wears a buttery silk sportscoat and black jeans, no tie, open top button.

Grace announces her entrance with a dry hacking cough. Scott looks up. “You okay?” His dark face is lined from a lifetime of outdoor work. She imagines a tattoo on his bicep, something old-school, an anchor or a heart.

“Yeah, just, all that dust.” She coughs and swigs more water.

“The air here sucks,” James says. “No offense, Scott.”

“None taken.” He smiles.

Grace is self-conscious around Scott, reluctant to launch into her pitch. She waves her thumb drive. “Need to plug in for a few, Scott.”

“Be my guest.”

She inserts the USB into Scott’s computer. James pushes back the metal folding chair, making it screech on the worn linoleum.

“Sorry,” he says.

Grace drags and drops files. “Busy?” She hasn’t heard from him in weeks.

When James doesn’t answer, Scott clears his throat and says, “Mr. Cowan, Senior. He passed.” His vibe reminds Grace of her high school biology teacher. A kind man.

Grace looks up from the computer screen. James’ eyes are closed. His body has stiffened. “Oh, that’s . . . I’m sorry,” she says. “Was it . . .?” She runs out of words.

“Sudden. Yeah,” James says in a monotone. He opens his eyes. A storm clouds their usual balmy Caribbean blue. She’s never seen him like this. He’s usually beyond confident and well into cocky.

“I’m sorry.” What else do people say in situations like this? The air in the trailer smells like burning plastic. “Did he . . .? Were you . . .?” Ugh. It’s none of her business. What is she doing? She wants to exit and reenter. She wants to start over.

“I’m okay,” he says. “Or I will be. I guess.” His lips waver between a weak smile and the grim truth. They settle on pressing together in a straight line, then betray a quiver at the corners. If the flaring wasn’t so loud, Grace imagines hearing his teeth grind.

How is he here instead of wherever you’re meant to be after your parent dies? Where she herself will be soon enough. She uploads her data to Scott’s computer, pulls his logs from the past week, removes the thumb drive, and plugs it into her laptop. She can’t think about her mother right now. Grace’s lab assistant Barbara pushed for weeks for a second opinion, but Francesca’s trust of doctors borders on worship. Her mother will discuss two subjects only: Grace’s career and her dating status. Last time they spoke, Francesca offered to introduce Grace to one of her co-workers. The man hit a trifecta: a newly divorced middle school teacher with two kids. Grace declined; she will never be that desperate. Not ever.

Another coughing fit makes her eyes stream. Grace finishes her water and pulls out the thumb drive. She longs to get in her car, puff on albuterol, and drive back to Baltimore. Her afternoon class isn’t going to teach itself.

Scott shows no signs of leaving, so she catches James’ eye across the table and says, “I know this isn’t great timing, but I’m. . . I’m ready to accept your offer.”

His face is a mask. “My offer?” He leans forward, elbows on the table. He smells like cloves and pavement after rain.

She blinks, coughs. “Yes. I’ve thought it over and, given how fucked your well casings are, and with your expansion and my other discoveries—”

“Hang on. What are you talking about?”

She shoots a look at Scott, who raises his brows and makes an exaggerated shrug. He shuffles over to the tiny closet that serves as a kitchenette, as far as he can go without stepping outside.

“You’ve been saying all summer, it’s time to gear up. Go big.” She coughs, feeling lightheaded. No inhaler yet. Focus. “Expand to the next dozen sites and beyond—"

“No way I can bring you in now.” He sits back shaking his head gingerly, like he’s got a raging headache. “Everything’s up in the air with the succession in dispute. It was meant to be me, but now Hank’s lawyered up. He’s running around all, I’m the oldest, it’s not fair.” The last bit delivered in a schoolyard nyah nyah nyah voice.

Scott snort-laughs from the closet, which twangs Grace’s tightening chest. She laugh-coughs.

“Hang on.” Grace bends over her backpack to extract the inhaler. Her mouth waters, anticipating sweet relief.

“Losing a parent has been eye-opening,” James says. “I’ve been so locked into advancing my career, I neglected everyone who matters. I saw my father as a god, then as a rival. I never saw him as just . . . my dad.”

The first Albuterol hit does nothing. Grace takes a second puff. Her breathing is marginally better.

James leans forward again, his features busy with worry. Or grief. Grace doesn’t know him well enough to distinguish. “I’ve been obsessing over what I want from life,” he says. “What am I here for, really?” He shakes his head again. “All I know is, life’s too short for this shit.”

Grace scours her mind for something, anything, to say. “But that’s why this is such important work.”

“Is it though? I mean—with all this science and engineering, all the technology at our fingertips, we still don’t know a damn thing. I don’t want to waste my life on being less bad. I want to do some actual good, y’know? When’s the last time you were so excited about something, you couldn’t wait to get up in the morning?”

When I was a kid, Grace wants to say. Sweat prickles her upper back, forehead, lip. Her chest is tighter than ever. The inhaler reads 14 doses left. Think, Grace, think. Her mind is gummed with creeping fear.

“Do you even know why you’re doing all this?” he asks.

Grace could swear Scott rolled his eyes behind James.

Barbara’s always asking her this, too. What’s your why? It’s annoying. Grace resents the assumption that she’s sleepwalking through her life like everyone else. The idea she could be like everyone else depresses her. She was called gifted so often as a child that she came to need and dread the word. Terrible thing to do to a child, tell them they’re special, make them equate cleverness with worth. Achievement as prerequisite to love.

“Well, then, I’ll talk to Hank,” she says. “Make the case for expanded—”

James laughs, but his eyes are steely. “Not Hank. Unless it’s a path to power, he gives no fucks.”

“When he sees all the money you’re wasting, all this fugitive methane, venting and flaring—.” She coughs out all her remaining breath. It’s an effort to force air back in.

He shakes his head. “No fucks means zero fucks.” He shifts on the hard chair. “You’re better than this, Grace. I hate to see you throw your life away.”

Anger flares. What a presumptuous prick. “You have no idea what’s best for me.” She takes a third puff. Tells herself she feels better. She doesn’t. She wants to hurl the useless inhaler against the far wall. “Every choice carries a cost. This is mine.”

“It’s too high a cost. You look like hell.” He’s barely audible, but his eyes have warmed. Look how easy breathing is for him.

“You okay?” Scott asks. He stands behind James peering at her.

“Maybe. Got any Mountain Dew?” A nasty wheeze has started. The flaring is too loud for them to hear the rattle vibrating her chest. “Or Redbull?”

“Late night?” James asks. He’s sitting straight, concern creasing his face.

“Always.” Grace’s exhaustion is a vise squeezing closed.

“All we got’s coffee,” Scott says from the kitchenette. “Pour you a cup?”

Grace wheezes and pushes down panic. “Please. Black.”

She downs the cup, barely registering its heat.

Her heart races. She tries to calm herself by focusing on James’ face. “I’m strung out with. The data analysis. On the instruments. I’ve got.” She jams inhales between choppy verbal exhales. “I can’t. Staff up. Without—” cough hack wheeze. She swallows a slime of bile. Calms a wave of nausea. Tries again to wheedle some breath in. “In-house. Join. Your. Team.” The last word is a gasp.

James frowns. “I can’t bring you in-house, but I can try to help in other ways.” He leans forward to place a hand on her wrist. In all these months, he’s never touched her. “You sure you’re okay?” His hand is smooth with manicured nails. She nods. “If you’re serious about expanding your scope, the best I can do right now is find you more money. Would that help?” He doesn’t get it. She can’t do any of that now.

He squeezes her wrist gently. It barely registers. She needs more coffee. Her head is abstract, offline. She stands. Sways.

“Hey. You okay?” James asks. He’s on his feet, reaching for her.

She nods yes, no, maybe. No. Jealous that speaking is so easy for him. She steadies herself on the edge of the table, then staggers to the hotplate in the kitchenette. The trailer is five times longer than before. She drinks three more cups of bitter sludgy coffee, ignoring the men. Finishes the pot down to the dregs. The caffeine yields marginal improvement, but she has to fight to keep it down.

She sips breath. This is it. She longs to be normal, to finish negotiating with James. In her head, it all makes sense. In addition to air monitors, we need baseline and ongoing water tests on streams and household wells. Grim speech-versus-oxygen cost-benefit analysis. Small words only. Short words. How to say, we’ll distinguish drilling’s thermogenic methane from biogenic methane, but in single syllables. Clumped-isotope geothermometer and higher-chain hydrocarbons taunt her from another dimension. One where breathing is easy and automatic.

She manages, “We. Should. Test. Water.” Her chest answer-squeezes, Leave. Now. She’s frozen in the kitchenette doorway. Willing the backpack and laptop to levitate to her.

Both men stare. Scott reaches a hand toward her. His fingers are thick and calloused.

Grace drags tiny breaths as if through a flattened straw. She wants to speak, oh, she wants to. But words are too greedy. Her body turns to stone: throat, collarbones, shoulders, upper chest, mid-chest, waist, back. Her head floats off in search of a better host.

“You okay?” James asks. “This lighting sucks but you look. . .”

“Blue,” Scott says. “Her lips are blue.”

I need air, she wants to say, but her legs and feet have become hollow paper tubes.

“Hold up,” James says, lunging toward her. He grabs her forearm with an Aikido-strong hand, but momentum carries her down. “Call 911. I’ll—”

She’s flat on the gritty floor staring up a flat rectangle of light. One of them is standing on her chest. Get off, asshole. Off.

Blue-black darkness crushes her vision and steals her final scrap of breath. Tired. Rest. Sleep.

Shuffling. Shouts. Motion. Rattles. Siren. Radio squawk. Images. Earth from space. Fragile veil of air wrapping a rock. Slant of sunlight on wall. Tapestries red, gold, blue. Rembrandt’s self-portrait with velvet beret and mild surprise. Five-minute pause in Mahler’s Second Symphony. Face the emptiness or become it.

storm stirs sky, heron launches airborne, trees respire, butterfly emerges wet

ice melts to water escapes to vapor wafts

cold tile garish lights

orange

plastic

chairs

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Fracking in Loyalsock State Forest, photo by Pete Stern on Fracktracker

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