Slick Page 5
At supper, Mom drops a little bomb. “This Christmas, I’d like Robert to come to the Great Bear Rainforest with us.” She watches us nervously.
I feel like my breath has been sucked out of me. I want to leave the room.
“Yippee!” the boys start screaming. But when they see my face, they quiet down.
“We all know that Liza isn’t fond of Robert, so this isn’t exciting news for her,” Mom says gently.
“It’s lousy news,” I yell, bursting into tears. “The worst!” I run from the room.
Minutes later, Leland visits me. I’m facedown on my bed, sobbing. “Cake for ’Iza?” Leland asks, holding out a plate of chocolate cake. He calls me ’Iza as a pet name. It’s how he said my name when he was a baby.
“Thanks, Lee-Lee, I’m not hungry.”
Silas comes in with a mug of mint tea. “Thanks,” I say, sitting up. “You really like that guy, eh?” I ask them.
“Yeah, he’s fun. Not as fun as Dad,” Silas says. “But Dad’s far away.”
“The tea’s good. Thanks,” I say.
“I put extra honey in it for you,” Silas says.
Mom finally comes in and sits on the edge of my bed. “Sweetie, tell me what you’re feeling.”
“Mad,” I blubber. “He’s always in our lives now. Here for supper, at the boys’ soccer games, at parties. Whenever you get a free moment, you’re on the phone with him, or getting your hair done for him. I never see you, just you, anymore. It’s never just us. He comes first, and we just get pushed aside for him. You drive up to his house, and I get in the backseat! It sucks!”
I don’t think. I just talk. And Mom doesn’t argue. She doesn’t interrupt to say it isn’t that bad or that I’m just tired. She’s really listening. Finally I’m talked out, and Mom’s sitting there, crying a little and nodding. The boys are spellbound.
At last, Mom speaks. “Liza, I am so proud of you for telling me how you feel. I understand. And I’m sorry. I was so excited about meeting someone who makes me laugh and feel good, that I jumped in quickly. And left you guys on the shore sometimes.
“How about this: how about Robert just comes up to Great Bear for two nights. We’re there for a whole week. Would that be acceptable?”
“I’d rather not see him at all,” I pout.
“Okay, then, three nights,” Mom says, cracking a smile.
“Two!” I laugh. “I can handle him for two.”
Silas and Leland start whooping then and jumping on my bed. After a bit, Mom and I join in—until the bed makes an evil-sounding crack. We freeze and then fall into a giggling heap.
For Immediate Release Friday, December 10, 2010
Attn. Media: Keep Our Coast Tanker-Free
(Victoria, BC)
GRRR! is at it again. On Friday at Arbutus Beach, under a full moon, Girls for Renewable Resources, Really! will set afloat three hundred origami boats. The seaweed-paper boats represent the three hundred tankers that may soon travel our coast each year— at our peril.
If the oil industry gets its way, enormous tankers filled with oil from the Alberta tar sands will travel our rocky coast in all kinds of weather, through the territory of the Gitga’at, past the exact place where the BC Ferry Queen of the North smashed into Gil Rock.
An oil spill is inevitable. It will kill plankton, salmon, otters, whales, seabirds and also the wolves and bears on shore that feed on salmon.
Already, tankers of condensate travel our coast for use at the Alberta tar sands.
Join us in solemn recognition and joyful celebration of the four elements—air, fire, earth and WATER.
GRRR! will be joined by BRRR!—Boys for Renewable Resources, Really!—and at the exact same time, in Seattle, a sister chapter of GRRR! will also launch boats.
Chapter Thirteen
Mom is at an auction, so Slick picks me and the boys up from soccer. It is eleven o’clock on a freezing Saturday morning in December, but he takes us out for ice cream!
“Cool!” Leland says when Slick pulls into Beacon Drive In.
“More like ‘cold!’” Silas jokes.
“Br-r-right idea!” I say, making an effort to join in. Slick brought four golf putters and we play mini-golf in Beacon Hill Park. A squirrel and a crow fight over the last of our cones, and Slick shows Leland how to make a whistle from a blade of grass. Slick sucks at golf.
“I’ve tried,” he says. “It’s how the oil bosses hobnob. But I just can’t get it.”
“Golf courses are weird,” I comment. “Giant lawns with holes.”
“A dead dreamland,” Leland says.
We go to Slick’s house for lunch. “I’ve got a surprise for you,” he says. In his backyard, he’s hung three handmade swings from his Garry oak trees. Our names are painted on them in swirling letters. Mine is a beautiful curved piece of arbutus.
“Reclaimed wood,” Slick said. “I scavenged it. Loggers leave a lot behind.”
“I didn’t know you could—,” I started.
“Make things?” Slick smiles. “I grew up on a farm. We were very poor. We did everything ourselves. I didn’t have a piece of clothing that wasn’t a hand-me-down until I was fourteen. A white Oxford shirt, for my first job.”
“What was it?” asked Silas. “Your first job?”
“Gofer.”
“What?” we chorus.
“Go for this, go for that. Errand boy, in a field office of the very company I work for today. Argenta Oil has been my bread and butter since I was fourteen.”
“Butter?” I asked. “Don’t you mean oil?”
“Get out of here, you!” Slick laughs. “Let me make lunch.”
We swing high in the backyard while Slick makes peanut-butter sandwiches. We eat outside, wrapped in blankets.
“Nothing like a picnic,” Slick sighs. Leland plucks a piece of grass from the yard and puts it to his lips.
“Don’t!” Slick cries. “It’s been sprayed.”
“Pesticides,” I say.
“You mean—” Leland looks bewildered. “You poison your own lawn?”
Slick is at a loss for words. “That reminds me!” I leap in, reaching into my jacket pocket. “I printed this off for you! It’s from the Canadian Cancer Society website. You know, the organization you did that run for? They want Canada to ban the use of pesticides for ‘cosmetic reasons’—like making lawns and parks, and golf courses, pretty. Pesticides can make kids get leukemia.”
But I was supposed to make the message fun, right? “And, uh, guess what? For Christmas, I’m giving you four hours of weeding by moi.”
Slick is reading and shaking his head. Finally he looks up. “Four hours of weeding sounds like an excellent gift,” he said. “Thank you.”
Holy cow. I just gave Slick, my hated enemy, a Christmas present.
What is getting into me?
Later that night, Olive arrives at the GRRR! boat-folding meeting early, tearful and livid.
“Why did you post those photos of the bike ride on your Facebook page?” she hisses at me. “Did you forget my parents are your Facebook friends?”
“Yeah,” I stammer. “Kind of. I mean, I wasn’t worried about who would see them.”
“They saw we were riding in the middle of the street. You knew I wasn’t going to tell them the whole story! I’m grounded,” she fumes. “I can’t go to the flotilla launch.”
“Wow. That really sucks,” I say. “Is there any way you can change their minds? Do more chores or something?”
“No. They think I’m in over my head, that I’m going with the crowd because I’m not ‘centered.’”
“That’s what you get when your dad’s a psychiatrist,” I say, half-smiling, half-commiserating.
“At least I can help fold boats.” Olive sighs. “Let’s get to it.”
Chapter Fourteen
On Sunday evening, Leland, Silas and I are the first to arrive at Arbutus Beach. Mom drops us off with the box of paper boats and heads out for a coffee with Slick. It’s
a cold, clear night. The moon is a bright coin in the black sky. The beach glows silver, and the waves seem to lap at the moonlight. To keep warm, the boys and I run along the logs on shore. Suddenly we hear a splash. Out in the dark ocean we spy the glistening wet head of a seal. She seems to see us too, then disappears beneath the water. Finally she bobs up again in a different spot, looks at us and disappears again.
“It’s like she’s sewing. Up and down,” Leland remarks.
Silas agrees. “Like she’s lashing together the underwater world and our world above.”
“Do you think she knows we’re here, Liza? What we’re doing?” Leland asks.
“I do think she knows,” I muse. “Even if she doesn’t know she knows.”
“I kind of get that,” says Silas.
“Me too,” Leland says. “It makes me shivery. Magic shivery.”
We squat side by side and wait for the seal to pop up again. I realize that my arms are over my brothers’ shoulders.
“I’m warm,” says Silas.
“Me too,” I say.
“Me three,” Leland chimes in.
Then a man’s voice rises cheerfully behind us. “Is this the launch site for three hundred boats?” It’s Darryl, and about twelve others! “My soccer team,” Darryl explains, slightly out of breath. “We just finished a game.”
The beach soon gets busy. The girls from GRRR! arrive, other kids from school, their parents, and even Ms. Catalla! Our babysitter Rachael arrives with four friends from music school. They have violins and violas and begin playing.
“Water Music by Handel,” Rachael announces.
Melissa, Emma and I hand out boats. Even the news reporters take them. The boys of BRRR! arrive with Mr. McCartney in tow. “I like your boat design,” Niall tells me shyly. “Sturdy, but elegant.” He gives me a strange smile. I smile back, but my lips do something weird—they kind of quiver.
Melissa grabs my elbow. “Make your speech!” she whispers.
With his booming voice, Darryl calls for the crowd’s attention. The wind dies down right at that moment, so I don’t have to shout.
“There are environmentally gentle boats,” I begin, reading the speech I’ve worked on for a week, “such as the Salish dugout canoes that traveled these waters for thousands of years. And there are aggressive boats, such as motorboats and container ships. Our coast is wild and rough. It is also sensitive and complex as lace. Plankton, seaweed, salmon, seals, eagles—just as we need clean water, they do too.
“We can’t let tankers bully up and down our narrow inlets. Yes, the oil they carry means a kind of life—movement and money. But it takes only a drop of oil the size of a dime to kill a seagull. Imagine a sleepy captain, hurricane-force winds, a broken computer. And a tanker loses its way and crashes, spilling hundreds of thousands of gallons of oil.
“The boats we’re sending out this evening are gentle boats. They won’t hurt the ocean and its creatures. They’re at home here. Tankers are not. Ready? Launch!”
At first the boats cling to shore. A few nervous laughs. But Hannah’s mom, a kayaker, says the currents at Arbutus will soon carry the boats off. And they do, as if stirred by a witch’s wand.
“Wonderful speech, daughter.”
I wheel around. It’s Mom! “What are you doing here? And—Ro-Robert. Hello.”
“Surprise!” Slick grins. He’s got a boat in his hand. “Launch time, Laura.” I can’t believe it. I look around at the crowd—they sure have no idea an oil executive is among them!
Mom launches her boat while Slick removes his fancy shoes. I guess he doesn’t want to get them wet. Mom comes over and puts her arms around me. We watch as Slick crouches at the water’s edge and gives his boat a little push.
“Robert’s been learning from you,” Mom says quietly. “He says you walk the talk.”
Robert joins us. “This is really beautiful, Liza,” he says. Then he looks me in the eye. “I know it’s a bit weird that I’m here. But I want to take your message to the company.”
“Robert’s going to research his company’s records,” Mom says.
“I’ve been very thankful to the company. They’ve given me a living,” Robert explains. “But maybe I’ve been too thankful. I just assumed they were doing the right thing. When I learned they were dragging their feet on those compensation payments, I was shocked.
“Now, I want to make sure the company doesn’t step on the Gitga’at. Or endanger the environment. I’m going to be asking hard questions at meetings over the next few weeks.”
“Just taking oil out of the ground is bad for the environment,” I say. “And for what? For rich people to burn up in their Hummers?”
“Liza—,” Mom warns.
“She has a point,” Slick says. “And it’s a good one.”
“Anyway, couldn’t you lose your job?” I ask.
“It’s possible,” Slick nods and looks out at the water. “Does GRRR! have an opening for a ceo?”
“No!” I laugh.
Slick nods. “You know, I like my job. And the pay is nice. But you and your mom and your brothers, you bring me a lot of happiness. You make me rich, the real kind of rich.”
So maybe Slick isn’t such a bad guy, I’m thinking. He acts on what he learns. That’s cool. Maybe he’s like a rattleback. Maybe he will switch directions completely.
The crowd starts to thin. People head home. The three hundred paper boats bob in the moonlight. Overnight, they’ll dissolve into the water.
The girls of GRRR! huddle with our heads together:
“Way to go,” Melissa enthuses.
“Beautiful,” Emma T. concurs.
“Here’s to happy salmon!” I say.
“To green forests!”
“To blue waters.”
“To Olive, who wanted to be here.”
“Hip hip, hooray!” we hug each other.
Then Mom, Silas, Leland and I— and Slick—pile into the car. “Wait!” Slick shouts as I climb into the back. “My turn.”
He takes my arm and leads me to the front seat. Then he gets in between Silas and Leland. “Enjoy the ride, everyone,” Mom says. “We’re getting on our bikes tomorrow. Time to walk the talk.”
“You mean bike the gripe,” Silas jokes.
I look at the backseat. Silas is rosy-cheeked from the night air. Leland is dozing off. And Slick just looks squashed, his knees practically pressed into his eye sockets.
Mom squeezes my knee and smiles. “Homeward, co-pilot?” she asks.
“Homeward,” I reply.
The cuffs of my jeans are wet with sea water. They’re rough and cold against my ankles. But I don’t mind. I don’t mind at all.
Epilogue
From: OilWatch@geemail.com
To: LittleLizaJane@whoohoo.com
Comrade Liza!
Attached are photos of the Seattle GRRR! flotilla. A beautiful night.
I got a letter from the farmers of the Riviera Selequa. Oil spills have polluted lands along a pipeline that crosses thousands of hectares of indigenous land. The government and oil companies say it isn’t their fault. They’re threatening to jail environmentalists, journalists and local leaders who try to speak out.
They want me to let you know.
Rise up!
Jamaica
From: OliveJuice@lalaland.ca
To: LittleLizaJane@whoohoo.com
Liza!
Ran into Niall, and he gushed about your amazing speech.
While you were on the beach, I got my parents to watch An Inconvenient Truth, that movie about climate change. It was like watching two people turn into rocks. They went dead silent. Then we had a family meeting. We’ve turned down the heat in the house three degrees—I need slippers—and we’re not buying anything new except food for a year! You just might see me at the next Critical Mass ride!
Love, Olive Pit
From: aLynne@gitga’at.com
To: LittleLizaJane@whoohoo.com
Dear Liza,
I live on the Douglas Channel.
Sometimes people block roads so logging trucks can’t get through and wreck the wilderness.
You can’t block water as easily. So I dream of crocheting a chain of wool and stretching it across the Channel. The little string wouldn’t stop the tankers, but it would symbolize the fragility of our existence and show the magnitude of our fight.
Would GRRR! be interested in doing a little crocheting?
Sincerely,
Lynne Hill
Author’s Note
While most of Slick is fictional, much is true. The Maya people’s land and human rights are continually violated by the oil industry, especially the Maya Queqchi people, who live in a central strip of Guatemala.
Oil spills have polluted vast amounts of indigenous lands along a pipeline from a refinery in La Libertad, Peten, to Puerto Barrios, Izabal. Government officials as well as oil companies deny responsibility, and, yes, people are threatened with jail or physically hurt when they speak out.
Often indigenous peoples don’t know their rights have been violated, mostly because they have long been treated as “sub-citizens” in their countries, as if they have no rights. Rich, poor, black, white— all people have equal human rights.
In British Columbia, since 2006, condensate tankers have traveled the Douglas Channel and other sensitive areas, and oil supertanker traffic is a real threat. For more information, see notankers.ca.
Lynne Hill does indeed live in Hartley Bay. The crochet chain across Douglas Channel she dreams of would be four kilometers long!
Special thanks to Don and Pam. And to Mike for being a good sport. Also, to Arlette, Nicole, Mikel, Diana, Amaya, Ezra, Alden and my amazing siblings.
Sara Cassidy has worked as a clown, a youth-hostel manager, a tree planter in five Canadian provinces, and as an international human-rights witness in Guatemala. Her poetry, fiction and articles have been widely published and won a Gold National Magazine Award. She lives in Victoria with her three children.