“It was on the radio before you came. The oil exporting countries say they won’t take any more paper money. Only gold.”
“They’ve threatened that several times.” Nim was remembering his conversation with Eric Humphrey and Mr. Justice Yale shortly before Christmas. Then the oil situation had been worrisome; now, in March, it was gravely critical. He added, “This time it looks as if they mean it.”
Karen asked, “If imported oil stops coming, how bad will things be?”
“Far worse than most people believe. More than half the oil America uses is imported, and eighty-five percent of that comes from OPEC countries.” He went on, “Even now, though, an oil shortage is being thought about mainly in terms of cars and gasoline, not electricity.”
Nim reflected again, as he had on the way over tonight: The most dramatic confrontation yet with the OPEC oil nations, with a potential far more devastating than the Arab embargo of 1973-74, had happened abruptly within the past forty-eight hours. It was a possibility that everyone had known about but comparatively few took seriously. The eternal optimists, including some in high places, were still hoping a final showdown could be avoided, that one way or another the Niagara of imported oil would keep on flowing. Nim didn’t share their belief.
A thought occurred to him concerning Karen. Before he could express it they came to the elevator and the doors opened.
Already inside, the only other occupants were two small children—a boy and a girl, cheerful and fresh-faced, their ages probably nine and ten. “Hi, Karen!” they both said as the wheelchair, followed by Nim, moved in.
“Hello, Philip and Wendy,” Karen said. “Are you going out?”
The boy answered. “No. Just downstairs to play.” He looked at Nim. “Who’s he?”
“My date. This is Mr. Goldman.” She told Nim, “These are two of my neighbors and friends.”
As the elevator descended, they all said hello.
“Karen,” the small boy asked, “can I touch your hand?”
“Of course.”
He did so, moving his fingertips gently, then asked, “Can you feel that?”
“Yes, Philip,” she told him. “You have gentle hands.” He seemed interested and pleased.
Not wanting to be outdone, the girl inquired, “Karen, do you want your legs changed?”
“Well … all right.”
Carefully, apparently knowing what to do, the girl lifted Karen’s right leg until it was crossed over the left.
“Thank you, Wendy.”
In the downstairs lobby the children said goodbye and ran off.
“That was beautiful,” Nim said.
“I know.” Karen smiled warmly. “Children are so natural. They’re not afraid, or mixed up, the way adults are. When I first came here to live, the children in the building would ask me questions like, ‘What’s the matter with you?’ or ‘Why can’t you walk?’ and when their parents heard that, they would tell them ‘Shush!’ It took a while, but I got them all to understand I don’t mind the questions, in fact welcome them. But there are still some adults who can never be comfortable. When they see me, they look the other way.”
Outside the apartment front door, Josie was waiting with the van. It was a Ford, painted a pleasant light green; a wide sliding door on the near side was already open. Karen maneuvered her wheelchair so it was facing the door and a few feet away.
“If you watch,” she told Nim, “you’ll see what your Mr. Paulsen did to help me get into Humperdinck.”
While Karen was speaking, Josie lifted down two lengths of steel channel from the van’s interior. Attaching both pieces of channel to fittings at the base of the doorway, she lowered the other ends to the ground. Between the van’s interior and the ground there was now a double ramp, the width matching the wheels on Karen’s chair.
Now Josie stepped inside the van and reached for a hook on a steel cable; the cable was attached to an electric wihch on the far side. She brought the hook to the wheelchair, snapped it through a steel eye, then returned to the which. Josie touched a switch and held it down.
“Here we go!” Karen said. With her words, the wheelchair was pulled smoothly up the ramp. Once inside, Josie swung the chair around, the wheels slipping neatly into two recesses in the floor, where bolts secured them.
Josie, grinning, told Nim, “You ride up front, Mr. Goldman. With the chauffeur.”
As they eased out of the apartment house forecourt into traffic, Nim turned around in the front seat to talk with Karen. He returned to what he had been about to say when they reached the elevator.
“If we do have a serious oil shortage, almost certainly there will be rolling blackouts. You know what those are?”
Karen nodded. “I think so. It means electric power will be off in different places for hours at a time.”
“Yes, most likely three hours every day to begin with, then for longer periods if things get worse. If it happens, though, I’ll make sure you get warning in advance, then you’ll have to go to a hospital with its own generator.”
“Redwood Grove,” Karen said. “That’s where Josie and I went the night those Friends of Freedom people blew up the substations and we had a power failure.”
“Tomorrow,” Nim told her, “I’m going to find out how good their generator is at Redwood Grove. Sometimes those standbys aren’t worth a damn because they’re not given proper service. When New York had its big blackouts, some of them wouldn’t even start.”
“I’m not going to worry,” Karen said. “Not with you looking out for me, Nimrod.”
Josie was a careful driver and Nim relaxed during the journey to the Palace of Arts, where the city’s symphony orchestra performed. At the Palace’s main entrance, while Josie was unloading Karen’s wheelchair, help arrived in the form of a uniformed attendant who promptly whisked Karen and Nim through a side door and into an elevator which carried them to the grand tier. There they had front row space in a box, and a movable ramp eased the way for Karen. It was obvious that the Palace of Arts was used to wheelchair users among its patrons.
When they had settled down, and looking around her, Karen said, “This is special treatment, Nimrod. How did you manage it?”
“Dear old GSP & L, as you call it, has some influence.”
It was Teresa Van Buren who, at Nim’s request, arranged box seats and the facilities for Karen. When he had offered to pay, Tess told him, “Forget it! There are a few executive perks left. Enjoy them while they last.”
Nim held a program for Karen to see but, after a moment, she shook her head. “I’ll enjoy listening, but I always think music criticism and program notes are written by people trying to prove how clever they are.”
He chuckled. “I agree.”
As the house lights dimmed and the conductor ascended the podium amid applause, Karen said softly, “Nimrod, things are different between us, aren’t they?”
He was taken aback by her perception but had no time to answer before the music began.
The program was heavily Brahms. Variations on a Theme of Haydn first. Immediately after: Piano Concerto No. 2 in B-flat Major: the superb soloist was Eugene Istomin. The piano concerto was among Nim’s favorites and, judging by her rapt attention, Karen’s too. During the third movement with its moving, haunting cello melody, he reached out, putting a hand over one of Karen’s. As she turned her head, he saw her eyes were wet with tears.
At last the music finished to sustained applause in which Nim joined—“Please! For both of us,” Karen urged him—and house lights went up for the intermission.
While others left their seats to promenade, Nim and Karen remained where they were. Both were briefly silent, then she said, “If you like, you can answer my question now.”
He had no need to ask which question and, sighing, said, “I suppose nothing ever stays the same.”
“We’re foolish if we expect it to,” Karen acknowledged, “and I want you to know I never did. Oh, it’s nice to dream sometimes, to long f
or the impossible and want everything good to last, but one thing I’ve learned is to be a realist. Be honest with me, Nimrod. What happened? What changed between last time and now?”
It was then he told her. Told her about Ruth, the invading malignancy which threatened her life, and how—because of it—she and Nim had found their way again, which for a while they had lost.
Karen listened in silence. Then she said, “I knew the moment I saw you tonight that there was something different, something important and personal. Now that I know why, I’m glad for you in one way, and sad—of course—in another, especially for your wife.”
“We may get lucky,” he said.
“I hope so. Some people do.”
The orchestra was filing in for the concert’s second half. Others in the audience were resuming their seats.
Karen said quietly, “We mustn’t be lovers any more, you and me. It wouldn’t be fair, or right. But I hope we’ll go on being friends, and that sometimes I’ll see you.”
He touched her hand again, and managed to say, “Friends, always,” before the music started.
On the homeward journey they were quieter than when they came.
Josie, too, seemed to sense the change, and said little. She had met them outside with Humperdinck, having been to visit friends while Nim and Karen were in the Palace of Arts.
After a while, again turning around in the front seat to face Karen, Nim said, “Earlier on, you told me you were worried about your father. You didn’t want to talk about it. Do you now?”
“I don’t mind,” Karen said. “Except there isn’t a lot to tell. I do know Daddy is in some kind of trouble—financial, I think; he’s dropped hints, but won’t tell me exactly what. It does mean, though, I won’t have Humperdinck much longer.”
Nim was shocked. “Why?”
“The monthly payments are too much for my parents. I think I told you Daddy’s bank wouldn’t lend the money, so he went to a finance company and the interest rate was higher. I suppose that, and business things, have crowded in.”
“Look,” Nim said, “I’d like to help …”
“No! I said once before I won’t ever take money from you, Nimrod, and I meant it. You have your own family to look after. Besides, much as I love Humperdinck, I managed without a van before and can do so again. It’s Daddy I’m concerned about.”
“I really wish,” Nim told her, “there were something I could do.”
“Stay my friend, Nimrod. It’s all I ask.”
They said good night—with a gentle kiss, not passionate any more—outside Karen’s apartment building. At her suggestion, because she said she was tired, he did not go up, but walked sadly to his car, parked a block away.
12
In the last week of March, the dramatic, suddenly-erupting oil crisis overshadowed all else, dominating national and international news.
“It’s like imminent war,” someone observed at a GSP & L management committee meeting. “You keep thinking it won’t happen, so that everything’s unreal until the guns start firing.”
There was nothing unreal about the OPEC nations’ unanimous decision. Members of OPEC—the Arab countries and Iran, Venezuela, Indonesia, Nigeria—had decreed a few days earlier: After tankers on the high seas and in United States ports had off-loaded their cargoes, no more oil would be dispatched to the U.S. until the dispute over payment had been resolved.
The OPEC nations claimed to have ample dollar reserves with which to sit out their embargo, reserves far greater, they pointed out, than U.S. stockpiles of oil.
“Unfortunately, too goddam true,” a travel-weary Secretary of State snapped at Washington reporters in an undiplomatic, unguarded moment.
Within Golden State Power & Light, as elsewhere throughout the country, urgent policy decisions were being made. In GSP & L’s bailiwick the question was no longer “if” there would be widespread temporary blackouts, but “how soon” and to what extent.
The two previous years of drought in California and the light winter snowfall in the Sierra Nevada were compounding the problem because hydroelectric reserves were significantly less than usual.
Nim, whose role as vice president, planning, placed him at the center of activity, became engaged in a hectic succession of conferences, their purpose to review emergency plans and decide priorities.
Meanwhile, some national and state priorities had already been decreed.
The President ordered immediate gasoline rationing, and a standby coupon scheme already “on the shelf” was to be activated within days. Additionally, all sales of gasoline were forbidden from Friday nights to Monday mornings.
Also emanating from Washington was an edict halting all major sporting events and other attractions which produced large crowds, and closing national parks. The objective was to reduce unnecessary travel, especially by automobile. Theaters and movie houses, it was stated, might have to be closed later.
All public utilities using oil were ordered to begin around-the-clock “brownouts” by reducing their voltages five percent.
Public utilities which produced electricity by burning coal—principally in the central United States—were instructed to transmit as much power as they could spare to the East and West Coasts, which would be hardest hit by the oil embargo, and where massive unemployment was expected because of power-short plants and businesses. The scheme was labeled “Coal by Wire.” However, its effect would be limited, in part because the central U.S. needed most of its electricity for local use, and also because long distance transmission lines were few in number.
Schools in many areas were being ordered to close now, and reopen in the summer when their heating and lighting needs would be far less.
Curbs on air travel were being worked out and would shortly be announced.
More drastic steps, the public was warned—including three- or even four-day weekends—were likely if the oil situation failed to improve.
Accompanying all official measures were pleas for voluntary conservation of energy in all its forms.
At Golden State Power & Light, every discussion was overshadowed by the knowledge that the utility’s own stored oil was sufficient for only thirty days of normal operation.
Since some new oil, from tankers now en route, would still be coming in, it was decided that “rolling blackouts” would be delayed until the second week of May. Then, initially, the electricity cutoffs would be for three hours each day, after which more draconian measures might be needed.
But even the earliest power cuts, it was realized, would be disruptive, and damaging to the state’s economy. Nim knew how grim the situation was; so did others directly involved. But the general public, Nim believed, had still not grasped, or perhaps didn’t want to, the full significance of what was happening.
As well as Nim’s planning duties, and because of his reinstatement as company spokesman, he was in demand to explain the current scene and outlook.
He found the two responsibilities a strain and told Teresa Van Buren, “Okay, I’ll handle the important occasions for you, but you’ll have to use your own people for the small stuff.” She said she would.
Next day the p.r. director appeared in Nim’s office. “There’s a midday TV program called Lunch Break.”
“You may not believe this, Tess,” he said, “but I never watch it.”
“Yeah, yeah; very funny. Well, don’t be too quick to dismiss daytime television. There are a million housewives out there who do watch, and tomorrow the program wants the electricity crisis explained.”
“By me, I suppose.”
“Naturally,” Van Buren said. “Who does it better?”
Nim grinned. “Okay, but do something for me. All TV stations specialize in time wasting. They ask you to be there early, then keep you waiting forever to go on. You know how busy I am so, for once, try to arrange a fast-in, fast-out.”
“I’ll come with you myself,” Van Buren said. “And I’ll work it out. I promise.”
As
it turned out, the promise was not fulfilled.
Lunch Break was a one-hour show which went on the air at noon. The p.r. director and Nim arrived at the TV studios at 11:50. In the foyer a young woman program assistant met them; like so many who worked in television, she dressed and looked as if she graduated from high school the week before. She carried the standard badge of office—a clipboard—and wore her glasses in her hair.
“Oh, yes, Mr. Goldman. You’ll be on last, at ten to one.”
“Hey, hold it!” Van Buren protested. “I was assured Mr. Goldman would be at the top of the show. He’s one of our senior executives and his time is valuable, especially now.”
“I know.” The program assistant smiled sweetly. “But the producer changed his mind. Mr. Goldman’s subject is rather heavy. It might depress our audience.”
“They should be depressed,” Nim said.
“If they are, and then switch off, our program will be over anyway,” the young woman said firmly. “Perhaps you’d like to come on the set while you’re waiting. Then you can watch the rest of the show.”
Van Buren looked at Nim, putting up her hands in a gesture of helplessness.
Resigned, knowing how much urgent work he could have accomplished in the wasted hour, he told her, “Okay.”
The program assistant, who had played the same scene many times, said, “Come with me, please.”
The studio set, colorful and brightly lighted, was intended to look like a living room. Its centerpiece was a bright orange sofa occupied by two regular interviewers—Jerry and Jean—young, vivacious, turned-on, Beautiful People. Three TV cameras prowled in front in a semicircle. Guests would join the interviewers under the bright lights, one by one.
The show’s first ten minutes were devoted to a dancing bear from a visiting circus, the second to a seventy-year-old grandmother who had traveled from Chicago on roller skates. “I wore out five pairs,” she boasted, “and would have been here sooner, except the police wouldn’t let me use interstate highways.”