Arthur Hailey - Overload

“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 had 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 winch on the far side. She brought the hook to the wheelchair, snapped it through a steel eye, then returned to the winch. 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 bow 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 by 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 for 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?"