Diversion

The brown beer bottle drifted gently through the air.

Out of the kitchen it went, moving with apparent purpose, and into the living room. John Harris, in jeans and t-shirt, stood by the glass coffee table, tracking the floating bottle of brew. A Saturday afternoon sunbeam lit the droplets of water condensation on the cold bottle briefly as it floated by a window.

“It’s going wide right,” he reported. “It’s near the television!” The bottle stopped uncertainly. “Back and a little left,” he said.

The bottle retreated from its position, edging sidewise toward Harris. He reached out a muscular arm and captured it.

“Got it!” he called.

Megan, barefoot and wearing khaki shorts and a blue tank-top, came in from the kitchen.

“That was really hard,” she said.

“I know it was, honey,” Harris replied, dropping onto the sofa. “But Dr. Tzin-Zin said you have to practice if you want to develop any dexterity with your telekinesis. And I’m happy help.”

He tried to twist off the cap.

“By the way, this is not a twist off,” Harris said, looking up at his trim dark-haired wife.

She sat down and nestled up to him.

“Give it here,” she said.

Taking the bottle, Megan put her thumbnail under the edge of the bottle cap and flicked it off, twirling it high into the air. Beaming at her husband, she put out a hand. The spinning bottle cap dropped neatly into her palm. Her fingers closed on it.

“God, I love it when you do that,” he said.

“What, flip off the bottle cap and catch it without even looking?”

“No, open beer for me.”

Her hand opened. “Fly away to the trash, little bottle cap,” she said. Obediently, the bottle cap rose and flew into the kitchen. Megan could see the metal trash canister in the kitchen. She smiled as she watched it open, the bottle cap drop in, and the canister close again.

Harris turned to Megan. She laid back on the sofa as he leaned over her.

“Are you the sexiest wife in the world or what?” he asked, coming down for a kiss. Megan blinked out. Harris stared confusedly for a moment at the empty space between his weightlifter’s arms, then looked behind him as he felt a light touch on his shoulder. Megan had reappeared on the sofa on the other side of him.

“Does that mean you’re only attracted to me because of my special talents?” she asked. Harris turned and took his small wife in his arms again. He tried again for the kiss, but she stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“Answer,” she commanded.

“I married you before you had any special talents, didn’t I?”

“Oh, that’s romantic.”

Harris released her. “Well, if I’m not romantic enough for you, you’re in luck. It’s time for the game.” He reached for the television remote control.

“Lucky?” asked Megan. “How is that lucky?”

Harris switched the set on. Nothing appeared but a blank white screen filled with tiny swirling, blinking dots. He looked at his wife on the sofa beside him.

“Megan,” he began.

She held her hands up. “I didn’t do it, honest,” she said. “You know how much I love hockey.”

“Yes, I know,” he said looking back at the featureless screen. He flipped through the channels, but couldn’t find a different show. “Can you fix it?”

“What do I look like, a cable repairman? Maybe I can do something, though.” The cell phone lifted off a nearby end table and floated over to Harris.

“Thanks, that’s a huge help.” He flipped it open. “You wouldn’t happen to know the number would you?”

“Seven-four-one-oh-eight-three-eight,” she replied sweetly.

Harris punched the numbers in and waited for a moment.

“Hello,” he said. This is John Harris at 2034 Stonybrook. Our cable is out.” He listened, then recited their telephone number. He listened again.

Harris looked at Megan. “She says the whole southwest portion of the ‘Dale is having problems.” He listened again, then repeated the address.

“Okay,” he said. “I guess we’ll be here. Any idea when it’ll be fixed?” He glanced at Megan again and shook his head.

“All right, well, thank you.” Harris closed the phone and set it on the coffee table.

“They must be swamped with calls,” Megan commented. “You were really lucky to get them on the first try.” The cell phone rose into the air.

“Hey, watch it!” Harris cried, grabbing his opened beer bottle from in front of the low-flying phone. He swigged.

“Sorry,” said Megan. “I just wanted to put it back in my purse.” The phone flew off into the bedroom.

“They don’t know what’s the matter,” Harris told Megan. “They’ve got crews out. The woman said some cable guys might be stopping here this afternoon to check out our connection.”

“What’ll we do in the meantime?” Megan asked, innocently.

“We won’t be watching hockey, that’s for sure.”

Megan looked at him for a moment. “C’mere, you,” she said, and effortlessly pulled the big man down to her.

With one hand on his back and one gripping the back of his head, she firmly mashed their lips together. With her tongue, she explored the inside of his mouth like it was a conquered province. Harris held her head with both his big hands.

He gasped, and Megan smiled, beneath him as she gently attacked with countless telekinetic fingers every sensitive area she could think of on the hard body she knew so well.

The doorbell rang.

“Let voice mail get it,” he mumbled.

“It’s the doorbell, dodo,” she said with a wry smile. “It’s probably the cable guy.”

Harris rolled off her, onto the floor – whether under his own power or hers, he wasn’t sure. Megan was already at the door. She glanced quickly in the entryway mirror, smoothed back her short hair, and opened the door.

Cable guys greeted her.

“Hi, we’re from Southwestern Cable,” one of the two blue-jean and khaki-shirt clad workmen said. The tags sewn on their shirts identified the young men as Ted and Dean.

“Hi,” said Megan. She called back to her husband, “It’s the cable guys, honey!”

“You must be psychic,” he grumbled, getting up and coming over.

“Come in,” said Megan. “It’s great you could get here so fast.”

Ted and Dean, both dark-haired and professional, glanced at each other. “Glad to do it, ma’am,” Dean said. “We’re just going to check your connection, make sure you’ve got the latest upgrade in the box. The real problem was a busted main cable, but they’ve found it and are fixing it. Should be –”

Dean didn’t finish his sentence. An enormous concussion suddenly rocked the small house.

“What the--” began Harris.

“Next block,” said Megan. “Excuse me,” she added, and vanished.

“Holy mackeral,” Ted exclaimed. “Where’d she go? Is she that woman I read about in the paper? You must be the husband. That was some story! Was that all true?”

“Afraid so,” said Harris. “I better get over there in case she needs me. Can you guys take care of the cable without me being here?”

“No problem,” said Dean. “You go ahead.”

Harris left the two men to their work, and leaped into the black pick-up truck in the driveway. As he backed into the street, he could see the thick black belches of smoke pumping up from the next block. Gas main? Jamming the truck into gear, Harris could hear fire, ambulance and police sirens.

Spinning out of Stonybrook, he sped to and down the next street. A crowd had already gathered. He parked away from the scene and ran over.

Harris pushed through the crowd. The smell of gas was everywhere. His wife, slightly sooty, and with a good portion of her clothes burned away, but otherwise unharmed, knelt on the lawn, comforting a small sobbing brown-haired girl.

Behind them, eager orange flames lapped at the blown-out shell of a two-story wooden house. The garage and rooms above it seemed intact, at least for a few more moments, but the rest of the house was flattened and burning. The flames were on the verge of claiming it all.

Evidently, Megan had rescued the sole survivor of the blast.

The little girl cried for her mother, who was nowhere in evidence. Megan looked up and saw her husband. “Honey, could you get me something to wear?” she asked.

Harris ran back to the truck for the rain jacket he kept behind the seat. He brought it back, an oversize green nylon zip-up with a hood. Megan slipped it on over her burnt clothes, never letting go of the little girl.

Emergency vehicles arrived. Several uniformed policemen pushed the crowd back as firefighters from a hook and ladder truck tapped the fire main and set up their hoses. Firemen on a second smaller truck immediately hit the flames with a blast of water.

“Are you okay, lady?” a fireman asked Megan.

“I’m fine,” she smiled up at him. “I got this little girl out of the house. I couldn’t find anyone else in there.”

A blue station wagon screeched up to the curb. A young blonde woman leaped out, not bothering to shut the car door, and raced over to Megan. She snatched the girl up.

“Sweetie, sweetie,” she cried. “Where’s your daddy?” The little girl, sobbing convulsively, couldn’t answer.

The fireman turned his attention to the woman and her child. “Ma’am, we’ve got to get you out of here. We’re evacuating this block, and we need to get your daughter to the hospital.”

He ushered the two toward the just-arrived ambulance.

“Where’s my husband?” the blonde woman asked, but the fireman didn’t know. “Where’s my husband?” she shrieked.

“Where’s my husband?” A paramedic helped load the two into the ambulance, and it sped off toward Lawrencedale General, the screaming siren echoing the cries of its passengers.

Still kneeling, Megan put a hand over her eyes. Harris knelt down and wrapped his arms around her. He felt her shake.

“He was in there,” she whispered. “That woman’s husband. I just know it.”

“The blast must’ve killed him,” Harris murmured. “Thank God you got the girl out.”

“She was in an upstairs bedroom over the garage,” Megan said, looking at him. “I searched everywhere in the fire. For – for others.”

“I know you did, honey,” Harris replied. “I know you did the very best anyone could do.” “Folks, we’re evacuating the block.”

Harris and Megan looked up. A youthful-looking policeman stood over them. “You’ve got to go,” the officer said. “It’s not safe here.”

Harris and Megan stood up. The flames were out and the black smoke had turned to gray and white. The firefighters continued to soak down the charred ruin with water from the hose attached to the fire main. The smell of gas was thick.

“You better go, hon,” Megan said.

Harris nodded. “You be careful,” he said.

Megan started to reply, but Harris held up his hand. “I know, I know,” he said, “But be careful anyway.”

She rose six inches off the lawn and kissed him, long and deep. The levitation wasn’t lost on the young officer; he stared.

Harris left, and Megan turned to the policeman. “I’m Megan Harris,” she said. “Maybe I can help.”

“Megan Harris? Oh yeah,” said the officer. “You’re one of the special lady volunteer deputies, aren’t you? You and Miss Reilly, is that right? I heard about how you handled the suicide attempt at Dillard’s. That was fantastic!”

“Thank you, Officer ...” she glanced at the name tag, “... Redding.” He looked like he was barely out of high school.

Megan noted the increasing activity around the smoldering ruin. In addition to the fire engines and police cars, several white trucks from Prairie Gas & Electric had arrived. Men with instruments that looked like mini-metal detectors were fanning out along the street.

“Who’s in charge?” Megan asked.

“The fire chief,” Redding said. “Oh, right. C’mon.”

He led her to a red station wagon. A white-haired man in full fire-fighting gear stood by the driver-side door, speaking into the hand unit of the car’s police radio. He broke off the conversation as Megan and Redding walked up.

“Sir, this is Megan Harris,” Redding said. “Mrs. Harris, Chief Thompson.” The young policeman touched his hand to his cap. “I’ve got to go help knock on doors and get these people out of here,” he said. “It was sure nice meeting you, ma’am,” he said, leaving.

The chief surveyed Megan with interest. “You the woman who got that little girl out of the house?”

“Yes,” said Megan. “How can I help?”

“That was nice work,” he said. “We got a bad gas leak here, and we don’t know where it is.” He gestured at the men from the gas company, walking the street with their wand-like leak detectors.

“Can’t you just turn the gas off?” Megan asked.

“It has to be on so we can find the leak,” the chief replied. “Anyway, it’s probably burning underground, which burns off most of the gas that’s leaking. We’re getting the people out because there’s still a lot of gas in the air and we don’t know how long it’ll take us to find the leak. Could take hours. Gas migrates, so it could be anywhere. And there might be more than one leak.

“Once we find the leak, we’ll turn off the gas. Then we’ll dig up the pipe with a backhoe – which should’ve been here by now – and fix it.”

“I think I can help,” Megan said. “Where would the pipe be?”

“Well, the main runs down the street about there,” Chief Thompson said, pointing. “It’s buried around seven feet down. Smaller pipes branch off it to feed each house.”

Megan walked where the chief had pointed.

“Oh,” she called back. “I feel it! It’s cold!” She looked down at her bare feet.

The chief stared at her over the hood of the red station wagon. Clad in her husband’s bulky green rain jacket which covered her from throat to mid-thigh, Megan walked slowly along the edge of the street, in a straight line, as if walking a tightrope. She turned 90-degrees and walked on grass toward the demolished house.

“That’s about where the feeder line would be,” the chief offered. Megan glanced back at him and smiled. She walked slowly. Several yards from the blast site, she stopped.

“It’s here,” she said. “The leak’s here.”

“How the heck do you know that?” demanded the chief.

“Woman’s intuition,” Megan replied. “I don’t know,” she added, when the chief didn’t respond. “I can just sense it. I can feel it in my feet and my legs. But it’s here and that’s a fact.”

“It won’t hurt to check,” the chief said. “You stay there, Mrs. Harris. Hey Edwards,” he yelled at one of the gas company men. “Bring your detector over here.”

Edwards, a tall, thin man with a bony face, hurried over. He was dressed in the gray work uniform of Prairie Gas & Electric.

“Edwards, check out that spot where Mrs. Harris is standing.”

Edwards strode over to Megan and aimed his wand at her knees. He checked the meter below the handle of the leak detector.

“There is a number-one leak here,” Edwards reported. He looked up from the meter. “Where’s the backhoe, Chief?”

“That’s a damn good question, considering it’s the gas company’s backhoe,” Chief Thompson retorted.

“Do you just need the backhoe to dig up the pipe?” Megan asked. “I can do that.” Edwards looked at her and tried to think if he’d heard correctly.

“How do you figure you’ll do that?” he asked seriously. “That thing’s buried under seven feet of hard-packed clay and rocks! You want me to get you a shovel?”

Megan looked at him sourly. Was there anything more useless than a man?

Chief Thompson walked over, an amused look on his weathered face. “Son,” he told Edwards, though Edwards didn’t look much younger than Chief Thompson, “I think you may be in for a surprise.” Megan’s rescue of the child, followed by her success at leak detection had made a believer out of the fireman.

“Mrs. Harris,” the chief asked, “is there anything you need to ... do your stuff?”

Megan shook her head, pushed up the sleeves of her husband’s green rain jacket, and knelt down on the blackened, ash-and-debris encrusted grass. Edwards gaped and Chief Thompson stared as the small bare-legged woman plunged her hands and arms into the turf, past her elbows.

She easily brought up an enormous armful of sod and dense, rock-filled brown clay and put it aside.

Edwards couldn’t help himself. “How do you do that?” he blurted.

Megan looked up at him. “I do a lot of gardening in my spare time,” she said, seriously. “Better move back. This stuff is going to fly.”

The men moved back and the spare-time gardener returned to her work. Her small hands sliced through the rocky clay like a ditch witch.

Like a ditch bitch, Edwards joked to himself. He clamped down on the thought. What if she could read minds?

Within moments, Megan had created a pit big enough to climb down into, where she continued her digging. Megan pulled a stone the size of a small refrigerator out of the clay, tossing it onto the pile like it was a beachball, though with a distinctly un-beachball-sounding thud as it landed.

A moment later, a thin jet of white steam geysered out of the hole. “I think I’m getting close,” Megan called.

Chief Thompson stopped smiling. “Mrs. Harris, get out of that hole now!” he thundered. Too late, it seemed. Another enormous rock plopped out, into the pile of dislodged clay, instantly followed by a gout of flame the size of a solar flare.

“Good God!” shouted Edwards.

“Mrs. Harris!” the chief cried out. Both men rushed forward, but the searing heat from the flaming fountain knocked them back, and forced them to shield their faces with their arms. Hair sizzled off their forearms.

Then, as quickly as the flame had appeared, it winked out. The men cautiously uncovered their faces.

Megan’s head appeared above the rim of the pit. The men lurched forward to help her out of the hole.

“Stop!” she commanded. “Don’t come any closer!” The men backed up.

“Chief,” she asked, “Could you get me a raincoat or something to put on?”

“Are you OK, Mrs. Harris?” the chief asked, taking off his own heavy fireman’s coat.

“Well, I am, but my attire seems to have been incinerated.”

Taking care to avert his eyes – Mrs. Harris was obviously not a lady you’d want to embarrass or offend – the chief edged toward the pit.

“That’s all right, Chief Thompson,” Megan called. “I can get it from there. The coat flapped out of the chief’s grasp and over to small hole-bound woman like some ungainly bird of fabric, rubber and metal.

“Thank you, Chief,” she said as she slipped into the coat. It fit her like a tent.

“Oh, that’s OK,” the chief replied, a little dazedly.

Megan levitated out of the pit and up onto the lawn. Edwards sat on the grass.

“I thought I’d seen everything in this job,” he muttered, to no one in particular. “But I hadn’t really seen anything, had I? No, I guess I hadn’t.”

“How did you…” Chief Thompson began, “how did you shut off the gas?”

“I scrunched the pipe closed with my hand,” Megan replied matter-of-factly.

“The ... steel pipe? It was steel, wasn’t it?”

“It was some kind of metal. But here’s the strange thing, Chief.” Megan drew close to him. “Those flames were shooting out of a perfectly round hole in the top of that pipe,” she said. “Like someone had drilled it.”

He stared at her uncomprehendingly for a moment. His eyes widened with a sudden realization. “Edwards, tell them to shut off the gas!”

Edwards looked up from his reverie.

“Move it!” he yelled. Edwards scrambled to his feet and ran to his truck.

The chief turned to Megan. “Drilled it? ” he repeated questioningly. “How could that be done? And why?”

“I don’t know, but I think someone did this on purpose,” Megan said.