GRANT'S PET SHOP
by
Ron S. Nolan, Ph.D.
© 2008
Chapter 6
The C-141 Military Aircraft Command (MAC) flight from
Honolulu to
Eniwetok was nearing the atoll 2,400 miles southwest of Honolulu. Dr.
Grant scanned the briefing sheet provided by the University of
Hawaii for new arrivals at the marine lab.
Background
Originally Eniwetok (Enewetak is the preferred
spelling by the native
inhabitants) consisted of forty-two small islands. Now there are
only forty, two were entirely vaporized by nuclear blasts. One test
known as "Mike" was the first ever detonation of a fusion
device. According to a radiological survey performed by Lawrence
Livermore Lab in 1978, there is no remaining radiation danger on the
atoll—except on the island of Runit which is absolutely off
limits, however, more surveys are planned now that the native
islanders are being repatriated. Due to their proficiency in
handling small boats, the Eniwetokese will eventually repopulate all
of the small islands that surround the lagoon (with the exception of
Runit which will not be habitable for the next 250,000 years). More
radiological surveys are planned. Be advised, under no circumstances
land on Runit Island.
Land surface area: three square miles
Number of coral species: over six hundred
(branching acropora
corals are notably in abundance)
Number of fish species: over two thousand
dominated
by
chaetodontids (butterfly fishes), labrids (wrasses), scarids (parrot
fishes), serranids (sea basses), and carcharhinids (sharks).
Water visibility: 200 feet or more
Water temperature: 85 degrees Fahrenheit year
round
Sandra thought, My God that makes for diving
conditions even
better than back home in the Keys.
Number of inhabitants: approximately sixty
civilians
employed
by Kentron. Kentron's function is to build housing and a utility
plant for repatriated Eniwetokese. Kentron's current Site Manager is
Jim Donaldson. Donaldson is also District Marshall.
In addition there is a small population (ranging from
ten to fifty)
islanders which serve as the vanguard of residents returning to the
atoll. Their chief is popularly known as Mr. John (real name John
LeBrug, descendant of a German sea merchant who found a native girl
very attractive after five years at sea in the early 1860's).
Sandra put the booklet down and lay back and closed
her eyes. Imagine.
What Grandma said was true! I'll be diving in the sea
with dolphins. I wonder about the man? Can you hear me, Grandma? I feel
you with me. Is there a lover waiting for me too? Please
help me succeed with this project. I can't believe that I just got
on the plane—no notice, no planning. But I feel it was the
right thing to do. I am so excited. I am so happy. Thank you
Grandma for your help and keep Grandpa well too. I wonder about
Grandpa. I only hear your voice and never his. Is it because you
were a psychic on earth and he wasn't? I love you Grandma—tell
Grandpa too. She closed her eyes, lulled by the monotone of the
engines as visions of her childhood swept before her closed eyes.
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It was a typically beautiful Key West afternoon. Not
too hot or
muggy because it was mid-January, but warm enough to feel just right
outside in a pair of shorts and a T-shirt. Sandra loved it when the
air had cooled a little because then she could climb into the
engineer's seat—sometimes in the summer the train was so hot
that she couldn't bear to touch the metal ladder on the side of the
locomotive. Then she had to come back in the cool of the evening.
Somehow, sitting here always brought her peace. It was
funny. She
really wasn't into playing engineer or conductor anymore. She just
liked to sit and look out at the park—especially on a day like
today when no one else was around. She leaned back into the hard
metal seat, closed her eyes and let her mind wander. She would never
say so to any of her classmates in school, but voices talked to her
here. Sometimes they called to her from other places, but they
always waited for her here.
Well, often they were more like feelings, not clear
voices like you
hear when you talk to someone for real. One was a feeling like her
mom and another like her dad. These were very loving and
protective—like the unassailable solidity of the locomotive. When a
classmate hurt her or a teacher scolded her, she came here and
all was healed. Problems didn't matter anymore. Those angry or
hateful people were really very childish. She tried hard not to do
things that would anger or hurt anyone and hoped someday to learn
more about why people acted so strangely. It seemed to her that most
of the time their behavior didn't really have much to do with her at
all. She was just a convenient outlet, a defenseless little girl who
happened to be around at the moment they needed to release some sort
of pent up hostility or aggression.
If she closed her eyes tight and tried very hard,
sometimes she could
actually make out what other people were doing. Right now she could
see that Miss Rundgrens, her English teacher, was working at her desk
at school—which was strange because today was Saturday. She
seemed to be grading compositions and was laughing in despair at one
that was so poorly constructed that it was almost funny. Miss
Rundgrens had a boyfriend named Jack. His father ran a sports
fishing boar and on Saturdays when they had a charter, Jack served as
crewman. She sensed that Jack was fishing today—that the boat
was quite distant from shore—maybe as far as the blue water of
the Gulf Stream. No luck either. She would ask Miss Rundgrens on
Monday if Jack had caught anything—just to see if her vision
was right or playing tricks on her.
Sometimes it was very right. Other times it got pretty
confused by
her imagination—or by her wanting too much for something to be
true. Except like right then when her Grandma had come in. She
could see her plain as day, sitting on her stool looking towards the
park. She could even see a little wave of her hand, but her lips
didn't seem to be moving.
"Sandra dear start home now, love. Grandpa has lit the
grill
and the fresh grouper he bought at the fresh seafood market is making
his stomach growl. I love you dear."
"Yes Grandma. You really can see me here can't you?"
"Of course dear, who else would I be talking to like
this? You're the
only one on this side with whom it works so well with."
Grandpa was just turning the fish when she came into
the backyard.
Grandma had set the picnic table with a red and white gingham cloth
and was going back for the silverware when she looked up at Sandra
and said as she smiled, "See, it was true. If it weren't you
would have missed supper," then she gave her a light whack on
the seat of Sandra’s hibiscus print shorts.
True to his blunt nature, Grandpa grumbled, "Listen
you two,
let's cut out the jaw flapping and wash up and eat. I'm hungry
enough to eat this fish head and all, if its of any interest to
either of you."
Later helping Grandma with the dishes, Sandra asked,
"How does
it work, Grandma? Why is it just between you and I?"
"It was the same way between me and my mom, and me and
your mom
too, dear. Something in our genes I guess."
"Sometimes it scares me, Grandma...sometimes I wish it
was
gone."
"For land sakes child. It's a precious gift. Just make
sure
that you don't ever abuse it or it will go away."
"What do you mean abuse...how?"
"Well, the way I figure it, we're all born with
psychic powers. As we
get older we just learn them away. But some of us either have
stronger abilities than others...or we just never figure out how to
suppress them." Grandma continued, "But if you ever use
them to hurt anyone, or to inflate your own ego, they'll go just like
that." She sharply snapped her fingers.
"But Grandma, Miss Rundgrens says that all psychics
are fakes. She says
that they are just con artists...like magicians at the Dade
County Fair."
"Oh no child...not all of us are fakes. But I have a
theory
that goes something like this. Take a nice old lady like me that is
gifted. Well say I get down on my luck and run out of money—God
forbid! So I decide to put my psychic talents to work to solve my
problems. Well that's alright until it hurts somebody or until my
ego gets in the way...then the gift just slowly goes away. I lose my
connection. But I still know what it used to be like so I can still
put on a pretty good show. I think that a lot of the phonies out
there are just psychics that once had power, but abused and lost it.
Once they lose their connection, they just make things up as they go.
And that's why psychics have such a bad reputation."
"Oh, I remember. Its the lesson you once taught me
when I was a
kid! You know that a few bad apples spoil the barrel. But how can
anyone tell if someone is really a psychic or not?"
"Well, I do know one good way. Chances are that if
they charge
money for their services, they've lost their power. Too bad, poor
dears."
Laughing, Grandma reached down and gave Sandra a hug.
"Yes
young lady you are growing up aren't you? Remember to keep your
talents pure there are those dolphins and that man waiting for you in
your destiny. You want to be ready for them don't you?"
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