Cloning Galinda

by Jan Smolders

  Okay. Mary didn’t think he had sounded condescending or defensive, but the tone of his “okay” said he wasn’t keen to expand either. She knew he had to wear his company hat. “Yes, Frank. Thank you,” she said. For a moment, he had reminded her of politicians reciting talking points, but his pure facial expression had told her the thought was probably unfair.

  In the car on their way back Sonya asked, “How did you like my ‘little’ brother? And what he said?”

  Mary adjusted her rearview mirror. “A great guy,” was the best she could come up with.

  “And an even better piano player.”

  “Piano?” Mary had trouble picturing a piano player on a drill site.

  “He loves his job. Makes eighteen thousand dollars a month. College loans paid off, I think.”

  Mary was making less than a tenth of that. “Wow. Good for him.”

  Chapter 6

  It was only mid-June, but unexpectedly early oppressive heat was taking its toll on Mary and her restless kids.

  Already she had moments when she missed the relative quiet and tight organization of school life. Her living room, facing south and west, became an inferno in the afternoons. The noisy air conditioner, running full blast, complained of the overload even though she kept the drapes closed from noon on. Whatever she touched felt sticky and then teasingly showed her fingerprints. On the maple dresser Joe’s huge high school wrestling trophy, a nickel-coated figure of a muscled, tough-faced youth, seemed to perspire, having lost its gloss. The six Peruvian Karajia statues lined up next to it—souvenirs of Cajamarca—looked homesick. Her two, towel-wrapped armchairs facing the dresser across a low coffee table stared reproachingly at her, their arms hanging listless and tired, unhappy oldies forced into oversized, baggy clothes.

  She sighed. How many times had she unsuccessfully argued with Joe for the installation of an awning over the terrace behind the house, the south side? It always got postponed and soon the hottest days would be gone. It was going to be “next year” again.

  This summer was even a bit worse than usual: Joe hadn’t been in the best of moods lately. His limp, compliments of a badly twisted football knee, had worsened. Considerate and kind, Mary patiently absorbed his complaints and suggested braces, creams, massages, but Joe wasn’t interested. “Sissy stuff,” he would say, shrugging. The bright side of the football knee situation was that it had enabled Mary to talk him into soccer for the kids. And goals in the backyard. He had taken to the sport, even kicked balls with the boys and watched an occasional Major League Soccer game with them. They taught their daddy some of the rules and fine points of the game and she never heard them comment on the latecomer’s lack of soccer skills or knowledge, although some of their friends had.

  His cough and irritability now kept coming back in ever more frequent flurries. Those were days when Mary would get fever blisters and stomach cramps, and tried to hide them. She could handle his outbursts, understood them, but not so well her concerns about his slowly deteriorating health.

  She knew that a job change was not in the cards and off limits for discussion. Andy and Jimmy loved his stories about huge tire blowouts, traffic congestion, his tanker truck stalled on a big, busy highway, a heated argument with police about a silly turning light, and mountains of snow blocking the roads. She knew that Joe’s job and salary were his indispensable sources of pride. He didn’t just have a job, he was his job. “You have a degree, Mary,” he would say at times, feeling, she thought, a bit out of her league, and sounding defensive. “I screwed up in school but I’ve fought my way up to a good living.”

  “You have, Joe. I admire that,” she would respond soothingly. “My parents basically carried me to Cincinnati. Yours had their hands full just to scrape by. And they did. I love you just the way you are. I’m proud of my man!”

  She meant it all.

  Joe would stare briefly at her and occasionally tear up.

  She knew that he was grateful to her for lifting him up. She also realized that she would have to keep worrying about his health and maybe start talking to the Chamber folks or the mayor about working conditions at Doornaert—or to the weasels at the Noredge Sentinel if they would dare to even listen to her.

  Another worry suddenly arose when, on a lazy afternoon, she went shopping with the kids at Walmart and ran into Sonya. Her friend pulled her aside into a quiet corner. “Doornaert’s going to be sold,” she whispered into Mary’s ear.

  “Huh?”

  “Yep. Two big companies are competing for the prize. My friend Joan at the Chamber told me.”

  “Good companies?”

  “Hope so.” She raised her shoulders, her eyes wide.

  “Hmm. What about Frank and Joe?” Mary turned away briefly to check on the kids.

  “Frank’s worried. One never knows. He told me the names of the two Texan companies. I never heard of them. He said that one of them has the best technology in the country. Of course, everything is biggest and best in Texas. But it might be an improvement for Noredge.”

  “Could be. It’s one way to look at it.” Mary’s thoughts flashed to Joe. Might the new company with all that super technology be able to install equipment to capture the gases that escaped when he had to open the valves of the dirty water storage tanks?

  “I think ‘fingers crossed’ is about right, Mary. I hope that Joe and Frank can hang on to their jobs. It would—”

  “Jimmy!” Mary shouted. “Stop!”

  The boy was loading a huge bag of apples onto the scale. The poor thing seemed to groan under the weight.

  “Hold on, Sonya. Sorry.” Mary rushed to grab the bag. She emptied it furiously back onto the shelf.

  An elderly lady looked confused but kept moving, using her shopping cart as a walker.

  Jimmy, his face signaling disappointment as the apples tumbled, argued, “But they’re good for us, Mommy. You always say that.”

  “Stop it. Quiet.” She had lowered her voice.

  “They looked healthy and shiny,” Andy said.

  “Don’t touch anything. Stay with me or I’ll—” She didn’t know how to go on and shook her head.

  “They’re kids, Mary. No harm done.” Sonya smiled and caressed Andy’s locks.

  Mary checked around. “I hope nobody else noticed. Cameras everywhere…. So, your brother knows? Is he worried?”

  “A bit. But he’s got a good track record. He’s working his butt off to make the deadline at Rutgers Lake. He should look good, not only in the eyes of Doornaert. Should be okay.”

  Mary had to suppress a little jealousy. “I’m sure he will,” she said, and sighed. “Joe loves his job.”

  “I heard he does good work. But don’t worry too much. Let’s say a good prayer.”

  Mary stayed silent, concerned about Joe’s health: the new owners might not have any use for a “weakling.”

  Two days later Joe arrived home early from work. Visibly upset, he threw his car keys on the counter top. “You were right, Mary. Damn! Two giant sharks from Houston fighting over Doornaert. Heard it on WHBC. Texas will ruin Noredge.”

  Mary looked up from her knitting, put it carefully down on the little table next to her and said calmly, “But nothing’s official yet. Right? The sharks still may have to swim back home hungry.” She had no grounds for her soothing language. It was just her feeble attempt to calm Joe.

  He grumbled, “Not what they said. The reporters were already discussing what was going to happen to Doornaert. How many millions the old man could make on the deal. I was so damn mad that I did a one-eighty and came home. To hell with Doornaert. A traitor. Another one.” He coughed, spat into the sink and turned the faucet on.

  Mary frowned. “Don’t shout, Joe. The kids could hear you outside. I told you that Jules Doornaert’s getting up there in years, and that his sons aren’t up to speed, never will be. They can’t take ov
er the reins of the company. He must know that. Maybe the old man means well: he may be trying to assure the survival of his life’s work and his people’s jobs.”

  “Not a word about that stuff on News Talk,” he said, holding the refrigerator door. “It sounded like it was all done. I’s dotted and t’s crossed. Done. Big money at its best again.” He slammed the door of the fridge shut and poured himself a glass of juice.

  She tried to sound more upbeat. “Even if Doornaert’s taken over, it doesn’t mean you’d lose your job. The new guys need you. Go kick some balls with the kids and their friends.”

  He took a couple of quick sips and walked out, muttering.

  Mary didn’t understand what he said, but she could intuit it. She felt for her man.

  She called Sonya—Frank might have told his sister more about the names and maybe the reputations of the companies—but had to leave a message and raise her voice to talk over the suddenly heavy hum of the air conditioner. It badly needed maintenance.

  Irritated, she opened the back door and stood on the terrace, hot, humid air hitting her in the face and on her bare legs. Seven or eight boys romped and hollered, over-enthused, running up and down the field. Andy and Jimmy’s daddy didn’t often make it home so early, in time for playing in their late afternoon game. Joe showed poor soccer technique and style, but still had speed. And enthusiasm. The players barely acknowledged Mary’s presence on the terrace.

  Her mind had drifted elsewhere anyway. She couldn’t imagine that this yard and her way of life would be sacrificed for more unneeded oil dollars into Doornaert’s full coffers. Much of her grass field was worn out and abused by the soccer players, but it was her land—Jenkins land.

  She went back inside, turned on the radio and aimlessly surfed channels, faintly hoping for tidbits of news. Her search was unsuccessful. Even her favorite WKSU, Public Radio, the “boring” channel as Joe put it, didn’t mention Doornaert in their five o’clock newscast. She took a Budweiser out of the fridge, kicked off her flip-flops, plopped down on the couch and put her legs up on an armrest.

  She hadn’t heard from Sonya at six-thirty, when her three boys came in, the young ones shirtless and the older one breathing heavily. She smiled as they gulped down cold water, argued about missed shots and complained of bruises and unfair tackles.

  “It’s true, Mommy. Look.” Jimmy showed her his shin.

  Joe winked. “Sorry again, Jimmy. You deserved that penalty,” he snickered and bent down to put his arm around the boy’s shoulders. “He’ll be a Messi soon, Mommy. FC Barcelona will make us all rich!”

  “Yeah!” Mary exclaimed. “Richer than oil can. She took a look at the boy’s leg. “Peroxide,” she said, using a serious tone. “Lots of peroxide. And a big dinner.”

  “I know where Barcelona is, Mommy,” Jimmy said.

  She noticed Joe’s smile, the first one since he had come home. She decided that after dinner she would take a trip to the bedroom, drop her tee-shirt and worn shorts and put on something a little more alluring.

  Chapter 7

  Sonya’s panting was audible and her distress palpable when she called Mary the next morning around nine. “They fired him,” she said, her voice low.

  “Frank?”

  “Of course! Who else?” Sonya snapped back, sounding scornful.

  “Of course, of course.” Mary put her towel down. Dishes could wait.

  “They have no shame. He worked day and night, but the Gods from Houston decided.”

  “Out immediately? So suddenly? I’m so sorry.”

  “Two weeks’ notice. They have their own man ready, Frank says. He has to get him up to speed on the Rutgers well. Now. How nice.” Her tone was pure bitterness.

  “I’m so sorry to hear that.” Mary knew an endless litany was headed her way, of recriminations addressed to Doornaert and the new company, of praise for Frank and of laments about injustice in the world. She picked up her cleaning cloth with her free hand and started pacing the kitchen, noiselessly rearranging dried cups and glasses, wiping away crumbs, cleaning up little spills.

  “They just booted him rudely over the phone. A recorded call. He had to submit his resignation. Immediately. A big personnel guy in Houston. Registered letter to follow. No courtesy. No recourse. Higher ups had made the decision. He was ‘just HR,’ couldn’t comment, just communicating arrangements, severance, etc.”

  Mary stared at the phone in her hand. She saw her friend’s indignation streaming out, thin, endless, transparent strands that were impossible to catch or control or stop.

  “Frank deserved better,” Sonya said.

  “If those Houston guys had any smarts they would keep him.” It was the best Mary could come up with; her mind had wandered to Joe the moment Sonya had blurted out the word “fired.”

  “My poor brother already started cleaning out his drawers at the site. He’s got a good severance. He seemed less upset than me last night when he came to see Jack and me, and told us the news. ‘Things were going so well at Rutgers,’ he said. ‘At least I can say I’ll be leaving with a clean slate. I have proof. Alpha.’ He looked proud. We decided to have a few drinks for consolation. Actually not a few. So, I didn’t return your call last night. I’m afraid I wouldn’t have made much sense anyway. You might have smelled my breath over the phone.”

  Mary was surprised to hear a weak laugh when Sonya finished. “I might have. And who did this to him? What’s the name of the new company? Who are they?”

  “Some Houston outfit by the name of Supren. Beats me, Mary. I never heard of them but Frank had. He picked up through the grapevine that they’d had a bloody fight with another Houston company over Doornaert. The name escapes me. No—Viola. That was it. They and Supren were literally at each other’s throats, he’d been told. Frank said Viola would’ve been better for him and for most of the Doornaert people. He knows Viola. Smart management and very good technology.”

  “Too bad they lost. But who knows how these deals get worked out, what exactly counts for how much? Who has the nicer yacht? Who has the lower handicap? Who all had a thumb on the scales? Politicians?” Mary knew she sounded sarcastic. She had quietly taken a cup and poured herself some more coffee.

  “The scales? We’ll never know. Maybe we’d better not.”

  “I’m thinking…Joe….”

  “Frank thinks that he’s not in danger because—”

  “He’s not important enough!” Mary instantaneously regretted her words and tone.

  It took a couple of seconds before Sonya went on, sounding calm and subdued, “My brother feels that he alone was targeted. That they wanted him out because he has a critical job and maybe knows too much. I told you they have their man ready. They must want to bring in their own secret know-how, run their own show, these ‘big Texans with their unbearable swagger.’ Frank’s words.”

  “Hmm. And what’s Frank going to do now? ‘Spending more time with my family’ doesn’t work for a bachelor, I guess. Take a well-deserved vacation?”

  Sonya giggled. “As well he might, with that severance in his pocket.”

  “Maybe the busy bee can spend some time looking for a girlfriend or a wife. Not just playing the piano,” Mary joked.

  “I wish he would.”

  “Oh? If I were him, Sonya—” Mary broke off and changed her tone, concerned. “I must talk to Joe now. He’ll be…I don’t know what he’ll say.”

  “It’s hard.”

  “I should go now. The kids need me,” Mary sighed. “Vacation isn’t ‘vacation’ for me. Stay in touch.”

  They hung up.

  Mary noticed she was still in her pajama shorts. Joe’s favorite. I must call him. She dreaded the thought.

  “I know!” he shouted over the traffic when Mary reached him.

  “Oh. Where are you, Joe?”

  “Interstate 76 near Youngstown
. You sound worried. Relax!”

  “Huh? How can I—?”

  “I’ll keep on trucking. Got no time for politics. Somebody will sign my paycheck. Texas dollars are fine for me.”

  She knew he meant confederate dollars. She smiled, surprised. “No worries, Joe?” Actually, she had mixed feelings herself: getting fired could be a lifesaver for him, but the job also meant good money and self-respect.

  Andy came in looking concerned. “Are you worried, Mommy?”

  She waved “no problem” with her palm and gestured he should go outside.

  Joe roared again, “Worries? Me? I’m doing my part here. More than I have to. I know it. They won’t find a big fat Texan to replace me!”

  “They fired Frank.”

  “Frank? Anderson?”

  “Anderson.”

  “Well, yeah, not surprised. He’s high up there. Company man. The boss on the site. No simple roughneck like me. Tall trees catch much wind. Strange, though. I hear he’s really good.”

  Mary pictured her partner, two hands on the wheel, eyes staring into the distance. She counted the wrinkles he had to have on his forehead now. He couldn’t be as unconcerned as he sounded. He wasn’t leveling with her.

  She heard a loud horn. “Careful, Joe!”

  “Some kid cutting me off. Probably on something,” he grumbled. “Idiot.”

  She pictured him making a fist. “Relax, Joe. Back to Frank, the Texans want control, I think. Isn’t that normal? It’s their money.”

  “Sure. Let them come. We’ll teach them how to shovel snow.” Now she detected bitterness in his voice.

  “And to say ‘pop’ instead of ‘coke,’” Mary played along; she didn’t want Joe to come home like a beaten dog tonight. She had to be his crutch, whether he realized it or not.

  “Coke?”

  “That’s Texan for pop. Kind of.” Mary reminded herself of her four years in Lumberton, Texas, married to Bill.