Cloning Galinda

by Jan Smolders

  Frank was traveling. “He said he’d better get off his butt,” Sonya told Mary when they bumped into each other at the post office. “He’s in New Orleans and Houston for almost a week. Job hunting.”

  “Yeah. Severance lasts only so long, I guess.”

  Sonya whispered, “He hasn’t seen a cent of it so far.”

  “Wow. Nothing?”

  Sonya shook her head. Then a mysterious smile appeared on her face. “But I’m happy for him anyway. You know—”

  “Let me guess.” Mary chuckled, her hand on Sonya’s forearm.

  Sonya frowned. “You think you know?”

  “Joanna—”

  “She’s with him for the weekend.” Sonya raised her brows, her eyes quizzing Mary. “Did he tell you about ‘them’?”

  “Not really. But I have my inside source.” Mary pointed to her forehead. “Good for them! I hope they enjoy Houston.”

  As she drove home Mary’s thoughts went to Carrollton. She had heard that several spontaneous demonstrations had been held there and hastily called meetings arranged. Tempers had flared. The Sierra Group and local civic leaders, including some rogue members of the Chamber, were planning a big, organized event with highly qualified speakers and unnamed politicians. Carrollton’s citizens were terrified. Some demonstrations had turned violent: the clean-up progress was more dangerous, complicated and slower than the optimistic Mike Doyle had predicted. And the burden on the town heavier. Doubts arose about Doyle’s credibility.

  “He seems to live in front of the cameras instead of doing his damn job,” was the word on the street. “Why would we believe ‘Mr. Smooth’ any longer? At this snail’s pace….”

  Health and safety concerns grew ominously; discussions turned more heated and recriminations sounded coarser by the day. Worries about the town’s future ran deeper. Desperation set in.

  Noredge citizens as well were asking questions more loudly every day. “That’s the kind of mess we’ll have here someday, too. If it can happen in Carrollton, why not here?”

  Mary joined the chorus and was in frequent contact with her Sierra buddies. In February, she had told Joe she’d do “whatever it took” to keep fracking out of Noredge. “I lost the first round,” she now muttered to herself, “but this battle isn’t finished.”

  With her Sierra friends Jill Smith and Dan Clark she managed to slip an article into the opinion section of the Sentinel. It pointed at the disaster in Carrollton and asked, “Which town is next? Our turn may come sooner than we think!”

  It earned her a heated argument with Mike Doyle over the phone. He threatened her, and even her suffering, innocent Joe. “You know who writes his paycheck. And I can get to the people who write yours,” he thundered.

  “Thank you for reminding me again, Mr. Doyle. I’m recording, so I won’t forget,” she mocked.

  The recording threat was bluff only, but it had to have infuriated Doyle even more. He waited a few seconds to answer, “Your bill will come due soon, lady. As soon as we’re done cleaning up the mess your husband created.”

  What? My husband “created” the mess in Carrollton? That was a bridge too far.

  After that scandalous accusation, she wasn’t going to be satisfied with killing fracking in Noredge. She was going to get justice for Joe as well.

  ***

  On July 27th Mike Doyle was on his way home after a long day in Columbus. Interstate 71 looked endless and dreadfully boring.

  Nearing Ashland he received a call from David Broderick. “What’s up, Dave?” he asked, making sure to sound casual.

  “Don’t you think I should be asking you?”

  “Huh? Yeah. The cleanup, I guess. It’s going well. We lifted the cordon for most of the area. The ‘noise’ is fading. Bloody tree-huggers. We’re wearing them out.” He chuckled and hoped Dave might as well. Environmentalists were always excellent piñatas.

  “It’s damn hard to get a picture from your messages, Mike. Pardon my French but they’re just shitty platitudes. I can’t face Don without more input. It’s been almost four days since my call, and I have no idea what to tell him. You put me in a pretty damn rotten situation.”

  Wow. This was a friend talking? Doyle changed his tack. “My apologies, Dave. Between meetings with officials, my work on the Beta site and overseeing Vince Davis and his crew I can’t devote enough time to mails. I figure it’s more important to do things right than…anyway, I can tell you Carrollton is shaping up very well. I’m proud of Vince.”

  “Okay, but you could at least tell him to send me progress reports, detailed, with facts and figures, analyses, costs, measurements, issues. Something we can put our hands on.” Dave’s tone lay somewhere between demanding and lamenting.

  “Sure, of course Dave. I’ll make sure he does. Actually, I’ll do it myself. The dude isn’t the best writer or reporter. Great guy, good engineer, but not a paper man. You’ll get that stuff. Promise. Figures.” The stacks of printouts on his desk popped up in his mind.

  Dave seemed to calm down. “Good. But do it, Mike. By the way, ‘The noise fading,’ you told me a moment ago. I must say, from what we see in Houston, I must agree. It seems to be dying out a bit. Keep up the good work and tell us about it so we can scratch this one off our list, Don’s and mine. Sorry for bothering you so late but I get a tad worried.”

  “Count on me, Dave. Thank you for your confidence in me.” Doyle scratched his temple as he hung up. He floored the gas pedal.

  As he swaggered into the living room of his residence on McKinley he threw his briefcase onto the oak table.

  His wife Edith shouted from the couch, “Watch it! My tablecloth!”

  “Yes! It’s mine too,” he growled without looking at her.

  Just what he needed, a wife in a foul mood. All the way from Ashland he had kept grumbling to himself, unable to find a comfortable position for his tired spine, angrily switching radio channels. He sensed brooding discontent, not just in Carrollton, but also in Noredge and surrounding towns. In TV interviews—short, sporadic exchanges with drivers at gas stations or waiters in restaurants—he saw real or metaphorical fingers pointed at him. And Dave Broderick…Houston…damned Houston.

  Today’s meeting with state officials could have gone better. They had offered their support for the clean-up effort but demanded quick action. He understood “Carrollton” might elicit cries for tougher regulations. They would hamper Ohio’s economic growth.

  “You’d better look at this,” Edith said, getting up and waving the Sentinel. Svelte, tall as her man, she walked up to him with the elegance of a princess. She flung her long raven hair back and said, her Cuban accent reduced to a trace, “More greetings from the tree-huggers. They didn’t even hide their names. Here are the heroes.” She pointed at the bottom of page three.

  He harrumphed. “Jenkins, Smith, Clark. Nothing new. It’s the game they play.”

  “It’s no joke, Mike. People stop me in the store to ask why they never see you in Carrollton, sleeves rolled up and commanding the troops,” Edith said, reproach in her voice.

  Yeah. His wife had her own subtle and not so subtle ways of reminding him of the simmering hostility.

  He kicked off his shoes and took out his iPhone. Without looking up he said, “I’ve got Vince there. He’s working his butt off at the site. I know how to manage, empower a hungry young man with a big future. He loves to show his talent. I delegate, dammit.”

  “But here in Noredge people wonder what they got themselves into when they welcomed fracking. Fracking. ‘Is Supren going to be a blessing or a curse?’ they ask politely. They pause after the word ‘or’ and look at me askance.”

  “Gossip. Bloody fear-mongering by do-nothings.” He walked over to the couch and almost fell as he stumbled over his shoes.

  “Of the three signees, I only know of Miss Jenkins. She’s a teacher,” Edit
h volunteered.

  “On vacation, got nothing better to do!” he shot back without looking up from his iPhone.

  She lowered her voice. “Are you buying a Porsche, Mike?”

  He looked up. “Huh?”

  “One of my friends thinks she saw you in a Porsche with a woman in Canton.” She pursed her lips and showed him a pair of wide eyes.

  “And?” he shot back. “Yes, I took a test drive. You know I always loved Porsches.”

  “How long has it been since we, you, bought your yacht? Why did it have to be a Baglietto? In Florida? What for? Just so it can sit in Hillsboro and guard our unoccupied condo? Just so you can get drunk on the ocean four maybe five times a year with your buddies? You do the finances here, but I get worried. What’s wrong with a good SUV? And that yacht…Díos mío!” Her voice broke.

  “I know you get sick on boats, but I came from Houston,” he said meekly, surprised by the tears welling up in her eyes.

  “So did I. And I’d be scared to death sitting in a Porsche with you after a couple of drinks.” She paused. Her voice went from sad to concerned. “Where do we get all that money, Mike? Or do we buy all these luxuries on credit?”

  “Just stay out of it!” he snapped and raised his hand.

  Catching himself, he stood up, embraced her and caught a whiff of her perfume. He said soothingly, “Sorry, darling. You shouldn’t worry about it. We’re in great shape. Nothing on credit. Supren treats me well. So well that most of it is under the table. Tax free. You know. I’ve explained it many times. It’s money they have to—”

  “Hide.”

  Mike didn’t answer. He had a great deal going, but strict confidentiality was a major feature of it. He didn’t feel happy keeping Edith in the dark. He had married her only five years ago—an impressive, beautiful woman he adored. Both had been divorced, he with two teenage children, she childless. He didn’t want her to spill the truth inadvertently. He hadn’t asked for this kind of deal. He had accepted it but could never tell Edith the details of it or the name of the person who offered it to him.

  He sometimes worried about his angry outbursts when she expressed her concern about his work. It was the pressure of the job, he always explained, and each time he said he was sorry. He knew that Edith liked to show off her beautiful clothes, her body, her expensive jewelry—even on their Baglietto last month when he had business friends over on the yacht. She made him show his Rolex watch to friends. And now, all of a sudden, the Porsche was too much? Was this the straw that broke the camel’s back? No, it had to be the pressure of Carrollton getting to her.

  “Tengo miedo, amor, I’m scared,” she sobbed. “And who was that woman in the Porsche with you?”

  “Cascade has smart women in their dealership!” He felt he didn’t deserve the third degree.

  Edith went quiet.

  He regretted his rudeness. “Don’t you worry, amor,” he said softly. “I’ll take care of us, and you just enjoy it. Deal?”

  She briefly closed her eyes. “I guess so,” she whispered. She took his hand and guided him to the kitchen. “Our dinner sits in the oven.”

  “Dinner. Let me get us some wine.”

  “I have it here.”

  “Oh good. Dinner. And then? Any dessert?”

  She smiled again, her hand on his hip pocket. “Como no? Your favorite. Te quiero.”

  He loved the way she said it.

  Chapter 19

  Frank arrived in Houston Friday night from New Orleans, where he had met with HR and technical staff of an important oil services company. He checked in at the Westin Oaks Hotel on Westheimer Road, in the Galleria area. Viola had scheduled a job interview for the early afternoon of Monday at their offices nearby.

  Joanna flew into George Bush Intercontinental Airport the same day as Frank, but at the dreadfully late hour of 11:30 on United 318 from Cleveland via Chicago. By the time she fell into Frank’s arms at the baggage claim, she looked like a wreck.

  “I barely remember how you got me into this beautiful room,” she told him as she opened her eyes on Saturday morning.

  “I carried you all the way, you and your bag!” Frank joked.

  “I bet you were glad when you could finally drop me down onto the bed,” she played along.

  “I wondered what all the weight in that big bag was,” he said with a straight face.

  “Don’t you know? My bowling ball, of course.” She laughed, curled up to him and whispered, “Divine, Frank. Thank you for inviting me to Texas. My first trip to the state.”

  He said, caressing her cheek, “I have a Texan friend who raves about Galveston, fifty miles from here, on the Gulf. Galveston Island. Shall we go?”

  “Anywhere with you.” She kissed him and hopped out of bed. “Do I get the first shot?” she asked, halfway to the bathroom.

  “Be my guest.” Literally. He smiled. Her enthusiasm and spontaneity gave him a warm fuzzy feeling. At his age, he was no virgin, but she made him feel like one. She had for the last month.

  “I’ll be quick, Frank. Shorts okay, right?”

  “I’m sure you’ll look smashing in them.”

  Soon they were on their way.

  “Half of Houston must be on the road,” Frank complained as he grew irritated at the wheel. The air-conditioning in his rented Ford Focus wasn’t up to speed either.

  “It’s a Saturday. A beautiful day. Let’s enjoy the trip,” Joanna said, squeezing his leg. “We’re together and nobody knows.”

  “You mean Mike doesn’t.” He snickered.

  It took them almost two hours to get to Pier 21, instead of the Google estimate of about one hour.

  “Wow! How beautiful!”

  “I’d never heard of this Channel either before yesterday, Joanna.” Frank reacted to her excitement as she watched the big ships go by in the Galveston Ship Channel connecting Houston to the Gulf of Mexico. He had his hand on hers as they looked north, seated at their table on the deck of the Olympia Grill. They took their time over their late bocca d’oro lunch.

  They went for a brief walk on the island and then enjoyed the late afternoon with a leisurely drink back at the Grill, until Joanna noticed that the evening crowd was showing up. They stepped into the car and slowly made their way to Interstate 45 and the bridge, headed for Houston.

  “I feel sorry for Mary Jenkins,” Frank said as he wormed his way through traffic. “Her Joe….”

  The heat still felt oppressive although less so than on the way out; but the congestion was even worse. The gear box complained about the stop-and-go pace. Frank muttered he couldn’t wait to drop off the Focus at Alamo.

  Joanna sighed. “I worry about Mary too. I had to be the bearer of bad news. Felt so sad for her. But I did my best.”

  “I know, and Mary told me the kids loved the games you played with them. She’s relied on me as if she’s known me for ages, but I didn’t meet her until about two months ago. At the Rutgers site. She came with my sister, who teaches with her.”

  “Mary doesn’t know about us, does she?” She had her hand on his leg.

  “Not sure. I assume she suspects.”

  “Oh?”

  “I never mentioned it to her, but she wasn’t born yesterday.”

  “Please don’t tell anybody else Frank. You promised. Mr. Doyle would kill me if he finds out we’re such good friends. Strange, but he’s kind of…afraid of you.”

  “Yes.” Frank felt a tinge of inner pleasure. He smiled. “Goliath afraid of David. Good! Don’t worry, my lips are sealed. See?”

  She stared at him and burst into a loud laugh. “Make sure your mouth doesn’t freeze that way! Hold it. One second.” She dug into her purse and snapped a picture.

  “Any good?”

  She held her phone in front of him. “Just the way you promised, right?”

  “Correc
t. But I told Sonya.”

  “Yeah. She saw us together once. Please ask her not to tell. Right away.”

  “I will as soon as we’re back in Houston. We’ll send her the picture.”

  When they reached the Oaks shortly after nine they collapsed onto the bed in exhaustion. Frank reached for the phone to order pizza and a bottle of Chianti. He moved closer. “Now let’s cuddle. Real close.”

  A while later Joanna got up and took her unwilling shirt off. “It’s wet,” she said, shivering, making a face as she held it with indexes and thumbs and hung it on the back of a chair.

  Frank couldn’t take his eyes off her as she smiled at him, her long hair all over her sweaty face and dropping down to her small, proudly pointing breasts. “I bet your shorts are full of sand,” he said, laughing. He sat up, pulled her close and pretended he was going to unzip them. He dropped his shirt onto the floor.

  Somebody knocked on the door. “The pizza man! Already?” Joanna broke away and fled into the bathroom.

  Frank opened the door.

  “Two glasses, right?” The man didn’t seem puzzled but clearly enjoyed asking the question.

  Frank smiled. “Yeah. Correct. You’ve worked here a long time?”

  “Long enough. Ages. Two glasses.” He winked and threw a glance at the bathroom door.

  “You must be one of those two-fisted drinkers,” he joked.

  “You got that right,” Frank joked along as he paid, adding a generous tip.

  The waiter left with a grin on his face.

  Frank tapped his middle knuckle on the bathroom door. “The intruder’s gone. All safe!”

  “I heard. Good job. Just a couple of minutes.”

  Ten long minutes later Joanna appeared, her face one smile, her thin, light-blue hotel robe an elegant swirl, her lips hinting.

  “Wow!” Frank kissed her, bending down, she standing on her toes.