by Jan Smolders
Mary and Frank nodded at each other. She stood up and they headed for the door, but Doyle had one more salvo. “Joe Bertolo, he’d better take some driving tests before he shows up for work again. We’ve hired a good replacement. No trouble with him. Or his wife.”
Mary didn’t dignify him with an answer. She had long expected that Joe would lose his job and now, after this screaming match, she had given up every remnant of illusion about hers: she had little doubt that Doyle would pick up the phone as soon as they were out of earshot; that he would call the mayor or the school board or both to argue for her dismissal. But she didn’t want to mention her concern to Frank now, as if it were his fault.
“We’ve let the air out of his tires,” Frank quipped as they walked back to his car.
“Do you really have pictures?” she asked as he took the wheel. She knew it wasn’t very nice of her to stoop that low, but something in her made her want to see them.
He looked straight ahead. “You think I’d lie about that?”
His face told her enough. She elbowed him.
“But I did see him with a woman who isn’t his wife. In a restaurant.”
“I know he’s got a girlfriend. A mistress. Joe told me. He and Joanna heard Doyle boast about her. In his office. His door was ajar. Her name’s Galinda.”
“You mean Linda. Linda. That’s what Joanna mentioned to me. That woman with Doyle in the restaurant was Mrs. Davis, the petite, ultra-blonde with the low-cut blouse. Her name escapes me.” He tried to describe her remarkable shape and posture with both hands.
“Okay, okay,” she said, giggling. “Hold on to the wheel. I’ve seen her. Susan. Doyle must have dumped the other one, Galinda.”
“Galinda or Linda, I don’t care.”
“‘Joanna sounds very, very nice, Frank. You lucky guy.”
Chapter 27
Alone in his car after dropping Mary at the school, Frank let his thoughts drift slowly away from the ugly discussion with Doyle and toward Joanna. It was a sweet ride. Joanna. Until he started worrying again. How long before she would lose her job? She needed it badly.
He made a brief stop at Sonya’s. He wanted company, some small talk. The weather. Lebron James. Dirty water. The price of gasoline and the Prius her neighbor was driving and bragging about.
Later on his way home he wondered how Vince, this heavy-set, plain-spoken, low-key guy with the crew cut ever managed to get together with Susan, that flashy nano-petite blonde. For how long?
Shortly before six Joanna called him. “Leaving for home now, darling. Did you get out of the office in one piece?”
“Hmm. Yes and no.”
“Oh? What does that mean, Frankie?”
He faulted himself for talking in riddles but he thought it was a fair summary, succinct and clear, for himself anyway. “We got beaten up pretty badly but—”
“We?”
“Mary joined me. She may be in trouble. And I think I lost my severance. I’d better hurry up with Viola or you may have to feed me,” he joked.
“Oh, I would, Frankie. Don’t worry.”
“Thanks. Just kidding. I bet I’ll get my severance back.”
“You will?”
He chuckled inwardly. “I’ll come over and explain. Seven? I’ll bring sushi.”
“Oh? Park’s? Great. Can we make it seven-thirty? I need a shower.”
In Noredge a Korean grocer sold every kind of food, including Japanese.
“Seven-thirty.”
He stopped twisting the hairs on the back of his head and concluded that a shower wasn’t a bad idea for him either. “Cleaning the inside while cleaning the outside,” he mumbled, a free translation of what his Latin teacher used to say.
“Mens sana in corpore sano!” he roared fifteen minutes later as he checked his gorilla pose in the bathroom mirror.
His nostrils reacted intrigued as he climbed the cement stairs up to a small apartment on the second floor of a four-story complex off Main about a mile north of downtown. An aroma he couldn’t pinpoint. Upstairs, Joanna would be waiting for him and her favorite sushi. In that order, he trusted.
Mike Doyle, who had his house on McKinley, wouldn’t venture into this area or want to be seen in it, but Frank had parked his Altima at the far end of the building anyway. Peace of mind was worth the effort of an additional few yards’ walk. He realized, however, that Joanna couldn’t be fully protected all the time from willing sycophants eager to ingratiate themselves with Doyle. It was almost inevitable: one of these days Joanna would have to face her boss and try talking him into not firing her.
The door was ajar. He opened it with his foot. “Service!”
“Just a minute!” It sounded like “jost a minute,” but the voice was heavenly.
He waited, standing, holding the polystyrene box and looking at the couch. It was second-hand, his back had told him. The low, dark brown little chest of drawers, a half-empty Coke bottle on top, was an early inheritance from grandma; the three chairs…he had bought them with Joanna at a garage sale. They belonged in a church. The badly curled-up rug menaced the inattentive, particularly the sushi-carrying ones. The coffee table invited him: it often was his favorite footrest as he watched the Travel Channel with Joanna on the sixteen-inch screen.
He went to the kitchen and put the box on the counter. “It’s free! You don’t need your wallet,” he joked, waving a hand to welcome more aroma. “What’s cooking here?”
“Tembleque. Take a look in the oven.”
Before he could comply, his eyes were drawn to the bedroom door, where a glowing, radiating image appeared. Divine, he marveled. His heart raced. Joanna in flesh and blood, not some phantasm.
“You like it, Frankie?” She adjusted her left shoulder strap, her eyes awaiting his response.
He stared at the loose-fitting, tan cotton robe. It looked teasingly thin. “Exquisite!”
“The tembleque or me?”
He wagged his index and laughed. “What’s tembleque?”
“Coconut milk, sugar, corn starch and lots of heat. Ground cinnamon on top. A Puerto Rican special for you. Rico! Delicious, if I may say so. And…want to feel my robe? Egyptian cotton, the vendor said. Feels cool.”
He pulled her close, held her in his arms, and nodded. “Perfect for you. Matches your smooth skin. I adore it,” he breathed as he moved his hand lower and kissed her full lips.
She kissed him back, moved away and pointed at the sushi. “Let’s go.”
With coquettish little steps, her long robe permitting, she walked to the kitchen. He observed the movement of her tight buttocks under the robe and followed, strutting.
“What are you doing?” She smiled as she looked back.
“Walking like an Egyptian.” He grabbed her waist. “Behind a goddess.”
The windowless, eight-by-ten kitchen accommodated two people but not that comfortably. Joanna always had her plastic barstool at the kitchen counter, which served as table as well. She actually had a narrow metal table, but Frank had only seen it carrying an overload of potted plants. One of her two metal chairs stood folded between it and the wall. Her other one, the stable one, had now joined the barstool.
Frank opened the box and invited Joanna with a formal gesture. She held up a bottle of Cabernet and pointed at the two plain glasses on the kitchen top. Frank picked them up and jovially said “Cozy,” as he sat down, wiggling briefly.
Joanna, pouring wine, said jokingly “I see you’re concerned, but so is my chair. It hasn’t dealt with anything else other than cooking pots and pans and shopping bags for I don’t know how long.”
They clinked glasses as if holding Waterford, kissed again, and selected their first piece of sushi.
“You stay where you are, Frankie.” Joanna stood up and moved her stool so it touched his chair. “More stable!”
�
�I like ‘stable,’” he said and pinched her cheek.
Warm feelings and daring plans set the tone for their conversation. Unlike the wine, some of the sushi would make it to next morning, it seemed, as Frank had expected. They laughed and joked. And Mike Doyle was the great absentee. For a while.
“Now, tell me about this afternoon. I’m entitled to it. I vacated my office so you guys could ‘have a real conversation.’”
Frank smiled. He had talked her into finding an excuse for her well-timed errand. “You’re ready? The jerk wouldn’t let Mary in. He made a scene at the front door. You might see some clips of it on YouTube.”
“That bad?”
“It could’ve gotten worse, but I cut him off at the knees.”
“Huh?” It was an open mouth sound.
“With my big machete!” He swung his arm wildly. “I reminded him, not too subtly, that I saw him with Mrs. Davis, dining at Lanning’s in Bath, near Akron.”
“Mrs. Davis? Susan?”
“Yes.”
“Wow.”
“He froze. Gasped for air. Walked us in like a beaten dog. He later begged for discretion. I reassured him. Mary had of course heard me, but she and my mother are the only other persons who know about this Lanning’s thing. My mom was there with me.”
“Susan….” She kept shaking her head.
“I would never spread such a rumor, Joanna, and hurt innocent people. Vince is a good guy. Maybe a little naïve. But I had to defend Mary Jenkins.”
“So, Doyle—poor Edith—he must have a new mistress, or one more. Not too long ago he had a Linda.”
“Linda? Galinda, Mary said.”
“No. Linda.” Joanna looked amused. “Linda.” The quick slicing motion of her palm didn’t leave any room for doubt.
“But Mary told me that Joe and you heard him speak about Galinda. With great enthusiasm. ‘Galinda!’ Mike had shouted several times. I’m quoting Mary.”
Joanna nodded and smiled. “We both heard him. Joe and me. But I clearly picked up the name Linda first. Apparently, it reminded a person at the other end of the line of a Galinda. Just as cute, just as—you know how men talk. ‘Yes! Another Galinda! A clone, Jim! A clone!’ Doyle roared, laughing. He said he knew that Galinda well.”
“Hmm. Joe must have misheard.”
“He did. But does it matter? Galinda’s a beautiful name too.” She took a sip.
“Joe…I don’t know…,” Frank replied.
Joanna asked him why he kept rubbing his forehead.
“Oh, nothing really,” he said and waved her off.
“Okay. Coffee! Coffee paging Galinda! Coffee with tembleque? Or?” Her tone was delightfully suggestive. Her wide eyes burned into his as she slowly brushed back her raven hair.
He got up, stood behind her, kissed her neck and felt her breasts. The hard nipples.
She leaned back against him. “Did you hear my long ‘or’ question, Frankie?”
“I did. Tell me, Joanna, how does cold tembleque taste?” He whispered, his tongue licking her earlobe.
“Better than hot.” She stood up next to him and reached up for a long, deep kiss. Then she pulled him toward her tiny bedroom. “Let me show you a real Egyptian. Hold me. Unzip my robe.”
He took her in his arms.
Her robe dropped to the floor.
Nefertiti? Cleopatra? He had visions.
“Take them off,” she whispered, pointing at his bulging pants.
He slowly caressed her naked body with his.
He eased her onto the bed, one arm on her lower back.
She opened her arms.
“I want you,” she breathed.
As he entered her she screamed.
They heard a loud knock from above.
“She’s jealous, Frank. And I don’t blame her. Please love me more,” she groaned.
He did. They kissed and caressed and made love until late in the night.
In the morning, the tembleque was cold but as exquisite as the company.
Chapter 28
Turmoil engulfed Noredge. Angry citizens demonstrating sporadically in clusters or in groups in front of the Supren office demanded clarity. “Transparency!” some yelled on TV. Mary was certain that for many of them it was a word they uttered for the first time in their lives. Mothers pleaded for clean water for their children. “Free bottled water from Supren until our water is safe!”
Mike Doyle’s Sentinel article had turned Frank into a target of their ire as well. “No wonder Doyle had to fire him. That Anderson is a thief or a criminal or he’s in over his head. No matter what, I’m glad he’s gone and can’t do any further harm. Now let’s clean up.” These were the words of upset shopkeeper Jeff Dillon. Doyle’s libelous claim had hit a nerve.
Mary shook her head when she was confronted by an angry mother wagging her index and shouting, “I know Frank Anderson’s a ‘good friend’ of yours. But that doesn’t mean I can’t tell you the truth. Good thing that Mr. Doyle plays open cards.” Mary rolled her eyes and said nothing.
“That Anderson was fired but the loser got away with half a million dollars, I hear. I don’t get it. Must have some big shot high up protecting him,” a bystander opined, clutching a shopping bag. She went her way.
An eager-looking young man said, his tone suggestive, “Or…? Or…?” He paused and checked faces. “Could it be blackmail? Maybe Anderson has the goods on Doyle, true or false, know what I mean?” A few nodded, although they couldn’t possibly know what the youngster knew or meant. Quick glances among bystanders said it had to be something really bad, something ominous justifying a half-million-dollar bribe.
Mary was berated by Max Goodall, a Chamber member, for instilling unrest and jeopardizing Noredge’s future. “Just keep up the good work, lady,” he barked, “and soon Noredge will become a ghost town, as so many in the region already have. We’re losing our jobs to China. All the rubber business…all gone.”
In the last twenty to thirty years the tire industry had moved most of its operations and even offices away from Akron, once the rubber capital of the world, to Mexico, China, the southern US or other greener pastures. Several Noredge suppliers and contractors to the industry had left as well, or automated in major ways, leaving the local economy hanging high and dry.
Goodall was a neighbor on Maple Road. His wife was a doting grandma. “Don’t you have kids, Max?” Mary asked, although she knew he did. “Grandchildren? Don’t they deserve clean water that’s free of cancer causing agents?”
Her last point was a stretch, but not entirely. Methane was often accompanied by many harmful substances.
He walked away, shaking his head, grumbling.
Later in the day, new EPA figures communicated on WKSU pointed to a worsening situation.
On Wednesday the 12th an emergency session of the Chamber was called for four o’clock. The news spread like wildfire. Mary dropped Andy and Jimmy with a friend and rushed to the Chamber building, although the meeting would be a closed-door affair. Crowds were amassing outside, blocking traffic until the police intervened and ordered all onto the sidewalk. The townspeople, already suffering the muggy heat, now stood compressed and even more exposed to the irritating late sunrays from the west. Two youngsters started distributing Sierra Club pamphlets.
Mary tried to walk in but was rebuffed. She tried to find out, asking around, whether Mr. Doyle had arrived. Nobody knew. Frank was nowhere to be seen. She knew he would be an unwelcome guest, as she felt she was, for at least some in the crowd. Vince Davis was also a no-show.
When the clock said four the crowd didn’t disperse but kept milling around, some expressing their almost unspeakable fears for the health of their kids. A few talked about organizing more clean water transport in tankers from Canton. Young adults cracked dark jokes.
Around five-thirty the fr
ont door of the Chamber building opened and Mrs. Henning, the wife of Chairman Henning appeared on the steps, smiling broadly, moving slowly. She unfolded a sheet of paper and then gently brushed away unruly bleached curls stuck to her perspiration-pearled forehead. She was flanked on the left by Mrs. Doyle and Mr. Doyle, in that order, and to the right by Mayor Sanders and Mr. Henning. They’re trying the soft touch. Mary fought to contain her indignation: she was convinced that the text Mrs. Henning was going to read from her sheet had been prepared by men, before the Chamber even met.
The murmuring died down.
It was readily clear from Mrs. Henning’s facial expression and demeanor that the Chamber had indeed embarked on a charm offensive.
“I see so many mothers and grannies here. I’m a mother too, of course, and I have four darling grandchildren, so far. How nice to see you all.”
“‘How nice’ indeed. Can’t think of a happier occasion,” Mary mumbled, huffing.
The man next to her chuckled.
Mrs. Henning went on. The lady’s sweet voice was too weak for the crowd. Only fragments of her speech were audible.
“Your concerns are ours too…we want…Mr. Doyle is confident all will be all right…great community….”
A tepid applause ensued. And one whistle.
Mrs. Henning smiled politely.
“Count on your patience and understanding…much appreciated…one town…God bless.”
Mary trained her gaze on Mike Doyle, who was all smiles. “A great act,” she grumbled audibly. “And not a word about water distribution.” The man to her left pursed his lips; the one to her right put his fingers in his mouth to whistle but stopped there.
The Chamber folks and the Doyles stepped down toward the street level and tried to mingle in the crowd.
“Part of the act,” Mary snorted.
