Cloning Galinda

by Jan Smolders

  The man to her right high-fived her.

  She moved forward to greet Mrs. Doyle. She felt compassion for her.

  “Good to see you again, Mrs. Doyle. Edith, right?”

  “Correct. Very good indeed. You are…?” It was a friendly voice.

  “Mary Jenkins. We met once before. I hope things will be cleared up and cleaned up soon. We have no time to lose. Absolutely none,” she said, heartfelt concern in her voice. She really wanted Mrs. Doyle to take note.

  The lady nodded, showing a frown. “I agree, Miss Jenkins. Mary. I love your Texan accent, slight as it is.”

  “Texan? Oh, really?”

  A kind nod. “Where are you from?”

  “From right here, but I lived in Lumberton for a few years. Bits of the language must have stuck with me.”

  “Lumberton? Oh! I know somebody else who’s from that city. Wait…Jim…Jim Duncan. Mike’s former boss several years ago.” She pulled her husband’s sleeve and said, “Mary’s lived in Lumberton, Mike. Did you know that? Wasn’t your former boss from Lumberton? Jim Duncan? The one who always talked about his football team at Lumberton High? He—”

  Doyle suddenly shook his head, his face one angry frown. “Cállate, shut up!” he hissed, turning away from the two women.

  “But—”

  “Cállate!”

  Edith Doyle’s expression was one of growing confoundment during the laconic exchange. She didn’t seem to understand what had gotten into her husband.

  He means business. Mary threw a quick glance at Edith, who returned her look with one of embarrassment.

  A second later, Doyle produced a broad smile out of nowhere, put his arm around his spouse’s waist and guided her delicately aside. “My apologies. I must introduce my sweetheart to a neighbor,” he said to Mary as he walked away, his voice close to smarmy. He didn’t wait for her answer.

  Mary was puzzled. Mike Doyle, quarterback of the Chamber’s charm team. Quarterback…and chameleon.

  Chapter 29

  At six p.m. Vince called it a day earlier than usual. Tonight was his once-a-month pool night. At Andrew’s, the tables were awaiting him as well as three of his buddies: Don, John and Mark. As he left the Beta site and pulled onto Maple Road, he hummed the melody of “Don’t Worry about Tomorrow.” He looked forward to teaching John a thing or two about billiards. His friend had had the nerve to beat him badly last time.

  Vince needed a break. Wednesday night couldn’t have come soon enough. His job at Supren gave him more headaches than a human could handle or Tylenol could soothe. Mike Doyle didn’t make it any easier. Tonight, Vince refused to think about the jerk who, in all fairness, paid him well.

  Fortunately, Vince had a few work buddies and his pool friends. And his Susan. He sighed as he drove. She was a lively, stunningly beautiful woman, a great companion, and the joy of his life.

  Lately, however, she complained on and off about their sex life. “Monotonous,” she would repine, sulking and often looking for a cigarette. She suffered from “migraines” more than he liked. But he and Susan had great evenings and nights and mornings when her appetite was sometimes almost more than he could satisfy. She obsessed on keeping her body in fantastic shape: massages, creams and injections—he didn’t even want to know about them or the dollars she spent. He had to admit he felt proud when he could show her off, parading her into a restaurant of her choice, or to church. But he couldn’t get her to attend office parties. “Don’t ask me to go brown-nosing to get you a promotion,” was her excuse. Her subtlety-laced version of “no,” he would grumble inwardly, suppressing the urge to roll his eyes.

  When he left home this morning she had been sweet and understanding. “You need time with your buddies, darling. I’ll make sure I’m in perfect shape to give you a warm welcome home.” She hadn’t used her usual “hot,” but it sounded so promising anyway that for a second he had thought of canceling pool night and visiting Nan’s flower shop.

  Only John had arrived when Vince strode to the bar at Andrew’s.

  The place was dimly lit by the lights above the four pool tables; only a handful of patrons were milling about as it was still early. Seated on a barstool, John was in conversation with Lou, the bartender, their words swallowed by Kenny Rogers’s “Lucille,” blaring from speakers in all four corners. The smell of beer and perspiration and the gaping faces of three vending machines across the room joined the two men in welcoming Vince. A TV set’s graying screen suspended above the bar, sound muted, showed a baseball game and peddled Geico insurance.

  John pointed at Vince. “Evening! Bud Light? The usual?”

  “Yep. Can use one. Helluva day, but I’m here.” Vince sighed as he took a stool. “So, what’s new?” The question was for John.

  “Not much. Same old stuff. The kids, Nancy, ‘honey do, honey do,’ you know. How about you? All good at home? No kids yet, eh?”

  John had two little girls.

  “Not as far as I know.” Vince wondered briefly why Susan had been so sweet and happy this morning.

  “Patience, man. It’ll happen, whether you order them or not!” John lifted his glass. “Cheers!”

  Lou opened a drawer and seemed to check the contents.

  “Cheers.” Vince nodded, managing a wry smile. As far as he knew, none of his sperm had succeeded in fooling the condom regimen and procedures Susan had imposed from day one. Not even on days she was inebriated.

  “How about that new car? Big bucks, man!”

  Vince jerked his head back. “Huh?”

  “Your BMW. Top of the line, right? Flashy color too. Susan’s pick, I bet.”

  The bartender looked up from the receipts he was checking.

  Vince shrugged and frowned. “I’ve got my Explorer from Supren. Frank Anderson’s hand-me-down, but good enough.”

  “But Susan—”

  “She has her little Chrysler convertible,” Vince answered, slightly irritated. “We have no BMW.”

  “But…I’ll be damned. I could swear I saw her in that low, silver sleigh, sitting next to you. She saw me, looked up at me briefly as you guys overtook me at that crazy speed. Then she turned to you. I guess you said something to her.”

  “Me? When?”

  “Must’ve been a week ago. Afternoon. Interstate 77.”

  “You’re shitting me. I never got my ass into a BMW.” Vince turned on his stool to face the TV.

  John turned as well, took a good gulp and put his drink down with a little bang. “Vince, it was her,” he insisted. “Unless she’s got a twin sister with the same set of….” He halted his hand gestures. “I could see she recognized me. You don’t remember overtaking me?”

  “I said I never sat in a BMW.”

  “Not even in Mike Doyle’s?”

  “What?” Vince pounded the counter. “Shit! Shit!”

  The bartender rolled his eyes and walked to the other end.

  Vince raged on. “Why did you have to tell me that?” he screamed.

  “I’m sorry, man. I said to my wife you must be making good dough at Supren. I’m not jealous. You’re working your butt off, of course.” The longer his friend talked the more embarrassed he looked.

  “The bitch! The bitch!”

  John’s penny apparently dropped. “Cool it, man. It’s always possible that—”

  “Too late. You’re right. I’m out of here. Sorry, man. I….” Vince broke down. He knew his buddy wasn’t making it up.

  He drove home in a daze.

  He fumed. Whenever he traveled on Mike’s orders, he would call Susan on her cell from Columbus or Washington or Oklahoma City; he had heard restaurant or bar background noise too often. Her indifferent responses to his sexual advances had become frequent; the veneer on her faked orgasms was transparent. Her semi-snarky remarks regarding his appearance or gait had grown too painfu
l. Her nervousness at the mention of Doyle’s name suddenly made sense. A friendly neighbor had given him a hint, but he had thanklessly waved him off, naïve as he was, and obstinate in his denial. And now John. His buddy.

  “The bitch!” he screamed, hammering the gas pedal, a madman. He ran a traffic light and then braked so brutally that his screeching tires scared him. He took a dangerous curve at double the speed limit and swerved dangerously out of his lane, narrowly avoiding a collision. He brusquely swung into an emergency stopping lane and came to an abrupt halt.

  “The slut!” He pounded the wheel, then rested his head on it and heard his fast breathing. He tried to take his pulse but lost count. He cried.

  Ten minutes later he had wiped his tears and pulled out of the parking spot.

  When he arrived at home and exited his Explorer he dreaded walking through his own front door. What was the point? It was over between him and Susan. Doyle had swept her off her feet, dazzled her with his power and money and glitz. Should’ve known she wasn’t my type, he reproached himself, feeling empty and deserted.

  He turned the key and entered.

  An eerie silence met him. Even the refrigerator colluded.

  He swung open the door to the garage. Susan’s car wasn’t there.

  He slammed the door shut, went to the sitting room and poured himself a gin and tonic. It took him two swigs to finish it. Then he threw his two-hundred pounds violently onto the couch and almost hoped it would break. He poured another drink. He dialed Susan’s cell number, but didn’t hit the green button, afraid to hear her giggle, and that painful background noise that might hit him in the face. He offered himself another gin and tonic. He yanked their wedding picture off the wall above the commode, smashed it on the carpet and stepped on the glass.

  He fell asleep. Doyle taunted him, with Susan. Vince swung his sledgehammer at them but missed both. Susan laughed loudly. Doyle winked, an unbearable smirk on his face. Mrs. Doyle cried as she observed the scene.

  When Vince woke up he felt Susan’s lips on his. Bent over him, one knee on the couch, she caressed his temple and nodded her head at the open gin bottle on the coffee table. He thought he saw concern about his condition on her face. No, it had to be recrimination. His splitting headache reminded him that the gin in his system kept him from making the distinction.

  She stood up. “Are you okay, Vince?” she asked calmly while checking the contents of her handbag.

  As if she doesn’t know or notice. His loud, angry words came involuntarily. “See our wedding picture?” He sounded nasal.

  “Oh, my God. Did you…?”

  He nodded, his head pounding. “We won’t need it anymore. You’re leaving me.” Deeply saddened he averted his eyes to hide his tears.

  She cried. “Somebody told you lies about me. I—”

  He was exhausted but managed to utter, “Don’t explain. You’ll make it worse. It hurts too much.” He broke down.

  “But I love you, Vince. I always will.” She bent down and kissed him again.

  He pushed her away. “You love Mike Doyle,” he said, dejected. He had made it a statement, not a question.

  She kicked her high heels off and curled up to him on the couch. “I want to be with you forever, Vince. I’m so sorry I hurt you. Please, please forgive me. Mike Doyle…I’ve been so dumb to believe…I’ll call him right away. I know you’re my only real love. Real.” She squeezed her hips against his and wormed her right hand under his back. “Forgive me, Vince. My Vince.”

  He felt nauseous, his head thumping, his mind racing uncontrolled: he couldn’t imagine life without Susan. He had left her alone so often; he had complimented her too seldom for the care she took of her body, to please him; he had reciprocated too little her tenderness and passion. She was so beautiful, much more so than he deserved.

  The nausea got worse. He wriggled himself free, sat up and felt even more terrible. “I’m tired,” he said, slurring his words. “Just go to the bedroom.” He lay down again.

  “Leave you here? Alone? Fully dressed?”

  “Yes.” He closed his eyes.

  She shook his arm. “But—”

  “Just go. My head hurts.”

  “Let me bring you a couple of Tylenols.”

  “Go!”

  ***

  Around seven-thirty Mary’s phone rang.

  “Jenkins, stop cozying up to my wife.” It was Doyle’s voice—threatening, scary.

  “Oh…she’s such a nice lady. I—”

  “You heard me. Stay out of my personal matters.”

  Mary figured he had to be worried that she would talk to Mrs. Doyle about Susan Davis and Lanning’s. She said, “It wouldn’t enter my mind to interfere in—”

  “Stay away from her. And forget what happened tonight.”

  “Oh? Tonight? Do you—”

  “Stay out of it or I’ll kill you.” He hung up.

  What happened tonight? She was paralyzed, trembling and wondering. Lumberton? Duncan? Doyle’s rude words to Edith….

  “Who was that, Mommy?” Andy asked, looking up briefly from the homework he was doing on the kitchen table.

  “Nothing, nothing,” she replied, trying her best to sound casual.”

  “Is Daddy okay?”

  “I’m sure he is. Keep writing. It’s getting late.” Her voice broke. She fled into the bathroom.

  After she managed to get the boys to bed she called Frank and relayed the essentials of what happened in front of the Chamber, including her abruptly ended discussion with both Doyles and the deeply unsettling phone call she just had received.

  Seconds went by before Frank answered, “Did you talk to Joe yet?”

  “No. I’m afraid to. Nothing he can do from where he is anyway.” She started sobbing.

  “Right. Maybe better not to mention it to him,” he said soothingly.

  “But Doyle, he—”

  “He’s probably shooting off his mouth. Losing it a bit.”

  “You’re wrong!” she near-shouted, upset about Frank’s cavalier answer. “I know he hates me. That call! He turned livid when I spoke with his wife this afternoon. Why? I never mentioned Lanning’s to her. The only thing…It could…Have you ever heard of a Mr. Duncan?”

  “Duncan?” Frank had suddenly raised his voice.

  “Jim. Mrs. Doyle mentioned that name—her husband’s old boss—Jim Duncan from Lumberton, and Doyle went ballistic. For a second or two; then, it was over. And two hours later he says he’ll kill me if—!”

  “Yes. I heard you. Maybe you shóuld call the police. Tell them to keep an eye on your house. On you and the kids.”

  “Huh?” Something I said must have alerted Frank or shaken him up. “They won’t laugh me away? A woman?”

  “They’d better not. Do call the police.”

  “Okay. Shall I tell them about Doyle’s affair? Maybe that’s what he’s so—”

  “I bet they already know. Everybody does. Maybe even Edith.”

  “Hmm. So it must be something else.”

  “Could be. You’d better call. Tell them I said so. I know Chief Roberts. You never know what people do when they go berserk.” He sounded slightly irritated and detached.

  “Yes, okay. She hung up and started pacing the kitchen, wondering why Frank had changed his mind. So abruptly. She decided to wait half an hour: calm down, have some tea, put her feet up, breathe deep and think it all through. If Doyle ever finds out I called the cops on him….

  She was barely halfway through her cup when Mike Doyle called back. “I’m sorry…my words,” he whispered. “Very sorry. I didn’t mean it. I’ll never harm you. I had a crazy moment. Got to go. Sorry. I—”

  She heard a woman’s voice. “Mickey? More tea, darling?”

  The call broke off.

  Edith’s accent. Mary put the pho
ne down and reflected. “Susan” rumors must be getting close to Edith’s ears.

  Her tea was cold, her nerves not calmed down. She sought refuge and company on CNN.

  The ring tone of her phone ripped her out of her catnap.

  “I’m coming home!” Joe’s voice resounded through the room. “Freed from prison at last! Tomorrow!”

  “Oh? Wow. Great! What time?” The planning compartment in her brain shot into action.

  “As soon as you can pick me up. I don’t want to stay a minute longer than I have to. They need my bed anyway.”

  She pictured him packing his little bag, minus pajamas and toothbrush, and smiled. “Okay! Right after school. I’ll get Sonya for Jimmy and Andy. I’ll call her right away.”

  “After school, yeah. You can bring the kids.”

  “Well, don’t let them know I told you, but they prepared a special welcome for you. They must be here before you.”

  Joe chuckled. “Got it. You want to do some good cuddling in the car, right?”

  “Would I?”

  Chapter 30

  Mary broke into tears as she helped Joe step out of the car into the driveway. He supported himself with a cane and leaned on her shoulder with his free hand. He was all smiles. The boys ran out of the house, their arms up, jubilant. Sonya stood on the threshold, waving. Andy insisted to take Mary’s place and support his daddy. Jimmy, too short for that assignment, looked on, disappointment written over his face.

  “I’d like to hug the boys,” Joe lamented, “but I can’t.” He made an awkward semi-successful attempt with Jimmy. Then he leaned his head down to Andy, but didn’t fully reach.

  “Did you look yet, Daddy?” Jimmy asked, pointing at the front door.

  Joe winked at Mary, turned his head toward the house and exclaimed, “Oh my God! I can’t believe it! Did Mom call that decorator? Lucy?”

  “No!” the boys chanted in chorus, waving their palms. “We did it all by ourselves!”

  Mary and Sonya nodded, their faces serious.

  “I love it!” Joe roared, looking impressed and slightly amused.

  “We chose the colors, Daddy. The nicest ones we could find!” Little Jimmy jumped up and down.