Car Pool

by Karin Kallmaker

  “It was in school. I read a lot now. I read to my father when he was in the hospital — mostly geologic journals, but sometimes a book I thought he’d like.”

  “It doesn’t matter where you learned to appreciate books, as long as you do. That’s what Mrs. Pritchard always said.”

  “Who’s Mrs. Prichard?”

  “My tenth-grade English teacher.” My first crush,

  Anthea added to herself, heaving a big sigh. Why she hadn’t figured out she was a lesbian until college, she didn’t know, but Anthea would never forget Emily Dickinson on the lips of Mrs. Pritchard.

  “I see,” Shay said. “Sure she wasn’t the gym teacher?”

  “No,” Anthea said. “But she should have been.”

  Shay grinned. “I had several gym teachers in college, and a whole bunch in graduate school.”

  “Where’d you go to graduate school?”

  “The Missouri School of Mines. It’s the Harvard of geology schools.”

  “Would it be stereotypical for me to assume that there’s lots of test drivers there?”

  “No more than average,” Shay said. Her shoulders were shaking with laughter. “But I think I drove with them all. Turned out to be a good thing because it’s been a long, long time since I’ve, uh, hit the road.”

  “You drove with all of them? One at a time, or… .”

  “One at a time, of course,” Shay said, with feigned indignation. “I didn’t do… car pools.” She and Anthea waved cheerily at the guard.

  “Didn’t that waste energy?” Anthea pushed their parking lot card into the reader, then drove forward toward their space.

  “Yes, yes it did. It was before my own personal energy crisis.”

  Anthea turned the engine off and looked at Shay. They burst into laughter. After a few moments, Anthea managed to say, “We could write a comic strip. How to categorize lesbians by the type of car they represent.”

  “I’d be a horse and buggy.”

  Anthea didn’t agree, but she kept her opinion back. She headed for her shuttle stop after a wave. Shay was definitely a sports car, but Anthea didn’t know yet what kind. She quelled the thought that there was only one way to find out. She was not going to get involved with another woman she car pooled with.

  On Shay’s desk, new data awaited. She took it to the copy room and made herself two sets. She liked to pencil in codes and notes on the sheets without messing up the original. She filed one copy as a spare, clipped the original to her cube wall where she could glance at it, and then began going over the working copy.

  “This can’t be right,” Shay said to herself. I really must be groggy not to have noticed sooner. That or still in a daze about how Anthea’s cheeks got flushed when she laughed. Stop that this instant!

  Harold grunted. “What can’t be right?”

  “This soil analysis result. The xylene is practically off the scale. There’s no xylene being manufactured near there. This is impossible. Oh shit, do you believe this? These aren’t my results. They aren’t even NOC-U’s results. They’re for NEM, Inc., whatever that is. How could the lab make a mistake like this?”

  “Because I’ll bet you they were low bidder,” Harold said. “Go complain to Scott.”

  Shay did. Scott took the printout array back and promised to locate the real results. Shay offered to

  call the lab herself, but Scott said he’d handle it. Really kick butt over it.

  She had just gotten her next project underway when he arrived with another printout, this time plainly labeled for NOC-U.

  “Thanks, I’ll get started, then,” Shay said, already calling up the macro to relaunch the array of spreadsheets she needed. She glanced at the result for well B-B-146. “This is much better, but it’s still too high.”

  “Which one,” Scott said.

  “B-B-one-four-six. I knew it wasn’t above hazard, but I still didn’t think it was approaching the line.” Shay stopped, shook her head. Some piece of data was out of place. She concentrated for a moment, but whatever inconsistency bothered her refused to surface. She went on, “If I remember right, it’s up a ways from last quarter.” Shay pulled a file from her drawer.

  “That must be the sample spike,” Scott said.

  “Not that one. I took it myself. One-four-seven was a spike. One-four-six is a watch well. It would be foolish to spike the sample.”

  “Maybe there was a mix-up,” Scott suggested. “It doesn’t seem likely that a well sample would jump in parts per billion like that in one quarter.”

  “I could do a curve over the last two years,” Shay said. “See if there’s a pattern. Contrast it to rainfall.”

  “Oh, no, that won’t be necessary. I’m sure it’s an error of some sort.”

  “This is a bona fide hot spot,” Shay said, her temper getting shorter. There had been nothing wrong with her sample, and it had not been

  deliberately spiked to test the lab’s accuracy. “See, here are the three sampling spikes, and the three blanks. There’s a lot of groundwater movement in that area. That could explain the higher concentrations. And we had a lot of rain last quarter, increasing the water movement.”

  “But the bay mud provides a permeability barrier in that part of the refinery.”

  “But there’s a saline difference. The density between A and C zone mud has to be corrected for salinity. The velocity head isn’t going to factor in here, but when two aquifers have waters of different density, the total head is affected.” Shay stopped short. Scott was staring at her.

  “I’ll ask the chemists about it,” he said. “You aren’t a chemist, are you?”

  “No, but I know what I’m talking about.”

  “Well, sure. I tell you what. You go ahead on the basis of these results and write up the tables for the quarterly report. Meanwhile, I’ll check the samples and your questions. Maybe there’s another explanation. I think we’ve underestimated you, Sumoto.” He left after another sharp look at her.

  Shay felt a glow, glad to have finally had a chance to show that she did have practical experience and a strong theoretical background.

  “Now how come you didn’t tell me you knew more about groundwater geology than just about anyone on this project?” Harold pushed back from his desk and looked at her.

  “You wouldn’t have believed me,” Shay said.

  “Yes I would. Now I think they do, too. You could be sorry.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Harold rubbed his hands over his hair. He dropped his voice. “Haven’t you noticed that, present company excepted, there is a vortex of stupidity on this project?”

  “Yeah, I have,” Shay said with a smile. “I thought that was just private-industry standard.”

  “I don’t think so. I think they don’t want anyone too bright around here.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. This is really complicated data.”

  “But what does everyone do when there’s any sort of problem? We’re practically told to assume the lab made a mistake or the sample got spiked or the analysis was flawed. This is the working formula: if the soil here is not contaminated, then… .”

  “Then the samples must be bad. But who says the soil is clean?”

  “NOC-U, that’s who.”

  Shay swallowed. “I think I forgot who signed my piddly paycheck.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t give a damn. That report is going to be accurate. We’re talking about a hot spot just over a hundred yards from a direct channel to the bay. We’re talking about a delicate ecosystem.”

  “I know. Can you afford to lose this job?”

  “I can’t afford to lose what’s left of the San Francisco Bay,” Shay said. “God, maybe it was a spike, but I don’t think so. Let’s wait and see what Scott finds out.”

  “Right,” Harold said, returning to his computer. “I’m sure it’ll be inspired.”

  Shay looked at his broad back, then, with a sigh, started entering data into her analysis spread
sheet.

  Her earlier hunch that some piece of data was wrong nagged at her again, but wouldn’t solidify. She pushed her misgivings aside and let her fingers fly over the keyboard. She was tired and sorely tempted not to fight about what might be a simple lab mistake.

  Anthea was nervous when she got to her car; her boss was with her. Shay was approaching from the other side of the lot. She prayed that Shay wouldn’t pick up their conversation of this morning where they had left off. She waved and saw Shay’s eyebrows go up in puzzlement.

  “Hi there,” she said. “This is Martin Lawrence, my boss. He needs a lift over to Fremont. Martin, this is Shay Sumoto, my fellow car poolee.”

  “Just say the word if it’s not convenient,” Martin said.

  “No problem,” Shay said. “Anthea’s the pilot of the day. Here, let me get in the back. I’ve got shorter legs than you.”

  Anthea felt some of her panic subside. What had she been worried about, that Shay would walk up and say, “Hello, you lesbian you. Is this your boss? Gee, you’ve got a great dyke working for you. She had really good sex recently with a cute young thing she’d just met.”

  Martin said, “My car’s in the shop, and my girlfriend and I could work out the next couple of days except for me getting home tonight. You can drop me at the video store right off the freeway.”

  Anthea said, “I rented Working Girl last

  weekend. I’d forgotten why I didn’t want to see it. It was rather disappointing.”

  “I enjoyed it a lot,” Martin said, his tone surprised.

  “I didn’t like it at all,” Shay said. “It’s supposed to be about women in business, but the two women just fight over a man.”

  “But you’ve got to admit Melanie Griffith is one fine-looking woman.” He cast a knowing glance over his shoulder at Shay.

  Anthea found that a very odd thing to say. Why would a man ask a woman if she thought another woman was attractive? Was he implying he’d guessed Shay was a lesbian? No, she thought. She was just being paranoid.

  “Sigourney Weaver is more my taste,” Shay said. Anthea’s pulse rate went right back up. “The movie was sexist all the way through. Even the title. Working Girl. Melanie Griffith was most definitely a woman.”

  “I thought it was a play on what they call hookers,” Martin said.

  Anthea tried desperately to think of a way to steer the conversation to less hostile waters.

  “So it was all about women being sex objects for men. Working girls.” Shay seemed content to leave it at that.

  Anthea glanced at her in the rear view mirror. She’d never seen this side of Shay, or Martin for that matter. Shay was staring out the window with a frown. Anthea studied the curve of Shay’s cheek. She hadn’t said anything Anthea disagreed with — just a lot she’d never say to her boss. Of course, she

  would have said she’d never let Paula do what she did in her car, but then she had. And she had liked it a lot. Ever since then she’d felt so much happier. Who knew what she was capable of? She smiled to herself. She could be capable of a great many things.

  “What do they call hookers in your country?” Martin suddenly asked.

  After a moment Anthea closed her mouth.

  “Are you talking to me?” Shay asked incredulously.

  “Of course,” Martin said.

  “I was born in the U.S. of A., Martin. So was my mother and her mother and the one before that. The same is true on my dad’s side. One of my great-grandfathers was Norwegian.”

  “Oh, that’s why your accent is so faint.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had an accent,” Shay said, her tone taut. “English is my first and only language. The same as it was for both my parents.”

  “Oh.” Martin’s tone was flat. “Well, it must be nice to go back to your home country. “

  Anthea envisioned a paper doll Martin being put through the shredder.

  Through gritted teeth Shay said, “This is my home country. And I don’t visit Japan because my family hasn’t lived there for a hundred and forty or so years. I only know of very, very distant relatives. Aside from a bit of DNA and a last name, I have nothing in common with them.”

  “Oh, what a shame. I always thought it would be nice to have an ancient heritage.”

  Anthea opened and closed her mouth but no sound came out.

  “I am an American of Japanese ancestry. And I have a dash of that highly valued Northern European blood. I do have an ancient heritage.”

  “But if you are just American—”

  “I’ve never thought of myself as just an American,” Shay said, primly. “I’d rather be an American than any other nationality on the planet.”

  “Well, of course,” Martin said. “Anyone would.”

  Anthea saw Shay smile, but it had a dangerous edge.

  “But don’t you want to see Japan?” Martin asked, his tone tinged with sarcasm. “Meet a nice Japanese boy?”

  Anthea realized that Martin had figured out, in less than three minutes, that Shay was a lesbian. It had taken her three months. That makes me stupid, but what does it make him?

  “I’m not a nice Japanese girl,” Shay said. “Not all Japanese girls like Japanese boys.”

  Anthea felt stabbing pains in her chest. It was either hysteria or a heart attack. Either one would provide a good diversion, she thought desperately. Fortunately, a bus cut her off at that moment and Anthea had to slam on the brakes. Martin almost went through the windshield. He began holding forth on how the mass transit systems in the Bay Area could be improved, and Anthea glanced back at Shay. There were two spots of bronze color in her cheeks as she glared at the back of Martin’s head. Anthea wanted to push Martin out the door into the path of the nearest mass transit vehicle.

  They dropped him at a shopping center just off the freeway in Fremont, and Shay transferred to the

  passenger seat. Anthea lost no time putting as much distance between Shay and Martin as possible.

  “Cover your ears,” Shay said when they stopped at a light.

  “Why?”

  “Just do it.”

  Anthea covered her ears and still plainly heard Shay’s scream, a mixture of anger and exasperation.

  “Okay, I’m through.”

  “I’ve done that myself on more than one occasion,” Anthea said. She was wondering if Shay sounded like that during — “I don’t know what it is about him, but I can’t wait for the day he’s promoted. He’s so… stupid!”

  Shay shook her head. “This is unbelievable. Don’t they give managers any sort of sensitivity training?”

  Anthea shrugged. “It’s mandatory but only a few hours every two years. Obviously, it isn’t sinking in.”

  “You’d have thought I was the kitchen help… the kind of person you can say anything to because they can’t talk back.”

  “I’m sorry,” Anthea said.

  “It’s not your fault. You can’t control the man’s arrogance. You have no idea how many times in my life I’ve been complimented on my command of English.” She stared out the window while her hands twisted and flexed in her lap.

  “I really want his job.” Anthea didn’t know what else to say. She felt horribly guilty for having exposed Shay to Martin’s racist comments.

  “If there’s anything I can do to help you get it, just say the word.”

  They spent the remainder of the drive mainly in

  silence. Anthea brooded later about how different the drive home had been from the drive to work. She hoped Shay wouldn’t hold Martin’s crass racism against her. And though Shay had hardly needed it, she chided herself for not having come to Shay’s defense.

  Shay slid out of the car quietly when they reached Luciano’s. She was seething with undiluted rage, but if she vented a little she’d let it all out on Anthea when what she really wanted was to hit Martin, hit him very hard. She wanted to shove a photograph under his nose, the one of her father at the age of 2, picking flowers. It had been taken by a government official, who
had claimed it proved Japanese families were happy in their internment camps.

  She wasn’t paying attention to her footing as she murmured a halfhearted goodnight to Anthea and suddenly, she was on her hands and knees, shaking her head. She sat back, making sure which way was up first. She rubbed the door of Anthea’s car where her head had hit it. Fortunately, neither the door nor her head seemed dented. Stars danced before her for a moment, then an arm circled her shoulders.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yes,” Shay said. She started to get to her feet and Anthea pulled her up, her arm now most firmly around Shay’s waist. All the anger she was directing at Martin fused into heat and the heat turned to Anthea. She wanted to ask Anthea if she thought of her as Japanese or American or foreign or a friend?

  Did she think of Shay as a woman — the way that Shay knew she was beginning to think of Anthea? Their bodies were so close, and Shay felt seared and confused by flaming desire. She trembled violently.

  “You aren’t okay.” It was a statement.

  “No, really, I’m fine. Just shook up.” She stepped away from Anthea. It felt as if she left her skin behind. She brushed at the knees of her slacks. “I’m lucky I didn’t rip these pants. They’re my favorites.” She looked up at Anthea.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?”

  Shay lied. “I’m fine.”

  Her head had a small bump Shay didn’t tell Anthea about, but it didn’t cause the incessant headache she had for the next three days. The headache started when she decided to ignore Scott’s instructions and work on an idea for remediation of the xylene.

  She plugged in data that correlated rainfall, her estimate of the groundwater velocity — based on the permeability of the clayey soil — and the increase in xylene at well B-B-146. With a spate of research into the refinery maps, she plotted the direction of the water movement. Much to her surprise, however, she wasn’t able to determine a source of the xylene leak. The xylene process wasn’t on this side of the refinery. There shouldn’t be xylene there at all, but there was and had been for the last two years. And it was increasing. She set aside for now the fact that she couldn’t determine the source. It was a mystery she would eventually solve.