Cloning Galinda

by Jan Smolders

  “Shit!” He laughed again. “I knew they weren’t very—never mind. They’ll have to drink pop! Plain old Ohio pop!”

  Mary spoke seriously. “Too bad you’re losing Frank.”

  “No problem. He’s not my boss. Jeffrey is, my coordinator in Canton. He’s a good guy.”

  “I hope Jeffrey survives.”

  “He will. He’s a bit of a snake,” Joe snickered. “Politician. I bet he’ll save his ass in the deal. He’s got Jules Doornaert’s ear.”

  “Good for him.” She sighed. “Be safe now, Joe. Love you.”

  “Love you too. See you tonight. Can’t wait for you-know-what.”

  “Your hot chili,” she teased.

  “You know me better than that, sweetie!”

  “I do?”

  “Something much hotter!” he roared.

  As she put down the phone she had a warm, fuzzy feeling. She pictured her strong guy high up in his tanker truck and looking down on little ladies coiffed and painted for their lunch appointments. Enthroned over them, commanding his monster vehicle, humming along defiantly with Johnny Paycheck, “Take this job and shove it.”

  She smiled.

  ***

  Robotically chugging along on the interstate, Joe felt strange after his conversation with Mary. He was confused, lost in a labyrinth.

  A shiver had run down his spine the moment Mary had spoken about Frank’s firing. If Supren fires me, I’ll be a loser, a nothing. He’d never forget the wide eyes she had shown him when he told her about his salary the first time they met. But hey, that wasn’t the only way I impressed her that evening. His confidence returned. He had to rub his crotch.

  Hadn’t she laughed spontaneously, not just politely giggled when he joked? She had reached for his hand when she half-whispered to him about issues with her kids. And she had said, quietly, checking around in the bar, that he was doing good work, good for Mother Earth. That it had to be done with care and skill, and that she thought he had all of that and more. That he was valuable to Doornaert and could be for many companies in the field.

  She hadn’t told him right off the bat that she had a college degree, taught school and spoke a foreign language, although he assumed it as he observed her and listened to her sweet voice. When he had asked her about college she had said, “Oh, college. Yes, I went to college, but how about these tanker trucks? They must be awfully hard to drive? I’d think so.” He’d never forget that. And in the weeks and months and years that followed Mary had seldom hinted at her superior education, not intentionally anyway—except for the few times when she slipped, in some of their rare angry discussions. She always apologized soon afterwards.

  Mary told him she loved him. Often. And that she worried about him. She made him feel it. He couldn’t blame her for her concern; he had bad days, and today wasn’t a very good one. His rotten egg disease, whatever it was, made him nervous, irritated. Headaches kept haunting him, his chest hurt. On and off today he had feared he was getting sicker again, gliding a few more feet closer to the point where his body would tell him to quit his job. Mary had a point. She had her way of hinting without hurting too much.

  Of course, she liked the good salary he made too, but that was only money. If that were what she wanted she would’ve signed a lease with Doornaert the day Harriet showed up with her little sheet, or even before. He knew she didn’t ever want to lose him. He hadn’t doubted it since the day he had met her. He loved her kids and Mary didn’t show a trace of jealousy when, on and off, in trouble or hurting, they would ask him for help and not her. He was their daddy. Maybe he should ask Mary to marry him. No doubt she would accept. But his first marriage, at age twenty, had gone sour in just a few months. Brief relationships in between hadn’t worked out. And Mary was so much smarter than he. Marriage scared him. His thoughts drifted back to work.

  What should he do now, after the takeover? He wouldn’t be touched by corporate reforms. He was small fry. He could sit back and stick to his job, not ask questions or volunteer comments. Nobody would want to hear them anyway. He was safe. The new bosses wouldn’t fire him. The question he was asking himself was whether he should quit and save his health. Only he could answer that one.

  He just hoped he wouldn’t be at home the day that Supren would show up at Mary’s doorstep and offer her a big, fat check for a lease because their clever geologists had discovered that her acres were an ideal spot for a spectacularly promising well. He knew she would flatly refuse to sign a lease. She, their employee’s common-law wife, or whatever they would call her. That day Supren might answer his big question, the one he struggled with. He didn’t know whether he feared or hoped they would.

  Chapter 8

  On June 25th the Noredge Sentinel published a brief article regarding Michael (Mike) Doyle. He had been appointed ten days before to manage the activities of the Supren Company in three counties. One of them was Stark County, which included Noredge. The Sentinel said that he was an experienced Texan oil man but it didn’t provide specifics about Mr. Doyle’s credentials. He and his spouse Edith had rented a residence on McKinley. The article also listed the address of a temporary office Supren had set up in Noredge: 23 Main Street.

  Frank Anderson immediately went to Google and LinkedIn to check into Mr. Doyle’s background but came up empty-handed: he had found many Mikes and Michael Doyles but none who could possibly be the man appointed to the important position in Noredge.

  He knew the old house on Main, now Supren’s office, a two-storied rental property of Mayor Sanders. A consultant who on and off provided monitoring services to Doornaert had lived in it and moved on to North Dakota, where the pastures were even greener and the Bakken oil money even more abundant than Utica’s. Frank himself had a few years of Bakken work under his belt.

  The next day he got up early and drove his Explorer to Main Street, hoping to see the new boss before the man would get swamped by conference calls and SMSes and, more importantly, before the arrival of any curious or nosey assistant or secretary.

  He noted two cars in the driveway. He rang the bell at seven forty and waited. He had to hit the button a second time. Traffic was building up on Main. A friend driving by looked at him twice, frowned, and then smiled, his hand up.

  Nobody answered the bell.

  He turned the door knob and found the office unlocked: the entrance hall and the adjoining room were eerily empty—no sound, no humans, no furniture, just a big, coverless plastic trash can. A “Doyle” card taped on a door stared at him. He walked up to it and knocked, two polite knocks in quick succession.

  “Yes!” It was an impatient bark. The man inside clearly didn’t want to be disturbed early in the morning. The rudeness didn’t come as a surprise; Mr. Doyle probably didn’t know where to turn first. If he would agree to see him, Frank would make sure he made his points concisely, his questions and requests straight to the point, and the entire conversation as effective, efficient and brief as possible.

  He opened the door and popped his head in. “Mr. Doyle?”

  The person behind the worn, wooden desk in the barren room looked up. Thick, gleaming hair, brown but graying and impeccably groomed framed his deeply tanned face. A thin mustache trimmed to perfection accentuated his sharp features.

  “Huh? Yes. Mike Doyle. You are?” The preoccupied-looking man didn’t drop the sheet he was holding and seemed irritated.

  “Frank Anderson. Maybe you—”

  “Anderson? Aha, yes. I know who you are. Why aren’t you at the lake? With the guys? I’m still paying you.”

  Frank walked in. “Right. Two weeks, sir. I’ve got everything covered at the site. If you don’t mind, I’ll be just a minute. I worked until nine last night.”

  “Just a second. Hold on. Have a seat there.” Doyle pointed at a crooked metal table, repositioned a heavy file folder, finished his coffee, took his phone and stood up. A ta
ll man. His white, long-sleeved, expertly ironed shirt wore its starch proudly but combined uncomfortably with his casual jeans and western belt buckle as they tried to tame a bulging belly. He shook hands with a firm grip and shouted, “Vince!”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Within seconds a door opened to the right of Doyle and a short, heavyset man in his mid-thirties appeared sporting a raven crew cut and a ready smile. He was clutching a note pad and his phone.

  “Here.” Doyle waved the man over to the table. “He joined us yesterday, Vince Davis,” he said to Frank and sat down.

  Vince glanced inquisitively at Frank while he carefully lowered his sizeable bottom into a chair.

  Frank had hoped to have a one-on-one discussion with Doyle, but didn’t feel it was smart to object to Vince’s presence. He showed him a friendly smile. “Hi Vince, I’m Frank Anderson.” He liked the young man right away.

  “Oh. Frank Anderson. Your name’s all over the Doornaert files.”

  “Hopefully nothing bad,” Frank said jovially.

  Doyle rushed to intervene, obviously busy and eager to get the visit over with. He said to Frank, “This young man’s taking over for you. He’s our new company man for Rutgers. My plate’s more than full so I wanted him here right away. Vince is getting up to speed, finding his way around Doornaert documents and Supren systems, bugging me with questions I don’t know the answer to, and burning the midnight oil—or so he tells me.”

  Vince wiggled a bit uncomfortably in his chair.

  The boss winked. “Just kidding. He’s a top graduate of the University of Akron. I hear a lot of good about that place, even in Houston. He’s a chemical engineer. Great background and reputation at Chesapeake Energy.”

  Frank nodded a few times while Doyle spoke. “Engineering at Akron U is strong, I know.” He showed Vince a brief smile.

  “So, I already asked you, why are you here? What can I do for you?” Doyle looked at Frank and then his watch.

  “Actually, I have a personal request for help, one that I hoped to discuss with you.”

  Doyle frowned.

  Vince moved his chair back, with difficulty. “I’ll be back,” he said and got up.

  The Texan looked irritated. “No. Stay,” he said curtly. He turned to Frank. “It’s not about money, I hope, or state secrets.”

  “No, no,” Frank said.

  Doyle picked up his phone from the table and glanced at the screen.

  Young Vince sat down, smiling at Frank.

  Doyle started tapping his pen on the table with his free hand. Sounding impatient, he said “Okay, Mr. Anderson. ‘Help,’ you said. What help?”

  Frank’s voice was grave. “I’m worried. Being laid off—”

  “Hold on. You resigned.” The boss had raised his hand and pointed his pen at Frank.

  “Correct. Because you…sorry…because your HR people told me to. But that’s not the point.”

  “Right. The point is that a man with your experience understands that Supren wants to implement its own technology and knowhow in sizable projects. Not just wants to, has to. Vince is a sharp man and young enough to be molded the way we want our people. We’re just starting our involvement in this region and we want to do it right.”

  “I get that, but—”

  “I’m not saying you’re old or unqualified. I hear you’re an established value in the industry, Frank. But you have your Doornaert way of drilling wells. You’ve been at it for many years. Always that same technology. We gave you a good severance arrangement. And you know damn well that some of our competitors are fighting for people like you. Even here in Ohio. You may get more money than at Doornaert.”

  Frank hadn’t heard anything new or surprising. “Thank you, Mr. Doyle. And I hope you’re right about my prospects. The really bad thing for me is that I had to resign during the drilling—close to the end of it, a very critical phase of an important project.” He paused. “I see you nodding. Employers frown on that kind of unusual move. You know that. I’m here to offer my help to Vince anytime, not just during these two weeks you gave me but also afterwards.”

  “Hmm. Well, go on.”

  “Not just because Vince looks like a good guy, but because it’s of great personal importance to me that Rutgers be and remain a success. It’s on my sheet. I feel I’ve done a good job at Rutgers, that all’s in good shape there. I’m sure Vince can keep it that way.”

  “That’s very kind,” Vince said. He stared at his boss, who still frowned, apparently not too pleased with Vince’s spontaneity.

  “And that help you wanted? Tell me.” Doyle didn’t sound unfriendly but kept nervously tapping his poor pen on the table.

  “No money, but a pledge from you that you will speak highly of me when an employer calls you for a reference; tell them I made Rutgers Alpha a success. Me. I’m damn proud of it. Proud to have….” Frank became emotional.

  Doyle briefly stared at the ceiling. Then he threw a quizzical look at Frank. “Okay,” he said, “if that’s all, no sweat. You have my word. Anything else?” He put his pen and phone in his shirt pocket, and got up.

  Frank feared for the snow-white shirt. “That’s it. No más. I wish you success, Texans in Noredge,” he said as he got up too. “And I’m sure Vince has found my phone number in the files. Thank you for your time.”

  “No problem, and thanks for the good wishes, Frank,” Doyle said and shook his hand.

  “Let me know if I can be of any further assistance, anytime.”

  “Oh? Right. Okay.” The boss was already halfway to his desk, his back to Frank and Vince.

  On his way out, Frank bumped into a thirtyish woman when he entered the front room. She was finishing a donut and offered him an embarrassed yet friendly smile. She looked Hispanic.

  “My apologies,” she said, smoothing her light-blue cotton blouse with her free hand. She carefully positioned her sizable handbag on the windowsill. “I’m a little late today. Mr. Doyle’s a very early riser.” She looked at the trash can. “Our furniture should arrive in two days, maybe. They promised, anyway.” She sighed.

  “Never mind. Good morning. Frank Anderson.” He looked approvingly at her, noticing her dimpled cheeks as she smiled at him, her head tilted up.

  “Joanna Tavares. Nice to meet you.”

  “Joanna.” He tried to imitate her guttural j. “You’re not late, are you?”

  “One minute.”

  “Yeah. Did you move here from Houston?”

  “Do I sound like it?” she giggled, her dimples deep. “Cleveland. And Puerto Rico.”

  Frank was charmed. Her English was perfect and he loved her two r’s in Puerto Rico.

  She kept adjusting the tiny, intricately crafted silvery earring on her left lobe. “They’re so delicate,” she said but sounded proud.

  “They look very special. May I ask you where you found them? Not in Cleveland.”

  “They’re my grandma’s. She’s seventy-two and didn’t like the way they started pinching her as she got older. So, lucky me!” She showed him a pair of wide, dark eyes, two open palms and a big smile.

  Frank chuckled inside. “They’re exquisite. I hope they don’t pinch too much.”

  She shrugged. “Just a little bit. Thank you.”

  “Good luck here, Joanna.”

  “Thanks, Mr. Anderson.”

  “It’s Frank. Take care now.”

  Chapter 9

  One late afternoon near the end of June, on her way to Walmart with the kids, Mary received a call from Harriet. Her neighbor sounded all excited. “A drilling crew will be on its way to my place soon! It could be any day this week, even tomorrow.”

  Shit. Damn D-day’s near, Mary cursed inside. For Harriet and for her hapless, defenseless neighbors like me.

  “They told me the noise will be like a big hum, not much more
, and only at the worst moments. I’m so happy. You should sign, too! We do have oil here. Thirty thousand a well,” Harriet cackled.

  Mary had always thought the royalty figure was inflated, just part of the sales pitch to credulous landowners. She rolled her eyes in the rearview mirror and mumbled, “If they say so….”

  “It’s true, Mary.”

  “Maybe. Have a good evening. Entering Walmart’s parking lot, see you later.”

  “Mommy, you made a mistake!” Jimmy shouted. “We’re not yet in the parking lot.”

  “Almost, Jimmy,” she shot back. “I must be careful, all these cars.”

  That evening, the bloody Supren Company was all she could think about. She was a royal pain and got on the nerves of whoever called her or got within ten feet of her, including Joe and the kids.

  The next morning around nine she decided to get Andy and Jimmy in the car and go shopping for clothes in Akron: breathe some different air and forget Supren.

  The cool and spaciousness of the mall early in the day, the excitement of the kids trying out new toys and the discovery of summer clothing bargains were a welcome relief.

  By three p.m. fatigue had set in.

  “Damn you, Supren!” she muttered inaudibly on her way home. She felt nervous again.

  As she made the left turn onto Maple, Andy asked from the back seat, “Does your stomach hurt, Mommy?”

  “No, Andy. Not at all. Don’t worry.”

  “But why do you make ugly faces?”

  “She’s angry,” Jimmy advised.

  Mary reassured her boys. “No, I’m not. Do I make ugly faces? I’m sorry. It’s nothing. Just a little toothache. And I’m a bit tired. Are you guys ready for some good kicking? How’s the new ball?”

  “It’s not that new,” Andy said with little enthusiasm. Mommy had refused to buy one in Akron.

  About half a mile from her home, Mary noticed her first Supren truck. It moved slowly. My God. It’s today. She sighed.

  “S-u-p-r-e-n,” Jimmy spelled.