Cloning Galinda

by Jan Smolders

  He knocked on the door of the lab van around six and entered.

  Al, a grumpy-looking man around fifty, heavyset and puffing, looked up from his screen with a surprised expression. But he produced a big smile as soon as he recognized his unusual visitor so early in the morning.

  “What the hell! Joe! You must need something real bad!” he joked as he looked at his watch. “Or did Mary kick you out of bed?”

  In a way, that was what Mary had done. With gentle persuasion and good reason. “You guessed it, man. Want to see the bruises?”

  Al snickered. “What’s up, buddy?”

  While they traded jabs, Joe stared at a collection of strangely marked plastic containers surrounding Al’s barren work area. “It’s my cough, man. Getting worse. Mary’s getting very concerned. Me too. The kids are bugging me. Hell, I don’t need any damn doctor. I know it’s that rotten egg stuff that’s killing me. I’m going to talk to the new guy and—”

  “Good luck, bud. I hear…well, I haven’t talked to him myself. Change, new bosses—it’s always hard and dangerous for us peons. But….” Al didn’t go on. His eyes showed concern and doubt. His raised, open palms told Joe that he wasn’t going to get involved in that delicate discussion with the new chief.

  Joe nodded and raised his own hand. “I get it, don’t worry,” he said. “I came very early. Few people around. My lips will be sealed, but, well, you’re adding all kinds of chemical stuff. We all know you do. Much of that it is secret. Know that too. I don’t want to get you into any trouble, but could you just tell me the names of the chemicals that are really bad for me?”

  “For all of us.” Al wrinkled his nose and showed big eyes.

  “Of course, but I’m the one snuffing more of them than anybody else.”

  “I know you are. I get my share too. Okay, names.” Al sighed. “If I knew.”

  “You don’t? I hear some are regularly used by other industries, even the food—”

  “See all those bloody markings on the plastic?”

  “I do.”

  “Code. All code. Chinese for me. All that crap here is code, man. I could give you the names of a few run of the mill chemicals we use, but they won’t harm you, and you probably would forget them anyway. What I do know is that some of the shit we pump down is used in cars. Diesel. Some you can eat, I’m told; some are used by dry cleaners and painters or in camping stoves; some of them carry the fancy name of ‘inorganic salt,’ whatever that is. I can go on but I can’t make you any wiser, because dumb Al simply doesn’t know. This roughneck just follows the manuals, or else.” He threw up his hands and stared at his early visitor.

  Joe pursed his lips. He might as well have slept an hour longer, but Al was an honest person and a friend. “I’d better get out of here,” he said. “Thank you and sorry for bothering.”

  “Anytime, buddy. Give my regards to Mary and don’t talk to anybody here. Just walk away like you’re in a big hurry. I know you’re not. I wouldn’t if I were on my way to that Doyle!” Al laughed.

  When Joe arrived at 23 Main Street, he noticed a black BMW sitting in the driveway. His watch said seven twenty. He stepped out, stretched his arms, suppressed a yawn, kicked his heels up and proceeded to the front door.

  He rang the bell and adjusted his belt while waiting. The door remained closed. Also after his second try.

  A car arrived in the driveway. A young woman emerged in a hurry. She waved briefly at Joe, but turned away from him and the house and looked around, up and down Main Street. Then she retrieved a set of keys from her bulging purse and turned to him.

  “Sorry for being so rude, sir,” she said. “I was looking for a delivery truck. They promised our furniture for yesterday. At four p.m. I called them for the third time and they told me it would be mañana.’”

  “Mañana?”

  “Yes. It must have been my accent. From Puerto Rico. Does Mr. Doyle expect you, Mister…?

  “Bertolo. Joe Bertolo. I’d like to speak with Mr. Doyle, if he’s in today.”

  “His car’s here. He’s an early bird. He has a lot of catching up to do, so new on the job. I’m his administrative assistant, Joanna.” She extended her hand.

  He held it for a second. “Nice to meet you, Joanna. I understand. I won’t be long. A few minutes, but it’s really urgent.”

  “Oh?” She seemed to wait for details.

  “Urgent and personal.”

  “Okay. Normally I must tell Mr. Doyle what the visitor wants to discuss.” She made wide eyes and softly rocked her head, looking concerned.

  “Of course. But this is very personal,” he managed to blurt out between coughs.

  “I see, Mr. Bertolo,” she said hesitantly.

  They had drifted toward the front door.

  She turned the key and eased Joe in.

  A near-empty room stared at him. Binders and loose files were stacked on window sills and covered the floor in a far corner. There was a row of empty picture hooks on the wall to his left. Below them, one lonely-looking metal beach chair sat against the wall, a few feet from a plastic trash container.

  Joanna lowered her voice to a whisper as she pointed at a door left slightly ajar, with a “Doyle” card on it.

  They heard loud conversation.

  “Let me take a look. He must be in the midst of something,” she said, tiptoeing toward the door.

  He followed her.

  “This one? Linda…Yep. Linda! Big…What? Galinda? Oh, that Galinda?” A man inside the room shouted with too much enthusiasm. It had to be Doyle. “Do I remember? Of course. That beauty! Do I remember! Galinda! What? You still there, Jim?”

  Joanna frowned. A moment of silence ensued. She motioned Joe away from her.

  He moved back just a couple of feet.

  She eased closer to the door, until her ear touched it.

  The man inside started roaring again. “Yes! Another Galinda! A clone, Jim! A clone! Right! A clone…Agree…Funny! Absolutely. Just as cute! Just as much fun! A clone of Galinda! Wow!”

  Joe looked at Joanna in amusement.

  She briefly returned his gaze, put her hand up and, looking embarrassed, turned away from him and knocked gingerly.

  Saving her boss’s ass.

  The loud banter stopped.

  The door flew open.

  A man faced Joanna. In his mid-forties, brown hair, very little gray, tall, average built, he had all the features of a fitness fanatic, despite the evident stubborn little belly under his Polo shirt. Hands on narrow hips, panting, mouth inches away from her he hissed, “What the hell! Don’t you see I’m busy? You didn’t announce anybody!”

  “My apologies, Mr. Doyle. I—”

  “Great start, girl,” he mocked scornfully. “One more of those and you’re out the door, get it?”

  “Very sorry, Mr. Doyle. I had no idea—” She shrank as she spoke.

  “Who’s that?” He had lowered his voice as he pointed at Joe. The anger had faded somewhat from his face.

  She looked back at Joe. “It’s Mr. Bertolo. He has an urgent personal problem he needs to discuss.”

  “Bertolo?”

  “I’m an employee, Mr. Doyle. Supren employee,” Joe said, stepping forward.

  “Doing what?”

  “Hauling the company’s dirty water. To the waste-disposal, the injection facilities in Youngstown. Joe Bertolo.”

  Doyle sized him up. He offered Joe a handshake and his tone changed to almost jovial and sympathetic. “A personal matter?”

  Joe admired the man’s capability to make a perfect U-turn without a trace of embarrassment. “Yes, sir.” He briefly closed his eyes, folded his hands as if in prayer and nervously pressed his finger tips hard onto his dorsals.

  “To be discussed before we’re even awake?” Doyle seemed to deliberate internally but then he g
estured to Joanna that she could leave. He leaned his head to wave Joe in and closed the door, still grumbling something undecipherable to Joanna. Then, walking to his desk, he said, “Take a seat.”

  “Thanks,” Joe said while taking the metal chair facing Doyle’s across his desk. He searched nervously for the best position for his legs and arms.

  The impeccably combed man with the detailed mustache kept reshuffling papers. Still standing, he asked, “So, what’s up?” He sat down with a slight, tired groan.

  “It’s my cough. My job. The gas. I catch fumes twice: when I collect the dirty water out of the tanks and pits into my truck, and when I pump it out in Youngstown.” He put up his index and middle finger. “Twice.”

  “No need to teach me the job.” Doyle smiled. “You don’t pay attention to your detector. Do you wear your gas mask?”

  Joe jerked his head back. “I do both. I do. But—”

  “You don’t bother to put it on correctly.” It was an accusation but Doyle’s empathetic tone somehow made it sound soothing.

  “I’ve forgotten a few times. Right. It’s cumbersome. It’s necessary, I agree. But cumbersome. I’m pressed for time. Often. And my detection device,” he rolled his eyes, “it doesn’t always work. Sorry to be so direct.”

  “If it doesn’t work you have to turn it in.” It felt like a suggestion.

  Joe knew that. But turning it in wasn’t that simple for him, just a roughneck. He shook his head, trying to smile. “It does work, but not really well. Not always.” He paused, gathered up his courage and said, almost murmuring, “If we’d have permanent monitoring devices and signalization, or gas capturing devices—”

  “And all the money in the world….” Doyle smiled and slowly rocked his head from left to right.

  Money. Seething anger rushed through Joe’s entire body. “I don’t know, sir, Mr. Doyle. But I can tell you that my terrible coughing bouts, the irritation in my eyes, my moments of near-fainting are enough to worry the hell out of my kids and my wife. I believe she’s right. She thinks that my grumpiness and the cough that keeps her up at night…. She blames my work at the company for it.” He quickly added, “Most of my years were at Doornaert, of course.”

  “The company? The company. I assume your wife is no doctor. Well, Supren’s new here, so she can be forgiven for not knowing what the organization is and stands for.”

  Joe nodded. “She reads a lot, sir. She says that companies like yours, ours, don’t like to spend money.” He didn’t know how he had spat that out.

  Doyle didn’t seem offended. “I’m sure Mrs. Bertolo will get to know us better.” His eyes solicited agreement.

  “We’re not married. But we’re a steady couple, a family. She’s got two children. They need me. They’re all afraid that someday…they could have to go on without me.” Joe had to fight tears.

  “I understand.”

  Joe now looked at an emotionless face. “I’m not dramatizing, sir. Not making this up. I’m not.” Powerless, he felt like jumping up and screaming.

  Doyle coughed softly and said, “Listen. We do take care of our people. We have our procedures for serious accidents, spills, etcetera. Just like Doornaert. We’re continuing their excellent program of updating rules on a rolling basis. And I can assure you that Supren is first class in investing in safety and protection equipment.” He stared at Joe, stood up and checked his watch.

  “I see.” Joe realized he had heard corporate lines delivered by a well-practiced messenger. He half-lamented, “All I can do is work more carefully. That’s what you’re saying. I had hoped for a little more.” He trembled.

  The Texan shook Joe’s hand. “We’re unfortunately not in the charity business. We have rules and competitors. I do hope you understand. Thank you for your visit,” he said, sighing, and walked toward his desk.

  “I think I do.” Joe threw a last glance at Doyle’s back and strode to the door.

  When he entered the front room, dejected, he got an inquisitive stare from Joanna. She had her shoulders hunched, as if expecting bad news or an outburst of disappointment. He wasn’t sure whether or not she had overheard part of his plea for help.

  “On to work now, Joanna,” he said, trying to sound upbeat and jovial. He knew she was having a bad day herself so far. “My truck’s waiting for me. My best friend, after my family.” He winked.

  “And the Lord, maybe?” she asked, her tone signaling she hoped for a positive answer.

  “The Lord? Yes, Him too. I should go to church more. Mary’s right.”

  “Your wife?”

  “Yes. My dear wife.”

  “Oh.” Joanna looked up, at the ceiling, her hands clasped. “It’s all in His hands.” She turned to Joe, compassion filling her eyes.

  She must have overheard us. “Yeah. Probably. So, you’re from Puerto Rico. Catholic, I suppose?”

  “Yes I am.” Her face was one smile. “I went to see Father Bianchi after Mass on Sunday. At Saint Agnes.”

  “My wife’s a regular there. Rather regular. With the kids. Maybe I should join them more. Talk more to the Big Friend.” He laughed, then doubted she appreciated his tone and choice of words.

  “One more thing.” Joanna kept her voice hushed and her eyes on the “Doyle” door as she gestured Joe away from it. “I think we should keep it between us, what we heard Mr. Doyle discuss so loudly. I might get fired if he’d hear we—”

  “Don’t you worry. I would get booted myself. Loose lips sink ships, right?”

  “Thank you, Mr. Bertolo. I need my job. I’m on my own now.” She sounded a bit sad.

  He nodded kindly. “I see. And I’m Joe. Very sorry for the trouble I got you into.”

  “Maybe I’ll see you at church?”

  “If the Lord lets me.” He laughed knowing it wouldn’t be the Lord but Father Bianchi who would remonstrate with him if he showed up to mass. It had been months, and Mary wasn’t his wife. The father had wagged his index at him more than once.

  “Hasta pronto, Joanna,” he said and walked to the front door. Holding the knob, he turned his head to offer her a final smile.

  She waved, her hand low.

  Chapter 11

  By early July Noredge was bursting at the seams, confronting sea-changes as best it could, like a teenager struggling clumsily to control limbs that suddenly felt too long. Supren had injected a hefty dose of growth hormone into the small town as well as the region. The company was speeding along on the alphabet route: in addition to Alpha at Rutgers and Beta at Harriet’s, Supren crews had popped up at two more sites, the future homes of Gamma and Delta. Both were located a bit more than two miles northwest of Rutgers.

  Smartly using the same syringe, Supren’s HR department had pretty much silently complemented the growth hormone with a hefty dose of organizational antibiotics: they had eliminated many non-crucial employees and replaced some of them with independent contractors.

  So far, Joe had escaped the ax, but a couple of his friends hadn’t. Mary worried when, from the kitchen, she would watch her man pacing the porch, hunched and mumbling, unresponsive to the shouts of the kids. Since his discussion with Mike Doyle, he had turned inward. Brooding.

  When she would ask him to see a doctor he would fire back, “That damn doctor again?” He’d just purse his lips and shake his head. “I’ve got plenty of syrups and pills. And enough other poison in the air.”

  Across the street, at Harriet’s, the site preparation crew was doing its job with its entourage of trucks, vans, trailers, pumps, compressors, generators, lifting devices, piping, tanks and a crowd of workmen and technicians, their blue hardhats and bright yellow clothing adding color to the noisy, fume-laden dustbowl that her neighbor’s backyard had become.

  The new Noredge made Mary’s head spin.

  Endless lines of trucks and tankers, fumes fouling and coloring the air, lig
hts shooting their rays all night long, torturing Mary and her family, transforming the sky over Harriet’s land into a whitish onyx globe. Earplugs, loud television or music unable to match the banging and clanging, louder than a pile driver. Telephone conversations morphed into shouting matches, except when sporadically a brief, mysterious decibel drop created shocking silence. Dust permeated Mary’s entire house, every nook and cranny, and exacerbated Joe’s pitiful, cruel coughing. Roughnecks brawled and shouted near every corner tavern and a herd of fortune hunters toiled long hours for big salaries. A porn shop opened and there were more arrests involving drugs and prostitution.

  New barber shops popped up, grocery stores, medical offices, accounting firms, clothing stores, bars, restaurants, rental agencies, temporary housing, garages…. Tsunamis of new dollars magically splashed broad smiles on the faces of Mayor Sanders and his Chamber friends. Mary hated the eternal traffic jams and the long lines at the bank and the post office.

  She started meticulously locking the doors and shutting the windows when leaving the house for school or shopping. Jake had become her loyal friend, but she had a hard time controlling him since the moment the first crew of Doornaert had set foot on Harriet’s land. One day he had crossed Maple Road unsupervised. When Mary caught up with him he was feasting on a piece of sausage. “Eating my lunch!” a jovial worker joked as he measured her longer than he should have.

  Once Harriet had come to the house to complain, panting as she pleaded for a chain or at least a reliable leash for Jake. “That animal’s paralyzing me, Mary. I hope I won’t have to call the police,” she said, her stare ominous.

  “I’ll make sure Jake’s no problem for you,” Mary had assured her. “Much less of a problem than the one my family and I must face.” She had leaned her head in the direction of the drill site.