Car Pool (2 page)

Taking this job also meant working inside of the kind of corporation she and her father had so often been forced to oppose. Still, the job was within part of the company’s environmental cleanup effort, and she could hope that people there were more in tune with the overall goal than corporate management representatives she’d worked with in the past. Even as she tried to tell herself everything would work out, she could imagine her father shaking his head at her in disappointment.

She forced herself to get up and go for a walk. If she sat in her tiny shoebox of a studio and looked at her chair, her bed and clock radio — the bulk of her personal assets, aside from the books — she would start to cry. Again.

If only, if only. If only Dad had gotten life insurance, she thought. If only the health insurance had covered more than sixty percent of the final cost of hospitalization and tests and doctors’ reviews. One doctor alone, who had looked at her father for five minutes once a week, had charged almost five thousand dollars over the four months of intensive

care. The insurance company said he had charged more than the market and of course, the doctor did not agree. Among the documents she had signed after the doctors told her her father was terminal was a promise to pay what insurance didn’t cover. She’d agreed to all “medically necessary” treatment — good God, could she have done anything else? How could she have possibly put a price limit on keeping her father alive?

After the funeral, she had sold everything possible to pay down the hospital and funeral bills. Even their laptop, which she deeply regretted now. There hadn’t been much to sell and she was still neck-deep in debt.

Sumoto & Sumoto had traveled light and fast. The Exxon Valdez, Gulf War, military base closures, hurricanes and everyday industrial toxic waste cleanups had kept them busy and, literally, all over the globe. If her father had known how short his time was, and how hard his illness would hit Shay, he would have planned differently, she was certain. He wouldn’t have worked the last two jobs for expenses only, even if it was for money-poor nonprofits. If only he hadn’t smoked three packs a day and if only he had gone to a doctor before he’d started coughing up pieces of his lungs. If only Shay hadn’t been so self-absorbed in her first assignment as team leader in the predevelopment of a groundwater cleanup site. She might have forced him to a doctor sooner — if only, if only, and he might still be alive.

She had hoped being Glen Sumoto’s daughter would at least get her interviews, but it hadn’t worked out that way. How did you put on a resume

that you’d been devil’s advocate and sounding board to one of the most brilliant minds in environmental engineering? Everyone had apparently failed to notice that Shay had been her father’s partner — not his secretary. And now she was going to dig wells on an oil refinery.

She kicked a rock out of her path, then stopped to watch the dogs in the Ohlone Dog Park. Three Labrador puppies rolled like gymnasts in a tussling tug of war over a small stick. Leave it to Berkeley to have a park for dogs, she thought. The only compensation for her tiny apartment, which she guessed had once been a garage under the main living quarters, was its situation right across Hearst from the park.

Well, there were two compensations. The second was Mrs. Giordano, who lived upstairs from Shay and had decided Shay needed mothering. Mothering included supper on Sundays if Shay didn’t have plans, which Shay never did. It wasn’t as if she ever had a moment to make other friends. Making friends took a lot of energy and she didn’t have any to spare.

She felt attached to the Bay Area for some reason she couldn’t fathom. She had no friends here, only a few friends worldwide, actually. Maybe she was hanging around because this was where her father had died and leaving meant he’d really gone, she thought. Tears welled up and she concentrated on watching the puppies for a few minutes. When she felt more at peace, she decided to drop in on Mrs. Giordano to tell her the good news. Such as it was.

Feeling better — thinking about Mrs. Giordano

always made Shay feel better — she walked back toward her apartment. She earned her supper on Sundays by helping Mrs. Giordano clean up after her unofficial Sunday “soup” kitchen. Mrs. Giordano didn’t make soup; she made lasagna and pizza and spaghetti, all authentic Northern Italian cuisine, and better yet, nutritious, hot and plentiful. Anyone from the small senior citizens’ apartment building down the street could drop in, have a meal and a chat and no money ever changed hands.

From the looks of some of the old people, Mrs. Giordano’s Sunday meal was all that stood between them and pet food meatloaf. Shay was happy to help and it certainly gave her someone to feel sorry for besides herself. Now she would have a day-to-day grind and wouldn’t be able to help out as much as she had during the week. At least she’d still be able to contribute ingredients from the pizza parlor whenever the owner felt generous.

She bounded up the steps, glad at least that she hadn’t had an assignment for the day and was at home to take the call about the job.

“You’ve been out without your coat again,” Mrs. Giordano observed. “You need some hot chocolate.”

“It’s very mild today, just overcast,” Shay said in her defense, following Mrs. Giordano to her kitchen. “But hot chocolate sounds fabulous. I’m celebrating.”

Mrs. Giordano faced Shay, one gnarled hand pressing against the gold cross she wore at her throat. “You have a steady job! I knew it would happen soon.”

“You’re a mind reader.” Shay always thought Mrs. Giordano’s hands looked like the roots of cypress trees. Hard and strong, her fingers dug down

into dough when Shay’s tiny hands could no longer knead it, and when she was through the mound of flour and water would be as soft as a baby’s tushy, on its way to becoming something unbelievably scrumptious — pizza dough, breadsticks or foccacio.

Mrs. Giordano bustled to make two cups of hot chocolate. She made it the old-fashioned way, with milk, baker’s chocolate and sugar in a saucepan — nothing instant for Mrs. Giordano. “Well, now you’ll have time to get out and have some friends your own age.”

“Well, it’s in my field of work, but the pay is lousy. I’ll have to keep working at the pizza parlor. The rent isn’t going to go down.” Mrs. Giordano would only get upset if Shay told her she paid almost as much for her studio as Mrs. Giordano did for the two-bedroom apartment she’d lived in for twenty-three years. Rent control had certainly worked for her.

“That’s a terrible thing. A crime,” Mrs. Giordano said passionately. “You’ll be exhausted every day. At least you could take off one or two nights each week. A good girl like you shouldn’t have to work so hard.”

“I’m young.” Shay appreciated Mrs. Giordano’s sympathy more than she could show — without crying — but she didn’t want Mrs. Giordano to worry about her. “I have good bones.” Mrs. Giordano put great faith in good bones.

The older woman laughed. “If you keep working in the pizza parlor, you’re never going to meet a nice boy who will take all this worry off your shoulders.”

“Mrs. Giordano,” Shay said slowly, her voice

fading away. She took a deep breath. “It doesn’t work that way anymore. It takes two people working hard to live as well as their parents did on one income. Chances are, anyone I might meet would be just as tight for cash as I am.”

“You should have a chance to meet a nice fellow.” Mrs. Giordano shook her head. She tested the heat of the chocolate with the tip of her thumb, then poured the hot mixture into mugs without a single spilled drop. “Someone to share your troubles. It makes a good marriage, sharing troubles the way I did with my Harry, may he rest in peace. Now drink up, there’s more where that came from.”

“Mrs. Giordano,” Shay began. She really liked the old lady, but she had promised herself that as soon as Mrs. Giordano brought anything of this sort up, she would say her piece. Her heart rate tripled and she set her mug down to make her shaking hands less obvious. Saying what she had to say didn’t get any easier with practice. “It would be nice to share my troubles with someone I loved. But it wouldn’t be with a fellow. It would be with a woman.”

Mrs. Giordano blinked at her, her mug of chocolate poised halfway to her mouth. “Are you one of those lesbians?” Her thinning eyebrows, carefully and tastefully penciled to a darker brown, disappeared under her elegantly coifed brunette wig.

“That’s me,” Shay said. She smiled, but anxiously searched Mrs. Giordano’s expression for her true feelings.

“Goodness gracious. To think of the trouble I’ve been having to get materials for the old gay people at the center and I could have just asked you, don’t you know. I called the Area Agency on Aging and

you would have thought I’d asked for pornography. All I wanted was someone to speak at one of our meetings about groups that are available and such.” Mrs. Giordano pursed her lips and shook her head sagely. “This state is being run into the ground,” she pronounced. She set her mug down with an emphatic thunk.

Shay blinked rapidly and then stared into her hot chocolate to hide how close to tears she was. “There’s a group called Gay and Lesbian Outreach to Elders. They’ll be in the Yellow Pages under Gay and Lesbian Organizations.”

Mrs. Giordano threw up her hands. “The phone book! Why didn’t I think of the phone book?”

Shay tried her best to look nonchalant. “We’re pretty respectable these days.”

“My dear, you are a godsend. Have some more chocolate,” Mrs. Giordano said. “Mrs. Stein and Mrs. Kroeger are going to be thrilled. I just don’t see how the Lord would begrudge them comfort in their old age — they’ve only got each other, don’t you know.” She made a noise that was something between a snort and a cough. “But try telling Father Donohue that. I’ve given up.” She patted Shay’s hand.

“You have an unusual faith.” Shay returned the pat. She sipped her chocolate and continued to fight tears. For the first time since her father’s death she felt warm inside, in places all the hot chocolate in the world couldn’t reach.

She changed the topic to Mrs. Giordano’s favorite soap opera and sat down to watch it with her. She didn’t follow the plot. Instead, she tried to work out her schedule. And how on earth was she going to get to work? She had to drive almost to San Jose. It

had been a forty-five-minute drive during non-rush times for the interview. During rush hour… she mentally added up the cost of bridge tolls and gas. She would definitely be working every night at the pizza parlor, and a long Saturday shift, too. She thought about how little sleep there would be.

She should probably look at the rest of this week and the next as a vacation, because there wouldn’t be any rest for a long time. And her only diversion would be dreams about a woman, any woman, lots of women. Dreams were very unsatisfying but it looked as if that would be all she’d have for a while longer.

Anthea wasn’t asleep when Lois came in from her class. She kept quiet, waiting until Lois had dozed off… something Lois did quickly after class with Celia. When Anthea was sure Lois wouldn’t be disturbed, she slowly slid out of bed.

God, I feel like something out of a Movie of the Week … the jealous wife, searching through hubby’s clothes. If she was wrong, she’d never be suspicious again, she told herself. Quietly, she picked up the clothes Lois had discarded. Somehow, her scruples had prevented her from searching through Lois’s private files for credit card slips or other incriminating evidence. But her scruples had no problem with doing laundry. Even if it was nearly midnight.

She was briefly at war with herself. There was, she had decided, only one way to know for sure … I won’t look. But she did. It was nothing that a court of law would take as proof and most likely Lois

would deny anything had happened. But Lois’s panties had all the evidence Anthea needed. Tae kwon do did not elicit that kind of physical response. Only intense, prolonged arousal did that. A wave of nausea hit her as her mental video screen created a too-accurate vision of Celia’s fingers sliding around the elastic to arouse Lois even further… Celia stroking what Anthea loved to touch … Lois making that choking cry when she came, but with Celia holding her afterward.

The collar of her shirt was damp… not with sweat, but water from damp hair. Lois had taken a shower. And why did I believe classes would last until midnight? Because you wanted to, she told herself.

She had been under deadlines at work. Lois had certainly had her share of stress in marketing. There had been days when all Anthea needed was a touch of her hand, a quiet kiss and the comfort of her arms. She had thought their need for each other had just taken a different form lately … something less passionate, but still very comforting. Clearly it wasn’t enough for Lois. It looked as if Lois, after all the work on “building communication” they’d done after that first affair, hadn’t wanted to talk to Anthea about it. She’d just gone elsewhere.

To a straight woman who was probably just having kicks.

Anthea twisted the incriminating panties into a ball. She felt despicable and cheap. She wanted to break something. She wanted to throw up. She wanted to pull Lois out of bed and scream at her. She wanted to wail and tear her hair.

Keep control. Control was the legacy of too many

years of living with alcoholic parents. Control was the legacy of rebuilding her life and home after the firestorm had taken everything away.

She wrapped herself in her robe and sat in the kitchen, comforting herself with a cigarette. She told herself she should decide what to do about Lois and this affair. She chose what to wear to work in the morning. She mentally drew up a list of the steps she should take to quit smoking. She thought about the time survey presentation she had to give first thing out in the field. She remembered how she had fallen in love with Lois. She had another cigarette.

“Safety meeting.” Harold slapped Shay on the back and she jerked her head up. Oh shit. Second week on the job and she still didn’t have a grip on the schedule. She’d forgotten about the Monday Morning Horror and now she wouldn’t have time to get another cup of coffee. Scott noticed who came in late. She trailed after Harold and staggered into the tiny conference room.