Sweat (8 page)

The ladies packed into the bathroom, the only forum in the seamstresses's living quarters large enough for a mass audience. The barracks-style living quarters were a squat two stories—twelve rooms on each floor, four girls in each room. With girls standing in the showers and draped on the sinks, most of the seamstresses were present and accounted for. Wei Ling and Shi Shi Wong's roommates, twin sisters from Thailand with unpronounceable names, laid out their plan and asked for volunteers. The punishment for being caught was going to be severe. Physical abuse, fines they couldn't afford to pay, and the continued suspension of privileges that began when Wei Ling moved into the infirmary.

The women nodded. They understood.

The girls returned to their rooms and began quietly and methodically looking through their belongings for anything made of paper. The writing tablets were first to go, followed by napkins, paper towels, torn pieces of tissue boxes. Nothing was considered too outrageous and nothing was turned down. Old letters from family members, envelopes, the borders from old newspapers. They were all ripped into manageable pieces.

The girls stayed up all night. With cramping hands and watering eyes, they wrote identical sentences on every piece of paper. They shared the pens and the half dozen short golf pencils someone had brought back from a trip into town. Eyeliner worked well, and was in plentiful supply. They finished twenty minutes before the morning wake-up call, split the piles of paper among themselves, and waited for an opportunity. They didn't have to wait long.

The emergency shipment of khaki shorts was nothing short of a catalogue order from God. The summer fashion season was in full swing and the popularity of the knee-length, double-pocket, Army-drab-green shorts was a surprise hit at the Republic Outfitters. Every store on the East Coast was sold out and the backorders were growing at an outstanding rate. A rush order for twenty thousand pairs sent the busy sweatshop floor into a pace of delirium rarely seen. The fabric was scheduled to arrive the following morning and the ladies were told to prepare for serious work. They had two days to complete the order. Twenty thousand pairs of shorts. Ten thousand pairs a day. Sleep was optional, dictated by Lee Chang.

The smell of oiled machinery and the acrid stench of dye filled every corner of the vast sweatshop floor. Dust hung in the air, tiny particles of fabric sent into motion by the relentless crisp snipping of scissors powered by calloused hands. Each worker hunched over her identical workspace—a sewing machine, a single drawer, and a two-square-foot chunk of smooth tabletop that was barely enough room to sew a pair of pants. Heads down, they silently ran fabric under the bobbing needles of their machines, the non-stop mechanical hum as constant as the summer heat. It was tedious, carpal-tunnel-syndrome-inducing work. Conversation was limited to work-related topics, and there wasn't much to discuss when you are sewing fabric at a pace of one pair of shorts every five minutes.

The girls worked in teams, the sweatshop floor divided into different groups. The seamstresses were the majority of the floor's workforce, but everyone took turns learning the ropes and honing their skills in three other areas: inspection, packing, and fabric preparation. The seamstresses passed the shorts to the finishing group who added the zippers, buttons and appropriate tags. Once they were completed, the goods went through inspection and were then packed according to the customers' specifications. Chang Industries' lone female henchwoman oversaw the activities in the inspection room. She grabbed a pair of shorts from the finished stack at random, yelling as necessary when she found a defect. Once the goods passed through her station, the strongest of the seamstress workforce folded and packed the goods.

Starting first thing in the morning, the girls in packing took on another responsibility. Each pair of shorts was packaged with a piece of paper. Careful not to draw the attention of the foreman, the packing team removed the pieces of paper hidden in their own pockets, socks, and sleeves, and stuffed a note into every pair of shorts that came through their hands. Beneath the plastic bag in the dirty trashcan in the bathroom, other seamstresses stashed additional notes for the girls in packing to replenish their supplies. For one full shift, the routine was the same. A note in the pocket, the shorts folded, and then placed in boxes according to their size.

The group functioned well as a team. Chang Industries, if nothing else, ran efficiently. And the girls were counting on that efficiency to get the shorts off the island before the shit hit the fan.

Jake picked up the ten-foot yellow moving van from a sketchy rental lot near New York Avenue. It took one trip to move the bed, a sofa, and the dining room table set. On his second trip, he wrestled with his bike, a couple hundred books, and miscellaneous household items that hadn't been used since the funeral.

Kate met him at his new apartment near Cleveland Park to help him move and unpack. The one-bedroom apartment was on the fourth floor of the oldest building on the block, and the lack of an elevator became a serious issue with the weight of the sofa in his arms. The narrow staircase and tighter hallways added to the nightmare of moving. Jake felt guilty for having his girlfriend of four weeks help him move the sofa, but he was a gentleman and gave her the light side of the load.

She wasn't his first choice of moving partners. His friends were in Europe and Uncle Steve was on crutches. Besides, Kate had volunteered for moving duty, and she didn't complain. It was another check in favor of his girlfriend in the “pros column” of his mental pros-and-cons list.

By noon, the three-room rental started to look like an apartment. Jake didn't need much to get by and it showed. He rearranged the sofa and the TV in the living room while Kate unpacked the dishes in the kitchen. He gave her free range to put things where she saw fit. The kitchen wasn't his forte, and as long as he could find a plate, a bowl, and a glass, he was fine.

Finished, Jake and Kate sat at the small dining room table and looked around.

“It looks good,” Kate said, pleased with herself and her interior decorating skills.

“It'll do,” Jake replied. “All I have to do is hang a few pictures and get a bookcase or two.”

“I need to get home and take a shower,” Kate said, standing and wiping the hair from her face. “We have to be at my parents's by three. I'll pick you up at your mom's house in an hour.”

Kate left and Jake watched her walk down the squeaky staircase and its many turns. She was a good woman. He was nervous about meeting her parents, but he couldn't avoid them much longer without raising suspicions. They had only been together a month, albeit a passionate one, but her family was close-knit and they lived nearby. Besides, it was the Fourth of July and the plan was for a backyard barbecue. Jake reasoned there were few things less stressful than a cookout with burgers and hotdogs.

He threw some food in the goldfish bowl, and the two identical black bubble heads with fan-like fins fought over the flakes like it was their last supper. He grabbed his keys and locked the door on his way out. He had just enough time to return the van, get back to his mother's house, and take a shower.

Kate's Lexus pulled up to the guardhouse.

“Miss Sorrentino,” the unfriendly guard said with authority.

“Hi, Max,” Kate answered.

Jake leaned forward and waved, the guard unimpressed with Kate's passenger and guest.

“Quite a party your parents are having today.”

“They do it every year. You're welcome to stop by after you get off work.”

“Thank you, but I have to get home. I'm taking the kids to see the fireworks.”

“Well the invitation is there if you change your mind. You can bring your kids.”

“Have a good evening, Miss Sorrentino.”

The entrance to the private community was nothing more than a guard booth with a flimsy gate, but it made the residents feel better. As the car pushed forward, estates peeked through the heavily wooded street. The farther they drove, the larger the houses became. Jake grew nervous. He was in millionaire country—congressmen, football players, internet company cash-outs. They lived here, and they lived well.

“Nice homes,” Jake said.

“Yeah I guess they are,” Kate answered as if it were an original thought. Jake wasn't sure whether to believe her naivety.

They passed a modest house on the right and Jake commented, “That one seems a bit out of place, it only has a two-car garage.”

“That is the Crowe Estate. They have about thirty acres. When I was in junior high school Mrs. Crowe taught me how to ride horses,” Kate responded. “And that is not the main house. That's the guest quarters.”

So this is how the other half lives, Jake thought. He realized what half he had been living in, and he wanted to switch teams.

The Sorrentino residence was at the end of the country lane. Twenty acres of rolling hills overlooking the Potomac River. It was beautiful land, and the house accentuated its splendor. Kate pulled her Lexus in front of the verifiable mansion and parked between the large fountain and the stone entrance. A dozen cars were parked in and around the long driveway, a mix of autobahn-certified German autos and other high-end imports.

Kate stopped at the step to the front door and looked at Jake. “Relax. You look a little nervous.”

“That's probably because I am.”

Kate didn't bother to share that she too was nervous for other reasons. With the exception of Ricky Groves in the sixth grade, her parents had disapproved of every boyfriend she ever had. The reasons varied, but were all the same: they simply weren't good enough for the Sorrentinos' only daughter. Not from the right lineage, not the right breed, not the right stuff. Not good-looking enough. Not smart enough. If you looked for a reason not to like someone, it was easy to find one. And her parents looked hard.

Kate pushed open the large wooden front door and invited Jake into her world.

Initial introductions with Mr. and Mrs. Sorrentino went down in the kitchen, and Jake answered the standard questions well enough to earn an invitation backstage, to the barbecue festivities in full swing in the backyard. Kate's parents eyed the couple through the glass wall, and her father cringed when his daughter's hand reached for Jake's.

Jake followed Kate across the multi-tiered cedar deck and down the walk to the edge of the pool. The huge brick barbecue pit in the corner pumped smoke into the air, the six-foot gas-powered grill large enough to feed an army. Jake eyed the food on display. Not a hot dog in sight. Freshly cut tuna and swordfish cooked slowly on the right hand side of the grill. Filet mignon and shrimp on bamboo skewers took up residence on the other half of the metal grate. Nachos and dip were absent, replaced with crackers, heart of palm, and black caviar.

Sundresses and blue blazers ruled the scene and Jake felt grossly underdressed in his polo shirt and knee-length shorts. He reminded himself to have a word with Kate. Next time he wanted a little more detail of what he was getting himself into. Small groups mingled around glass-top tables talking about vacations in Tuscany, the real estate market in Honolulu, and bank accounts in New Zealand that were paying eight percent interest. He had never been to a tie-only barbecue, and if the first fifteen minutes were any indication, he would live comfortably not having to attend another.

Kate's father cornered Jake on his way back from the bathroom. Kate was on the deck, her ear being bent by an elderly aunt who had already repeated herself twice. Mr. Sorrentino seized the opportunity to lay down the rules,
mano a mano
, as only a father can do.

“Kate tells me that you are in grad school at American University.”

“Yes sir. I am getting my Masters in English Literature.”

“What do you do with a degree in English Literature?”

“I don't know yet. Maybe teach. Maybe get involved with a non-profit in D.C.”

It wasn't the answer Mr. Sorrentino was hoping for. He hated to hear anyone say, “I don't know” when it pertained to their future. He was equally offended by the term “non-profit.”

“What does your father do?”

“He's in international business…importing, exporting.”

“Sales?” Mr. Sorrentino said in more of a statement than a question.

“No, he is the CEO and President.”

“Based in Washington?”

“Incorporated in Delaware, headquartered in D.C. The company has offices on both coasts and facilities overseas.”

“Tell me about your family.”

Jake balked. It was a question he didn't like.

“I have a small family. Most of them live in the Portland area. I have an uncle in town.”

“Any chance you will follow in your father's footsteps?”

“In business?”

“Yes.”

“I don't know,” Jake answered.

Mr. Sorrentino swallowed at the resurfacing of his least favorite expression. He hated to think about his daughter dating anyone, but especially a young man without a plan. Change your mind later, but for God's sake have some idea what you want to do with yourself.

“I'm working at his company this summer.”

“Learning the ropes?”

“Yes, I guess so.”

With the word “guess,” Mr. Sorrentino had heard enough. Jake needed some direction. Something definitive. One of the problems with young kids these days. Mr. Sorrentino feared for the future of the country.

Jake just wanted to get away from his girlfriend's father. Mr. Sorrentino asked questions with a stare so intense it was as if he were making inquiries directly to your soul. His gaze burned through Jake's eyes and penetrated his skin. Every question was loaded. Jake didn't like the man.

“May I ask about your profession, Mr. Sorrentino?”

“Sure, Jake. I'm mostly retired now. My business interests lie in real estate, construction, waste removal, imported produce, restaurants.”

“How is the waste removal business?”

“There is never a shortage of waste, Jake. Never met a person who didn't produce any, and the population keeps growing.”

“True enough.”

Jake chalked up Mr. Sorrentino's condescending attitude to natural arrogance and an overbearing nature when it came to his daughter. Jake wanted nothing more than to tell Mr. Sorrentino a couple of things. First and foremost was that, indeed, he was giving it to Mr. Sorrentino's only daughter and enjoying it immensely, thank you very much.

He wondered if the details about caring for his mother over the last eighteen months would wipe the smug look off Mr. Sorrentino's face. The all-nighters, the trips to the doctors, learning how to give injections with the skill of a seasoned nurse. Do that for a year and a half and see if you come out of it with a life plan. Life changes and having a plan guarantees nothing. Jake knew the words would be lost on Kate's father. He was a hard-ass, and a scary one at that.

“It was good speaking with you, Jake,” Mr. Sorrentino said. “And let us conclude this conversation on a constructive, positive note.”

“Please,” Jake answered.

“There are two things I will not tolerate as a father to my daughter. Number one is infidelity. If I catch you cheating on my daughter, I will cut your balls off and feed them to the dogs. Number two—if I catch you lying to me or my daughter, the same thing will happen to your tongue. Understood?”

Jake looked at the madman in front of him. “Sounds pretty straight forward to me,” he answered. “But remember this, Mr. Sorrentino: for every man who cheats there is a woman cheating as well. And for every man who lies there are at least an equal number of women lying. Men just can't hide it as well. The chance of me breaking Kate's heart is equal to the chance that she will break mine.”

“Just so we know where we stand,” Mr. Sorrentino answered as if he hadn't heard Jake's short soapbox sermon.

Kate knocked on the glass door and her father changed from Dr. Jekyll to Mr. Hyde.

“How are my two favorite guys?” she asked, opening the door.

“Just getting to know one another, right Jake?” Mr. Sorrentino said.

“Right.”

“Dad, if you don't mind, I want to steal Jake from you. Aunt Theresa wants to meet him.”

“He's all yours,” Mr. Sorrentino said with a sadistic twinkle in his eye aimed in Jake's direction. With Kate's father in mind, Jake chalked one up in the “cons column.”

Jake and Kate stepped outside. His uneasiness didn't go unnoticed. They may not have been dating long, but both were already good at knowing what the other was thinking.

“Kate, we need to talk.”

“Sure, Jake. But first I want you to meet Aunt Theresa.” A quick smile and light handshake later, Aunt Theresa turned to Kate. “Very handsome.”

“I know,” Kate said, pulling Jake away.

Hand-in-hand they turned from Aunt Theresa straight into a human wall. Three broad-shouldered men stood abreast, creating a barrier that would require a less-than-subtle change in direction.

“Hi, Tony,” Kate said, looking upward.

“Introduce us to your new friend,” Tony said, standing between two massive sides of beef known as the Castello brothers.

“Tony, this is Jake. Jake this is Tony. He's a friend of the family and a business associate of my father.”

“Nice to meet you, Jake,” Tony said, squeezing Jake's hand until the bones in his knuckles rubbed each other.

“And these other two guys are Eddie and Mike Castello,” Kate said. “People call them brothers, but they are really cousins. My aunt raised both of them.”

“As far as you are concerned, we are brothers,” Mike said, shaking Jake's hand with a reasonable grip. Eddie stuck out his tree trunk arm and grunted something only Mike understood. They may have been cousins, but they had the mannerisms of two people who were raised under the same roof. A house where the family didn't speak.

“For what it is worth, you don't look like brothers,” Jake said.

“That's because they're not,” Tony added, as if he had solved a mystery.

“Well, I guess that's why.”

“Jake, I expect you to treat Kate right. She is like my kid sister.”

“Of course,” Jake answered.

“Don't worry about Tony,” Kate said. “He is a big teddy bear on the inside.”

And a grizzly on the outside, Jake thought. “Nice meeting you all. We'll see you around.” God I hope not. At least not when it is dark.