Love Laboratory - Chapter 1

Love's Laboratory

Prologue

Her hand was hot, slick with perspiration, but Tuan clutched it almost painfully dragging her along and up the makeshift ladder. She screamed a mouthful of words unidentifiable in the drone of the helicopter's whirling blades and the cacophony of cries from the others also climbing. He yanked harder but twisted his neck to look back as her grip stretch slightly. It was the mandarin oranges she bemoaned-spilling out of her rolled cloth bag. For a moment sister and brother both stopped and watched the little orange fruits tumble in their decent some bouncing on the heads and backs of the other evacuees still pressing onward toward the rooftop and to the U.S. Marines whose outstretched hands urged them on.

It seemed funny for a moment watching the mandarins fall, a bit of slapstick in a scene of chaos. And he was glad at that moment that no one was allowed to bring any baggage, though he had a few pieces of gold snugly sewed into the lining of his now sweat-soaked shirt and cuffs of his pants.

"Mi," he commanded and pulled his sister's hand again. They ascended finally reaching the top of the embassy building. He saw his father and mother stepping into the aircraft, and they would too-the family would escape together. A sense of relief overtook him but he was unaware of the smile that stretched over his dark face.

It looked like close to 100 refugees were crammed into the helicopter before the Marine closed the doors. Tuan managed a spot near a window and looked at Saigon shrinking below. He saw the city flash by and caught glimpses of a canal, a river, a stretch of rice patties as the helicopter swung around and finally headed out over the South China Sea toward an armada of U.S. carriers. No longer would he call Vietnam home.

Chapter 1

"This is Mr. Noy . . . Noy . . . gen Van Tan," said Bill Langston, his tongue flicking across the untrimmed ends of his mustache, his words stumbling as he introduced the new employee to the technicians in the laboratory.

Jeanne curled her lower lip into her mouth and gnawed on it to keep from snickering. Although Bill was brilliant-rising to the position of department head at only age twenty-nine-he reminded her of a walrus with his bushy, yellow mustache, soft paunch and narrow shoulders.

"Let me . . ." said the lean, dark-haired man. "I am Nguyen Van Tuan, but please, call me Tuan. I am happy to be here." His deep voice resonated in a Vietnamese accent. He smiled slightly and bowed his head.

Jeanne shifted her attention to him, immediately noticing the sheen of his thick hair, the strong jaw, the warm light-brown tone of his clear skin, the white teeth. Even as Bill, at six-two, seemed to tower above, this new hire to Selenite Research cut a pleasing vision. She scanned the handsome stranger with abandon, drinking him in with her eyes, until she saw his large, angled dark eyes were looking right into her green ones. With a snap, she averted her gaze, and instantly felt heat penetrate her cheeks.

"Yes, very good," said Bill. "Tuan, this is Jeanne, Clark and Mike. They will demonstrate how we work in the Industrial Plasters division of this building products research center. They'll show you the ins and outs over the next few weeks until you are acclimated. We're a friendly group; you'll do just fine."

Today, Bill had gathered his three lab techs to meet the new guy-a refugee from Vietnam. Tuan stood straight like a soldier, medium height, slender, dressed in a white shirt and tie, dark brown crease-pressed slacks-much too formal for the work at hand. Clark broke the moment of silence.

"Welcome Tuan, I'm Clark, Clark Jarvis." He pulled a pair of black-framed eyeglasses off his face with one hand and extended the other plaster-speckled hand toward Tuan, who grasped it without hesitation in a firm shake. "I'll get you started by presenting you with your official apron. It's the first thing you'll put on every morning." Clark took a few steps over to a freestanding coat rack and searched through several off-white aprons all hanging from neck loops off the hooks. He picked a clean one-Selenite Research embossed in bright red lettering on the front-and handed it to Tuan.

In comparison to Tuan, Clarke looked more unkempt than usual, thought Jeanne. His hair looked especially greasy edged over his shirt collar.

Bill cleared his throat as he pulled a handkerchief out of a pocket of his blue long-sleeved lab coat, and proceeded to clean his eyeglasses. Without the glasses, his blue eyes shrunk to beads. "Well I'll leave you to it then. I've got a meeting to attend. Clark, Mike and Jeanne will get you started," he said looking at Tuan as he fumbled to reseat the eyeglasses on his face and tucked the cloth back into a pocket. Then he turned away and walked out of the lab's double doors.

Tuan put the apron loop over his head and tied the strings in back. "You don't have to worry about getting yourself all messed up today," said Mike Shaw, the youngster of the group at age nineteen, and also the giant of the group at six-five, who busied himself pouring a mug of coffee from a large urn situated on a bench. "We'll just show you stuff. So you can keep your hands clean for now. But for tomorrow, dress grubby. Hey, want a cup of coffee?"

"That's right," interrupted Clark. "We don't really have much of a dress code here, except-no sandals-you should wear sturdy, comfortable shoes that you don't mind standing in for most of the day. And there's the safety glasses. We'll get you a pair. Those have to be worn at all times when you are working at the bench," he said fanning a hand toward the large, rectangular, black-top lab tables that took up the majority of the space in the room. Along the walls, stood more benches. The coffee urn sat on one table near the entrance-the aroma of a fresh brew filled the air.

"Do you drink coffee?" Mike asked taking Tuan's attention again.

"Yes, I do."

"Well this is how we all start the work day. Have a cup . . . we've got some paper cups here for guests, but I suggest you bring in your own personal mug. Black?" Mike said pouring a cup and handing it to Tuan who nodded a combined yes and thank you. He took a sip of the dark coffee-that matched the color of his eyes-and scanned the room.

The lab housed two deep steel-basin sinks; a large oven built into one wall; and a tabletop with various balances and scales next to the oven. Across from the workbench section of the lab, set in two straight rows, Tuan saw several wooden desks with chairs. His vision carried perpendicular from the desks to windows that provided plenty of sunlight, but a dismal view of a docking lot.

From the ceiling hung long florescent light fixtures casting harsh brightness about the room; and several uniformly installed fire sprinklers, including one thick chain draw-cord emergency shower, for personal fire safety-if a worker ever caught fire, the idea is to stand under the cord and yank it for a kind of elephant-sized shower to douse the flames pronto.

Jeanne thought the lab lacked a woman's touch, nothing of beauty or color, save for a small display near the double doors opposite the coffee station. Bill had set up an array of plaster of Paris figurines including a frog, a Buddha bust, a facemask, a sample section of fiberglass plaster castings including a segment of crown molding, a miniature wall made up of twisted columns, and other ornamental art objects. The remainder of the lab appeared black and white and gray-functional, practical and ready for somber work.

Tuan's eyes swept the workroom and landed on the staring green eyes. Jeanne blinked and averted her gaze. Oh geeze, he caught me again, she thought.

"Hi, I'm Jeanne Spencer," she spoke up suddenly, quickly, perky. "Did Bill give you a locker? We have a desk over here for you . . ." she said flicking a hand toward the line of desks. ". . . This is where you'll write up test reports. I've loaded the desk with pens and pencils, a calculator, French curve rulers and a couple of notebooks for you. If you need other supplies I can show you where the Christmas Room is . . . oh, that's what we call the office supply room-"

"Whoa, slow down, Jeannie girl," said Clark interrupting her diatribe. "You and Mike can go back to the test setup you were doing. I'll take Tuan here for safety glasses, a locker, and show him a few things. One of you can give him the grand tour of the building later."

"Oh, sure, Clark . . . See you later then," said Jeanne smiling for the first time as Tuan smiled back at her. Clark and Tuan left the lab. Jeanne could hear Clark's droning fade in Doppler Effect as they walked down the hall, passing other labs on the first floor of the two-story building. She turned to Mike. "Wow."

"Wow?" returned Mike, as he held a white plaster cube, tossing it back and forth from hand to hand.

"Uh, yeah . . . another one to train. First Clark trained me-that was winter of 1975-over a year ago. Then I trained you . . . you've been here, what, six months? And now another technician."

"It's a good sign. Means there's work and more of it to keep us employed."

"I guess building construction is on an upswing. Bodes well for all of us," said Jeanne, swinging her long ponytail of wavy auburn hair off her shoulder, a hair style along with the fine speckling of freckles across her small, slightly upturned nose made her look younger than her twenty-two years. "Well, let's get going with the samples Bill gave us. Maybe we can run the second batch with the new guy watching."

"Tuan," said Mike squinting his light brown eyes at Jeanne, and still juggling the single cube.

"Tuan," Jeanne echoed as if testing the unfamiliar name. "I think Bill said he's twenty-five and highly educated, has a master's degree in something . . . working as a lab tech is a step down, but-"

"But it's good enough for me," said Mike stepping on her words. "It's a good job."

"Yeah, well you have no ambition, Little Mike. At least I'm going to night school. You should too. But this guy . . . just seems a shame . . ."

"Jeanne, you're wasting your pretty face with college," said Mike shaking his head, his sandy colored locks bouncing, bangs falling over his eyes. "And Tuan, he's out of 'Nam, looks like he survived all in one piece, and now he's got a decent job."

"I suppose it's a good start for him in this country. Just seems a waste of brains. But it will be nice for me to finally work with a tech with smarts for a change, and along side someone a little bit closer to eye-level," she teased her tall co-worker.

"Ah yes, my pretty, little five-foot-two Munchkin, you are in the land of giants," Mike taunted right back.

"At least I won't be straining my neck looking at him, or covering for his mistakes," she said and caught the plaster cube Mike tossed at her.

I'll just have to train myself to stop staring at him, Jeanne thought. Wow, he is good looking.

* * * * *

Dipping her hand into Vaseline for coating a series of brass cube molds, Jeanne showed Tuan how to prepare equipment for another round of plaster testing.

"We just want a thin coating. It makes it easier to unmold the hardened cubes later," Jeanne said. As she dipped into the large jar again, Tuan plunged his hand along side of hers. Slippery fingers mingled for a moment and shot a tingling of warmth through her palm. She withdrew right away, followed by a flush to her cheeks for the second time that day.

"No need to get your hands dirty now. Tomorrow will be your turn," Jeanne said.

"No need to worry. I am ready to start. See, I'm wearing my apron and safety glasses, I've rolled up my sleeves, and I've tucked my tie into my shirt," Tuan said in perfect English, and looking very studious, thought Jeanne, with the black-rimmed safety glasses now sitting on his face. He began greasing some of the molds. "Tell me why we are doing this . . . I mean, what are we testing for?"

"Good question," she said as they continued coating the brass molds. "Selenite Research is a building products testing center, as Bill said earlier. This lab works only with industrial plasters."

"Yes, I understand that. I mean, with the plaster. What are we testing for?" Tuan asked, dipping his fingers into the grease jar again as he waited for Jeanne's response.

"After gypsum rock is mined from a quarry, it is pulverized for plaster and a portion of it is shipped here, to our lab, for testing. We figure out the properties of the material. And from our results, Bill figures out what chemicals we need to add, and how much to add, to make every batch of plaster the same."

"I see. The raw material must be turned into a consistent formula."

"Exactly, Tuan. Think of our product like Cap'n Crunch. Every box of the sweet cereal must look and taste alike, and float or get soggy in milk at the same rate. But don't lick your fingers while handling this stuff, even if this work feels like kitchen duty. Oh, did you have Cap'n Crunch in Vietnam?" Jeanne said brushing a loose auburn curl off her forehead with the back of her wrist.

"Yes, of course," Tuan said chuckling. "Too sweet . . . more like candy. And I know about kitchen duty too. My father owned several restaurants in Saigon. I worked in the kitchens often as a boy, that's why I feel very comfortable in this apron."

"Is he . . . is your father . . . your family, are they still there?" Jeanne asked turning toward Tuan as they stood at the workbench.

"We all escaped together. We made it out of Saigon with the helicopter airlifts last April. But there are others that may still be there, friends and . . . others . . ." he said his voice faltering, trailing off.

Finished with the greasing task, Jeanne handed Tuan a rag to wipe his hands. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to . . . it's none of my business." Again she felt heat rise into her face.

Before Tuan could reply, they were interrupted by Mike, who approached the bench with a large mixing bowl full of wet plaster slurry. "Are you ready for me?" he asked.

"Just about. I'm showing Tuan how to fasten the clamps on these last couple of molds," Jeanne said as she twisted thumbscrews to squeeze the brass pieces together. "There. Now we're ready."

Mike, towering over his more diminutive co-workers, stepped between them as he slowly poured the plaster mix into the prepared molds. After he emptied the bowl, he took it over to a nearby sink to rinse and clean. Meanwhile, Jeanne handed Tuan a flat-edged knife, like a frosting spatula, and with another one in her hand, she demonstrated the next step. "As each cube is filled we immediately poke each square right in the middle with the spatulas," she said jabbing into the slurry, moving down the line of molds. "This removes any air bubbles trapped in there. We want a solid cube to form without air pockets."

            "Con sâu làm sầu ná»ÂÂ"i canh, translated is: One worm may damage the pot of soup," said Tuan as he joined in plunging the round-edged knife into the line of freshly-poured molds at the other end of the bench until he met up with Jeanne completing that chore.

"A Vietnamese proverb?" asked Jeanne.

"Yes, growing up in my father's restaurant business, I learned many such proverbs that relate to food as much to life."

"Ah," said Jeanne, "So as I teach you about testing properties of plaster, you'll be teaching me some wise sayings. I like the trade off." She looked at Tuan, as he stood next to her pulling his spatula out of the last cube mold, when she spied a white drop of wet plaster on Tuan's chin.

"You've been christened, baptized by plaster," said Jeanne tilting her head and chuckling. Tuan wrinkled his brow in a puzzled look back at her. "Plaster. You've got a little on your chin," she said reaching up with a lab rag to wipe it, but Tuan turned away, his eyebrows arched, his lips pulled tight. He swiped the droplet with the hem of his apron.

"I'm sorry, I just wanted to get it off for you," Jeanne said. "That's all I was doing."

"No, I'm sorry. I over-reacted. It's like a mother, and you are not my mother cleaning after me."

"That's true. I just meant to help. I wouldn't want to walk around with plaster spots on my face; I've got enough freckles spotting up the works as it is," she said and smiled at Tuan. There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. Jeanne wondered about his reaction, the way he turned and displayed a hint of anger. It must be a cultural thing. Maybe a gender thing too. Was I acting like his mama? Jeanne thought. Must be cultural, because Mike and I clean plaster blobs off each other's face all the time; but then Mike's like a little brother to me, just something we do and don't even think about.

Tuan's expression softened just as Bill reappeared in the lab and walked up to them.

"So how is it going? Jeanne and Mike showing you cube production," said Bill licking at his mustache from the corner of his mouth. Mike walked to the bench from the sink having finished with the bowl cleaning.

The words "very well" and "just fine" and "couldn't be better" mingled in a joint garbled response as Mike, Jeanne and Tuan spoke at the same time. "Good, good," said Bill. "And Clark showed you around the building, Tuan?"

"He showed me some things-where to order the glasses," Tuan said reseating the dark framed-spectacles on the smooth bridge of his nose. "And now I have a locker."

"Oh, well, Mike you finish taking temperature readings with this batch as it sets, while Jeanne, you take Tuan around. Show him the Pilot Plant, 'cause he'll eventually be doing work with Clark out there. Show him where we get supplies-the ‘Christmas Room,' and stop by the warehouse to see where the sacks of plaster are stored. Take him to Wallboard and into Analytical-these are the other places you'll need to go to now and then. And take him to the cafeteria, in about forty-five minutes . . ." he said glancing at his watch and patting his slightly rounded belly, ". . . snarf time, that's what I call lunch."

© Fran Fredricks

Author: Fran Fredricks