Car Pool Read Free

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