Black Locust Letters (11 page)

They
needed to end their interlude now, before it could go any further.
She had said as much before, but now it was she who was weak. It
was Betty who yearned for someone, anyone, to pay her gentle
affections, and it just happened to be Clarkin who was at hand to
provide it.

“
You
look rough,” Liza said after Betty finished her show. In a
half-hour, the day-shifters would come into the booth to do their
hosting. Liza waved a cable at her. “Better hurry it up and tell
me, gal. Incubus will have my hide if I say you look horrible but
don't give a reason for it. Was it your pappa?”

Betty stifled a laugh which would all too easily turn into a
sob if she let it. “He was as I thought he'd be. No..I... Liza,
what do you know of a man named Hannah?”

Liza
stopped her work, glanced at the door, and spoke with a lowered
voice. “Clarkin? He's a decapitaria. Bounty hunter, but for the
Secret Forces only. Any mission, he was up for it, but he
specialized in the tough stuff—getting close to the people hard to
get near, the ones who other people had failed. Generals. Spies.
Women in particular. No one is more cautious than a wary
woman.”

Betty swallowed a tight lump in her throat. “How?”

“
How
what? How'd he get close? Only he knows that, but they say that he
was slick on the information, too, a real lady's man whose left a
trail of broken hearts in his wake. He knows all the tricks in the
book; and more. I daresay he wrote the books. Why? You his scrawny
feathers round your coup?”

Betty nodded. “But he sounded pretty sure of it when he said
good-bye.”

Liza
scoffed. “Men. Good for a dose of the drama. But you listen to me,
girl, if you're seeing his hide, you'd best do no more than see it.
Don't let him open that mouth around you, he's got a way with
words.”

To
cover her expression, Betty checked her mailbox, and found an
invitation.

Curious, she opened it, read it, and sat down to muse it
over. Though the envelope had been a stranger's handwriting,
perhaps a clerk had looked up Tango's address, the invitation
itself was in a handwriting well-known to Betty.

Liza
gave the break room a heavy sigh as though she viewed a place of
utter tranquillity instead of what was essentially a perpetual
battlefield of shears versus mint as the mint tried to overtake the
cracks in the walls and the shears fended them off as long as
possible. They both stared at the stove.

Even
in the summer someone kept wood in the stove and the kettle on, but
with the cooler weather, everyone crowded around the blue-flecked
enamel and watched the flames through glass which needed frequent
cleaning. The old stove had been cast iron and it had rusted
through, so Mr. Gresley had bought a new one from Gary's Appliance
Manufacturing.

Rumor had it that Gary had watched when his competitors
opened a truckload of imported electronic appliances, smooth and
glossy white or red ones, according to common report. Exactly what
had come out of the truck, however, was a subject debated as sorely
and enthusiastically as any political issue at the holiday table.
What was known was that Gary couldn't stop laughing for weeks
after, not until a ghost frightened him into hiccupping. The
hiccups, unlike his laughter, had never been cured, and you could
see this very plainly in the pattern of the enamel he sprayed on
every new appliance.

“
What are you reading?” Liza asked.

“
Just an invitation.”

“
Oooh, what's it to?”

“
Nothing so exciting. Here, look for yourself.”

Betty handed over the envelope and card.

Liza
eagerly read the card. Betty watched as her face faltered, then
fell to confusion. Liza held it flat to the table and said, “You
can't accept this.”

Betty had been expecting a laugh over it, then to toss the
card in the fire and forget that it had ever happened. Her brows
crumpled together as a new idea set in.

“
You
don't think I want his affections, do you?”

“
I
don't know what to think of fence-sitters.”

Without meaning to, Betty got to her feet and towered over
the table, as if that would drive the message home.

“
I
am not a fence-sitter.”

Liza
opened her mouth to argue, but a new voice said, “What is
this?”

Liza
hid the envelope under her palms. “It's nothing, Mr.
Gresley.”

He
twitched his fingers, beckoning for the envelope. Liza gave Betty a
'sorry, I tried' expression and obeyed. Mr. Gresley read it, both
unsurprised and unaffected by its contents. Then he said to Betty,
“This is what you are going to write back. Listen well.”

The
club was unbearably loud, blaring against her eardrums as she
opened the side door, music spilling into the street along with the
flicker of gas lights. She thought about backing down and hailing a
taxi to take her home again, but a press of giggling freshmen girls
shuffled her inside with them.

Inside, Betty froze. The club was an old gymnasium, polished
wood floors still marked with basketball lines, pizza and popcorn
sold where the concessions stand was built into the wall, the stage
possessed by a croaking Richard Welch who seemed to have donated
his night off for the club's benefit. They had remodelled the
stairs, making two platforms, one for eating, another as a lounge
furnished with red vinyl like in the diner.

It
was here she collided into a woman who jerked, saving her soda at
the last second, and glared. “Who do you think
you—Betty?”

“
Liza?”

Betty thought they must wear identical expressions of
surprise. What would Liza say at work? Who knew how Mr. Gresley
would respond.

The
man Liza was leading up the stairs blinked at Betty, eyes going
between them. “Do you know the human?”

His
phrasing was not lost on Betty, nor was Liza's wince and
indecision.

“
Works at Tango,” Liza said.

“
What is she doing here?”

Liza
shook her head and Betty stammered, “I was invited.”

“
Did
you say you were Betty?” He asked, narrowing his eyes.

“
Yes” Betty said, wondering why he wanted to know. The man
frowned, studying her suddenly from head to toe. It wasn't a sexual
appraisal, but a professional one. He reached for Betty's face, to
tip her chin up and bare the throat.

“
The
morning show. You have not been as cheeky lately. I would even call
you distracted. By what?”

Betty felt sick to her stomach to think he would know all of
this, but when she looked to Liza, her lips were set in a grim line
and her eyes implored her to answer him.

“
Who
are you?” Betty asked, meaning to sound casual but sounding
frightened instead.

He
chuckled, a rough noise, and bore fangs when he smiled. “Ferdinand.
I report to the General.”

First or last name, Betty did not know, but since he had not
given her his rank, she presumed he did not want her to know. Yet
he mentioned the general, so he wanted to have Betty's opinion of
her own father. She said, “I am sorry for all who have duties to
him.”

Ferdinand angled his head and studied her. “What brings you
here?”

The
quiet song ended with the blare of a man's voice, but Ferdinand
watched her lips, no doubt accustomed to lip reading over loud
noises.

“
Thomas.” She had other interests besides, but he was the most
pressing, a threat and a warning whose meaning was lost on
her.

At
first, Ferdinand said nothing and she thought he would ask her
again, but he jerked his head to bring her around the corner of the
wall where the music was muffled.

“
Thomas Eldestein. Crow. Aerial battalion.” His orange eyes
were staring at her, unblinking. “It is my night out on the town.
No one here knows enough to tell you one way or the other about
Tom. What makes you ask?”

Betty glanced away, unsettled by his gaze. How much could she
say?

This
made him nod. “That was you, then, at the market. Didn't get the
warning. You're out of practice, not talking to either camp, aren't
you?”

Betty swallowed, not wanting him to know that he was too
right. Ferdinand pulled Liza close in to his side. “No more talk.
Go listen to Incubus. Dance some. That's why you're here. If you
want gossip, go to the neighbourhood dinner Saturday
afternoons.”

With
that, he left Betty to the beat of drums reverberating through the
night.

Betty found the neighbourhood dinner by watching out her
window at the streets for the march of women and children. She
followed the line of women and children with a plate consisting of
a gelatin mould containing colorful bits of fruit. Approaching the
house, so similar yet so different to her own, was an awkward
affair and something that she nearly backed down on twice. But
presently the door opened before she could knock, her offering of
red gelatin was studied and accepted, taken out of her hands, the
door left open for Betty to find her own way down the narrow
hall.

They
had the dining room where Betty had a living room, and the living
room was a makeshift nursery for the entire assortment of
neighbourhood kids.

In
the kitchen, a luxurious add-on which Betty did not have, several
women gathered around the stove, making light talk which tapered
off at the sight of Betty. She smiled meekly, suddenly feeling like
a stray dog begging for scraps.

“
Hi,
I'm Betty. I live just down the road.”

The
one who held her gelatin nodded. “I'm two over, the one with the
dog who won't shut his mouth. Sorry about that. Name's
Della.”

One
by one, the others introduced themselves, but it was only Della's
name that she could remember.

Betty passed the afternoon making casual talk, and eventually
they realized she was the morning voice for Tango, and their
behavior warmed noticeably. They heaped plates for everyone, and
Betty was horrified to see that they had tuna and lime gelatin
sandwiches, which she felt obligated to swallow. She did so as best
she could without tasting, and was glad that the rest of the
offerings were more appealing: Green bean casserole with potato
chips to top, a very delicious chocolate cake she was amazed to
discover got its moistness from a can of tomato soup, coleslaw made
with apples and celery, and a cordial of tomato sauce and
celery.

“
What made you finally decide to come?” Della asked, cutting
through a rant about the bin collection day and inducing silence
throughout the party.

Betty shifted, feeling uncomfortable to admit to the truth.
“Ferdinand suggested I come.”

“
Ferdinand?” Repeated Della, eyebrows raised.

Betty hesitated. “Do you know him?”

“
Claire's son. Number 85. Where did you meet him
at?”

Betty didn't like being on this side of the information ring,
but if she wanted to get anything, she needed to give some. “I was
at the rockability club.”

Della laughed, not an amused laugh but one of surprise.
“There's a lot more to this story than we are hearing! Talk, now,
talk. Don't fret, we will think kindly of you.”

But
Betty did worry, still, there wasn't much to be had for it if she
wanted to find out about Tom. So, uncomfortably, she said, “It sort
of goes back for a while. Jenny at the market? The wool seller?
She's sort of a friend. At least, I think she saved my skin not
long ago.”

“
Yes, Sunny Glenn has become...temperamental towards who it
will tolerate,” admitted Geri, number 23.

“
Well...I always get wool from her.”

“
You
said so! Why? Do you knit?”

“
Crochet.”

“
Oh,
good, there's a sewing club every Tuesday morning at the Jive
Café,” Geri said, then she paused. “What day do you have off? It's
during your shift.”

Betty smiled. “I would actually have to look. The schedule
changes a bit, and we do an extra recording every now and
then.”

“
Anyway,” prompted Della. “Jenny? How does she come into you
seeing us?”

Betty licked her lips, not knowing how to breach this. It
felt as though she were breaking the trust they had made over the
last hour or so. “Well, I wanted to ask Jenny about someone at work
I was...worried about.”

Realization dawned on Geri's face. “Tom. You were asking
about Tom.”

“
My
boss said he was gone and that's why I went to the Autumn Festival.
And then the days kept on passing and there was no one who was
willing to talk about him, so...I found my way here.”

They
were suddenly solemn, looking at one another as though making a
nonverbal decision.

Betty sighed. “He's dead, isn't he?”

Geri's eyes snapped to hers. “Oh, no. They sent him out.
Didn't say where, but since there's no open combat, there's only
one place he could have gone.”