Black Locust Letters (12 page)

Betty blinked, surprised. “What?”

“
They sent him out to enemy territory. Intelligence in the
worst of places. Not quite an execution, but good enough to be
one.”

“
Why?”

Geri
shrugged. “He talked too much to the wrong crowd.”

Betty made the short trek home, glad that she lived so nearby
because the rain came down like someone was pouring a hose over a
shaking bedsheet. In no time, she had a fire roaring and her
clothes drying on the backs of chairs. Her thoughts worried at her,
demanding satisfaction, turning into restless nerves when she
reviewed how very little she had to show for her
efforts.

The
wine had been meant to give her courage, but all it had done was
turn the room into a warm haze and make the handwriting on the
envelope fuzz over. Still, she drew it to her lips and breathed in
the scent fading but subtle and still there. Quickened her pulse,
made the room swim in her vision.

Was
this her second glass or third? She'd been distracted, anxious,
dreading the popping of the seal yet unable to draw away from it.
She was doing this tonight, and for all her procrastination she
wouldn't deter from it. Her finger slid into the open gap the wax
blot tugged beneath her knuckle then it gave way. The flap angled
open and Betty stared at it an instant, exhilarated and woozy. Then
she tipped the envelope over and shook out a letter decorated with
a flourishing swirl.

Hands shaking, she picked it up and smoothed it out, but she
couldn't focus on the fine script. She closed her eyes.

She
woke in time to hear Welch's voice on the radio read off the hour
as 1:35 AM. She would have to be awake in 2 hours.

Then
she realized it was a day off and she resolved to read them - right
as she fell asleep again.

Morning had broken through Betty’s red and white
plaid
¹⁵
curtains, casting a
pink hue over her legs and shining directly into her eyes. Betty
groaned and rolled over, falling off the couch with a soft thud
that she hardly felt. She rubbed her eyes and smacked cottonmouth
from her thick tongue. It took her a few minutes to realize it was
dawn.

Betty hadn't seen the sun rise in some time. The studio
didn't have exterior windows to cut down on outside noise, and her
days off she usually was standing over the stove, and that room had
westward facing windows.

There on the table as she sat up was the cause of her rumpled
clothes and stiff joints: A wine bottle, not quite empty. Betty
felt like a lightweight—back in her days with Slim, she would take
whiskey and bourbon to match him and she would still spring awake
in the next morning—well, in the afternoon.

As
Betty stood up, something fell from her lap and she re discovered
the cause for her admittedly self-induced malaise: A letter,
cottonwood paper, sap ink, brilliantly fresh burst of sweet black
locust. She took it with her to the kitchen, dropping the letter on
her window seat as she made coffee in her perculator—which she
realized she had to first make a fire to boil the water
with.

Her
toes had gone numb and when she poured water into the tin
perculator, it was cold as well water. While the fire smouldered
into life, Betty watched it with disgruntled unamusement from her
perch on her mattress, wrapped up in a blanket with her fingers
cupping her toes, feeling like a slug or caterpillar.

She
glared at the letter, but could hardly blame it for merely
existing. After all, it had been made by others, ink pressed upon
it, hands delivered it, all independent of the will of the letter
itself. It wasn't as though the letter had done anything. Then all
at once, she realized she, too, had been made, delivered, and
written upon, used as a tool, a method of communication. But the
letter hadn't a mind, hadn't a will. Betty had both, didn't
she?

The
smoke began to drift up the chimney instead of filling up the
house. Whatever would the landlord say if she offered to put up
half the cost to install a gas oven? Clarkin's report about
electric pyros had her frightened of wires and chords, but being in
Geri's house with the gas oven had given her a taste for the
wonders of instant flame.

At
last with coffee, Betty sat in the living room with the letter and
flipped it open.

My
dearest singer, you sounded forlorn today, as though adrift in
nearly forgotten memories. It is a day of remembrance, and while I
can not suppose to imagine what your recollections are, I can share
mine.

Betty frowned, trying to think of which day this could have
been. Was this from her morning of the Carnival? It was the most
recent Remembrance Day, the last one was back in May, and she
hadn't been receiving the letters then. His calling her forlorn—she
presumed the writer was a he—surprised her, but as she thought upon
it, she had been distracted on that day. Had her thoughts been
turned towards Tom? She couldn't recall. So she read,
intrigued.

Today I remembered the various missions I have served, so
unlik
e the common soldiers orders to go
here or go there, where they have a hope for rescue by
Valkyries-you see, for me there was no such hope, as I was among
the Valkyries (though it must be said I do not make an attractive
face for the role, yet none who I saved expressed much
disappointment in the discovery).

We
were all of various forms and abilities, a big pool who operated in
two or more smaller units. I also worked as a Will-O-the-Wisp,
there were not many of us in that section, and I would tell you
more of what I did if only I could. Were it not for my anonymity, I
would not even reveal the term.

How,
then, to relate what I wish to without speaking of what I should
not? We had a saying, that any place you could use a foggy mist,
you could use a Will-O-the-Wisp. Whatever you are imagining, it
could not be far from the truth. My most thrilling times, sorry I
cannot help but admit to my enjoyment, were the Cuckoo
missions.

It
was an insurmountable danger to be in the nest of the enemy, but
such a sweeping victory. It came at great cost, for I could little
resist, or afford to resist, meeting so many good people and
securing their friendship, only to betray it. I fancy that a number
of them owe to me their lives, though I have not seen them since.
When I could, I was as Loti, though this did not please my
superiors and more than once I came to regret my mercy.

She
read this paragraph over a few times, puzzling it out. From her
memories, Valkyries were beautiful maidens or sometimes ugly hags
who swept down from the heavens to carry away the viking men who
died valiantly in battle, to take them up to Valhalla where they
would live in an endless circle of glorious battle and great
feasts.

The
way it read here, though, was more as reinforcements rather than
collectors of the dead. Betty was not so sure about the
will-o-the-wisps, but she thought it was a Celtic folklore,
something about lights and leading weary travellers to their
demise. She would have to look up the reference to the bird,
though, she wasn't that great of an ornithologist.

I
allowed myself a great many luxuries in life: Friends, family,
unbridled pleasures, and the disappointments associated with them,
but there is one thing which I have wished for yet never had, and I
fear rejoining the mist without experiencing the joys of sorrows
associated with it.

I
hope one day soon to to fall in love, and perhaps to have a family.
It would be a grave regret were I not to experience at least the
first. I think this is what remembrance day is for, to reflect and
consider, and to be grateful for what we have, and to look forward
with the knowledge that one day, today will be but a memory as
well.

Always at your service.

It
was signed, but the signature was illegible, literally a few
squiggly bumps and a couple sweeping high and low points, perhaps
his initials were FN, or OF, or LH, but it was impossible to tell.
More so, though, she wondered after what he meant at the
end.

It
could be an allusion to what she had said on the radio—the words
sounded familiar, and she believed she had said something very
similar, expressing regrets and things she would change. It could
be his reference was in the general sort of “fall in love'', but
was it aimed at her? But if it were, then it was an admission that
he did not already love her, and Betty took comfort in that. It
must be an admittance of desire and nothing more.

Despite herself, she was highly pleased with the letter, to
be so used as a confidant. To have someone talk to her without mind
to propriety or to what he should be telling her. How pathetic was
this, to take what others might see as a creepy letter and think of
it in an affectionate light? But she couldn't believe there was any
harm intended.

Perhaps he was just a person every bit as lonely as she was,
taking security in the secrecy of letters. She appreciated it, but
would be worried if he expressed growing attachment without her
participation. Supposing she were to have an issue, who could she
ask for help from? She thought that the neighbours would
know.

Betty showered, dressed, then dried her hair while watching
over her cooking eggs and toast. Then she went outside, taking
several letters with her in her book bag, thinking that she would
go to the park and do some reading while there.

It
was too early for most of the neighbours to be out fussing in their
gardens or taking out trash, so Betty saw no one except a late
husband as he dashed into his car and ground the clutch by accident
at the corner.

Several times Betty had thought to buy a car, she had been
working long enough now that she had money saved for one, but she
couldn't justify the expense when her bicycle and the basket on the
front served her perfectly well, with two shopping streets within a
mile either direction of her home.

One
was human shopping, one was the Sunny Glenn market. The park she
was angling towards was nearer the market, and it took her only a
few minutes of walking before she had crossed the road and was
walking through the side gate, a simple thing of plain wood which
might have been a private entrance except Betty knew it
wasn’t.

Leaves had fallen and been raked into piles, and now a few
workers were putting those piles into large canvas bags. In the
distance, Betty smelled the heavy smoke of a leaf and green twig
fire, work accomplished with the use of a great deal of gasoline or
charcoal. While she walked, she mentally re-read the letter over
and over again, pondering its meaning until she was no longer
certain what had been written and what her mind had independently
interpreted.

She
walked into a person and immediately apologized, then laughed in
surprise when she saw who it was.

“
Jenny?”

“
Betty! Fancy seeing you here.”

“
I
live nearby.”

“
I
never see you. Do you walk in the mornings or...wait, it must be in
the afternoon.”

Betty nodded. “It seems our work schedules have made it so we
do not meet each other.”

“
What has you so absent-minded?” Jenny asked, her expression
and tone joking but also curious.

Betty considered telling her, and could think of no one
better to inform. So she pulled a sealed envelope out of her purse
and handed it over.

Jenny's eyes squinted and she held the letter close to her
nose, reading it aloud. “'To the Bell of the Glenn...' Pretty
enough handwriting, but can't spell, can he? There should be an
extra 'e' in 'belle', but one must not be too picky, we all make
mistakes. Who gave you this?”

“
I
don't know.” Betty paused to listen to the way that the birds sang
in the distance, and overhead she heard the laughing of ducks as
they called to those on ponds below. “I was hoping that you might
be able to tell me a little bit.”

Jenny puffed out her cheeks, red and flushed with the chill
of the morning. She blew onto her fingers, the breath fogging in
the morning light. “Secret admirer, then?”

“
Don't say that.”

“
Why
not?”

“
That's the last thing I need is an admirer.”

Jenny shrugged. “You asked my opinion, and it is a plausible
idea; that or someone who is just too meek to approach you and
speak to your face. Plenty of Never Weres like that.”

Betty felt a cold sensation in her gut. “You think it is from
a Never Were?”

“
You'd be lying to yourself if you didn't think the same. Look
at the paper, for crying out loud.” Jenny paused and her face
darkened. “Or...”

“
Or
what?”

“
It's nothing. Forget I said anything.”

Betty hissed her annoyance and shot the woman a
glare.

Jenny reluctantly said, “If it isn't a Never Were, then it is
someone who wants to act like one.”

Betty felt her cheeks drain of color, and all at once she was
reminded of a person or two who would engage in this duplicity. All
warm feelings toward the letters and their sender
hardened.