Black Locust Letters (19 page)

“
I'll find a way,” she murmured.

He
looked visibly relieved.

He
would have stayed the night but she wouldn't let him. She chased
him away with fears of neighbourhood gossip, and when he was gone
she leaned her head in her arms and counted her breaths, wishing
the day was over, and that she knew who to believe.

Betty nestled in her reading nook, a new term for a new chair
situated by the fireplace and angled to observe through the living
room windows, browsing through the black locust letters once more,
trying to discern anything new from the same old lines.

She
read through the whole stack and found no new references, nor any
indication of awkward phrasing which might signal a code. Her lip
quivered. Nothing new, nothing that jumped out from between the
words and declared, This is who I am, this is who James is, and
this is who Clarkin is.

Of
course even if there had been such information, Betty doubted she
would have trusted its source. Not that she was any less frustrated
by the lack of information. Not long ago, she thought she'd taken
the upper hand with both men, and now she felt she'd been the one
who was played. Who was who, and what was what was now completely
beyond comprehension.

As
Betty put her letters aside to start uncoiling her hair from the
foam curlers, she heard the birds outside banter noisily, as they
tended to do every now and then, and then they went silent.
Presently a shadow fell over the window of her door and there came
a brisk knock. Betty jumped, thinking at first it was Slim or,
worse, Clarkin.

“
Hey
there, Betty Cratchet!” cried a woman's voice from the other side
of the door. “You didn't forget, did you?”

Betty rushed to unlock and open the door, finding Liza
standing there with her hair pinned up on one side and a white
poodle skirt about her hips. Earlier in the day, they'd agreed to
go together to the Rockability club again, and Betty felt safer
attending with a friend.

“
No,
I didn't forget. Help me with my hair curlers, will
you?”

Liza
stepped inside and began by cooperatively pulling on her
hair.

“
Hold still. This one's got a tangle.”

At
the sight of the letters, Liza stopped and left Betty to contend
with the last of her curls. Liza picked up a letter and flipped it
over.

“
You
going to reply?”

Betty glanced at what she held—the one which had been on top,
the one she'd been pondering over and over. That line read,
I fear I have written too much without
encouragement. Should you desire a longer association, leave the
bouquet in your window box. Otherwise I will cease my attentions
and abide by your wishes.

“
I
don't know.”

Liza
put the letter back with the rest, stacking them neatly. “Want to
talk about it?”

“
Talk about what?” Betty turned down the hall into the kitchen
and bedroom. “The mysterious love letters, my decapitaria suitor,
or my amorous former fiancé?”

“
All
of them, I suppose, but what I really wanted to know was what's
made your temper so...explosive.”

Liza
entered the kitchen and sat down at the table, not seeming to
question the bed's position in the house as Betty dug in a cabinet
for a bit of sherry.

“
Oh,” Betty said. “I thought I was doing pretty good keeping
it toned down.”

“
All
the more concerning, then,” Liza said, crossing her legs and
jiggling her slipper on the edge of her toe.

“
Well, I suppose you have your answer.”

Liza
accepted the sherry but was briefly preoccupied with opening the
library's stolen journal, her lips twitching in amusement at the
illustration of a man dancing like a prowling cat. “Not true. You
have provided the subject but little else.”

“
Liza.” Betty hesitated then sank into the chair opposite.
“It's complicated.”

“
It's really not.”

“
I
don't know what any of them want. The letter sender has been
including messages and Clarkin said he wouldn't be beyond killing
'a pretty voice', which matches me awfully
suspiciously.”

“
Or
that one gal at Alpha.”

Betty rolled her eyes.

“
And
what of the Thin Man?” Liza asked.

Betty narrowed her brows as she put the moniker to the face.
“You mean James.” She took a long drink of sherry, which ended up
being all of it in one swig, a distant burn down her throat. “I've
got to at least pretend to go along with him.”

“
You
mean you're not pretending now?” Her tone was as cold as her eyes
and she stopped herself from putting a hand on her hip.

They
sat with only the table and a wall sconce between them, but with
the haze of oil smoke, it seemed a gulf impassable.

Then, Betty started to talk, needing someone, anyone, to
confide in. All at once, she enjoyed having another soul in the
house, someone's presence other than her own to fill its modest
rooms. When milling around Sunny Glenn, Betty had brief bits of
conversation—getting groceries, visiting the library, walking in
the park—but nothing broke up her solitude like this, to have a
person in her isolated home. Sometimes she would look out a window
and realize neighbour kids were coming home from school while she
had scarcely said two words the entire day.

So
Betty talked. How much sense it made, she didn't know. But by the
end, her throat ached, from emotion rather than ill use. She was,
after all, a show host.

A
brisk rap-tap-tap came at her door, breaking through Liza's
consideration, and Liza sighed. “Our ride is here.”

Betty nodded, wondering what was on Liza's mind, and followed
her to the door.

Standing by the flower pot with the now snow bitten sunflower
stood Welch, a bright red hot rod with tiger stripes behind
him.

“
Lovely evening, my dears.” His grin was true and warm as he
looked at them. “Shall I escort you to the ball?”

Betty saw he had his hair slicked back and he wore a tight
shirt across his chest.

“
Come on, Dick, let's make her day a bit brighter!” said Liza,
and the three of them set off towards the red car.

Betty didn't care so much for some of the music they were
playing, a new person manned the song selection, and whoever it was
had a taste for drums and heavy brass instrumentals which felt like
the musical equivalent of boxing one's eardrums. She found a
quieter place in the hall for a time, but soon enough became sweaty
and was crowded out of her place by others seeking a reprieve. So
Betty bought a pop from concessions and a bag of caramel corn, and
she took it outside where it was brisk but not
uncomfortable.

Halfway through her soda, the side door opened, letting a
tiny army of suspender-clad men into the night, along with the
blare of drums.

The
door clunked shut and cut off the music, and one of them said, “Now
what were you saying? Something about the cuckoo?”

Betty sank backwards, trying to blend in with the tin
trashcans in the street. It wasn't a brilliant hiding place, but
she wasn't even sure if she should be hiding at all.

“
Tom
wasn't it,” said a soft voice.

“
Of
course not, the humans wouldn't listen to a crow, no matter how
cozy he was with Legrand.”

Betty's breath stilled at the mention of Slim and Tom as
friends. She gripped her arms to keep from fidgeting; the shadows
were pale and it would be easy to be seen if she moved.

“
But
then who?” a new voice asked. “It's got to be some being whose in
snug with the Thin Man.”

“
Or
who was,” another corrected. There was an instant of quiet, then
the soft voice said, “No...you don't think?”

“
We
can't prove it.”

“
No,
we can't. We just know who it ain't.”

Someone lit a cigarette, one with a faint blueberry scent
which reminded her of Slim.

“
I
don't feel good about tonight. It don't seem right.”

“
I'm
with 'im on this,” said another.

There was a round of agreement, and some muttered comments
back and forth. Then a man came around the edge of the building and
waved keys in his hand.

The
cigarette hissed when it hit a damp spot on the ground, and the
speaker stamped it out. “That's not your job to feel good about it.
Either you got evidence or you don't. We have our orders. So do you
lot have anything new, besides tummy aches?”

No
one replied, and Betty felt an unexplainable wave of
anxiety.

“
Fine. Then let's move out. Waste of time talking if none of
you know anything new.”

One
by one their footsteps left the side of the building, but Betty
remained where she was until she heard a car turn over and leave.
Then she slipped back inside, unable to make heads or tails of what
she'd just heard even though she tried to understand the
conversation over and over again.

The
final song faded away, humming through the bleachers and stopping
the few weary dancers at last, giving way to drunken staggers as
people shoved for the exits. The concessions stand had closed an
hour ago, and now a pair of managers made their way through the
building, their keys clinking as they locked up all the
doors.

Betty heard sighs and happy chatter as the crowd around her
issued forth into the night as one protective pack, and for once
she felt a warm sense of belonging someplace when she was so used
to living in obscurity.

With
Welch and Liza by her side, she'd fallen into step as one of the
community, just another body writhing in the beat, shaking hips to
shame the upstanding citizens in the rest of Sanctuary. Betty
released a sigh of contentment and found her friends parting from
the group to head to the car.

“
A
good night,” commented Welch as he opened the car doors, then
craned his head back to examine the stars. Fog drifted into the
street from a laundromat and dry cleaners, but up in the air,
everything was clear and the moon shone brightly, almost outshining
the twinkling stars.

Around them, people found their friends and made their
good-byes, going to the last few cars or wandering down the
street.

Betty yawned and stretched out a sore spot in her arm,
feeling where her calves would be achy come the next day. As she
watched the sky, an owl—a small barn owl—darted from the rooftop
into a tree. Betty paused, remembering something about auguring,
before the bird was gone as silently as it had come.

“
Do
you guys know the best place to stargaze?” Betty asked as she got
in the car.

Welch and Liza exchanged glances, but it was Welch who put
his arm around Liza while she parted her knees around the shifter.
Welch started the car.

“
There's a hill in the park. Best place in town, but tonight
Lizzy and I were going to try to spot the piece of tin Sputnik as
it orbits.”

Betty laughed as buildings rolled by, waving her hand through
the air as it passed her window, uncommonly warm tonight, the way
it got after a decent snow, as though the mountains were letting
out a breath after holding it in too long.

Betty asked, “You can see that satellite?”

Liza
nodded.

Betty paused, formed a fist. “What does it look
like?”

“
A
star that moves. No tail on it like a shooting star,” said Welch.
“But I think Lizzy will be the only one on her back to see
it.”

“
Richard!” scolded Liza, but Betty cackled with
laughter.

“
My
lips are sealed,” Betty said.

“
Hell, the boss-man wouldn't care. In his opinion, all women
are good for is a tumble. It'd make him right pleased. Nasty bit of
work, him.”

The
last line he almost grumbled, and that rose Welch's standing in
Betty's eyes.

“
Old
barn street, right?” asked Richard, prompting Betty for directions
while Liza smouldered in acute embarrassment.

“
Old
silo.” Betty corrected as the headlights reflected off white lines
dashed down the road littered with tree leaves which had come off a
tree reluctant to shed its autumn attire despite the snowfall which
had touched it not too long ago.

“
Well, you should give it a try some night,” Liza at last said
as they turned down her street, so bright with moonlight and street
lamps that the headlights scarcely mattered. “You're as cranky as a
wet cat.”

Betty pursed her lips. “Maybe I would tumble one of them if
he was even worth the effort to curl my hair.”

“
Whoa, wait. What is this all about?” asked Welch as they
stopped in front of Betty's house.

“
She
wants to know which boat is rocking her dinghy and which one won't
dump her out to ocean when they're through,” Liza said, as though
the answers were painfully obvious to everyone involved, but her
face fell when Welch grew solemn.