Black Locust Letters

by Nicolette Jinks

  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.

  She watched him. “Richard?”

  “Truth is, Lizzy, I ask myself that much more than I care to admit. But you've gotta make your choice and stand by it, and hope against all else that you've done the right thing.”

  This wasn't what Liza had expected to hear. She stared blankly at the shifting map on the dashboard. Betty got out of the car, and Welch called after her, “Yo, Blazing Betty.”

  She looked at him, at the way he'd pulled Liza flush to him, and the way his finger tapped the steering wheel.

  “You've gotta play the game, girl. You've got to show them that you're the queen and you can move any direction you damn well please.”

  Betty could only nod.

  Welch left in a cloud of blue - burning oil and gas.

  She watched as they turned down the next street, his words weighing heavy on her chest. Betty held her nose as she trudged up her steps.

  She got out her keys, then shrieked when she saw what the men from the club had done.

  Chapter 22

  The neighbour's blanket draped over her shoulders but Betty trembled anyway where she sat on the door stoop, watching as her neighbour's husband conferenced with the policemen, one a twitchy young buck and the other a slow man who seemed to enjoy his maple bars too much. They motioned to the door, their hands cutting in and out of light from the squad car's headlights.

  “It will be fine,” said Geri soothingly, but Betty could tell the woman was alarmed, perhaps even concerned that this happened on their street.

  The officers had already taken down her information and said they'd report the vandalism to her landlord. A third officer, someone specializing in robberies, came to Geri and Betty and said, “All's clear. No sign of any other damage.”

  “We will send someone by to take photographs for the report in the next day or two, not sure when we will get the camera back from the pack rat,” said one officer. “We've taken down your statement. We'll tell the patrol to drive down the street, but it looks like it's your typical bored kids out past curfew. Rockabillies, probably. Nothing to worry over.”

  Geri's lips tightened but the woman nodded. “We will watch, too.”

  “Sorry I can't do more,” he said. The officers climbed into their two cars. Doors shut, then they left. Geri did, as well, and Betty trembled as she opened her door.

  “What was that fuss over?”

  Betty jumped, then her face flushed with rage as she saw Clarkin standing at her gate.

  “Decapitaria Hannah,” Betty said in the same stiff way she'd read the officer's name plates. “Convenient timing.”

  “The flashing lights got my attention. What happened? I was worried about you.”

  “I don't know what happened. If I knew what happened, I wouldn't have called the police!” Betty's voice rose, shrill almost, and Clarkin gathered her up in his arms before she could object. His hands were in her hair, soothing, and Betty rejected his comforts by yanking away. She twisted her door open and scrambled to light a lamp, but her hands shook too much, and soon Clarkin's steady fingers held a match to the lantern just inside the door and it flared to life.

  “There!” she said, pointing.

  On her door, a yard in diameter, was a newly painted 'X', red and dripping. Words or symbols appeared in each segment but Betty couldn't read it, and when Clarkin knelt before it, there wasn't any recognition on his face, either. Betty felt a surge of disappointment. He dipped a finger to a wet glob and brought it to his lips.

  Betty watched him, horrified yet hoping he could tell her, one way or the next, what he knew.

  “Not blood.” He stood up. “Unfortunately.”

  “Unfortunately?” Betty echoed, not believing the word. “Why unfortunately?”

  “Because if it was blood, I'd know what to make of it.”

  “It's not paint, either, doesn't smell right.”

  “Is it ink, perhaps?” Clarkin shut the door and turned to her. “Come, you're shivering.”

  Betty led him instinctively to the kitchen—it was her primary room and she wasn't thinking about any other implications as she tried to build a fire in the stove to take the chill off the room.

  “Let me,” Clarkin whispered and directed her to sit nearby on the bed. A glass of sherry was soon pressed into her hands, and she scarcely touched it as he built her a fire, then sat on the floor at her feet.

  “Why do you care?” Betty asked at last, her voice scratchy and her eyes puffy.

  “I care about many things. To which are you referring?”

  She took the attempt at levity as mocking. “About me.”

  His gaze slid to her knees, brimming with an intensity that made her guilty for asking. “Ever since we've met, I've had this feeling that you were special, that we are made for each other.”

  Betty crossed her arms and swallowed hard. “Do you mean that, or is it just to make me drop my guard?”

  Clarkin cocked his head thoughtfully. “If I wanted to make you drop your guard, I wouldn't do it like this. Besides, I startled you tonight; I could have done any nefarious deeds then.”

  Betty ignored both the jab and the intentional misinterpretation. “Then how would you drop my guard, huh?”

  Clarkin got to his knees and put his hands on her bed, putting him at the same level
as her. “What is all this?”

  “If you don't want to hear my voice, I'll silence myself.”

  Those amber eyes closed in a voiceless groan, then he took her hand and pulled her close while she stiffened in defiance.

  He murmured, “Even I must say things which are not true.”

  She opened her mouth to disagree, and he eased his lips on hers in a kiss. For a second, she tensed, furious with the volume of words which wanted to be released. But he knew what she wanted to say, and she knew that saying them would do no good, and so she returned his kiss with a kiss that lasted until the dull snap of kindling transformed into a rumbling fire which cast flickering light out through cracks in the grate. All her doubts and questions were silenced by the time her bogart came out to the kitchen and threw a tantrum over his empty yogurt spoon. In response, Clarkin threw a shoe, and then the night was again quiet.

  Betty slapped her alarm clock, tucking her arm back under the covers quickly, relishing the heat and snuggling down in the blankets against the warm wall. An arm draped around her waist and a nose pressed into her hair, breathing in deeply. Next to her, Clarkin smacked his lips and drew her flush against him. Betty surrendered to the attention until she felt something prodding the side of her thigh. Betty snickered and tried to wriggle out of the covers.

  “You're shaking the bed,” said Clarkin, his eyes still shut and hands not releasing her yet.

  “I have to get to work.”

  An eye cracked open, and he kissed her neck. “But we are having such a pleasant morning.”

  Betty shook her head. “I can't believe I let you stay.”

  “You didn't.” He ran a hand down the side of her still-clothed body. “I tried to get away. Really, I did.”

  Betty snorted. “I see you didn't escape during the night.”

  “And leave without saying farewell?” He clutched at his chest.

  Betty slipped out of bed, scrambling beneath it for where she stashed her work clothes. “Clearly your intentions were purely innocent.”

  “Innocence is lost with experience, my dear.”

  That shouldn't have been thrilling, but it put a fresh blush on her face. “And your reason for not taking advantage last night?”

  “I don't want to take advantage of you.” He leaned back, eyes drifting up her form. “I want you to take advantage of me.”

  Betty dropped her stockings, then hastened to take her outfit with her to the shower in order to get away from his admiring laughter. When she came back out, Clarkin had coffee, eggs, and toast ready. Though they didn't have long, Betty couldn't resist talking to him animatedly while they ate.

  “I'll see you after work?” It was a half-question, half-statement, and only after she said it did she realize how it sounded.

  Clarkin didn't answer.

  Damn, they'd told her, they'd all told her. She'd been too eager. She swallowed a lump in her throat.

  Then the silence took on another meaning.

  Betty stopped trying to get her shoe on. “You are going.”

  Clarkin cupped her cheek, his face straight.

  “How long?”

  “I don't know how long. But if you ask it of me, I will be careful.”

  Betty's hand shook as she touched his, then leaned into it. “Come home. Please.”

  He kissed her knuckles. “Am I yours?”

  Betty hesitated, saw the pain in his eyes, and shook her head. “No. I'm yours.”

  Chapter 23

  What had come over her to make her say that? Betty demanded of herself midway through the show for the thousandth time. What had made her say that? She didn't know one way or another who she even was, neverminding tying herself into a relationship.

  But as angry as her scolding was, her voice told an altogether different story, coming across the air as glowing and loving. She felt alive, as though she'd just gotten out of a hot spring, and she couldn't keep a grin off her face. In the break room, while she got coffee, Liza found her, wide-eyed.

  “I heard about your house, what—” she broke off when Betty faced her, still with the traces of a smile on her face. Liza blinked in alarm. “Either you're broken or you had a visitor.”

  “Oh, hush.”

  “Who?”

  “No one of consequence.”

  “Betty.”

  The grin broke free once more. “He gave me a token.” Betty pulled a chain from beneath her shirt, revealing a short brown feather.

  Liza's mouth fell open. “You didn't. Did you?”

  “No,” Betty said and sighed. “He's gone on a mission. I think it's dangerous.”

  Liza put an arm around her. “He'll be fine. There's nothing you can do but wait.”

  Betty froze. There was something she could do. When she went back on the air, she looked at the last song and noted it was an obscure title, by people who no one had heard of yet. They wouldn't know if she made an honest mistake about the singers.

  “Welcome back. That was Mary Billbury with Dance Girl, Rae Robin's Ladida, and Stealing the Bell by Exica and Loti. Continuing on a discussion in the break room, have you ever had an annoying neighbour? Most of mine are pretty great, but this one lady's got a bird I always hear screeching. Not a terrible neighbourhood, I know, but then there's the three o'clock ambulance run. I think it comes our way daily for gas, every day at three. Anyway, here's hoping we will hear more from Exica and Loti. Maybe they'll get together with Mary Billbury, what do you say?”

  So it was clumsy. She'd done better as an intern, but she was nervous hoping that her message got through.

  If Slim's face when she met him on the ride home from the market was any indication, her message had indeed gotten through—to both parties. He stood in the center of the sidewalk, and she stopped to meet him.

  “Who keyed your car?” she asked, making a show of looking surprised—which she was, Betty hadn't expected to see him until tonight at the earliest, though it was getting close to dusk, it was only four-thirty and if things had gone down at three...

  “You warned them.”

  “Warned who?”

  “Don't you lie to me.”

  “What happened?”

  “Ambush.”

  Betty sniffed. “You're saying you lost.”

  He glowered at her. Betty said roughly, “It isn't my watch to train your men. If they weren't trained right, it's not my fault. Did I sabotage your message, James, did I?”

  Slim looked humbled. He crossed his arms. “How do I know you didn't wave talk for them?”

  “Have you seen my house? Did you see what they did? How could you think I—?”

  She made herself cry at this point, and let Slim comfort her while Clarkin's words ran through her mind: Even I must say things which are not true.

  And suddenly she shared in Welch's worry. Had she picked the boat which would abandon her when it was done?

  Chapter 24

  A week later, halfway through Betty's second cup of coffee trying to relax on her day off, she heard the steady stamp of boots in the street and a voice calling, “Left, left. Left, right, left.”

  It got closer and closer. Betty tossed a cape over her shoulders and went to the window where the marching heartbeat grew louder and louder. She tugged the curtain aside and saw the foremost unit jog past her house, a perfect unison of bobbing heads and swinging legs over the blacktop, made visible by the early light of the morning sun.

  Betty clutched her coffee, shaking as the first unit ended and a second one began. There was no doubt in her mind where they were going, there was one destination down this road and it wasn't a standard marching loop. They were going to the troop transport center where they stored the vehicles.

  Keys in hand, Betty opened the door, saw a bleary eyed neighbour doing likewise, and upon seeing the two of them, more doors opened and all the ladies of their side of the street converged together in a worried cluster. No soldier turned his head, but Betty knew that many of them watched.

  “What
is happening? Are we at war?” Betty asked, remembering how Clarkin had left.

  Geri was the one who answered. “No. It's PCE time.”

  “PCE?”

  “Pre-Conflict Evaluation.”

  “Our troops are the first ones out,” said one of the other ladies.

  “As always,” muttered another.

  Betty bit her lip. “But what is pre-war evaluation?”

  “Spies, war games, who knows? They go. We watch. And wait. And some of us have jobs to do, but only if we can hold up under the pressure. Like we all should. We're military wives, tougher than most ladies, right?”

  There was a murmured assent. Betty's stomach churned over. “But it's not...it's not as dangerous as open conflict, is it?”

  A silence passed between them. Geri said, “Betty, they're secret. This base is secret. We're secret. If it ever gets out, they have ways of confining it again. Our men go, but there's no way to know who will return. Or when.”

  Betty felt sick at the thought and of the possibilities which Geri did not express but Betty knew she intended. But the women were watching, and Betty wasn't one of them. Not a military wife, not yet, and she knew in her gut that they were watching her and marking down her reactions on a mental score sheet. These women should not find her wanting, if she wanted to be counted amongst their number.

  “I think, I...I have something which I need to do. Excuse me.”

  Two steps down the street, Betty remembered that she hadn't even shut her door in her haste, and went back to lock it. The wives gathered together talking, and children were ignored then all at once embraced. Confused infants cried and their mothers had no patience for it. Then she continued as usual, her mind in utter turmoil and her nerves in shatters.

  Betty walked through the park, walking so long she found her way along a shrub lined path which led off to the cemetery. Two people she knew stood a ways off from each other, clearly there for the same purpose: To speak with Betty.

  How word got around so fast, Betty could not fathom, though she suspected it had something to do with Never Weres, and she was correct in that matter. However, if she thought she could guess the meaning behind the visit from her guests, she was wrong.