Black Locust Letters (8 page)

She'd been pondering those words ever since, and without
context of any sort, they made no more sense now than they had
while she shook sugar into tea in the frantic few minutes of paid
advertisements pouring through the radio speakers.

Misery sank in again, and she took all the letters out of her
drawer and laid them on the mattress on the floor in the warmest
corner of her home. The titles were each different, though the
address was the same. One was written to Her Grace. Another to Her
Sweet Voice. Yet another to Her Tender Smile.

No
one had ever spoken to Betty like this. She found the ribbon made
of a farmer’s baling twine, and she slowly untied the square knot.
She put the twine beside her knee, settled the pounding in her
heart, the worry that whatever was written inside was less than
complimentary, and she opened the top fold of the
letter.

A
steady hand wrote:

To
The Swell of My Song:
I know not if my advances are
welcome, but it is my intention to make your sun gleam brighter. It
is my desire to make the hardships of toil and labor lighter with
my every deed. I...

Betty stopped reading.

Everyone knows no good comes from the deeds of a devil. Even
if she didn't think that the writer was a devil, but rather some
other race that never was. Betty frowned.

It was
impossible to continue this way. She stayed up late at nights,
finding the words to be wary of, spent her mornings being paranoid
until the day she had to know what was going on, and she was
determined that day would start today.

The
day was too fine, brisk yet but beautiful, for anyone else to be
indoors—even the librarian read outside. For Betty's part, she was
happy or perhaps relieved to have no witnesses to the way she read
through one paper then the next, grateful for their careful
preservation, if banal content.

First clues were in Steven Meyers' Nature Watching column,
and after six months she followed a duck recipe over to Mike Cady's
A Woman's Guide to Her Oven column. Before three weeks were up on
that, though, the editor ceased that column citing factual
inconsistencies. Betty thought they may use a hunting tips series,
but by the end of the second month, she decided the code was either
very clever, or just non-existent.

Betty threw the last paper down,
annoyed, and tried not to think of the letters in her purse, the
letters that might contain clues if she were willing to break the
seal, but what would be the cost?

The
next evening, when she should have been grumbling to herself about
working the morning shift after attending an evening convention,
Betty found herself thinking about Clarkin and That Woman. With a
mind to spiting Clarkin's fickleness, she dressed in a simple black
dress, one with a tulle-edged swing skirt which came about her
knees and was lace from the sweetheart neckline up, a
semi-transparent affair which would have been forbidden by her
father if he had known. That Woman had seemed so dominant, so
aggressive, and perhaps a bit older than him. Maybe that was the
sort of woman he respected, preying on the girl-next-door for his
kicks.

Betty flinched, not sure why she'd been so quick to think the
absolute worst of him. He certainly hadn't earned it, not
yet.

With
a glance to her watch, she realized she had best hurry. Right then,
a taxi honked two quick beeps, and Betty ran out to it. Tonight she
was co-hosting with Richard Welch, the night time charmer who often
joked himself with the tagline incubus, but Betty wasn't sure if
that was a political comment on the Never Weres or not. Ever since
she had started at Tango Lima Romeo, he had given her the cold
shoulder. She'd assumed it was because he was cut from the same
mould as Mr. Gresley.

At
the Town Hall, in a crowd of military black and blues and the
wives' finest gowns, Betty had no time to spare a second thought
about anything except work and staying awake. She stood in one of
the premium booths by the entrance, a rudimentary recording studio
set up around her and her co-host, the evening show Richard Welch,
a man with a throaty voice and booming character which was
completely at odds with his church mouse stature and big
boggle-eyes.

“
We
are here at Sanctuary Town Hall, raising awareness and funds for
war orphans still being uncovered by humanitarians,” he said.
“Please, if you are out on the town tonight, come on by! Admission
is free, but we suggest a dollar a person donation at the door. We
have lots of activities here tonight.”

When
he nodded to Betty, she said, “The organizers have bobbing for
apples, a cake walk, caramel apple dipping, face painting,
pin-the-tail-on-the-goblin, and kelpie basketball. Come soon to
place your bets, all money goes straight to the War Orphan funds.
We're only at twelve percent so far, so bring your friends, bring
your parents, bring a date!”

“
And
remember that our sweet Betty is going to be hosting you again in
the early morning hours, so make the most of her, folks! We're
here, we're jiving, and now it's time for a throwback to some
twenties hot sauce.”

With
that, Richard put his sounds together and let it play. Betty sighed
and leaned back in her chair, not used to sharing a hosting slot
with Richard. He dug a cigarette out of his coat pocket and took a
drag. “Perk up, sweet cheeks. You sound tired, and the boys want
none a that. They want a fresh-faced gal they can score with
tonight. Get your act together.”

Betty scoffed. “It's time for me to be in bed. I wake up at
four, you know, so people have something to listen to during their
commute to the first shift at five.”

“
Ain't no man who will take you to bed before nine, honeybuns,
and he'd keep you up until well past now, if he was worth his
salt.”

Betty kept a sour look from her face. “Ain't no woman who
will stay awake until your shift ends, lest she be a
handkerchief-throwing hussy.”

“
Got
my love life damn right, hunny. And I got yours pegged, too.” He
paused to relight his cigarette. “Unless...but nah, you're the
straight and narrow sort. No point even mentioning it to
you.”

“
Mentioning what?”

He
lifted a brow, shrugged, and said, “Listen, darling, we both got
strange schedules. Hell, there ain't more than ten humans who keep
our hours, and I know every one of them. I've been doing my slot a
long time. Long, long time. There ain't no woman who I like to keep
round me. But there is the alternative lifestyle. Makes for
company.”

“
What do you mean?” Betty asked, but she thought she already
knew exactly what he was talking about.

“
Ah,
forget about it. I'll tell you next time they think to stick their
favorite hosts together. Might be sometime in the spring, maybe
sooner, sometime during the holidays.”

They
paused to thank people who came to stuff money into a can with the
picture of a teary-eyed little girl on it, and amid all the hands,
suddenly a familiar grey-brown coat sleeve tucked a fifty into the
pot, and Richard Welch jumped up to make a fuss over him, pumping
his hand up and down viciously and exclaiming what a good sort of
man he was. “What is your name, my good man? Let us put you on the
record.”

Clarkin's head towered over Richard's, and he looked like his
usual self in his brown suit, white shirt, and candid smile. His
amber eyes locked on Betty's baby blues, and her breath caught. The
smile changed to something more welcoming and she blushed
furiously. “Thank you, but I prefer to remain
anonymous.”

“
If
that's how you'd like it, sir, but thank you again,” said
Richard.

Suddenly, Betty was so overwrought with nerves that she
couldn't think, not even after the Never Were had turned and left
them to watch a child doing the cake walk. All at once, she felt as
though she were floundering for any semblance of manners while she
just gaped.

Richard elbowed her. “What a man! An alternative, sure, but
that doesn't mean you gotta give him the second-degree. Who do you
suppose he was?”

Betty swallowed. “Decapitaria Clarkin Hannah. Aerial
Battalion.”

“
You know him?” Richard turned to face her,
then let out a long whistle. “You
know
him—baby girl, you and I have
gotta talk, next break.
And welcome back.
Our Lovely little Betty Boo Cratchet from the morning show is here
with me tonight at the Town Hall, where we are raising money for
the War Orphans Fund...”

Was
it just her, or did Richard sound happier now that he'd discovered
her little secret?

Wait, when had Clarkin become a secret?

Betty was so flustered she lost herself in her own words. To
hear herself being repeated on the radio in the distance made her
think that she had taken the drunken plunge into the Tempest River
during the Autumn Moon Carnival. Distantly, she knew that somewhere
in the Town Hall, Clarkin was listening to her stumble over words,
and he knew that he was the cause of it.

After some good-natured bantering, their talk section was
finally over, but the hosts didn't have the time to discuss
anything else. Their song and commercial breaks were taken up
greeting fans and thanking donors.

After seeing Clarkin, Betty had thought that the worst could
have possibly happened, and she anxiously wondered if she'd see him
again, or if he had come expressly to see her despite her
dismissals, and if so what he hoped to gain by it.

She
was so caught up in it that when she saw another fifty go into the
can, she half-expected it to be Clarkin again. But this time, the
sleeve was blue, and as her eyes followed the sleeve up to the
yellow rope epaulette, she realized with growing horror that the
night had just gotten worse.

Slim
stood before her.

Her
heart stopped its irregular pattering entirely and her jaw dropped
as he ignored Richard's praises and proffered hand. He took
Betty's, bringing it up for a kiss.

“
Good evening my dear. Welshie, play us something slow, would
you?”

Then
he half-pulled, half-led Betty out from around the safety of the
booth, and she let him even as her mind screamed at her to object,
to yank her hand away, anything. But there was a steely glint to
Slim's brown eyes, and a set to his jaw which would brook no
opposition, least of all in a public place like this night. So she
went, and next she knew, she was hand-in-hand with her former
fiancé, and he was waltzing with her during jazz, a sign that
Richard Welch hadn't taken well to the cavalier
attitude.

When
Slim came close to her, he breathed in her ear, “You haven't
responded to my letters.”

Were
the letters from him? She stumbled, then recalled that they
couldn't be, not since she knew his handwriting so well. Even when
he tried to write better, it was still chicken scratch. And she had
gotten other notes from him, not that she'd read them.

“
I
burned them.”

Slim's stride checked. “You never opened them?”

Betty glanced at where she had last seen Clarkin, but he
wasn't there. Move forward, don't let him drag you into the past,
she told herself.

“
What do you want to say to me, James? What brought you
here?”

Slim
grimaced. James had been his father's name, and he hated it, and
Betty knew this all too well. She didn't want him to like her. All
the better if she could make him annoyed.

“
Your father invites you to attend dinner. Bearing in mind
your schedule, he has arranged it for three-thirty coffee and cake.
The Brick Oven.”

Betty stopped the dance. “Very well, you've told
me.”

“
Can
I tell your father you will meet us there?”

“
You
can tell him whatever you wish, but I haven't made up my mind yet.”
Before he could drag on the conversation, Betty turned on her heel
and returned to the radio booth while the next song was ending, her
slight heels clacking through the hubbub.

“
You
all right?” Richard asked, but she didn't have time to reply before
they went back on the air. She repeated a few more lines, including
the activities and a report on their goal, up to fifty percent now,
and by the time Richard ended the section with his wit and charm,
Betty was starting to overcome her shocks.

A
temporary lull came to the admittance, so Richard prompted, “Hannah
and Slim Jim, in one night.”

The
chill was back in his voice again.

Betty said, “James and I were engaged. Years ago, when I was
working for Alpha Bravo Charlie. I was naive then, and he was
charming. I left James and started working here. Hannah has been
kind to me, perhaps too kind. I don't want a repeat of what
happened at Alpha.”

Richard's face relaxed and a dawning of sorts crossed over
his features. “Ah, that explains matters. When you first moved
here, I said you'd be no good because you were an Alpha. But if you
were jumping off that ship...”

Betty rubbed her forehead. “I don't know what I'm going to
do.” Then she told him about her father's and Slim's invitation,
and Richard grew solemn. She didn't know why she'd told him, he was
just right there at the right time, and the songs were
long.