Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 (7 page)
Read Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 Online
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
Tags: #LCRW, #fantasy, #zine, #Science Fiction, #historical, #Short Fiction
It’s true, I’m a little dizzy, but not falling over; not that I’m whining: where would that get me?—in the Toxicologist’s office, that’s where, so I recite, “When welding’s lethal, use asbestos-free electrodes.”
I’m crouching, sparks flying, the glow of super heat lighting up the space around me, wondering if a study nurse will stop by. Up to now, no nurse has donned a mask and sampled the fumes. Aida Blue’s having sudden freezing spells and threatening to call the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, which is against study rules and, well, frankly, worries me.
“Howard,” Aida says during a thaw, “I don’t so much mind the manganese in the air, but I might’ve caught a neurodegenerative disease.”
How am I supposed to feel about that? Aida’s ailing scares me. Though what she truly believes is that her stiff arms and legs are passing and that by guinea pigging we’re not only getting paid plenty, we’re also helping all welders all over. I hope she’s right. Because this study’s a lung-buster. Every day we enter the shed, put on our personal protective gear, our ppg (steel-toe boots, skullcaps, stout jeans, gauntlet gloves, goggles, hoods with the two-color lenses, earplugs) and doctor race cars: Barracudas, Mustangs, Firebirds, that variety, with monikers like Banshee, Belly Up, Burn in Hell.
At least our shed has a fume extractor, which is better than others. Some welders catch metal fever from breathing the mist of vaporized lead, nickel, chromium. Before Aida incurred gait disturbances, before she lost the knack of her ultraviolet welding smile, we’d visit the Alaska Pipeline shed for fish fries. Best grilled salmon this side of Wind Gap, Kentucky. There was Lamar and Rastas. Lamar had a crush on Darlene, an artist who sculpted Foo Dogs from bronze; one Foo’s foot rested on the world, another’s foot on the belly of a baby Foo to stand for protection. But those sentinels slept on the job because fumes brought on welder’s flash, and the Alaska Pipeliners, their brain signals gone haywire, had zappers implanted by the Toxicologist’s team. Now they’re kaput. But where? “ECU,” Darlene says, “Eternal Care Unit.” After Lamar’s termination, she abandoned her fiery art, and I can’t sleep at night for fretting I’ll go to the shed and find no fume extractor.
Today I go to the shed and there’s no fume extractor. In its place is a Post-it:
Don’t get your stout jeans in a wad
.
The fume extractor’s coming back. Keep your pants on.
Here’s our predicament: how are we supposed to breathe while torching the innards of a Pinto—Up in Smoke—?
Aida shuffles over from the women’s trailer, a welding rod stuttering in her hand.
“Is the extractor missing?” she says.
“It’s right in front of you,” I say.
“My foot,” she says. “I’m calling the Reverend Francine.”
I put on my gauntlet gloves and hand her a pair.
“Why are you wearing those?” she says. “Is your helmet next? Is this some sort of ritual to appease the great Toxicologist? What would we do on a real job if there wasn’t a fume extractor? We’d strike. Where the hell’s that extractor?”
I shuck my gloves and toss them on the floor beside a Vega, Snuff You Out. “Maybe they replaced it with personal respirators,” I say. I check. Nothing.
“Son of a gun,” Aida says. “I’m going to see the Toxicologist and tell him no fume extractor, no welding.”
Scratch that. We both know she won’t. Instead she calls the Reverend and leaves a message then hands over a skull cap to duct tape over my nose and mouth. We both flip down the viewers on our masks and light our torches.
No study nurse stops in, no fume extractor shows up, and pretty soon manganese is punching us in the lungs, which starts Aida coughing till she can’t stop; I get chills and feel queasy. But we keep welding until our corpus callosums seize up.
Aida peels off her ppg and heads for the women’s trailer, her shoulders jerking with each step. “No extractor tomorrow, I vamoose,” she chokes out. “They can’t stop me. You’ll see.”
So many hot rods have to be welded each day so after I square-butt the front suspension on a Bonneville, Buzzard Bait, I finish off Aida’s chassis with a passel of horizontal lap-joints.
In the men’s trailer I wrap myself in two blankets, boil some water for instant decaf then fill out my End-of-the-Workday Medical Report:
While breathing in welding smoke today, did you notice any short-term physical effects? No.
Are there any long-term effects you are beginning to observe in yourself or your co-worker? None.
Is there anything you would like to report to the Toxicologist? Negative.
I click submit and email the report.
In the morning, the fume extractor has not been replaced and there are no individual respirators either. Yesterday’s Post-it is still stuck up. Aida leans against a Nova, Death Rattle, finishing her coffee, each swallow a major workout for her, then she shakes out her filthy skull cap so I beat my filthy cap, too. But we don’t tape them on; we wait.
No study nurse anywhere so Aida phones the Angel Communicator and leaves a message.
Que sera, sera.
An hour goes by before we put on our ppg. Today, using the fusion-only double-butt on a Plymouth, Dirge, we set the current too low for penetration. When Aida turns the juice up, spatter burns our hair since our skullcaps are on our faces; in the moment before the spray lands, Aida strikes me as a wonder, like a bottle rocket, a Roman candle.
She runs a hand through her singed locks and, as she hobbles back to the women’s trailer, I hear her leave another message for the Reverend. I adjust the current to a medium hiss and work on the day’s double-butts until every muscle convulses.
Back in the men’s trailer I rub myself with Ben Gay, head to foot, and make some decaf. On the End-of-the-Workday Medical Report, I type No, None, Negative, click submit.
The next day, the fume extractor’s in the shed. A new Post-it’s stuck up:
Didn’t mean to drown you in inert gasses. But if you’re feeling feeble, we’ve got cutting edge deep brain stimulation. Free. Happy welding!
I turn on the fume extractor. Aida quakes in, sighs when she sees the extractor, shakes out her skull cap, puts it on her head then tugs on the rest of her ppg. She does not once mention the Reverend Francine.
In the afternoon, I high-speed butt-weld window brackets on an Olds, On Ice, and Aida does the same with its seatbelts. When I take a coffee break, Aida finishes all the window brackets. Her way of saying thank you—I always cc her my reports.
No study nurse shows up.
Back when we first started this study, the Reverend Francine, Angel Communicator, made a shed visit.
“The air in here is fetid,” she said.
“That’s the manganese,” Aida said.
“You called?” the Rev said.
“For angel guidance,” Aida said.
First, the Reverend Francine placed her fingertips between her eyes, next her crown, then the back of her head. Pointing one finger, she drew a line connecting the three points to form a triangle. Last, she found a spot above each ear and rested her fingertips there.
“My inner telephone’s ready,” she said.
“I really need the money from this study,” Aida said. “And, sure, I want medical breakthroughs for us welders, but the treatment, if I end up needing it, petrifies me. Should I stay or quit?”
The Rev closed her eyes and placed her fingertips on her Adam’s apple. From throat to ears, she vibrated for a minute before she said, “Angelic vacuum cleaner.”
“Say what?” Aida said.
Eyes still closed, the Rev said, “Visualize angels floating above your head holding vacuum cleaners, suctioning up all the vitriol in here. Aim the nozzle at your body, your mind, your feelings, whatever needs cleaning.”
Aida hummed like a Hoover.
“May the angels watch over you,” the Rev said and left.
“That oughta keep Uriel and Raphael busy,” I said.
“Hmmm-mmm,” Aida said.
“No outside intervention allowed,” I said, then I went to the men’s trailer and submitted my Workday Medical Report: No, None, Negative.
Today’s the day I replenish our welding supplies, for which I’m compensated mucho bucks a month, plus I get away from the shed and the trailer for a change of scenery. When I go to the shed to take inventory, Aida’s in there still Hoovering and walking as if she’s in a trance. I jot down a list.
“Are you restocking supplies?” she asks. “Can you bring me back a bottle of wine? For medical purposes.”
“Yes,” I say. Many bottles. For love purposes, I channel to her.
I’m very fond of Aida. Even though boyfriend-girlfriend liaisons are against regulations. How could I stop myself from falling for a woman who’s not only an arc stunner with the double butt and joint welds, in both the horizontal and the vertical positions, this rascal also telephones angels! Aida says ours is a spiritual friendship. To which I say, Caught on fire! In time, I’ll merge, unite, weld myself to her, I know I will.
Aida Blue’s thirty and has perfect posture, if a bit inflexible; grey pops up in her dark hair like arc strikes; her rich voice sounds smoky and she smells of cilantro; tucked into her stout jeans, tight as a burrito, I can’t keep from noticing her wrinkled crotch, her dungaree-swathed labia. One ogle gets me whistling, “What’s new pussycat? Mee-eee-eee-eee-eee-ooowww!” At times, to stretch out her wine, she spikes it with water—kink-ky. Of course, booze is prohibited on the study, and so is vitamin E, brain shield, but here’s my credo: Don’t ask. Don’t tell.
Off I go to the welding supplies store, my list in hand, keys to my ride, a golf cart, jingling in my pocket. I burn rubber half a mile down a back road to the Aluminum Plate. Wally’s behind the counter. I hand over my list and while he gathers the equipment, he says, “You hear about Darlene, the Foo Dog sculptor? You know her?”
“Sure,” I say. I know Darlene from the Alaskan Pipeline fish fries.