Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 (8 page)

“Well, they gave her the treatment. I saw her after the implant. A zombie.

“She’d started sculpting again, pot-bellied Hotei, some god of good fortune. Fat lotta good. Anyway, one day the study nurse visited her shed and observed that Darlene’s epicranial twitched. Darlene told her it wasn’t anything Botox couldn’t paralyze, but the study nurse said, ‘Posh!’ Next day, they zapped her.

“What I think is, those knife-happy neuro-
surgeons want their recipe approved pronto, but you study guys and gals don’t fizzle out fast enough. What do ya think about that?”

“I dunno,” I say.

Wally pushes a carton across the counter. “Have a nice day,” he says.

It’s creepy about Darlene. Also it’s distressing. Because sculpting Hotei is welding-tofu, welding-light compared to the jalopy autopsies Aida and I do.

I floor it to the Spirit Shop and buy a box of Liebfraumilch that’s big as a Buick battery then peel out until I find a remote spot surrounded by old elms, funnel in some wheat germ oil and suck the stuff straight from the spout. Back in the shed, I write “safety goggles” across the bag the wine’s shrouded in and set it on the workbench.

The next day, the fume extractor is in the shed and two new skull caps. A row of Post-its are stuck up. They say:

Please accept these skull caps as an expression of our vested interest in your safety. Your weldfare (!!) is our utmost concern. But remember, you signed on this study to get treated for disorderly neuron firings from fastening pieces of metal together.
And
so we can get our investigational remedy out of the lab and into sick welders the world over. It’s a laudable sacrifice you make and meritorious service you give to flash fever sufferers everywhere—today, tomorrow, forever.

Which goes to show that Wally knew what he was talking about.

“No way they’re ever deep frying my brain,” says Aida. Her voice is pared down, weak and wavy. “If my ex wins in court, I’m looking at ten years of child support.” She phones the Reverend Francine.

Ohh … kayyy.

We spend the whole day on a Camaro frame—Last Roundup—bending, fitting, brazing, keeping a steady blood-red 1300 degrees, doing a slow roast.

At night, too sweaty and grimy to enjoy our beefed-up Liebfraumilch, we return to our separate trailers. There’s an email from Dad.

Eyes getting worse,
he says.
Blisters ruptured like hot salt rubbed into each baby blue, so I applied raw potatoes. How should I know vegetables contain infectious bacteria? Cure super expensive. How’s the study going? Any way to earn bonus pay?

Will inquire,
I reply.
How’s Larry?

Barks a lot. Can’t see to scoop his poop. Neighbors mad. Fines piling up. How’re you?

Homesick,
I reply.

Dad’s fifty-something. The week before I signed up for the study, he looked at his arc with a number eight dark lens, mistaking it for a number fourteen, and burned his eyes like a sunburn on the skin. The lubricant drops his doctor prescribed were soothing until blisters swelled up on his eyeballs. Mostly he’s okay, except for the scar tissue that causes blindness.

Why raw potatoes? Why not cold cloths?

Next morning a study doctor, meaty Parker Pinkley is in the shed and offers to take me out for coffee.

Upstart. Vexer.

“I like coffee, too,” says Aida.

“Boy talk,” Pinkley says. “Boy-girl talk next time.”

He red lines his golf cart to the back of the parking lot and lets it idle.

“You’ll be getting an extra check this week,” he says as he pours coffee from a thermos and passes a styrofoam cup to me. “Overtime pay.”

“Thanks,” I say.

“The money’s for picking up Aida’s slack. How is Aida? Any symptoms? Tremors? Impaired reflexes? You’re actually helping her by telling me.”

I’m not about to steer into that skid since, for weeks, Aida’s been ranting about Ex, her former welder-husband who used to wear tee-shirts on the job and won a Darwin Award after infrared exposure caused severe gastritis and poor sperm quality. Now that he’s a stay-at-home dad for their son Thad, he wants a divorce and custody with alimony on top.

“Nein,” I say. “Aida’s good.”

“And pigs fly,” he says. “You’d probably drool over the Emperor’s new clothes, too. I read your reports, yet Aida leaves the shed early while you stay late. Also, scuttlebutt has it the notorious Reverend Francine’s been here making long distance calls to glory.”

I pour powdered milk into my cup, stir.

“I get it,” he says, “you fancy her. You only want what’s best for her. What if what’s best for her is to let us deliver electrical jolts and cure every primary and secondary symptom she has? For grant funds to continue, for participants to get paid, we must implant wires inside brains. And our vibes tell us Aida’s ripe for treatment.

“You do want our pioneering work to press on, right? Of course you do. And the bonus bucks will keep on, too. Just verify our hunch about Aida. Soon. On your next report.”

He unscrews a bottle of flavoring, nougat, and tips the neck in my direction.

“Please,” I say.

He fills my cup till the thick syrup runneth over.

In the shed, Aida sips Liebfraumilch laced with E. “What did peckerhead want?’ she says. “Are you getting the stimulator?”

“No.”

“Did he ask you on another date? Even though he’s married!? Does he believe in plural marriage?”

“No.”

“Does he want to ask me on a date? A subterranean medulla oblongata date? Does he suspect?”

I say nothing.

“That dick breath scum face!” she says.

“Pinkley says informers saw you leaving the shed early and getting visits from the Rev. He wants me to report you so the team can mend your upper story basal ganglia.”

I tap the box wine spout.

“Time to call the Angel Communicator,” she says.

We clink Liebfraumilchs, grazing each other’s rough welder’s hands. I go to hug her. She sees me coming and totters away.

Next day, I go to the shed and find no fume extractor. No Post-it.

Aida wobbles in looking withered as a peach stone. “The mirrors in my trailer are the worst quality,” she says, and flicks the Liebfraumilch spout.

I follow suit.

“The Reverend Francine’s coming,” she says. Her voice sounds chapped.

All morning we lap-joint turbocharger brackets. In the afternoon we weld exhaust systems until Aida’s quivers speed up and she stops to rest.

No study nurse comes in.

About an hour before the end of our shift, we hear pounding on our door as if a refugee’s out there. In walks a welder, in full ppg; he heads for the back of our shed and whisks off his mask. It’s the Reverend Francine.

After the Rev adjusts her transmitter, after she moves her fingers to her Adam’s apple, ears and throat for internal receiving, she tells Aida, “Sorry, wrong number” a few times before, at last, she claps her hands and says, “Ah yes, good. Fire release.” Next, the Rev pulls from her pocket a pen, paper and a pair of metal tongs. She has Aida write down her dilemma then twists the paper into a taper, which she clamps with the tongs and tells Aida to ignite with her arc. As the paper burns, the Rev says, “Ask the angels of fire to purify your mind, body and emotions of your pickle and release you from it. Now drop the charred paper into that mug of Liebfraumilch.”

That night I email my report: No, None, Negative.

That same night, I get another email from Dad.

Bad news,
he says.
Tried some “get the red out” and burned my eyes worse. Doc says I need the red in for more blood flow and oxygen. Doc says crying helps. I’m a grown welder! What’s Doc been shootin up? Braille starts soon as I pay the deposit. Not cheap. Also, somebody bumped off Larry. That’s okay by me since I need a seeing eye dog on the double! Last week! Don’t reply till I get voice-mail on your computer. Downpayment’s a thou.

In bed, I can’t sleep so I recite the list of secondary symptoms: depression, dementia, decreased motor skills, memory loss. Forgetting sounds good to me. Worrying about Dad, Aida, Larry won’t cure the sick or revive the dead.

My responsibility is to keep my cash flow positive, keep my arc burning bright, keep my fume intake to a minimum. Getting depressed about bills could cause a decrease in my welding skills, which could affect my cash flow negatively, especially if the study nurse ever shows up.

I continue to recite the secondary symptoms, but as I do, I write each malady on a piece of paper that I twist into a taper for burning to ash in the morning, all except memory loss, a symptom I hold dear, like a gift, like a treatment that works.

Next day is the day I order supplies from Wally. I go to the shed to make a list.

“About the Reverend Francine yesterday,” Aida says, “wasn’t she incendiary? You don’t think any observers saw through her disguise, do you?” Her oaky voice is back, giving me the shivers.

“Nah,” I say, then I arc my malady list, ask the angels for purification and instantly feel a flash of relief.

I squeal the golf cart to the Aluminum Plate. Wally’s behind the counter and looks up when I walk in. “I heard everybody in aerobatic airplane repairs got treated,” he says. “That’s four welders zapped, zombied, zeroed, every one.”

In the Spirit Shop, I stock up on half a dozen boxes of Liebfraumilch, each the size of a Jag twelve-cylinder. I gun it to my remote spot surrounded by old elms, slosh in soy, bran and lima bean oils and suck the goo straight from the spout.

Back in the shed, I write “gauntlet gloves” across the sacks I bury the wine in and set them on the workbench.

At night, thumping noises come from the women’s trailer—it has to be Aida, she’s the only female still living there. Another bump and then a wail. The wailing gets louder followed by a crash; possibly her difficulty negotiating turns has progressed to ramming into walls.

I knock on her door, but she says she’s fine.

I can’t sleep so I phone Dad.

“How’s your vision?” I ask.

“Completely lost,” he says. “I’m part mole. Other than that, I’m good, except, well, I need cash for Braille, plus glass eyes. Patches, dark glasses are pass
é
in blind world.”

“I’ll call you in two days,” I say.

From Aida’s trailer comes more wailing, crashing, ramming.

In the morning, there’s no fume extractor, but there is a Post-it from Aida.

Had to leave for a while
.
The Reverend Francine experienced muscle rigidity after her last visit. Who’d have guessed? I’m at the clinic raising an angelic umbrella over her to ward off paralysis. Then to the lawyers’ to fight Ex for custody. Cover for me, will ya? This one last time? If the study nurse comes in, say I’m on sick leave—ha ha.

I tie my skullcap over my nose and mouth and spend half a day tee-jointing the roll-cage on a Gran Torino, Terminate You. In the afternoon, the door to the shed opens. It’s Aida looking like a sleepwalker with watery puffy eyes. She’s wearing an ankle-length moo-moo hoodie. A cloak? Under one arm is a brass cylinder.

Aida in meditation attire in the shed? No ppg?

“It’s final,” she says in a new voice as if she has a cleft palate. “My ex got custody of Thad, I got every other Saturday. I also got this.” She holds up the cylinder.

“Those ex’s,” I say.

She sets the cylinder on the workbench, finds a fresh box of medicated Liebfraumilch, squirts a long stream of the stuff and offers me the nozzle.

“Later,” I say as she gulps down what’s in her mouth and releases a fresh flow.

While I finish welding the engine mount I’d been working on, Aida fastens the cylinder to the shed wall. “The Rev told me this spinning prayer wheel sends blessings in the ten directions.”

“Ten?” I say. But Aida has passed out.

I bunch a pair of coveralls under her head for a pillow and send her weld messages, Let’s be rabbits. Your hutch or mine? though she’s deaf to my love telepathy. I plant a kiss on her dusty cheek then get to work clearing the shed of every mount on the schedule for today.

In vocational school, my best pal Zubin turned into a letch, a compulsive butt-squeezer. The beauty school girls complained so the principal threatened to expel my friend. On a Friday I invited Zubin over for a box of therapeutic Liebfraumilch. Halfway through the carton, he owned up that no girl would ever fall for him and he felt justified in pawing any female he took a shine to. That’s when I summoned my cousin Mona (who liked to brag her favorite flavor was scrotum) to help us kill the rest of our box. After that, Zubin never groped another voc co-ed.

Enhanced Liebfraumilch, Zubin and Mona are why I can’t report Aida, so once again I submit: No, None, Negative.