Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 (9 page)

Next day, there’s no fume extractor, but there is a Post-it: From Parker Pinkley:

We’re never returning the fume extractor. Why? Because we did real college, real med school, real internships. While you did what? Got a GED? Ha! On the job training? Instant gratification? Don’t even start in on the virtue of waiting. We wrote that book. We have ORs to maintain. Awards to win. Reps to build. Welding is poisonous. Our maverick state-of-the art techniques work, so: No More Shenanigans. We’re a team—you’re our players, we’re your coaches. Now get out there and weld, solder, braze, breathe, tremble, report.

An end to your buffoonery.

How do you really feel, Parker Pinkley?

All morning Aida does not show up. She’s probably sleeping it off. At lunchtime she weaves into the shed like a drunken Ford Galaxie. I show her the Post-it.

“They’re saying no fume extractor so they can give us the treatment?” she says. She spins the prayer wheel and lets its wind blow over all ten directions of her.

I shrug.

“I’m doddering as it is,” she says.

I nod.

“You reported me, didn’t you?”

I shake my head.

“Thank you!” she says. “You’re the sweetheart of my life. From now on, no more slacking off, no more leaves. I mean it. You’ll see.”

Just then the shed door opens a crack.

“We’re saved,” Aida says. “They were joking.”

But we’re not saved, even though a fume extractor gets shoved through the door. A faux extractor. Stuck on it is a Post-it:

Place this extractor where the study nurse is sure to see it. Regarding research, tie skull caps loosely. Weld, breathe, weld, breathe. Should fumes bring on Parkinson-like symptoms, report immediately for treatment.

I toss the extractor in a corner and Aida sits next to it groaning.

Next day Aida limps in as if her feet are bricks; she’s sober as a tombstone. She spins the prayer wheel.

Together we stare at the rows of radiators we’re to lap-joint, horizontal position. Aida shivers and quavers. I’m putting on my ppg when in walks the study nurse, Nurse Hart. She smells like bad news.

Nurse Hart eyeballs Aida and starts Gatling-gunning her observations—da-dunt, da-dunt, da-dunt—before passing me a Post-it. It’s from Parker Pinkley. He says:

Maybe you think you’re being a friend to Aida—coming to her aida (!!!) But her health has the shelf life of a used electrode. Unless she receives our treatment. Do the right thing. Go to the men’s trailer and send us the truth about her.

So I go to the men’s trailer and get in touch with my inner welder: Angel intercourse, what a flop; inoculated Liebfraumilch, big goose egg; Aida’s going so softer in the brain, she’s nearly crabbing on all fours. So I submit: Yes. Many. Affirmative.

When I return to the shed, Aida and Nurse Hart are gone. Most of Aida’s ppg and the bags of fortified box wine are also gone, carried off like a to-go order. All Aida left behind is a Post-it.

Fuckwad! And to think, I almost fell for you. Glad I found out what a shit you are first. And what about Thad having a zombie for a mommy, huh? I’m telling the Reverend Francine what you did. The Angel Communicator will come phoning for you and she can pack some hellatious devine tidings, jerkface. A cow pox upon you. Aida.

I miss her already, Aida Blue, such a majestic name, the sweetest, scariest woman welder I’ve ever known. I whiff her skull cap to breathe her back to me.

Deidre Perish walks into the shed and hands me a Post-it. From Pinkley:

Say hello to Deidre
.
A well weldress, brimming with health. A potato-eater, true, but does she ever have a pair on her—bra cups big as salad bowls—I should know, I did the pre-study exam. And strong. Her application says she’s mastered the hot shot and the overhead-butt in all positions, the equivalent of a Black Belt in welding. I’m sure you two will bond—get it?—bond! and together make up for lost time, cranking out the required souped up muscle cars per day. Just remember, no liaisons, no alcohol, no angel interface, no dilly-dallying allowed on study time.

Deidre hangs her baseball cap on Aida’s prayer wheel. I ignore this and, in a gesture of welcome, hold out a spare helmet.

She shakes her head and shows me her new auto-darkening helmet with multiple shade settings from eleven on up. “Mine’s more efficient,” she says. “I don’t have to lift up and flip down my helmet as much.” Her voice is a tight falsetto.

I pine for Aida’s wine-dark syllables.

Deidre puts on her ppg and starts tee-jointing the chassis of a Chevy Bel Air, Finish Line.

I put on my ppg and begin flange welding the Bel Air’s fuel tank, the whole time watching her watching me watching her.

We move onto brazing the radiators on a pair of Skylarks, Grim Reaper and Cashing In. It’s hard keeping up though because of all the helmet lifts and flips I have to do.

We work through lunch. By late afternoon, I feel frying panned; I take a break and offer her some of my coffee and sandwich, but she says no thanks.

I miss the way Aida slurped Liebfraumilch on the job.

My arms and legs are stiff, but I’m back at it, single v-grooving a Corvette, Lights Out, until evening. I’m having sudden freezing spells but luckily the shed’s so dim, Deidre can’t tell. I want to return to the men’s trailer and phone Dad, check on his burns, ask about his glass replacements. But if I call it a day, will Deidre call me a shirker?

She squats under a Maverick, Meet Your Maker, for a double-jointed square butt-weld, so I bend myself over a Gremlin, Peter Out, for a triple-jointed vertical lap-groove.

She brazes. I solder. She plugs, slots. I multi-pass, corner joint. I’m a Duster, Custer’s Last Stand. She’s a Challenger, Down for the Count. We’re racing. She’s winning.

“Slow down,” I say and drop to the floor, perspiring a sweat angel. My brain has the runs.

“Go ahead, rest,” she says. “I’ll weld whatever you can’t finish.”

No study nurse comes in.

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Because mercury is always moving, because

sandwiches are best when they’re cut

in half, because if something is beautiful,

it will poison you, I have made my decision.

For seven years, we lived in a house sewn

together with black stitches. A circus tent. The

sound of quarters against knuckles, the heft of

two bowling pins in the left hand, one in the right.

Listen. I woke up one morning with a pocketknife

in my hand. I dreamed there were lions in my house.

Now, the smell of your hair is caught in my nose.

My lullaby to the moon, my how you have grown.

In hindsight, we will all say

that we didn’t know what to expect.

Believe me when I say this is where

we’ll all end up eventually:

six miles away from a man

whose hands only ever touch machines.

The first time he touches a pear,

he holds it like a newborn.

The second time, he eats it.

The first time he holds a newborn,

he touches it like a pear.

The second time, he eats it.