Black Locust Letters (7 page)

“
I
did not mean to leave you alone for so long. Charles had a
question.”

“
It
was quite alright.” What she really wanted to say was that it had
been necessary, that it was for the best.

Clarkin reached to help her stand, eyes gleaming. “There are
no lights on in your house. If you live alone, it might be best on
a night like tonight if you would spend the wildest hours in a safe
café. I can walk you back after.”

Though it was said lightly, the rush of anticipation coursing
through her body hit her full in the gut. Her instinct for
self-preservation made her pull away. “I am accustomed to wild
nights, and as Charles has said, it is a nice street. My neighbors
are home. I will be fine.”

Clarkin glanced at the nearby houses, two of which could be
seen couples with their infants in chairs before their fires, and
he slowly nodded. “And your walls are thin, I suppose. That is
good.”

He
jumped over the wagon's side to help her climb down, then escorted
her once more through the garden gate and to her door. It took her
an embarrassing minute to find her keys, which had slid into the
lining of her clutch, and when she opened the door, she said,
“Thank you for watching out for me this evening.
Good-bye.”

Clarkin's face fell. “Good-bye, not good night, or until next
time?”

“
Decapitaria Hannah. I'm General Bernard Cratchet's daughter.
I can't be seen with Never Weres.”

“
I'm
fine with cloak and dagger games. Adds to the excitement to use the
back door,” he said with a wink.

His
roguish charm strummed her body into fire again, but his blatant
disregard for her will made Betty's words harsh. “Good-bye,
Hannah.”

She
felt the stab of regret as she stepped through the door and shut it
firmly. Love had already made her its toy once before. She wouldn't
do it again.

Not
even when her heart stung when she heard the front gate open and
shut, this time without a cheerful whistle. He might be gone for
good this time. Why didn't that make her feel relieved?

Betty lay on her single mattress which was flat on the floor,
without a bed frame or more than one lumpy pillow. She'd recently
made a lacy throw using shell stitches, and this she pulled up to
her face, nuzzling it for comfort while she stared out the crack in
the curtains, where she could see the pinpricks of
stars.

She
was unable to sleep.

For
the first time since she had moved on her own, she found the place
lonely and the silence stifling. Memories she had tried to shove
away encroached on her again. Ghosts of the past. Circumstances she
had tried to push away from her mind even while she bore their
lessons first and foremost.

She
remembered a handsome, chiselled face, as though he were standing
in front of her. James Legrand, who insisted they all call him
Slim, the man who she had trusted with all her heart, and who had
proved unworthy of even a fraction of it.

She'd met him upon graduating high school, when she'd gone to
the wedding of her friend the evening after. He was the groom's
brother, and she and Pearl were thrilled that she was getting on so
well. Pearl and Betty could be sisters, if all worked out. Betty
had just started as an intern at Alpha Bravo Charlie station, a
glorified way to say that she wrote copies and made
coffee.

Slim
was an aide for her father's office; it hardly surprised her that
she didn't know him earlier since she avoided her father's office
at all costs. She'd immediately fallen for him, for his easy smile
and perfect turn of phrase. It had been easy to fall in love, and
Slim proposed within the year.

Her
father encouraged the match. That should have been her first
warning sign, but she'd taken it as nothing more than a paternal
reflection of her happiness and approval of a match
well-made.

Wedding plans soon were in order, and when her superiors at
the station found out, they threatened to cut her loose. The
General had spoken to them, and soon she had reassurances that her
immediate supervisor was mistaken. He still did not approve of
having a soon-to-be married woman working for him, though, and
within a month of the wedding, he fired her.

Next
day, a g-man on her doorstep begged her to return to Alpha Bravo
Charlie. Her superior had been reassigned, and only she knew what
he had been working on prior to his leaving. She assumed the
position, of course. But within the week, she found notice of her
former-boss's obituary hidden with all the others, and within the
next two weeks, Slim began to ask her to write in things for the
host to say. Simple messages, which she at first did not
understand.

Then
over the next days, she noticed strange events in the news, and
began to put together the code he was using her for.
Burnt toast
resulted in
a building fire.
On the wharf
made someone go missing. The song
final countdown
meant
car accident.

When
she confronted her father about it, he not only knew that Slim was
sending these messages through her, he said he was sending them
through Slim. Pearl's husband was implicated as being in the
ordeal, as well. She had already started to move in with Slim, and
was already ruined by his cunning words and sensuous
hands.

When
she told Slim she no longer wanted to be part in the murder gang,
he'd demanded to know where she would go and who would have her now
that she was deflowered. The whole base knew of their evenings.
He'd told them. Bragged about it. Besides, her father had given her
her post. If she didn't do her job, he'd take it away.

For
a few days, she played the submissive lamb and did as they said,
but every news post sickened her. Betty knew this would not work.
She'd gone to Tango Lima Romeo station and secured work as an
intern there. Yes, a step down, but a much-needed move, and then
she'd spent two days walking the streets of Sunny Glenn, a suburb
near Tango Lima Romeo, and found a house to rent.

So,
she waited until the night when Slim was out on maneuvers. She
packed up all her things and moved out of his life three days
before the wedding.

Tonight, Betty reluctantly recalled events with Slim. How had
he seduced her? When had he first showed signs of wishing to
manipulate her position to his agenda? She couldn't be
sure.

What
about Clarkin? Where his intentions merely an honest interest in
her, or did he want to use her, as well? Had she been too harsh on
him? Had she been inviting him one second and scorning him the
next? If her body would conform to her will, then this wouldn't be
so difficult. Why couldn't she just accept the truth: He was a
demon.

She
couldn't be with him.

Ever.

That morning a
letter waited in her window box, propped up at an angle amidst the
frosted remains of a thyme plant. Betty smiled upon seeing it, and
the smile warmed her heart when she saw a familiar handwriting
across the top addressing 'The Beauty of Sunny Glenn'.

She smelled it and held it to her chest for an
instant. Then she went inside and did the same as she always did:
She shut the letter in the drawer with all the others. Then she
went to work.

Despite herself, Betty blushed when she talked about the
Carnival and she was glad no one could see her do it.

“
The
fireworks were spectacular! Brilliant choreography yet again, Mr.
Mills. If you were lucky, you probably were able to see them even
if you weren't in the meadow. Senior Police Officer Number 3231
Bravo says, 'We are very happy to report that last night there were
minimal disorderly arrests and everyone has returned home
safely.'

“
Praise is high in general for the catering provided by Marina
court and yes, I was there in the thick of it. Maybe some of you
saw me. Made me feel a bit Italian with a masquerade ball feel to
it, a significantly memorable night and a thrilling
experience.”

She
tried not to think about Clarkin as she said this. She'd been
trying not to think of him all day, and by now her shift was
drawing to a close and she had to admit complete defeat. She
couldn't forget Clarkin's boyish grin, and she couldn’t deny that
if he had been a man, she would be lost in puppy love by
now.

Once
more she went through the routine—weather, roads, events—and then
she signed off. No sooner did she have the door closed to the
studio than her boss called her over.

“
You
said you had fun?”

Betty hesitated, not sure where this was going.
“Yes?”

He
grunted. “The sponsors like you. One said you rode home in a
wagon.”

Was
that a statement or a question? She did not know how to respond to
that. “I did.”

Her
boss chewed on his tobacco once. Twice. Swished it around to the
other side of his mouth. “Read up on the War Orphans Fund. You're
joining Welch as a guest on his show for the
fundraiser.”

Welch? That arrogant, woman hating ape? She gritted her
teeth. “All right, what does my schedule look like?”

“
Same as always, with an added shift.”

She
looked at the calendar with smoke stains on it hanging on his wall.
That meant a morning show, the guest night show, followed
immediately by her morning show again after. What sort of an ass
boss did that to his employees? Ah, yes: Hers.

She
shrugged. “It will be a good pay check.”

He
nodded. “You can sleep when you're dead, and that day will come all
the sooner if you continue to speak so casually.”

With
that, he went back to his work, motioning that the subject was
closed. As Betty left, she wondered what he meant by that final
line.

At
home on her fraying sofa, Betty reached to mark the orphan drive on
her calendar and blinked in confusion. In tiny letters, squished in
the corner of the date book, she had written RC with a question
mark after it.

All at once she remembered Jenny's
invitation and she tensed, her pencil poised over the page.
Outside, birds warbled and she knew they would be taking baths in
the low spot of the concrete, if Betty were to look out the windows
to see them. It wasn
’
t
that
she had forgotten the promise of answers; it was that she did not
know how badly she wanted them. Asking an acquaintance was one
thing, but going into strange territory strictly for reconnaissance
was another, a level of commitment she didn't know if she
wanted.

Would she even be safe if she were to go?

But
now Tom's absence at the station was noticeable, even to Betty,
because now she received jumbled assortments of papers rather than
a concise report and she found herself putting the report together
before and sometimes after her shift. What had he done that no one
wanted to discuss?

With
a frown, she slashed through the RC and instead wrote in: WOF,
Welch. Betty went back to her crochet, but the shells wouldn't turn
out in a smooth arc, her tension all wrong. On the line the week
below, Betty picked up the pencil again and wrote RC, but when she
returned back to her project, the stitches still would not go into
place.

The
next week passed, during which time Betty worked overtime to
prepare for a War Orphans Drive which was to take place the
following evening. She'd been skipping breakfast to get to work
before anyone could alter the news (so far nothing alarming), and
so she went to a diner for a cheeseburger and a strawberry shake to
celebrate trudging through her hefty to-do list.

She
was diving through the whipped cream on her shake when the door
swung open and Clarkin and a bombshell brunette entered the diner.
As it was lunch during a busy hour, they took the only table open
to them, one which was three away from her own mini-booth. Clarkin
took his seat with a relaxed ease that he'd never shown around
Betty, and the woman gave him a smile which showed off perfect
teeth.

The
woman was a hair taller than Betty, with a natural grace that
implied she'd spent time training, and there was a hard set about
her lips and a quickness to her smoldering gray eyes that made
Betty think the woman had been one of those who had served on the
front. A spy, perhaps. She spoke with cheer and frequently touched
Clarkin's hand or shoulder, once brushing his shin with her toes as
she crossed her legs. Betty's perspective made the woman's antics
all too clear, but Clarkin's own expressions were hidden, as he sat
with his back to her. Betty's shake started to melt.

Not
one to be put off her well-earned food, she ate it quickly, leaving
a bit in the bottom when the woman met her gaze and winked.
Disgusted, both with the woman and with herself for feeling the
green monster jealousy, Betty left three ones and abandoned the
diner.

At
home, a letter sat in its customary place. Every day after work, a
letter waited for Betty on the windowsill, and every day, she
picked it up, smelled it, and put it away in the door.