by Ciar Cullen
We sprawled on Petti’s Grassy Knoll. This time I knew the meeting wasn’t about me, but that didn’t bring me much comfort.
At first we didn’t talk, but watched Screw fly a kite—the old-fashioned shape I knew from early childhood with paper glued to thin wood cross-bracings. He’d used a poster for Fitch’s men’s shampoo, and we watched a happy couple in evening dress flutter, dip, and rise with the light breeze and Screw’s pull on the string.
Given the circumstances, I thought his behavior a little bizarre, but no one raised an eyebrow. Jack had calmed down considerably, and I’m sure he’d already had the ‘come to Jesus’ fight with Screw over keeping the Ra Society business from us in private. We were in Phase Two of Operation What-the-Hell Do We Do Now.
After a half-hour of lying on a blanket and watching Screw’s kite, trying to ignore whether Jack was paying attention to me or not, I nudged Petti.
“What?” She widened her eyes, as if I’d cursed in church.
“When are we going to talk?” I whispered.
“When Screw is finished.” She frowned as if I’d lost my mind. These four had their own secret code of social interaction that escaped me at times.
Screw lost his kite to a tree limb and abandoned it, although I offered to climb up to get it. Not that I like heights, but I felt sorry for Screw. He looked like Jasper Corwin, mixed-heritage guy stuck in an alternate dimension, not the grounded happy genius of Steamside.
So he sat, and it went pretty much like I expected. We argued with Jack not to tell the Punks about Ra, about the vortex, whether Screw should still be Steamside elite. I kept to myself and let Petti take the lead. Honestly, I didn’t know the right course. Without superpowers or the One Ring, we had to figure shit out on our own, or rather, Jack did. I wanted to help him, or perhaps, I knew I could.
“Tell the Punks,” I blurted out. “Tell them everything. Ask them for support. If you want to stop these Normals from creating anachros and beating up archaeologists for gold or whatever, then ask the Punks to help. If you don’t care, they’ll drop it, too. They’ll do what you ask, Jack.”
“I know they will. Petti, would you tell them to assemble before dinner? I’d like to hang out alone for a while.” Ah, he really had a love-hate relationship with his role.
I hesitated as the other left, not sure what alone meant to him, hoping it included me. He stripped off his shirt and lay back, looking like a carefree guy wasting an afternoon in the sun. I knelt near him, admiring him, wondering about our future together and the future of Steamside.
“Don’t think too much, Fen. It doesn’t help much.” He pulled me down into an embrace, I gave him silence and acceptance, figuring that’s what most guys want anyway.
In the end, he gave a damned good speech in the mess hall. The Dodgers rotated on the Wall to allow the guards to come in, so he had to talk twice. All the Punks who were able to stay listened twice. I stayed, of course. As much to admire him, and bask in the ‘he likes me’ thing.
I can’t say he was honest—he didn’t reveal all he knew about Cleopatra’s Needle. I know it was for the best, so they wouldn’t end up hurting themselves somehow, but I also know it pained him to hold back. Free will and all that. I was relieved he didn’t mention that I’d gone ‘home’.
I left the mess hall to the ‘boys’, as it was clear Jack still had stuff to clear up with Screw, and I wasn’t sure how far this ‘we’re seeing one another’ thing extended.
It wasn’t even past supper, but I climbed the Wall to hang out with Sweet Pea. She didn’t need to be there that early either, but it was her real home.
She poured me a cup of her terrible coffee and handed it to me without comment. I handed her a new Union cap I’d bought from Prince Albert, and she took it with a giant grin.
“I don’t think I’ve done anything to deserve a present.” God, she was thrilled to death. People are funny, the things that can touch them. For Jack, it was a pinball machine. For Sweet Pea, a new cap.
We sipped coffee and stared at the tree line for a while in silence. It was so damned comforting to be around women who didn’t talk about being fat or shopping. Sweet Pea never questioned how I could be a crack shot and still like dresses that showed off my figure. She was one of those people who become more beautiful when you get to know them. I took a hard look at her, wondering what she hid beneath her quirky clothing and messy hair.
She shoved her old cap into her ragged pants pocket and tilted back in her chair. “I guess you know more than the rest of us about this Ra Society.”
“I don’t know that much.”
Sweet Pea arched her brow and sniffed in disdain. “You’re sleeping with the Man. You’re a regular swell now.”
“I don’t think they call people swells in 1890.”
“Not talking, then? It’s okay.”
“We’re friends, aren’t we, Lieutenant?”
“Thought so.” She took a long draw off her cigar.
“Me too. So you have to trust me. If I knew something I could share, I’d share it with you.”
“That’s all right then, I guess.” I swear, Sweet Pea was forever saying things that sounded like lines from half-remembered old movies. Right now she was straight out of Shawshank Redemption. “You think we’ll ever get out of here, Fen?”
I didn’t expect that from her. Part of me wanted to tell her I’d gone home, perhaps to finish what I’d started—dying. I didn’t want her trying it, didn’t want anyone to. “Not really. No, I don’t.”
“Me neither. It’s why I like it up here. I figured it out pretty early on. I think I like Steamside a bit better than Modern in some ways. Life on the road can be harsh. And there’s no money in coaching women’s ball. I’m a loner, and no one bothers me here. Except you, and you’re not too annoying for a talkative white woman.” Her grin was infectious.
“I may like it a little myself.”
“That’s a good thing, ‘cause your boyfriend is standing right behind you.”
Before I could turn around, Jack hugged me around the waist and rested his chin on my shoulder.
“Evening, Lieutenant.”
“Sir.” Sweet Pea tipped her new cap. I think she wanted him to notice it, but he didn’t mention it. Sweet Pea’s uniform was the equivalent of a new hairdo to other women. Men were missing the gene to notice, Jack no exception.
“Think you might be all right with a substitute tonight? I’d like to borrow Fenwick.”
“That would be between you and the little woman. I’ll need someone.”
“Of course. How would Barber do?”
“I think he’d do. If he can keep up.” Her sly wink made us both laugh.
I turned to Jack, who kept an arm around my waist.
“Why, Mr. Pettigrew, this is like standing on a bridge in Paris or Venice. How romantic.”
“I’ve earned a little romance today. What do you say?”
“Lead on.” My. God. So, we were something, and that something was out in the open. Way out. I could have flown off the Wall and winged my way over Steamside, buzzed the Punks for fun. I soared, scared and excited.
Chapter Sixteen
A gentle hand to guide them along.
I’d agonized over where to take Fen more than how to deal with the Ra Society. Shame on me.
Steamside is a street and a few rickety buildings inside a mud-brick wall against a hill. Aside from my birthday party in the mess hall, there wasn’t…anything. No restaurant, no little café.
Make no mistake, my mission was clear—me and Fen in the sack. But to the sound of Sweet Pea firing at zombies? Or Screw riding his steamboard? There would be no romantic dinner (I think it was shepherd pie night in the mess hall, and that was a very bad thing), no subtlety of any sort. Still, it was home, as much as any place was home now.
So in a lightening strike of clarity, I realized I’d already blown it. I’d utterly zoned on the romance until she mentioned bridges in Paris or something up on the Wall. Shi
t.
I mean, this is Fenwick. The tough chick. The shoot at zombies all night and not complain about it girl. It’s not that I forgot she was female. Hardly. More like I forgot that she might care. I was out of practice, and terrified I’d lost my touch, if I’d ever had one.
It had been months since Calliope and I had come together in unbridled drunken lust for one embarrassing night of near-intercourse. I won’t explain why it didn’t work out, but blaming it on the booze is a good start.
Calliope turned into a shrew after realizing the alcohol was the source of my amorous advances, and we’d barely spoken since. I don’t know if that one got around Steamside, but if it did, the Punks had cut me an awesome break over it. Since then, I’d sworn off the Punks, and fortunately, Calliope had sworn off me. (She’d reminded me too much of Petti anyway, which had freaked me out a bit once we were in bed. Plus the booze, as I said.)
There was no swearing off Emily. She consumed me. No doubt part of it was the welcome distraction from the weird shit going on. But since the Hotel Henry, I’d dropped some heavy weight bearing down my spirit. I remember the moment now—when I told her my notebook was garbage—made up nonsense. When I told her I was a fraud, and she looked like she dug me even more.
Maybe I’m delusional, but I can almost believe she’d like me in Modern, wearing my jeans, working in my shop. Calling her “sugar.” She made it okay to be the Man, for the Man to be Jack, for Jack to be an average guy. I think. I hope.
Now I had an arm around her and no place to go. It killed me to suggest Normal, but I couldn’t think of another solution.
“Want to take in Normal? Maybe get a room at the Henry again?” Very smooth, Jack. Excellent.
“Normal? Um, okay, sure.”
Sweet Pea coughed “bullshit” and shook her head.
“Something on your mind, Lieutenant?”
“Permission to speak, Sir?”
“Thanks for asking, even if you’d find a way to say it anyway.”
“Fenwick has had enough of Normal for a while. She likes Steamside, just said so a few minutes ago. You should take her to your room.”
“Jesus, Sweet Pea.” It’s such a drag to be a guy who blushes.
“Jack?” Fen extracted herself from my arm and twirled her hair into a knot. “She’s right. Can we stay here?”
I thought I’d break down in relief. To say my new girlfriend is low maintenance is an epic understatement. She unstrapped her pistol from her thigh and handed it over to Sweet Pea. “In case Barber needs one,” she said.
We took the ladder to our street and sauntered what I hoped was nonchalantly toward my quarters. But Steamside watched us go. The Punks acted normally—Dodgers dispensing goods to various drop-off points, the Reverend (our main cook, a former pastor) hammering a notice of the forthcoming week’s menu on a board. (Not that anyone read it—you ate what he put in front of you. But he was a little delusional, thinking if he advertised in advance, people would look forward to the food.)
“Hi Reverend.” Fen waved. It made me proud that she was kind.
“Trying brownies on Wednesday, Fenwick.”
“With nuts?”
He shook his head. “Some of the Punks have nut allergies. Sorry.”
“That’s why I asked. I can’t have them either. I’ll come help make them, okay?”
“I’ve plenty of help, never mind. Just enjoy!”
Fen laughed and whispered, “My reputation in the kitchen.”
“You aren’t allergic to nuts, either. You’re soft, soldier.”
“Look who’s talking.” Her laugh was free, a wonderful sound. Not a laugh of sarcasm, or irony, but one of pure enjoyment. I loved it. I loved it about her; I loved so many things about her. I closed my eyes for a moment, wondering if when I opened them, I’d be home in my shop, worrying about bills and my parents’ health, worried about Petti’s cancer, wondering how to break up with Lacey.
I opened my eyes and I was Steamside, an ugly non-place made bearable, almost beautiful, by the exceptional woman at my side.
She reached for my hand, sensing, I think, that I was thinking about her. I brought it to my lips and leaned down to whisper in her ear. “Would it be sleazy to ask you to come to my room?”
“It would be incredibly stupid of you not to.”
* * *
I’d been in Jack’s quarters three times, once in a morphine stupor, once very angry, and once so nervous I couldn’t think. I looked around, watched him look around in amazement, and knew the makeover wasn’t his doing. He wouldn’t know how to begin to set a scene for romance, although my guess is he’d consider it, then shrug it off in annoyance. But there it was—a tiny round table set for two near the window, with fresh wildflowers in a jelly jar and several long tapers embedded in glassware that looked like test tubes.
His bed—and you couldn’t get around what a centerpiece of the room it was—now festooned in crisp white cotton and flower petals strewn about the pillows. The perpetrator of this makeover had cleaned and folded Jack’s clothes, making the room smell of Hudson’s Soap.
“Petti,” I murmured. “Has to be.”
“Want to make a wager?”
“Only if you swear you didn’t do it.”
He arched a brow.
“Right, you wouldn’t know where to begin. I like that about you. All right, Holmes. You’ll buy me dinner if I guess correctly?”
“I buy your dinner every night.”
I grabbed the magnifying glass from his desk with what I hoped was a dramatic flourish and examined the bed. “Common wildflowers. Fresh linens. Doesn’t narrow it down. Nothing remarkable here. Unless…”
“Yes? Do tell!”
“Only one person folds this perfectly. Only one Punk cares deeply about clothing.” I put down the glass and rubbed at my chin. “It must be…Jasper Corwin!”
“Capital, well done!”
We regarded one another for a moment. Delay, deflection, humor—we were out of options. We were alone, together, and I for one felt paralyzed by it. He didn’t move to kiss me. He didn’t move at all. He just stared, and I stared back. We both jumped at the knock on the door.
“It had better be damned good!” Jack opened the door to reveal Screw dressed in his best suit and tie, a crisp linen towel draped over his arm, balancing a tray of food.
“Room service, Sir.” Screw whisked by us and went about setting the table with real silver, glass wine goblets instead of our normal tin cups, and a bottle of red wine. He held up a finger and rushed to the door, where he lifted a second tray.
The plates were covered, but the unmistakable scent of grilled meat made my stomach growl. When he finished setting our places, he bowed and pulled out a pitch pipe.
Jack and I looked at one another incredulously. Screw was going to sing? He indicated we should take our seats and pulled out my chair. Screw blew a note into the pipe and Fatty, Dozer (a quiet guy who helped Screw build things once in a while), and Sweet Pea entered with a flourish.
“Who’s on the Wall?” I asked.
Sweet Pea flipped me the bird.
“Is this going to take long?” Jack asked.
Screw folded his arms. “As long as it takes. We weren’t ready for your birthday, but I think someone,” he turned and glared at Dozer, “finally learned the lyrics.”
He snapped a beat out with his fingers and blew into the pipe and my God, they sang. To this day I don’t know why it made me cry. The silliest, oldest song. Fatty took the lead.
“When you're alone, and life is making you lonely, you can always go…”
He gestured for us to finish the line. “Downtown?” Jack said.
Screw held up his hand. “It’s not a question. Come on, you guys. You too, Fen.”
He snapped his fingers and Fatty started from the top.
“When you've got worries, all the noise and the hurry seems to help, I know…”
“Downtown.” We responded this time and the quartet really too
k off.
“Just listen to the music of the traffic in the city, linger on the sidewalk where the neon signs are pretty. How can you lose? The lights are much brighter there, you can forget all your troubles, forget all your cares and go…”
We all sang, well, Jack and I mostly laughed. When they came to the last verse, Screw took over, slowing it down and walking to the table to link Jack’s hand and mine.
“And you may find somebody kind to help and understand you, someone who is just like you and needs a gentle hand to guide them along…So, maybe I'll see you there, we can forget all our troubles, forget all our cares and go…downtown, everything's waiting for you.”
We applauded and the singers high-fived each other and exited, laughing and excited.
Jack threw his hands up. “I will never understand that guy. Not in a thousand years.”
“It was wonderful. He’s wonderful. You’re wonderful.”
Jack smiled and leaned his head in his hand, elbow on the table. “I used to think I was the unluckiest guy on the planet. But I have these amazing friends, and you…you just…”
Jack sat up and left the thought unfinished. “Screw didn’t have to do this. You know I wouldn’t make him wait on me or any nonsense like that, right?”
“Not your style. People do things for you because you’re you. You know that, don’t you?”
He didn’t respond, and I thought I might have struck some nerve, so I dropped it and uncovered the plates. And nearly fell over. Cheeseburgers. Two for each of us. With a pile of potatoes that vaguely resembled French fries.
“I really, really love him. But no ketchup? Is there ketchup yet?”
“I’m not sure.” Jack uncorked the wine and poured a bit into his glass, swirled, and tasted. “Not bad. A Bordeaux. Imagine you’d pay a thousand or more for this vintage in Modern.”
“Yeah, where’s eBay when you need it?” I was halfway through my first burger by the time he poured the wine. It was dark and rich and heady right away.
“Can you do me a favor?” The blush again. I was starting to understand it wasn’t embarrassment, but another kind of heat that flushed his cheeks. “Take down your hair.”
