Down Jersey Driveshaft

by William J. Jackson

  "Wilkes isn't actually in ST. Technically. He can be told next. But right now, I need you."

  Dio mio! Why did he have to say 'need'? She forgets a breath. "I have a lot to do with my baby, so--"

  "Now, Mechanic." The order is given, blunt, talking down. Benny returns to the office.

  Pitter-patter breaths twirl into serpentine puffs. Now? Now! I've got your ‘now’, you brute!

  Crank kicks every step with her shiny black stompers. She gets into the office and gives the door a solid slam shut. Benny has his back to her, leaning over the desk. Crank sucks in a round of air, loads it into the chamber...

  "Listen, vecchio, maybe you think rank is gonna make you like every other man, all sassy and big time. But no!" She's waving her index finger at his oblivious back, going all out. "I didn't drag you from your house to here so you could talk down to me! And what you did to Johnathan is--!"

  "Unforgivable?" He turns to face her. The weight of shadows and the day blot out his face. Life is eating him up. She takes a step back.

  "Ah. No. Anything can be forgiven. If you mean it. You said you...needed me?" Gulp.

  He moves, invading her private space. Crank hates it. Crank loves it. Make up your mind! But her lips seize up, won't utter what the brain is thinking.

  "Chief Fish. He, uh, made me Traveler." Benny looks down at the speckled floor, massages his neck. "He said Coursey was a Nazi sympathizer, Motherville conquered Berlin and Tokyo. I don't know enough about, uh..."

  "You spoke with the Chief? Oh, wow. Well, I know Coursey is a cretin, Benny, who he supported doesn't change...wait! What did you say?" She rests her hands on his chest.

  "Berlin and Tokyo are under the robots. Well, the leaders, anyway. He said we gotta save Salem and get our own architects outta Wilmington."

  "The architects? Dio! You mean, Roscoe Turner, Robert Goddard, the Exotic Planes lady and Mister Trench have been across the river this whole time! What are we gonna save Say-lem with?" She shoves him. He barely moves.

  Benny's got a clear case of the blues. Encore. "Yeah. He feels confident in, ah, me to lead the charge, says arms are coming. ST people also. Not sure how to execute a defensive charge on the scale I think he wants. Needs."

  She can see every roadway in Benny leads to a brick wall swamped by fog. He's lost. Anger reroutes to empathy. She holds his hand.

  "You just take it, I guess. See your goal, and take it. Handle the consequences later." Her big eyes sparkle and pop wide. Hot coffee! The kid's given herself advice too. "Ohhhhhhh."

  "Come here, Benny."

  She turns him to the desk. Crank jumps up to stand on it, then about faces Benny, staring down at him. She holds his face.

  "How does this show me--?"

  Crank lowers her head and mashes her lips to Benny's. At first, she initiates a masterstroke of awkwardness. Both have their eyes open, crossing, observing to see what happens next. But as the surface heats, Benny softens. His lips warm to hers. She presses the attack, turning her mouth to rub her chin on his, slides her fingers around his face, caress the earlobes. She flushes red. Sweetness. Sugar coating. And then, Crank retreats.

  She watches, super grin, pearly whites. Benny studies, like a dog looking at a blackboard covered in calculus. The jaw muscles get tight.

  "You just take it. See? I've never been aggressive with a guy, too feminine, I guess. I like it! You can do that with the boys, the Slicks. Get bold! Say the word and we'll go out...and..."

  Still staring. Crank's hot stew of bravery begins to cool to an uncomfortable gelatinous glob.

  "W-why are you staring at me...like that? You, you didn't like it?" The eye sockets darken as a pout forms. Crank fends off tears, angles to get off the desk.

  She must have blinked, because a hand possessing great strength has her by the back of the neck and pulls her into Benny's throat. A man has taken her. Heart pushes into esophagus. Fear subsides as a second kiss begins, a hot, mouth open, what's the word? Passion. Crank's wee lips are divided by the force of Haskins'. She revs up to a billion feelings per nanosecond, but the main one--

  There's a tongue in my mouth! My guy's tongue! Goody goody goody! Wee!

  Goodbye, reason.

  Parts of her get electric shock and third degree burns. City of Childhood burns to the ground. Tiny female workers inside her begin laying the foundation of Womanopolis on the strength of this kiss.

  Benny makes use of the free hand to clutch Crank by her slender hips, hitches her up off the desk and to the floor. Now over her, he barrels down. He sucks in Frederica, absorbs her better-than-any-candy breath, her soothing teeth. His feet sweat, hands reach under for the skin of the back. At some point, Benny feels his ears burn. Crank has cold skin. He likes it. Both have many pains, but adrenaline subdues them. Heat cues up all the other right pieces.

  He pulls back an eternity later, their eyes locking deeper the farther away he moves. Crank's eyes are flying saucers of watery disbelief. Benny begins planting soft pecks all over her face. She coos.

  "Yoooooooouuuuuuu sssucked the...breath..."

  "That's the idea, baby." He lays down another one, closed mouth, feeling her face while his hands play explorer over his lady's hemispheres.

  "I like you, Benjamin. A lot. You know? Like, love?" Whispering is the best she can give. Her mind is stronger than ever, but the body's waving the white flag.

  "You are an amazing gal, but I, don't know yet what I feel, Crank. That's not what you wanna hear, but..."

  "That's fine. This is fast, I know. Girls don't make the moves often, if ever. There's a lot going on and--" The kid's limp.

  He puts a finger on her lips. "But whatever I've got, whatever I am or will be, you have it. It’s yours. I know that much." Before she can respond, he crosses the room to turn off the light, locks the door.

  She twitches. The fire in his eyeballs is, well, scary.

  "Oh! Ah, I'm a good Catholic. Ah, I mean I want to be married before we--"

  Benny picks up Frederica by her bottom. He loves her lightness. No squirming now. She wraps her legs (more or less) around him. He takes her to the chair, and sits down. She eyes him, a quirky, confident smile enhances her face. He looks into her, sharp, attempting to carve a mental future in his mind where she takes center stage.

  "Kiss me, Freddi. Tomorrow, I have to become the guy I wanted to be long ago but was too scared to be and now the day is screeching my way. We may not be alive after. This is the one night to lay it all out."

  "Freddi, huh? I like it. You know, sometimes I wear boys' clothes, so it fits!"

  The Bear grumbles. "Gets stranger and stranger." Back to face rubbing.

  "Hmm?"

  "Nothing, nothing. Look, let's have peace for an evening. No war. No past. Tonight, kiss me and talk to me in Italian."

  She pecks his neck. He forgets reality. "Talk to you about what?"

  "Anything good and worthwhile. Far from the here and now."

  At first, Crank rests her head on his chest, nervous. Say what? Do I have anything to warm his heart? We're both in this darkness, together while separate.

  So she kisses him, loosens the buttons on his shirt and kisses his lips, chin, eyelids. She massages those bulky ribs, combs his peppery brown hair with her white fingers. In his ears she licks, and whispers sweet nothings to this man she has claimed, and who, despite a world of weight, accepted it.

  Peace...

  "Molto tempo fa, quando il mondo era giovane..."

  Chapter Eighteen: Surrender All Who Are Victorious

  "Skinny, you can't be serious!" Gillette has had enough.

  "I gotta go. Can't do it anymore."

  The igloo is stone cold. Frozen into shock. Skinny Bubba earlier dropped the Big One. He's gonna heave-ho. Canadians and Americans look dopey, hands wiggling in their pockets, chins scraping clavicles. One day plus a half after the shoot up, and the swan dive continues.

  Larry takes a crack at empathy. "Geez, Skin, I was hard on ya about bein' outside yer
race an' all but, I didn't expect ya to pack it in." He shakes dragging in a smoke. Stress getting to him? Nah.

  Bubba punches the refrigerator, watches it tremble. A few guys flinch. "Anybody lose a kid yet?"

  Heads drop lower. Negativity has a noose tight around every neck.

  "No? Then none a y'all can talk to me."

  Wilkes tries. Why not? "Skinny, I think a mood, no matter how low, can turn around any minute. Look at Crank. Yesterday's sour puss is today's cheerleader. Her in-and-outs of the office with Benjamin have been medicinal. All day the jazz on her record player has been a romp of...Benny Goodman?"

  "The Dorsey Brothers!" Larry hacks. "Dipsy Doodle!" That's some annoying cough.

  Wilkes puckers. His eyes attempt shooting Larry down, but the Yankee's thick hull repels the visual bullets.

  "What?"

  "As I was saying, considering her own personal losses, and the potential for more loss soon, we need you, man. If you leave, the Slicks still arrive, still strike Salem. You'll be in the fight regardless."

  Skinny turns, faces Carson Wilkes. Wilkes, though tall, is a half head shorter than Skinny, but carries himself like a king.

  "Ever suffer before, Corporal? Ever fight for a people that love your labors while hating your skin, your face and your presence?" Big fists breathe, in, out, panthers anxious for a hunt.

  Corporal Wilkes flattens his 'stache, develops a fine lump in his throat. Gillette eases his way and leans on the officer's back.

  "Ami, let him know. It must come out. You cannot hold it in, oui?"

  "But it does nothing to alleviate--"

  Walter Teller, so far a mute since the talk in the underground back in ancient times, digs up his voice box. "For crying out loud, Car, no more secrets! Coursey did enough harm. I'm glad he got dropped by Benny. Yes I said it, because we've all really been thinking it! Don't you make like the 'SS' on these guys. We're brothers in arms."

  Skinny sees Carson's skin bleed color. "Something else, happen, on your way to us? You got secrets too?"

  Wilkes falls back, arms of spaghetti. He takes a seat, lazily stirs a cup of cold tea slumbering in a mason jar. He stares at his fellows. "Do you remember how I told you of our ride, meeting the two men from ST?"

  Skinny pulls on his jaw. "Yeah."

  "What went missing from my vague telling was the facility in question had in its employ women. Pilots. They had acquired them from the ATA out of England before asking us to join in. The idea was female pilots transferring aircraft wouldn't be seen as a military maneuver, might throw Motherville off as to ST strategic planning. After all, women were, are, non-combat. One of them was Kathy Dodson, a real go-getter. Tough as nails, the epitome of a Ronnie the Bren-Gun Girl." A smile, slight as the blond mustache, enlivens the deadpan glaze.

  "Who?" Larry needs to know.

  "Like Rosie the Riveter, Canadian version," Skinny mumbles, more aware than most give him credit. "So, this Kathy was...?"

  "Oh, the best! We quarreled years earlier during my time in England, flight training at Upavon, long before this war. Mechanic, poker player...loush. But she could fly an airplane in her sleep. On the ride to the hangar, I had word that she and others were there. By the time we got there..."

  Pause. The igloo loses time. Skinny eyes the Canadians after realizing Wilkes is too gone to speak.

  "Well! What? She got killed by Slicks? Remodulated?"

  Teller clears his throat. "We got greeted immediately by the ST goons. But, they weren't scientists or mechanics. The hangar held the cross-engineered planes. The girls were slated to fly them to Salem in a few days. But, the Slicks showed. We can't guess how Motherville knew, only that she did. One Slick two nights before!" He raises a fist.

  "Yes," Wilkes returns to life. "Three nights before. I spoke to Kathy on the radio. Her smoky voice, the reminiscing, the laughs. We met those men in black uniforms, not learned men..."

  "Kill squad," Gillette whispers. He punches a wall.

  "Coursey got the word so fast. Had his goons gun the whole hand-picked assembly of female pilots down. Shots to the head, all five. We panicked, too late on the scene to change anything. "

  "'Show us this capsule' we demanded!" Gillette shrieks. "Do autopsies! Prove this is not some assassination by Axis agents! The sight! Had us out of our minds!"

  Wilkes gets up. He approaches Skinny, an affectionate hand cusps the big guy's neck. "Every lady had a black, ugly capsule in her stomach. You could even hear them, static gurgling in their...their guts. But Kathy..." He wipes his eyes.

  "Rats! They just assumed all were compromised!"

  Skinny holds the corporal's forearm. "I'm sorry, Brother. Was she....?"

  "We were never legally divorced, you see. Too contentious to be under one roof, too connected to find other loves. We hadn't seen one another face-to-face in over three years, what with the war between us. To see her on that metal table! I've never in my life...!" He makes a tactical retreat for the door.

  But the door opens for him, letting in a very snappy Mechanic Crank. Her pitch black locks are tied up in a scarlet rag knotted over her temple, and she's down to a black tank top and uniform pants. Rags dangle from the back pockets. Ruby red lipstick shines between a marble face smudged by grease. Wilkes may be on the emotional run, but Crank's belting out the jazz, loud music backing her up.

  She hits the fridge as Wilkes exits. She doesn't notice. Too busy swinging.

  "All that meat and no potatoes,

  Just ain't right, like greeeeeeen tomatoes!"

  Crank relieves the fridge from bearing the burden of a plate of meatballs she concocted the previous midnight. All the while, she's jigging and raising up on her tiptoes, singing badly, strangled cat, as the boys wait in their discomfort.

  "Here I'm waitin', palpitating!

  All that meat and noooooooo potatooooooes!"

  "Could at least try to imitate singin', Doll?" Larry can't help himself.

  Crank stuffs her mouth with food, her big eyes swell. "Oh! Nu guys hab bun here d'ole dyme?" She barely chews., gulping down meat to make way for another helping. "Mmm! Nu wun sum, g'hed n' dig'n!" Fork shovels a trench into the plate. Scrape. Eat. Scrape!

  Walter taps his foot as the playful piano keys of Fats Waller goes on out the door. Wilkes is gone, leaving the igloo an emotional desert. Skinny heads for Crank, takes a big hand to scruff up her 'do.

  "Glad you're happy, Crank. But, I gotta go. I can't be here anymore." He too, races for the way out.

  Crank ceases and desists with the gluttony. "Errr...sooooooo...you boys're just letting him go?"

  Guess so. Nobody's budging.

  "Hello!" The Mechanic barks out a marinara laced command.

  Guys fumble for the door, half at full speed, the other on reluctant trot. Behind them is Crank, leading from behind, eating on the charge.

  "We need you, Bubba! Can't, numnum! Do this without you!"

  Skinny hits the main hangar door, holds on to the knob, stares at what may lie beyond. "Crank, thanks for tryin' but I just..."

  "Crisis of conscience? Mmm? Sorry, these meatballs are so good! It's the basil. I grew it myself in...um, I mean, we're a tribe of loss, Bubba. Alone, we're brittle. Together, we can't be broken. I believe it. Don't you?" She stares into him, a plate of wonder between friends.

  Silence.

  "Right boys?"

  Guys shuffle their feet.

  "Guys?" She quits shovelling.

  Shuffle. Sigh. Repeat.

  "Guys!"

  Walter grips his hips. "Right, right! My you all are an annoying bundle of nerves! Skinny, we are better than taking care of things on your own. Either way, we're in the thick of things. Stay. Let's give Motherville what-for ‘til she begs to be shut down."

  Skinny twists the knob. It squeals for help.

  "If he goes mental," whispers Larry, "you guys are on your own."

  "I really want to..." He opens the door, let's in the blinding day. "Bobby...would want..."

&n
bsp; "Look! The sun's out, Skinny! Too good of a day to run off! Besides, you'll miss what I did to La Donna. Stayed up all night working, cooking."

  He loosens the chokehold on the door.

  "Seventeen cups of coffee will do wonders for energy...mmm! Slurp! Ideas too! Oh, by the way, we're out of sugar."

  Skinny faces his team. He drops his head back, allows it to hit the door, loud but no harm done.

  "What I mean is, you need to stay with us, people who care, and somebody needs to get sugar at the A-and-P."

  Skinny doesn't make a habit of arguing with women. He's found it too draining. The loss of Bobby has him worn out enough. "Yeah. Yeah."

  "Really? Wow, and I didn't have to yell. Hooray!" She frees a hand to run over and grab Skinny by the wrist. "Come see what I've done! You'll love it!" She skips happily, Skinny lags behind.

  Larry tries to snip a meatball with a cunning hand on the pass by, but catches the Crank/Morticia shadow gaze. He relaxes the offending appendage.

  "Wha--? I thought you said--?"

  "Been to the market yet?"

  "No. Why?"

  "Market. Sugar. Mmm! Get. Bring. Then eat."

  "What kind of Indian givin'...! Fine, Toots. C'mon, boys, let's play like Myrna Loy. Get yourselves trussed up, pearls and all! We're goin' shoppin'!" He flips his collar, makes prancing hops.

  Boys hit the door, sad as well. Crank pulls Skinny across the hangar to her magnificent automobile.

  "Hey, what happened to Corporal Wilkes?"

  Skinny sets a huge sigh free to rebound off the hangar walls.

  "Guess he has his own loss to deal with. You were saying something about..." He stops talking. Mouth goes caddywhompus.

  Crank drops the plate of grub on her open tool chest, wipes her hands and mouth on one of the dingy rags. She grins from a mouth of smeared lipstick and gray grease. "See? Never seen anything like it, huh? Huh? I got the idea from some things Benny talked about last night." She pops open the hood. A transcendent glow bathes the two in white light.

  Skinny still can't find the words. He sees Motherville dying in this light, Bobby reborn, fit as a fiddle. A feeling, no, a surge goes through the bones, like being massaged by stars. He wants to cry, but can't.