Black Locust Letters

by Nicolette Jinks

  Betty flinched, not sure why she'd been so quick to think the absolute worst of him. He certainly hadn't earned it, not yet.

  With a glance to her watch, she realized she had best hurry. Right then, a taxi honked two quick beeps, and Betty ran out to it. Tonight she was co-hosting with Richard Welch, the night time charmer who often joked himself with the tagline incubus, but Betty wasn't sure if that was a political comment on the Never Weres or not. Ever since she had started at Tango Lima Romeo, he had given her the cold shoulder. She'd assumed it was because he was cut from the same mould as Mr. Gresley.

  At the Town Hall, in a crowd of military black and blues and the wives' finest gowns, Betty had no time to spare a second thought about anything except work and staying awake. She stood in one of the premium booths by the entrance, a rudimentary recording studio set up around her and her co-host, the evening show Richard Welch, a man with a throaty voice and booming character which was completely at odds with his church mouse stature and big boggle-eyes.

  “We are here at Sanctuary Town Hall, raising awareness and funds for war orphans still being uncovered by humanitarians,” he said. “Please, if you are out on the town tonight, come on by! Admission is free, but we suggest a dollar a person donation at the door. We have lots of activities here tonight.”

  When he nodded to Betty, she said, “The organizers have bobbing for apples, a cake walk, caramel apple dipping, face painting, pin-the-tail-on-the-goblin, and kelpie basketball. Come soon to place your bets, all money goes straight to the War Orphan funds. We're only at twelve percent so far, so bring your friends, bring your parents, bring a date!”

  “And remember that our sweet Betty is going to be hosting you again in the early morning hours, so make the most of her, folks! We're here, we're jiving, and now it's time for a throwback to some twenties hot sauce.”

  With that, Richard put his sounds together and let it play. Betty sighed and leaned back in her chair, not used to sharing a hosting slot with Richard. He dug a cigarette out of his coat pocket and took a drag. “Perk up, sweet cheeks. You sound tired, and the boys want none a that. They want a fresh-faced gal they can score with tonight. Get your act together.”

  Betty scoffed. “It's time for me to be in bed. I wake up at four, you know, so people have something to listen to during their commute to the first shift at five.”

  “Ain't no man who will take you to bed before nine, honeybuns, and he'd keep you up until well past now, if he was worth his salt.”

  Betty kept a sour look from her face. “Ain't no woman who will stay awake until your shift ends, lest she be a handkerchief-throwing hussy.”

  “Got my love life damn right, hunny. And I got yours pegged, too.” He paused to relight his cigarette. “Unless...but nah, you're the straight and narrow sort. No point even mentioning it to you.”

  “Mentioning what?”

  He lifted a brow, shrugged, and said, “Listen, darling, we both got strange schedules. Hell, there ain't more than ten humans who keep our hours, and I know every one of them. I've been doing my slot a long time. Long, long time. There ain't no woman who I like to keep round me. But there is the alternative lifestyle. Makes for company.”

  “What do you mean?” Betty asked, but she thought she already knew exactly what he was talking about.

  “Ah, forget about it. I'll tell you next time they think to stick their favorite hosts together. Might be sometime in the spring, maybe sooner, sometime during the holidays.”

  They paused to thank people who came to stuff money into a can with the picture of a teary-eyed little girl on it, and amid all the hands, suddenly a familiar grey-brown coat sleeve tucked a fifty into the pot, and Richard Welch jumped up to make a fuss over him, pumping his hand up and down viciously and exclaiming what a good sort of man he was. “What is your name, my good man? Let us put you on the record.”

  Clarkin's head towered over Richard's, and he looked like his usual self in his brown suit, white shirt, and candid smile. His amber eyes locked on Betty's baby blues, and her breath caught. The smile changed to something more welcoming and she blushed furiously. “Thank you, but I prefer to remain anonymous.”

  “If that's how you'd like it, sir, but thank you again,” said Richard.

  Suddenly, Betty was so overwrought with nerves that she couldn't think, not even after the Never Were had turned and left them to watch a child doing the cake walk. All at once, she felt as though she were floundering for any semblance of manners while she just gaped.

  Richard elbowed her. “What a man! An alternative, sure, but that doesn't mean you gotta give him the second-degree. Who do you suppose he was?”

  Betty swallowed. “Decapitaria Clarkin Hannah. Aerial Battalion.”

  “You know him?” Richard turned to face her, then let out a long whistle. “You know him—baby girl, you and I have gotta talk, next break. And welcome back. Our Lovely little Betty Boo Cratchet from the morning show is here with me tonight at the Town Hall, where we are raising money for the War Orphans Fund...”

  Was it just her, or did Richard sound happier now that he'd discovered her little secret?

  Wait, when had Clarkin become a secret?

  Betty was so flustered she lost herself in her own words. To hear herself being repeated on the radio in the distance made her think that she had taken the drunken plunge into the Tempest River during the Autumn Moon Carnival. Distantly, she knew that somewhere in the Town Hall, Clarkin was listening to her stumble over words, and he knew that he was the cause of it.

  After some good-natured bantering, their talk section was finally over, but the hosts didn't have the time to discuss anything else. Their song and commercial breaks were taken up greeting fans and thanking donors.

  After seeing Clarkin, Betty had thought that the worst could have possibly happened, and she anxiously wondered if she'd see him again, or if he had come expressly to see her despite her dismissals, and if so what he hoped to gain by it.

  She was so caught up in it that when she saw another fifty go into the can, she half-expected it to be Clarkin again. But this time, the sleeve was blue, and as her eyes followed the sleeve up to the yellow rope epaulette, she realized with growing horror that the night had just gotten worse.

  Slim stood before her.

  Her heart stopped its irregular pattering entirely and her jaw dropped as he ignored Richard's praises and proffered hand. He took Betty's, bringing it up for a kiss.

  “Good evening my dear. Welshie, play us something slow, would you?”

  Then he half-pulled, half-led Betty out from around the safety of the booth, and she let him even as her mind screamed at her to object, to yank her hand away, anything. But there was a steely glint to Slim's brown eyes, and a set to his jaw which would brook no opposition, least of all in a public place like this night. So she went, and next she knew, she was hand-in-hand with her former fiancé, and he was waltzing with her during jazz, a sign that Richard Welch hadn't taken well to the cavalier attitude.

  When Slim came close to her, he breathed in her ear, “You haven't responded to my letters.”

  Were the letters from him? She stumbled, then recalled that they couldn't be, not since she knew his handwriting so well. Even when he tried to write better, it was still chicken scratch. And she had gotten other notes from him, not that she'd read them.

  “I burned them.”

  Slim's stride checked. “You never opened them?”

  Betty glanced at where she had last seen Clarkin, but he wasn't there. Move forward, don't let him drag you into the past, she told herself.

  “What do you want to say to me, James? What brought you here?”

  Slim grimaced. James had been his father's name, and he hated it, and Betty knew this all too well. She didn't want him to like her. All the better if she could make him annoyed.

  “Your father invites you to attend dinner. Bearing in mind your schedule, he has arranged it for three-thirty coffee and cake. The Brick Oven.”
r />   Betty stopped the dance. “Very well, you've told me.”

  “Can I tell your father you will meet us there?”

  “You can tell him whatever you wish, but I haven't made up my mind yet.” Before he could drag on the conversation, Betty turned on her heel and returned to the radio booth while the next song was ending, her slight heels clacking through the hubbub.

  “You all right?” Richard asked, but she didn't have time to reply before they went back on the air. She repeated a few more lines, including the activities and a report on their goal, up to fifty percent now, and by the time Richard ended the section with his wit and charm, Betty was starting to overcome her shocks.

  A temporary lull came to the admittance, so Richard prompted, “Hannah and Slim Jim, in one night.”

  The chill was back in his voice again.

  Betty said, “James and I were engaged. Years ago, when I was working for Alpha Bravo Charlie. I was naive then, and he was charming. I left James and started working here. Hannah has been kind to me, perhaps too kind. I don't want a repeat of what happened at Alpha.”

  Richard's face relaxed and a dawning of sorts crossed over his features. “Ah, that explains matters. When you first moved here, I said you'd be no good because you were an Alpha. But if you were jumping off that ship...”

  Betty rubbed her forehead. “I don't know what I'm going to do.” Then she told him about her father's and Slim's invitation, and Richard grew solemn. She didn't know why she'd told him, he was just right there at the right time, and the songs were long.

  At the next commercial break, nearing the end of her shift, Richard said, “Righteo, baby girl, you listen to your big brother Richard, and remember he can be a real dick sometimes, so keep that in mind. This is what you're going to do. You're going to get a good car home. You're going to lock up all the doors and windows, then you're going to get clean and take a good, long hot bath. Sleep. Go to work. Act normal.

  “Then you go home again, clean up, and you go to your daddy's dinner and you open your ears and keep your tongue sealed to the roof of your mouth. Once you've heard what he's gotta say, you need to stop doggy paddling in the ocean, and you've gotta climb aboard a ship. Pick the Alpha, or pick the Tango. There ain't but two choices because the land's too far away to swim to, hotcakes, and anyone who doesn't board a boat is going to sink long 'fore the cannons start firing.”

  Betty went cold all the way through to the core. “What are you saying?”

  But he spared her a sad smile and went back on the air, waving her farewell.

  Betty left, called out for a taxi, and confirmed the name at pick-up. She stared back at the town hall as they left. She hadn't seen Slim again all evening. Nor Clarkin, for that matter.

  Chapter 10

  Betty's father sat at the head of the table in a banquet room reserved for business meetings, the walls perennially decorated with mouldings and classical oil paintings, handmade things done by Tetrametrius' art students, and the table itself was a monster man-o-war of a table, fashioned from ancient oak and carved three borders deep on all edges and down the legs. Betty actually thought both it and the room, softened by indoor palms, very beautiful, just tainted by the presence of the man in black sitting at the top of the room.

  He was smoking a cigar, tapping the ashes into a blue willow ashtray, and he stood up when he saw her. “My Betty, my little girl, how tired you look.”

  “It is evening for me, General,” Betty said, voice low and steady as she pointedly ignored Slim who sat on his right side with a brief case on the table between them as though they had just finished putting work into it.

  When he heard that Betty was not giving him a warm greeting, her father sank back down into his chair with a sigh. “Not even a smile for your old papa?”

  “Not while you call me a little girl.”

  “Term of endearment, my dove, but if you feel you have outgrown it, then I will stop using it. Take a seat. They're bringing out a swan for us today, a proper Thanksgiving feast, just without the turkey. A bit too uncommon in these parts ever since the turkey farm had the bird flu.”

  Bearing in mind Richard's words of advice, Betty sat down next to her father, grimly deciding to look at him rather than her ex. “I've come to listen.”

  “Well, this is a changed Betty, indeed,” her father mused. “I am glad, my dear one, so very glad. Why don't you start with a bit of the salad?”

  At the mention, a server came out from behind a door with a chilled glass bowl and laid down three cold china plates, then served the endive and radish salad before he left again, one arm tucked behind his back, prim and proper and straight as a military inspection day. Stiffly, Betty stabbed a leaf and brought it to her lips, taking only small bites so she could speak with her father faster if he called for it.

  He clucked, though if it was in approval or not she did not know and tried to convince herself that she did not care. He said, “When you said you were coming to listen, you meant listen and not speak at all. Just bear in mind that you think constructively and critically about what I am about to say.”

  “I will.”

  “No greeting for your love? Are you two still spatting?”

  Betty gently set down her fork, but the clinking it made would have been less volatile if she'd slammed it down. “We are not spatting. We are simply no longer together.”

  “Pity, pity,” the general said. “It would be perhaps time for a renewal of acquaintance? With both of you a bit older and more mature, the relationship might work this time.”

  “Did you call me here to champion for James, or is there a less pointless reason for getting me by your side?”

  “Tut tut, my dove, James is anything but pointless, but that is a topic for another day. Yes, you are right, I did ask for you for another reason.”

  Betty took a sip from her water glass, not touching the white wine which was nearby and her ex fiancé was drinking from heavily; he used to be of such a stout nature, she wondered if his will had weakened since she'd last known him or if her presence simply unnerved him to the extent that he needed a solid drink to face her. She liked to think the second, but being around her father, she knew it was probably the former.

  “There is no easy way to breach the subject. You have been reading the news?”

  “I do every morning.”

  “The edited news, you mean. Do you remember who was behind the Cliffdale Mansion fire?”

  Betty frowned. “An electric pyro. Why, was that a cover-up?” She mentally cheered for her good sense of being able to catch that no-good police head in a trap.

  “No,” her father said. “It was a murder, an assassination by the Never Weres. Aaron Riley died in that fire, the day before he was going to swing the vote in favor of identification cards for Never Weres.”

  Betty went still. She remembered how Clarkin had frozen when she'd asked him about electric pyros. Was this why? “You're saying that the Never Weres are killing people who they think are a threat?”

  Slim chose now to say, “Riley was the most recent, and blatant, attack. Michael Jovoe, Henry O'Dell, and Margarett Keeclick also died suddenly and tragically, but there is not enough evidence to suppose that they were murdered.”

  “However, they each were taking part in legislation which would impose stricter rules on the things that Never Were. It seems to be a backlash against the appointment of our new police chief.”

  Betty frowned. “I never heard about this legislation.”

  “The news doesn't report on such topics. You'd only hear about it if you had a daily report of the legislation's actions like I do.”

  She leaned back, frowning. “I do find it suspicious that the government is curtailing the rights and freedoms of its citizens so silently. Who will be next, the immigrants?”

  Father shook his head. “The question you should be asking yourself is this: What do they want with you, and how are they going to use you to get to me? I promise you, they will. You are my on
ly child, and they took your mother from me so early into our marriage...” He trailed off, as though reminiscing, but Betty gritted her teeth and was determined not to feel anything for him.

  He would lie, cheat, steal, praise, anything to tug on her heartstrings and bring her back to him. And she was much too susceptible to fall for it, and she knew that, which was why she did her very best to avoid him at all costs.

  “If that is all...?” Betty prompted, wanting to get away as fast as she could.

  The general looked hurt. “I find a reason to meet with you, and you wish to run away again? What did I say to upset you so? It's been such a long time, and you didn't see me over the holidays.”

  Despite herself, Betty felt guilty. She'd promised her mother that she would always spend New Year’s with her father, and so she had, even that first one right after breaking up with James, and the one after. Both times had been wretched experiences.

  Her father had been so kind to her that she felt guilty for living by herself, and she had sworn to see him more often. Then as she did so, he by stages asked more and more of her, until she balked and they got into a huge fight that reminded her of why she was better off in her quiet house alone.

  Resolved, she said, “I came to listen. If you have nothing else of importance to say, I will leave.”

  But just then the main course came, with it such a train of servers that it would have been nearly impossible to leave without disturbing a dish and making them pick it up off the floor. And once her plate was filled with a slice of swan, which did look remarkably like turkey, cranberries, mashed potatoes and gravy, a hot roll, and walnut topped honeyed sweet potatoes, Betty's stomach gave a growl. She never cooked like this for herself, unless she wanted to eat for a week. It seemed extremely rude to the cook if she were to leave a full plate, so she ate.

  Thankfully, her father and particularly James, were quiet during the meal except to make occasional comments on the food or the weather, but even so she tried to listen for any code words. Nothing that she could tell, but code could be changed so quickly and so often that she doubted she would have any idea what they would be saying anyway.