Down Jersey Drive-shaft

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 moustache, 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...?"