"Isn't it divine?" Petunia Redmond grinned from ear to ear, a zephyr from the East lashing her. She waited for grouchy Mark, the spouse, to come around.
He shrugged in his black suit, pulled up the red sleeve garters that kept sliding down. From the polished deck of the Zeppelin, RotAdler, even the view, their first, of the magnificent white homes and azure waters about Greece failed to move him. His wife evidenced enough exuberance for the two of them.
"Oh, Mark! If that gift hadn't come to us a few months ago, we'd still be working the news stand back in Cayce. She grabbed her tiny round cap with the fake blue bells before the wind got hold of it. The shimmering cerulean dress she bought wouldn't look right without the hat!
Mark didn't need reminding. When a masked man in red Army gear throws money at your feet in the dead of night because the bankers who had it were part of an insurance scam, it's not readily forgotten. That freed Mark from the drudgery of the janitor's life.
"This is worse." He couldn't help it.
"Say something, dear?" Worry creased her Scandinavian features. She aged thirty years from one worried look.
"Nothing." He opened the glass door that led inside, lit a Cuban, puffed, licked his lips. Europe. Birthplace of civilization. Cradle of culture.
Fresh trench marks pocked his fragile mind. Why did she want to see where he fought. Where brothers died? Europe! The three thousand mile cemetery.
"Where's Aunt Petunia?" Lightning struck twice. Bud, the nephew. Mark's wife promised he would come. She kept her word. Curse her...
"On the observation deck. Go bother her for your Uncle." He knocked the red and blue beanie off Bud's big head.
Bud scooped up the dumb hat and blew off with the wind.
"Mister Redmond?" Now the crew came to interrupt his internal misery. "Mister Redmond, a call for you on the dining line." Heels clicked, the private zoomed off.
"Who could be...? How would anyone know this number to reach me?"
Mark wandered into the dining hall under a cumulus cloud of burning bush. Gilded chairs, buff tablecloths with scarlet embroidery greeted him. German women in satin and velvet regalia smiled with their eyes. He kept a visual lock on the private telephone booth. Small. A wooden seat. Cedar sliding door. The telephone, of fine French curved breeding, sat on a stand beside a half empty notepad and a ballpoint pen, Sheaffer's lever filler.
"Hello?" Mark gripped the receiver with his shoulder, kept his hands free for cigar play.
"Mark? Mark Redmond of the 201st Aero?"
It couldn't be. There was no possible way. Smoke choked him. The booth closed in on Jack.
"Jeanne-Marie..." It had nothing but scandalous whisper to the name. So low, she never heard it.
"Mark?" The intonation. The accent. Who else?
"It's ah..." Mark moistened his voice box with smoke. "It's great. Great to hear...thought you eh..."
"Died? No. We survived the bombing. A patrol found us in the ruins. We made it. Paris did not. We did."
The Sky War ripped apart the mind, like it had been doing for a dozen years. Trenches. Heaping piles of boys with guns. Lice. Mud. Bomb upon bomb upon bomb. Jeanne-Marie. The chateau south of Paris. Love, for the first time in ages. Gravity Bomb. End of the world.
"We've been in Greece now for seven years."
The bottom of his world fell out. "I...I...went home after the war and...I'm married now."
"I know. Your wife found us. Your coming to meet with me, and Jenny."
"Jenny!" He pulled the receiver away, wiped a tear from a typically jaded eye. "She's gotta be, what? Twelve?"
"Thirteen, as of two months ago." She sounded tearful herself. "I never can forget you, Mark, or how we were. But, this is a new world, and our family is bigger. We will be at the hangar. Je t'aime." Click.
Mark hung up. Sat. Stood up. Ran.
Petunia managed to hold onto her hat and Bud's too as they returned inside. She jumped out of skin as Mark rushed her.
"Bud," Petunia handed her nephew a Deutschmark. "Why don't you go to the galley and get yourself a big ice cream cone?"
"Gee, Aunt Petunia, you're the swellest dame ever!" Bud let his feet guide his tummy.
Mark grabbed her at the biceps. "You found Jeanne-Marie?" He stared into her eyes with pinpoint determination. "When, Tune? How? Why?"
Petunia caressed his waist. "Because, my darling, I was inspired to." She reached into the small pocket of her dress and produced a folded note.
Mark ripped it open. It bore the red ink of the masked men who gave them the dough:
THE WAR CONSUMES MEN
DO NOT LET IT CONSUME HIM
PEACE IS PRICELESS
THE VOW REPAYS
Mark collapsed into a fit of tears. Petunia hugged him, waved away the nosy little Zeppelin crew coming their way to do whatever. "There, there, darling. Both of our families can become one. Something good should come out of that horrendous Sky War."
In one swoop, Mark rose, grabbed Petunia and dipped her like in their dance craze days years ago. "Baby, I don't have the words, only the moves."
He showed her those moves, right there on the observation deck, lips working overtime as Bud came racing back, face adorned in chocolate smudge.
"Aunt Petunia!"
YOU ARE READING
NEWSFLASH! Dieselpunk Flash Fiction From The Legacy Universe
Short StoryIn the 20th Century, diesel power in Germany, Russia and beyond is life, competing against the superior micro-steam of America. Beside the grit and grime, fabulous architecture, panic in the streets, espionage, the worst war in history blooms and ch...
