"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...?"
"Oh, the best! We quarreled years earlier during my time in England, flight training at Upavon, long before this war. Mechanic, poker player...lush. 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 nyes 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 sooooooo 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..."
"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 o' 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.
"I mean, might as well take advantage of whatever power is in the engine. Right? And, may as well be happy. I'm happy, and who knows how long it will last."
"It's...it's..."
Crank hugs her pal. "Amazing, huh? And, I ran this puppy through the car's engine. Surprised? This thing wraps around the diesel parts, but with the connection, I'm estimating a hundred and fifty percent efficiency on fuel expenditure. I didn't have the heart at first to rip out the engine, and had the glowing alien one strapped around, basically useless until I could work out how to merge it. Benny brought up the mental diodes in Milkman and whammo! Boom! Pop! I had it. Now she's a fireball. Bits of the alien energy enter the pistons, really increasing combustion! Grazia salvifica, I call it. Our saving grace."
Skinny touches the engine, shocked by the cool of it. "It might be that, Sister. It just might."
_____________________
Man, what a difference a shave makes!
Benny looks at himself in the mirror. Traveler's office nets it's own bathroom, albeit a teeny weeny model. Benny grips his newly scalped chin for an inspection, rests the razor on the flat sink. Clean? Check! He steps back. Flat gut? Not so check. Have to rectify that, if I'm gonna fight on and romance a young girl. Benny slaps his abdomen, sucks it in, and throws on an undershirt, flexes. Least the biceps are at premium.
Stretching (ouch!) as he leaves the water closet for the office, Benny looks at it like it's brand new. The darkness is gone. All he sees is memory. On the floor, Crank stood on his back, used her wiggly toes to get that knot out. In the chair, they kissed for three eternities. How he managed to nab a gal like Frederica Musa is beyond comprehension.
Well, she nabbed me.
So what he hasn't left the office? The guys will be alright, probably don't want to see his big mug anyway. Gotta get the mind ready for hell and high water, sweep out the cobwebs. The past night, no nightmares, no past chilling the spine. Love is the answer, huh?
Love is the answer.
Whenever Crank ventured away, Benny hit the books. Coursey kept meticulous records of activities, stolen documents from other ST facilities. In a secret compartment of the desk (third drawer-bottom right, for those wanting to know) a series of memorandums in German gave Haskins and Crank pause for a full hour. Couldn't read a lick of it, but scary stuff nonetheless. Swastikas do not make for a happy evening.
An image of a wedding ring on Crank's finger crosses his mind. Whoa! Whoa there! Brakes! Gotta take it slow. Crank is young and moves quick.
I'm old, and played out. Right?
He thumbs through papers, gobbles down a cold meatball, then catches on to a novel idea. A hot second later, Benjamin is on the floor, getting reacquainted with the fine art of sit-ups.
One! Two! Three!
______________________
"Artie, did you hear what I just said?" Martha Silverman yells across the kitchen.
Artie Silverman puts down the now empty glass of tap water. He's fifteen, curly haired, scrawny, brown eyes losing their light by the blink. He sets down the glass.
"Artie! Get the roast out of the oven while I'm mixing this batter!",
Artie turns on a dime, ignoring the placid view of Chestnut Street out the kitchen window. The sunlight means nothing. The roast means nothing. He angles to the white stove before turning again.
" I hope we won't have trouble this time about with your Uncle Josiah. Last New Year he caused quite the stir. Your father had better keep him on a tight leash this time!"
Artie ignores her. Human speech means nothing. The bread knife in the sink means something. He acquires it and moves behind mother.
"Conquer the county seat.",
"What, dear? Is this a new game you..."
She turns right into the blade, angled up so the dull curve is back, the blade at ready. Artie walks forward, plunging the knife in stuttered, slit-bubbling motions. Mother loses her inner glow. Like Artie, her eyes are dead.
Artie backs away, letting mother sink to the ceramic tiles while he makes for the door. In a cold manner, he puts on the Salem High School jacket, and exits the house.
It is sunny and breezy. Artie stands on the broad porch of his Queen Anne home, and looks right, then left. Neighbors step outside. A seven-year old girl to the right. An elderly man to the left. Both have blood on their hands.
"Conquer..." says Artie.
"...the county seat," the trio say as one.
They head out on Chestnut, where the trees provide ample shade and the crows caw in abundance. They make for Broadway, and are followed behind by other Salemites, just as cold, just as bloodied.
People begin to scream. People hide from their loved ones. The police are called, their telephone lines backed up to the next year with the same, horrible cries.
"My family is trying to kill me!"
The police can't respond. The police station, you see, is where Artie and company are heading...