Read Online Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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tell.
Off I go to the welding supplies store, my list in hand, keys to my ride, a golf cart, jingling in my pocket. I burn rubber half a mile down a back road to the Aluminum Plate. Wally’s behind the counter. I hand over my list and while he gathers the equipment, he says, “You hear about Darlene, the Foo Dog sculptor? You know her?”
“Sure,” I say. I know Darlene from the Alaskan Pipeline fish fries.
“Well, they gave her the treatment. I saw her after the implant. A zombie.
“She’d started sculpting again, pot-bellied Hotei, some god of good fortune. Fat lotta good. Anyway, one day the study nurse visited her shed and observed that Darlene’s epicranial twitched. Darlene told her it wasn’t anything Botox couldn’t paralyze, but the study nurse said, ‘Posh!’ Next day, they zapped her.
“What I think is, those knife-happy neuro-
surgeons want their recipe approved pronto, but you study guys and gals don’t fizzle out fast enough. What do ya think about that?”
“I dunno,” I say.
Wally pushes a carton across the counter. “Have a nice day,” he says.
It’s creepy about Darlene. Also it’s distressing. Because sculpting Hotei is welding-tofu, welding-light compared to the jalopy autopsies Aida and I do.
I floor it to the Spirit Shop and buy a box of Liebfraumilch that’s big as a Buick battery then peel out until I find a remote spot surrounded by old elms, funnel in some wheat germ oil and suck the stuff straight from the spout. Back in the shed, I write “safety goggles” across the bag the wine’s shrouded in and set it on the workbench.
The next day, the fume extractor is in the shed and two new skull caps. A row of Post-its are stuck up. They say:
Please accept these skull caps as an expression of our vested interest in your safety. Your weldfare (!!) is our utmost concern. But remember, you signed on this study to get treated for disorderly neuron firings from fastening pieces of metal together. And so we can get our investigational remedy out of the lab and into sick welders the world over. It’s a laudable sacrifice you make and meritorious service you give to flash fever sufferers everywhere—today, tomorrow, forever.
Which goes to show that Wally knew what he was talking about.
“No way they’re ever deep frying my brain,” says Aida. Her voice is pared down, weak and wavy. “If my ex wins in court, I’m looking at ten years of child support.” She phones the Reverend Francine.
Ohh … kayyy.
We spend the whole day on a Camaro frame—Last Roundup—bending, fitting, brazing, keeping a steady blood-red 1300 degrees, doing a slow roast.
At night, too sweaty and grimy to enjoy our beefed-up Liebfraumilch, we return to our separate trailers. There’s an email from Dad.
Eyes getting worse, he says. Blisters ruptured like hot salt rubbed into each baby blue, so I applied raw potatoes. How should I know vegetables contain infectious bacteria? Cure super expensive. How’s the study going? Any way to earn bonus pay?
Will inquire, I reply. How’s Larry?
Barks a lot. Can’t see to scoop his poop. Neighbors mad. Fines piling up. How’re you?
Homesick, I reply.
Dad’s fifty-something. The week before I signed up for the study, he looked at his arc with a number eight dark lens, mistaking it for a number fourteen, and burned his eyes like a sunburn on the skin. The lubricant drops his doctor prescribed were soothing until blisters swelled up on his eyeballs. Mostly he’s okay, except for the scar tissue that causes blindness.
Why raw potatoes? Why not cold cloths?
Next morning a study doctor, meaty Parker Pinkley is in the shed and offers to take me out for coffee.
Upstart. Vexer.
“I like coffee, too,” says Aida.
“Boy talk,” Pinkley says. “Boy-girl talk next time.”
He red lines his golf cart to the back of the parking lot and lets it idle.
“You’ll be getting an extra check this week,” he says as he pours coffee from a thermos and passes
Off I go to the welding supplies store, my list in hand, keys to my ride, a golf cart, jingling in my pocket. I burn rubber half a mile down a back road to the Aluminum Plate. Wally’s behind the counter. I hand over my list and while he gathers the equipment, he says, “You hear about Darlene, the Foo Dog sculptor? You know her?”
“Sure,” I say. I know Darlene from the Alaskan Pipeline fish fries.
“Well, they gave her the treatment. I saw her after the implant. A zombie.
“She’d started sculpting again, pot-bellied Hotei, some god of good fortune. Fat lotta good. Anyway, one day the study nurse visited her shed and observed that Darlene’s epicranial twitched. Darlene told her it wasn’t anything Botox couldn’t paralyze, but the study nurse said, ‘Posh!’ Next day, they zapped her.
“What I think is, those knife-happy neuro-
surgeons want their recipe approved pronto, but you study guys and gals don’t fizzle out fast enough. What do ya think about that?”
“I dunno,” I say.
Wally pushes a carton across the counter. “Have a nice day,” he says.
It’s creepy about Darlene. Also it’s distressing. Because sculpting Hotei is welding-tofu, welding-light compared to the jalopy autopsies Aida and I do.
I floor it to the Spirit Shop and buy a box of Liebfraumilch that’s big as a Buick battery then peel out until I find a remote spot surrounded by old elms, funnel in some wheat germ oil and suck the stuff straight from the spout. Back in the shed, I write “safety goggles” across the bag the wine’s shrouded in and set it on the workbench.
The next day, the fume extractor is in the shed and two new skull caps. A row of Post-its are stuck up. They say:
Please accept these skull caps as an expression of our vested interest in your safety. Your weldfare (!!) is our utmost concern. But remember, you signed on this study to get treated for disorderly neuron firings from fastening pieces of metal together. And so we can get our investigational remedy out of the lab and into sick welders the world over. It’s a laudable sacrifice you make and meritorious service you give to flash fever sufferers everywhere—today, tomorrow, forever.
Which goes to show that Wally knew what he was talking about.
“No way they’re ever deep frying my brain,” says Aida. Her voice is pared down, weak and wavy. “If my ex wins in court, I’m looking at ten years of child support.” She phones the Reverend Francine.
Ohh … kayyy.
We spend the whole day on a Camaro frame—Last Roundup—bending, fitting, brazing, keeping a steady blood-red 1300 degrees, doing a slow roast.
At night, too sweaty and grimy to enjoy our beefed-up Liebfraumilch, we return to our separate trailers. There’s an email from Dad.
Eyes getting worse, he says. Blisters ruptured like hot salt rubbed into each baby blue, so I applied raw potatoes. How should I know vegetables contain infectious bacteria? Cure super expensive. How’s the study going? Any way to earn bonus pay?
Will inquire, I reply. How’s Larry?
Barks a lot. Can’t see to scoop his poop. Neighbors mad. Fines piling up. How’re you?
Homesick, I reply.
Dad’s fifty-something. The week before I signed up for the study, he looked at his arc with a number eight dark lens, mistaking it for a number fourteen, and burned his eyes like a sunburn on the skin. The lubricant drops his doctor prescribed were soothing until blisters swelled up on his eyeballs. Mostly he’s okay, except for the scar tissue that causes blindness.
Why raw potatoes? Why not cold cloths?
Next morning a study doctor, meaty Parker Pinkley is in the shed and offers to take me out for coffee.
Upstart. Vexer.
“I like coffee, too,” says Aida.
“Boy talk,” Pinkley says. “Boy-girl talk next time.”
He red lines his golf cart to the back of the parking lot and lets it idle.
“You’ll be getting an extra check this week,” he says as he pours coffee from a thermos and passes
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