Read Online Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant
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a styrofoam cup to me. “Overtime pay.”
“Thanks,” I say.
“The money’s for picking up Aida’s slack. How is Aida? Any symptoms? Tremors? Impaired reflexes? You’re actually helping her by telling me.”
I’m not about to steer into that skid since, for weeks, Aida’s been ranting about Ex, her former welder-husband who used to wear tee-shirts on the job and won a Darwin Award after infrared exposure caused severe gastritis and poor sperm quality. Now that he’s a stay-at-home dad for their son Thad, he wants a divorce and custody with alimony on top.
“Nein,” I say. “Aida’s good.”
“And pigs fly,” he says. “You’d probably drool over the Emperor’s new clothes, too. I read your reports, yet Aida leaves the shed early while you stay late. Also, scuttlebutt has it the notorious Reverend Francine’s been here making long distance calls to glory.”
I pour powdered milk into my cup, stir.
“I get it,” he says, “you fancy her. You only want what’s best for her. What if what’s best for her is to let us deliver electrical jolts and cure every primary and secondary symptom she has? For grant funds to continue, for participants to get paid, we must implant wires inside brains. And our vibes tell us Aida’s ripe for treatment.
“You do want our pioneering work to press on, right? Of course you do. And the bonus bucks will keep on, too. Just verify our hunch about Aida. Soon. On your next report.”
He unscrews a bottle of flavoring, nougat, and tips the neck in my direction.
“Please,” I say.
He fills my cup till the thick syrup runneth over.
In the shed, Aida sips Liebfraumilch laced with E. “What did peckerhead want?’ she says. “Are you getting the stimulator?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you on another date? Even though he’s married!? Does he believe in plural marriage?”
“No.”
“Does he want to ask me on a date? A subterranean medulla oblongata date? Does he suspect?”
I say nothing.
“That dick breath scum face!” she says.
“Pinkley says informers saw you leaving the shed early and getting visits from the Rev. He wants me to report you so the team can mend your upper story basal ganglia.”
I tap the box wine spout.
“Time to call the Angel Communicator,” she says.
We clink Liebfraumilchs, grazing each other’s rough welder’s hands. I go to hug her. She sees me coming and totters away.
Next day, I go to the shed and find no fume extractor. No Post-it.
Aida wobbles in looking withered as a peach stone. “The mirrors in my trailer are the worst quality,” she says, and flicks the Liebfraumilch spout.
I follow suit.
“The Reverend Francine’s coming,” she says. Her voice sounds chapped.
All morning we lap-joint turbocharger brackets. In the afternoon we weld exhaust systems until Aida’s quivers speed up and she stops to rest.
No study nurse comes in.
About an hour before the end of our shift, we hear pounding on our door as if a refugee’s out there. In walks a welder, in full ppg; he heads for the back of our shed and whisks off his mask. It’s the Reverend Francine.
After the Rev adjusts her transmitter, after she moves her fingers to her Adam’s apple, ears and throat for internal receiving, she tells Aida, “Sorry, wrong number” a few times before, at last, she claps her hands and says, “Ah yes, good. Fire release.” Next, the Rev pulls from her pocket a pen, paper and a pair of metal tongs. She has Aida write down her dilemma then twists the paper into a taper, which she clamps with the tongs and tells Aida to ignite with her arc. As the paper burns, the Rev says, “Ask the angels of fire to purify your mind, body and emotions of your pickle and release you from it. Now drop the charred paper into that mug of Liebfraumilch.”
That night I email my report: No, None, Negative.
That same night, I get another email from Dad.
Bad news, he says. Tried some “get the red out” and burned my eyes worse. Doc says I
“Thanks,” I say.
“The money’s for picking up Aida’s slack. How is Aida? Any symptoms? Tremors? Impaired reflexes? You’re actually helping her by telling me.”
I’m not about to steer into that skid since, for weeks, Aida’s been ranting about Ex, her former welder-husband who used to wear tee-shirts on the job and won a Darwin Award after infrared exposure caused severe gastritis and poor sperm quality. Now that he’s a stay-at-home dad for their son Thad, he wants a divorce and custody with alimony on top.
“Nein,” I say. “Aida’s good.”
“And pigs fly,” he says. “You’d probably drool over the Emperor’s new clothes, too. I read your reports, yet Aida leaves the shed early while you stay late. Also, scuttlebutt has it the notorious Reverend Francine’s been here making long distance calls to glory.”
I pour powdered milk into my cup, stir.
“I get it,” he says, “you fancy her. You only want what’s best for her. What if what’s best for her is to let us deliver electrical jolts and cure every primary and secondary symptom she has? For grant funds to continue, for participants to get paid, we must implant wires inside brains. And our vibes tell us Aida’s ripe for treatment.
“You do want our pioneering work to press on, right? Of course you do. And the bonus bucks will keep on, too. Just verify our hunch about Aida. Soon. On your next report.”
He unscrews a bottle of flavoring, nougat, and tips the neck in my direction.
“Please,” I say.
He fills my cup till the thick syrup runneth over.
In the shed, Aida sips Liebfraumilch laced with E. “What did peckerhead want?’ she says. “Are you getting the stimulator?”
“No.”
“Did he ask you on another date? Even though he’s married!? Does he believe in plural marriage?”
“No.”
“Does he want to ask me on a date? A subterranean medulla oblongata date? Does he suspect?”
I say nothing.
“That dick breath scum face!” she says.
“Pinkley says informers saw you leaving the shed early and getting visits from the Rev. He wants me to report you so the team can mend your upper story basal ganglia.”
I tap the box wine spout.
“Time to call the Angel Communicator,” she says.
We clink Liebfraumilchs, grazing each other’s rough welder’s hands. I go to hug her. She sees me coming and totters away.
Next day, I go to the shed and find no fume extractor. No Post-it.
Aida wobbles in looking withered as a peach stone. “The mirrors in my trailer are the worst quality,” she says, and flicks the Liebfraumilch spout.
I follow suit.
“The Reverend Francine’s coming,” she says. Her voice sounds chapped.
All morning we lap-joint turbocharger brackets. In the afternoon we weld exhaust systems until Aida’s quivers speed up and she stops to rest.
No study nurse comes in.
About an hour before the end of our shift, we hear pounding on our door as if a refugee’s out there. In walks a welder, in full ppg; he heads for the back of our shed and whisks off his mask. It’s the Reverend Francine.
After the Rev adjusts her transmitter, after she moves her fingers to her Adam’s apple, ears and throat for internal receiving, she tells Aida, “Sorry, wrong number” a few times before, at last, she claps her hands and says, “Ah yes, good. Fire release.” Next, the Rev pulls from her pocket a pen, paper and a pair of metal tongs. She has Aida write down her dilemma then twists the paper into a taper, which she clamps with the tongs and tells Aida to ignite with her arc. As the paper burns, the Rev says, “Ask the angels of fire to purify your mind, body and emotions of your pickle and release you from it. Now drop the charred paper into that mug of Liebfraumilch.”
That night I email my report: No, None, Negative.
That same night, I get another email from Dad.
Bad news, he says. Tried some “get the red out” and burned my eyes worse. Doc says I
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