Black Locust Letters by Nicolette Jinks Page B

it and held it to her chest for an
instant. Then she went inside and did the same as she always did:
She shut the letter in the drawer with all the others. Then she
went to work.
    Despite herself, Betty blushed when she talked about the
Carnival and she was glad no one could see her do it.
    “ The
fireworks were spectacular! Brilliant choreography yet again, Mr.
Mills. If you were lucky, you probably were able to see them even
if you weren't in the meadow. Senior Police Officer Number 3231
Bravo says, 'We are very happy to report that last night there were
minimal disorderly arrests and everyone has returned home
safely.'
    “ Praise is high in general for the catering provided by Marina
court and yes, I was there in the thick of it. Maybe some of you
saw me. Made me feel a bit Italian with a masquerade ball feel to
it, a significantly memorable night and a thrilling
experience.”
    She
tried not to think about Clarkin as she said this. She'd been
trying not to think of him all day, and by now her shift was
drawing to a close and she had to admit complete defeat. She
couldn't forget Clarkin's boyish grin, and she couldn’t deny that
if he had been a man, she would be lost in puppy love by
now.
    Once
more she went through the routine—weather, roads, events—and then
she signed off. No sooner did she have the door closed to the
studio than her boss called her over.
    “ You
said you had fun?”
    Betty hesitated, not sure where this was going.
“Yes?”
    He
grunted. “The sponsors like you. One said you rode home in a
wagon.”
    Was
that a statement or a question? She did not know how to respond to
that. “I did.”
    Her
boss chewed on his tobacco once. Twice. Swished it around to the
other side of his mouth. “Read up on the War Orphans Fund. You're
joining Welch as a guest on his show for the
fundraiser.”
    Welch? That arrogant, woman hating ape? She gritted her
teeth. “All right, what does my schedule look like?”
    “ Same as always, with an added shift.”
    She
looked at the calendar with smoke stains on it hanging on his wall.
That meant a morning show, the guest night show, followed
immediately by her morning show again after. What sort of an ass
boss did that to his employees? Ah, yes: Hers.
    She
shrugged. “It will be a good pay check.”
    He
nodded. “You can sleep when you're dead, and that day will come all
the sooner if you continue to speak so casually.”
    With
that, he went back to his work, motioning that the subject was
closed. As Betty left, she wondered what he meant by that final
line.
    At
home on her fraying sofa, Betty reached to mark the orphan drive on
her calendar and blinked in confusion. In tiny letters, squished in
the corner of the date book, she had written RC with a question
mark after it.
    All at once she remembered Jenny's
invitation and she tensed, her pencil poised over the page.
Outside, birds warbled and she knew they would be taking baths in
the low spot of the concrete, if Betty were to look out the windows
to see them. It wasn ’ t that
she had forgotten the promise of answers; it was that she did not
know how badly she wanted them. Asking an acquaintance was one
thing, but going into strange territory strictly for reconnaissance
was another, a level of commitment she didn't know if she
wanted.
    Would she even be safe if she were to go?
    But
now Tom's absence at the station was noticeable, even to Betty,
because now she received jumbled assortments of papers rather than
a concise report and she found herself putting the report together
before and sometimes after her shift. What had he done that no one
wanted to discuss?
    With
a frown, she slashed through the RC and instead wrote in: WOF,
Welch. Betty went back to her crochet, but the shells wouldn't turn
out in a smooth arc, her tension all wrong. On the line the week
below, Betty picked up the pencil again and wrote RC, but when she
returned back to her project, the stitches still would not go into
place.
    The
next week