and it was okay.”
“What did you do?” said John, and Frank swallowed a laugh and grinned at Larry and Larry laughed. Then they all were laughing, and in a few moments they stopped.
“Metallurgy,” Larry said.
“Me too,” said Gino.
“I thought it was trucking.”
“
Yes
, but not driving them. I handled load logistics, routes. It was measurement, some geometry and volume, map reading. Things like that.”
“That’s not metallurgy.”
“It was steel. I-beams and such. Out of Chicago.
I’d
call that metal.”
“School?” John said.
“A few college courses and seminars,” said Larry. “The company paid for them. Aluminum. Then in Cleveland it was farm equipment, the manufacture of it. Then Philadelphia, and I gave everything up for the cause.”
“The gay business again,” said Gino.
“And I built houses,” Frank said. “Until I lost my shirt. Then I got into the work of moving them.”
“Like the lighthouse,” Gino said.
“Not exactly.”
“How old are you, Frank?” said Larry.
“Eighty-five.”
“You’ve got me by a year.”
They were interrupted by the squeak of Carolyn’s shoes as she stepped into the solarium, smiled at them, then went behind the screen again. They heard the pumping of the pressure cuff, the scratch of a pencil on the chart, saw her hand reach up to the tubing near the glucose bag and adjust the drip. Then she was passing toward the door again, her white stockings whispering against her inner thighs, and when she was gone Gino was smiling around his pipe stem, and winking.
“You can forget that, you old fart,” Frank said.
“Not for a single, solitary minute,” said Gino.
“I’ll buy that,” said Larry, “though the gender could be better. What about you, John? Flying?”
“Well, yes, that, but I did other things too after a while. Mostly hydraulics, first in oil fields, then with heavy equipment.”
“We’re a regular consulting firm,” said Gino.
“But who in their right mind would hire us?”
“A man of reason,” Larry said. “But couldn’t you do something with that lighthouse?”
“Well, I think I could as a matter of fact,” said Frank. “They certainly don’t seem to know what
they’re
doing.”
“It’s the government,” John said. “They put it out for bids, then pick the most incompetent one. It’s written in their procedures.”
“I could do something with Carolyn,” Gino said.
“Sure. In your mind,” said Frank. “Until you forgot the words.”
“I can still see her when I think of her,” John said. “Just like yesterday. Butthere’s no use loving the dead, and she would be by now. She was fifteen years older than I.”
“That’s only a hundred and two,” said Gino. “Let’s not get carried away here.”
“How long were you with her?” asked Larry.
“Not long enough,” said John.
It was after the shipwreck, a month or more. A series of fall storms came through, and he was grounded, and once he’d managed to get the de Havilland back out to the house, they holed up there and got to know each other better.
At least two weeks. And Chepa cooked extravagant meals and dyed the dogs again, and John cleaned up the cockpits, rolled the runway once or twice in rain, and in the evenings they ate and drank, and one late night had a picnic by firelight up in the foothills between storms.
“Then one day a rider came down out of the hills, a boy on a large mule, and leading another mule. He sat on a saddle of a kind I’d never seen before, cloth and wicker, a large wood knot at the pommel, and he was broad browed and thick through the chest and waist, and I knew he was as much an Indian as Chepa was.
“I saw him first. He just sat on the mule, waiting, out beyond the back garden and the ruined chicken coop, where the foothills started. The empty animal was saddled too, and he’d dropped the reins, and the mule stood where the reins brushed the ground.
“Chepa went out to the boy. I waited at
“What did you do?” said John, and Frank swallowed a laugh and grinned at Larry and Larry laughed. Then they all were laughing, and in a few moments they stopped.
“Metallurgy,” Larry said.
“Me too,” said Gino.
“I thought it was trucking.”
“
Yes
, but not driving them. I handled load logistics, routes. It was measurement, some geometry and volume, map reading. Things like that.”
“That’s not metallurgy.”
“It was steel. I-beams and such. Out of Chicago.
I’d
call that metal.”
“School?” John said.
“A few college courses and seminars,” said Larry. “The company paid for them. Aluminum. Then in Cleveland it was farm equipment, the manufacture of it. Then Philadelphia, and I gave everything up for the cause.”
“The gay business again,” said Gino.
“And I built houses,” Frank said. “Until I lost my shirt. Then I got into the work of moving them.”
“Like the lighthouse,” Gino said.
“Not exactly.”
“How old are you, Frank?” said Larry.
“Eighty-five.”
“You’ve got me by a year.”
They were interrupted by the squeak of Carolyn’s shoes as she stepped into the solarium, smiled at them, then went behind the screen again. They heard the pumping of the pressure cuff, the scratch of a pencil on the chart, saw her hand reach up to the tubing near the glucose bag and adjust the drip. Then she was passing toward the door again, her white stockings whispering against her inner thighs, and when she was gone Gino was smiling around his pipe stem, and winking.
“You can forget that, you old fart,” Frank said.
“Not for a single, solitary minute,” said Gino.
“I’ll buy that,” said Larry, “though the gender could be better. What about you, John? Flying?”
“Well, yes, that, but I did other things too after a while. Mostly hydraulics, first in oil fields, then with heavy equipment.”
“We’re a regular consulting firm,” said Gino.
“But who in their right mind would hire us?”
“A man of reason,” Larry said. “But couldn’t you do something with that lighthouse?”
“Well, I think I could as a matter of fact,” said Frank. “They certainly don’t seem to know what
they’re
doing.”
“It’s the government,” John said. “They put it out for bids, then pick the most incompetent one. It’s written in their procedures.”
“I could do something with Carolyn,” Gino said.
“Sure. In your mind,” said Frank. “Until you forgot the words.”
“I can still see her when I think of her,” John said. “Just like yesterday. Butthere’s no use loving the dead, and she would be by now. She was fifteen years older than I.”
“That’s only a hundred and two,” said Gino. “Let’s not get carried away here.”
“How long were you with her?” asked Larry.
“Not long enough,” said John.
It was after the shipwreck, a month or more. A series of fall storms came through, and he was grounded, and once he’d managed to get the de Havilland back out to the house, they holed up there and got to know each other better.
At least two weeks. And Chepa cooked extravagant meals and dyed the dogs again, and John cleaned up the cockpits, rolled the runway once or twice in rain, and in the evenings they ate and drank, and one late night had a picnic by firelight up in the foothills between storms.
“Then one day a rider came down out of the hills, a boy on a large mule, and leading another mule. He sat on a saddle of a kind I’d never seen before, cloth and wicker, a large wood knot at the pommel, and he was broad browed and thick through the chest and waist, and I knew he was as much an Indian as Chepa was.
“I saw him first. He just sat on the mule, waiting, out beyond the back garden and the ruined chicken coop, where the foothills started. The empty animal was saddled too, and he’d dropped the reins, and the mule stood where the reins brushed the ground.
“Chepa went out to the boy. I waited at
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