Free Lady Churchill's Rosebud Wristlet No. 26 by Kelly Link Gavin J. Grant

need the red in for more blood flow and oxygen. Doc says crying helps. I’m a grown welder! What’s Doc been shootin up? Braille starts soon as I pay the deposit. Not cheap. Also, somebody bumped off Larry. That’s okay by me since I need a seeing eye dog on the double! Last week! Don’t reply till I get voice-mail on your computer. Downpayment’s a thou.
    In bed, I can’t sleep so I recite the list of secondary symptoms: depression, dementia, decreased motor skills, memory loss. Forgetting sounds good to me. Worrying about Dad, Aida, Larry won’t cure the sick or revive the dead.
    My responsibility is to keep my cash flow positive, keep my arc burning bright, keep my fume intake to a minimum. Getting depressed about bills could cause a decrease in my welding skills, which could affect my cash flow negatively, especially if the study nurse ever shows up.
    I continue to recite the secondary symptoms, but as I do, I write each malady on a piece of paper that I twist into a taper for burning to ash in the morning, all except memory loss, a symptom I hold dear, like a gift, like a treatment that works.
    Next day is the day I order supplies from Wally. I go to the shed to make a list.
    “About the Reverend Francine yesterday,” Aida says, “wasn’t she incendiary? You don’t think any observers saw through her disguise, do you?” Her oaky voice is back, giving me the shivers.
    “Nah,” I say, then I arc my malady list, ask the angels for purification and instantly feel a flash of relief.
    I squeal the golf cart to the Aluminum Plate. Wally’s behind the counter and looks up when I walk in. “I heard everybody in aerobatic airplane repairs got treated,” he says. “That’s four welders zapped, zombied, zeroed, every one.”
    In the Spirit Shop, I stock up on half a dozen boxes of Liebfraumilch, each the size of a Jag twelve-cylinder. I gun it to my remote spot surrounded by old elms, slosh in soy, bran and lima bean oils and suck the goo straight from the spout.
    Back in the shed, I write “gauntlet gloves” across the sacks I bury the wine in and set them on the workbench.
    At night, thumping noises come from the women’s trailer—it has to be Aida, she’s the only female still living there. Another bump and then a wail. The wailing gets louder followed by a crash; possibly her difficulty negotiating turns has progressed to ramming into walls.
    I knock on her door, but she says she’s fine.
    I can’t sleep so I phone Dad.
    “How’s your vision?” I ask.
    “Completely lost,” he says. “I’m part mole. Other than that, I’m good, except, well, I need cash for Braille, plus glass eyes. Patches, dark glasses are pass é in blind world.”
    “I’ll call you in two days,” I say.
    From Aida’s trailer comes more wailing, crashing, ramming.
    In the morning, there’s no fume extractor, but there is a Post-it from Aida.

Had to leave for a while . The Reverend Francine experienced muscle rigidity after her last visit. Who’d have guessed? I’m at the clinic raising an angelic umbrella over her to ward off paralysis. Then to the lawyers’ to fight Ex for custody. Cover for me, will ya? This one last time? If the study nurse comes in, say I’m on sick leave—ha ha.
    I tie my skullcap over my nose and mouth and spend half a day tee-jointing the roll-cage on a Gran Torino, Terminate You. In the afternoon, the door to the shed opens. It’s Aida looking like a sleepwalker with watery puffy eyes. She’s wearing an ankle-length moo-moo hoodie. A cloak? Under one arm is a brass cylinder.
    Aida in meditation attire in the shed? No ppg?
    “It’s final,” she says in a new voice as if she has a cleft palate. “My ex got custody of Thad, I got every other Saturday. I also got this.” She holds up the cylinder.
    “Those ex’s,” I say.
    She sets the cylinder on the workbench, finds a fresh box of medicated Liebfraumilch, squirts a long stream of the stuff and offers me the nozzle.
    “Later,” I