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

on all fours. So I submit: Yes. Many. Affirmative.
    When I return to the shed, Aida and Nurse Hart are gone. Most of Aida’s ppg and the bags of fortified box wine are also gone, carried off like a to-go order. All Aida left behind is a Post-it.

Fuckwad! And to think, I almost fell for you. Glad I found out what a shit you are first. And what about Thad having a zombie for a mommy, huh? I’m telling the Reverend Francine what you did. The Angel Communicator will come phoning for you and she can pack some hellatious devine tidings, jerkface. A cow pox upon you. Aida.
    I miss her already, Aida Blue, such a majestic name, the sweetest, scariest woman welder I’ve ever known. I whiff her skull cap to breathe her back to me.
    Deidre Perish walks into the shed and hands me a Post-it. From Pinkley:

Say hello to Deidre . A well weldress, brimming with health. A potato-eater, true, but does she ever have a pair on her—bra cups big as salad bowls—I should know, I did the pre-study exam. And strong. Her application says she’s mastered the hot shot and the overhead-butt in all positions, the equivalent of a Black Belt in welding. I’m sure you two will bond—get it?—bond! and together make up for lost time, cranking out the required souped up muscle cars per day. Just remember, no liaisons, no alcohol, no angel interface, no dilly-dallying allowed on study time.
    Deidre hangs her baseball cap on Aida’s prayer wheel. I ignore this and, in a gesture of welcome, hold out a spare helmet.
    She shakes her head and shows me her new auto-darkening helmet with multiple shade settings from eleven on up. “Mine’s more efficient,” she says. “I don’t have to lift up and flip down my helmet as much.” Her voice is a tight falsetto.
    I pine for Aida’s wine-dark syllables.
    Deidre puts on her ppg and starts tee-jointing the chassis of a Chevy Bel Air, Finish Line.
    I put on my ppg and begin flange welding the Bel Air’s fuel tank, the whole time watching her watching me watching her.
    We move onto brazing the radiators on a pair of Skylarks, Grim Reaper and Cashing In. It’s hard keeping up though because of all the helmet lifts and flips I have to do.
    We work through lunch. By late afternoon, I feel frying panned; I take a break and offer her some of my coffee and sandwich, but she says no thanks.
    I miss the way Aida slurped Liebfraumilch on the job.
    My arms and legs are stiff, but I’m back at it, single v-grooving a Corvette, Lights Out, until evening. I’m having sudden freezing spells but luckily the shed’s so dim, Deidre can’t tell. I want to return to the men’s trailer and phone Dad, check on his burns, ask about his glass replacements. But if I call it a day, will Deidre call me a shirker?
    She squats under a Maverick, Meet Your Maker, for a double-jointed square butt-weld, so I bend myself over a Gremlin, Peter Out, for a triple-jointed vertical lap-groove.
    She brazes. I solder. She plugs, slots. I multi-pass, corner joint. I’m a Duster, Custer’s Last Stand. She’s a Challenger, Down for the Count. We’re racing. She’s winning.
    “Slow down,” I say and drop to the floor, perspiring a sweat angel. My brain has the runs.
    “Go ahead, rest,” she says. “I’ll weld whatever you can’t finish.”
    No study nurse comes in.
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