Four Times Blessed, page 3
I can’t say I get it any more than she does.
Anywho, from the middle of it, the airfield doesn’t look like it does in my memory, and it does make me happy to see our town spilling out of the little oval pocket below. Followed by the steep green slopes, and finally the beach and the bluffs and the docks before the sea.
The gates let me pass through them with a little puff, and I enter the busy courtyard. I keep my head up and dance through the streaming crowds to the main tower, the one with the clock and the bells. There, I take one last deep breath of muggy air and pass into the central air-conditioning and fluorescent lights. Nobody else follows me in, so the door sucks shut. I let out my breath into the fierce tundra of a lobby. Seriously, I should be wearing my winter field uniform in this place. Black and white cameo and all.
My next inhalation reminds me of crinkled paper and stale crackers.
Chunky regulation high-heels clomping on the floor, I go and type my PSID into the touchpad by the furthest door on the left. The one that leads to the Academic Support areas. There are quite a few other little doors and two wider ones, one to communication-broadcasting headquarters and the other to military headquarters. I’ve never visited either of those, but I’ve seen them from outside. Broadcasting is housed in the top twenty floors of the main tower, right above the barracks, and Military HQ connects by tunnels and takes up all the low lying buildings encircling the courtyard.
With a click and a hiss, the red light above my door turns green. I yank the chilly handle twice before it even unlatches. Because I learned the hard way that it’s really not fun trying to prove you’re not an illegal alien or a terrorist with your face and other temperature-sensitive parts smashed into a floor that has to be I swear five decrees C.
Today, though, I wrestle the meter-thick door slab ajar and slip through without incident.
There’s a ratcheting sound as it slinks closed behind me. A light by this side of the door blinks yellow three times, letting me know it knows I’m here. It’ll let me out again at five.
Just the right amount of minutes early, I enter the crisp white hallway and head to the break room through the first door on the right.
I go to the sink and take a paper towel to wipe some of the butter off of my bread. I’m pretty sure I would get sick if I ate all that, but maybe to my Uncle Groton it didn’t seem like much.
I take a cup and stick it in the old microwave the guys in engineering fixed up for fun to heat up some water for tea. I close my eyes and slump in one of the plastic chairs while it hums away.
I jump when someone opens the door from the outside.
Forefathers.
Of course the person who finds me sitting around and making tea is my advisor, who is also the dean of the whole entire department. He clacks over the threshold and I stand to the side, back against the wall, eyes straight ahead.
The microwave beeps.
My water’s done.
I hold my breath to keep from glancing over.
“Good morning, Specialist…” he looks me up and down, “Highlands.” Highlands isn’t my last name. My zizi got slightly overwhelmed, she says, when she was doing all the paperwork for me to start at the academy, so somehow she ended up putting the name of our island in the last name boxes. It’s worked out just as well. And even if it isn’t actually my name, it’s rather thrilling being referred to by a name, at least, rather than Student, Support Girl, or other less pretty words.
“Good morning, sir.”
It’s the appropriate response. It can all be found in the M.S.A. Military Support Handbook, Chapter 5: Appropriate Communication Behavior for M.S.A. Scholars. Part B: Verbal Behavior Code.
The dean is at the table and looking into a box half full of pastries. “You’re the one that’s a native here, isn’t that right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ll have to stop by Anthropology and say hello to Steve, Dr. Nicholai. He does all kinds of interesting studies on the native populations of the island colonies. He’s even lived in an island village for a year, did you know that? Fascinating stuff, I even read it myself. It’s published online, free access.”
“Yes, sir, I will, sir.”
“So, are you married yet? Dr. Nicholai’s study says in native clans, elders often marry off children before they let them leave their island,” the dean, Dr. Preston is his name, says with a mouth full of something dry and dense and sweetly chocolate.
“No, sir. I was engaged before I left, though, sir. The marriage will be this fall, sir.”
“Well, you have my congratulations, then, dear. I read colonists often marry fellow islanders. Is yours from here?”
He sure has lots of questions. And lots to say to a lowly specialist like me. It’s a little odd, but then it’s probably what makes him a good dean.
I try to make him happy by talking, “Oh, no, sir. We don’t marry people from the same island, sir, but we do marry those from other islands. Sir.”
He taps a thin foil tube into a cup of hot water. He stirs it with a teeny stick. “Hm, well I suppose even with the founders’ effect, it’s possible the genetic diversity is sufficient to yield a number of viable offspring that would allow for a sustainable population. I read one study that said the miscarriage rate of females fifteen to thirty-five on one island, not this one, a Quebequian one, I think, the miscarriage rate was sixty-four point seven percent among confirmed pregnancies.”
“Yes, sir. My fiancé’s not from the islands, though, sir. He’s from New York State, sir.”
“An M.S.A. state citizen? That’s good to hear, Specialist Highlands. How did you manage that?”
“My mother arranged it, sir. She worked as a maid here, actually, sir, over in communication-broadcasting, so she visited lots of places, sir.”
“Oh, my. Well, quite the quaint customs you island people have. But I suppose that’s what you have to do when you can’t weed out the bad eggs, eh? All the best to you. I hope you have numerous viable offspring, as they say!” He laughs. I wonder who on earth they is. Probably just him, I think.
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“I’m running several important trials on the P. c. crucifer investigation today. You’re welcome to come and observe when you finish.”
“Thank you, sir.”
There is no way in hell that I’m doing that.
I’ve already had my fill of P. c. crucifers, you see. Last semester, we were all working on our senior theses, and mine was entitled Modern Climate Change and Its Effect On Mating Calls of P. c. crucifer (the Northern Peep Frog).
Dr. Preston just happens to be the leading expert on the squishy little amphibs, and was accepting student research assistants. He wrote me a short recommendation, but it was just right because he’s the one that he was recommending me to.
Unfortunately, that meant I spent every night of spring semester camped out in a tick-infested swamp on Long Island with the incessant creaking of the peep frogs and the creepy ghosts of the forefathers, recording data and emailing it to the good doctor.
Let’s just say that if this whole thing my mother set up doesn’t work out, I’ll have no trouble finding a nice peep frog husband on account of I know more about what songs turn those boys on than any decent Homo sapiens girl ever should.
“Dismissed.”
My tea…
“Yes, sir.”
I turn on my heel, stick my bread in my teeth to free up both hands, shove the ridiculous door, and walk quickly down the hall, down, down, down the staircase, and into my lab.
It’s a little thing. Standard issue for the modalities I work in. That was one of the first tests I took during swab summer, along with the fifteen-hundred meter run and general language and whatnot. I came out as primary auditory, with secondary visual, so this is all I need.
Just a soundproof booth on one side, a workspace on the other. But when I turn on the programs, the room fills with music that resounds as if it were my favorite concert hall in New York City. I just connect my slate to the big computers, open the problem sets they’ve sent me, and listen. Any information can go into the program, I don’t know, I don’t get most of it, despite the academy’s general education coursework. Usually it’s just tagged as General Military, General Oceanography, whatever. What I do get is the music. The orchestra, that I’m partial to.
I listen to what it tells me. I do some acoustic analysis, and then I email in my lab reports. To input, all I have to do is take my chalk, write some music into the slate, then stand on the box and imagine a full orchestra before me. Then I conduct. It can be hard, but I really do love the music.
It’s 4:57 p.m. I slouch against the wall with my backpack at my feet. I yawn. The light is blinking orange at me. There is a click-hiss and I jump up and grab the handle.
A disheveled older man, running like he’s ice skating or something, I don’t know, people around here tend to be different, leaps, at least for him I think it’s meant to be a leap, through the door.
Ok, then.
I check for the third most punctual analysis and interpretation specialist, but he or she is lagging today so I go through and let the door snick shut.
I hug the concrete wall, painted and repainted so many times it’s almost squishy, so I don’t get driven back by the flow of uniformed people heading for the mess hall.
It’s times like these I’m so glad I have my aunt’s nice house and cooking to go to. I feel bad for these poor people. Sleeping in bunkbeds. Eating fake meat and that watery pasta from metal hotboxes, sauce plopped right on top.
My zizi would be appalled.
Sitting on a big rock just inside the treeline, I find my cousin Cassie. Actually, I think she’s technically the step-daughter of my second cousin twice removed, who married a guy from Nearby Providence her parents found in the Eligible pages. He died, went overboard with a wave and hit his head on the crane along the way, but he was a good guy so her parents did it again for her second husband, and that worked out better. Anyways, I call Cassie my cousin. Because like Leni’s whale-fish, it’s what she is.
“Hey, Cassie, how you doing?”
I we kiss each other on the cheeks. I feel myself settling down now that I see her and there’s no more air-conditioning. I swear, it was so bad today I ended up taking a little trip to the engineers’ secret play-time stash and making five Bunsen burners disappear.
I set them in a circle around my workstation, and, although it did strike me as a little Halloween-y, it was quite effective.
“Hi, Crusa. I waited for you.”
“Oh, thanks, Cassie. That was really sweet. I hope you weren’t bored.”
“No, I was talking to the chipmunks so I wasn’t bored.”
“Oh. That’s nice.”
“Yeah, they were gathering nuts but I told them they should be careful because the evil ones will steal them and you’ll starve in the snow.”
“I’m sure the chipmunks will be fine,” I take her hand, and she starts swinging them as we walk.
“I know they will, now that I warned them. I always warn them. They have to be careful and that’s why I tell them.”
I nod.
“You look like Eleni.”
“Oh. Well, thanks. You do, too.” That’s a high compliment, very sweet of her to say.
It’s an important part of being a cousin, telling your other cousins they’re pretty. Even though you’ve known each other since you were born and share most of your DNA, so you all look a whole lot like each other and it’s all so familiar, you really have no idea if each other is pleasing to look at or not. You say it, and believe it, and take care of anyone who dares mention anything else.
It’s one of the best parts of having so many cousins.
“Why are you sad?”
“Hm? I’m not sad. I’m just thinking.”
“You look sad. You shouldn’t be, it’s going to be sunny the whole next week.”
“Now how do you know that, missy?” I smile to myself.
“The chipmunks tell me.”
“Hm, well, I believe you, Cassie. I was doing some weather analysis today, and that’s what all the simulations told me, too.”
“See? Nobody believes me but it’s true.”
“I know, Cassie, I know. You’re very smart.”
“Did you get to see your brother last weekend?”
“Nah, not really. He was in and out…” I wave.
“Oh. How was he? Could you tell?”
“Seemed better than last time. No new cuts or bruises.” At least not that I saw.
“I can’t believe zizi’s letting one of her own nephews apprentice for old man Fredo.”
“It seems fine.” My mother set up the apprenticeship for him, like she did with my marriage. Before she died. Before old man Fredo decided to remarry and move his blacksmith shop over the hill and onto Angie’s people’s side of the island.
“What else did you do today?” I ask.
“What? Oh, all the girls helped Zizi with stuff. Are you excited about next weekend?”
“Mm hm, I’m very excited.” So excited, I feel like throwing up every time I think about it.
“You don’t sound excited.”
I take a deep breath and let my lips flap. Yeah.
“I know, I know. I’m working up to it, Cas. Don’t worry, I’m sure it’ll all be fine and this Andrew guy’ll be great.” I smile for her, and she seems satisfied.
“Andrew. Funny name.”
“Ha, I know. He’s blonde, too.”
“What? No way, I’ve never seen any blonde person before, except for ghosts.”
“Well, hopefully he’s not a ghost.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll know if he is and I’ll tell you.”
“Thanks, I’d appreciate that.”
We circle the green and then the meetinghouse too, because a bunch of little kids have built a surprisingly effective fort on the front steps. When we walk into my aunt’s kitchen, I let the bookbag drop. Cassie tells me that she’s promised Camillo she’d sneak him over some of our zizi’s pickled eggplant, which he apparently needs or he’ll die and Angie doesn’t make it the same. I tell her to say hi for me and massage my neck.
Eleni’s at one of the longer tables. My cousin’s dinner is partially gone. She likes to eat her fish, or meat if it’s a special day, first. Then she’ll eat her pasta, potatoes, corn, whatever. Last she’ll eat her vegetables. If it’s a meal where they’re all mixed together, she’ll be grumpy. I try to give her space on those days.
I sit down next to her and see there’s already a full plate set there. I kiss her and squeak thank you. It’s angel hair, my favorite.
Camillo’s favorite is bowties, farfalle. Bowties with butter and cheese. My zizi likes penne rigatte, which take forever to make with the ancient hand-cranker that I have to fix every five seconds.
But her penne are especially good on cold, wet, March nights with her legendary meatballs. The magical secret to those is to cook each one in oil in the bottom of the pot first, use good bloody meat, and don’t add breadcrumbs.
Cassie gets excited over shells. Shells and peas. And Eleni says she likes one shape and then when she sees it in front of her, she says oh.
But when my zizi makes angel hair, I know it’s because she’s thinking of me. Today it’s angel hair and little pink shrimp, all tossed in lemon and butter. I reach across Eleni to take some of the green salad, too.
“So, other than laundry, what’d I miss today?”
“Nothing much. Cassie and I went to the beach for a while.” I frown and sniff.
“Hey, did you use some of my suntan lotion moisturizer stuff today?”
“What? Yeah. Zizi said I could because my hands were red from doing our laundry.”
“I don’t care, I was just wondering. I need it for tomorrow, though.”
I won’t complain yet, but she’ll hear it if she didn’t leave me enough for an afternoon out on the lab boat. I already used too much of the stuff staying in that stupid swamp. Not an experience I want to relive right now while I’m eating. Suffice it to say, lots of sun, lots of sunburn, lots of stinky rotting plants.
“I left it outside, grandmothers, Crusa. I just used one squirt.”
“It’s fine, I’m sorry, honestly. You can use more tonight, if you want.”
Eleni takes a stiff sip of her water.
“What do you say?” chimes in my Auntie Larissa from down the table. I guess she’s been listening. A large family lesson. Always assume someone is listening.
Leni’s voice drops and she says, “Thank you.”
“And what does Crusa say, Carissa?” our aunt asks our two year old cousin.
“She say, she say you’re welcome.” Carissa looks at me severely. Great grandmothers, little kids are scary.
“You’re welcome,” I manage. Eleni smirks. I elbow her.
“Ow.”
I laugh. She steals my bread and laughs, too.
“Hey!”
She licks it and then holds it out to me. Another large family lesson. My cousin is the genius, I think, not me.
“Here.”
“Ew, no, that’s disgusting. Give me the basket.”
Our Aunt Larissa hands it over and I take another piece, this time licking it with a big swipe. Complete with sound effects.
“Crusa, have I told you about the young men I met today?” our aunt asks, tugging Carissa onto her lap. The girl snuggles into her and then proceeds to glare at me. I glance over at Eleni, but she’s busy picking the bits of onion out of her pasta. I start thinking she’ll be no help, when she snorts.
Oh, great. Now what am I in for?
I try to sound nice.
“What young men, Auntie?” and I give her a smile.
I swear I hear Carissa growl.
“Oh my goodness gracious, Eleni! I can’t believe you didn’t tell our Crusa what I told you. I would think such pretty, unattached girls as yourselves would mention this sort of thing right away. Sweet Lord, this is why you two don’t have husbands. You have to pay attention girls. But here, I’ll help you if you want.”
