Iron 59

by Max Christopher

Part 1 appears
in this issue.

conclusion

“‘It is in a woman’s interest to keep a useful producer healthy.’ He gazed at the screen. ‘Not only the voice. You ever hear of the Order of the White Feather?’”

Sydney’s eyes widened.

“Lawrence shakes his head no.

“Mr. Barker says, ‘In Britain, during the First World War, girls and women would hand white feathers to men who hadn’t joined the military.’

“‘White feathers?’ says Lawrence.

“‘A white feather was an emblem of cowardice. Many recipients enlisted. It was started by an admiral, Charles Fitzgerald, who knew what tyranny our desire to please women wields over us’.”

Sydney said, “Your memory for detail is astonishing.”

“He finally wrote it as a story at my suggestion,” I said. “I had to proofread and critique like thirty drafts. It never did sell, but it became part of me. Anyway, Lawrence says, ‘Guys use their strength to bully. To abuse the weak. That’s also, ah, using an advantage unfairly.’

“‘Some do,’ Lawrence’s father says. ‘Do you do that?’”

“‘No,’ Lawrence says.

“‘Your friends?’

“‘No.’

“‘Ever seen me do that?’

“‘No.’

“Mr. Barker held up a hand to show how the pinky bent funny. ‘Remember how I got this?’

“‘You were changing that lady’s tire in the rain and the jack gave way,’ Lawrence says. ‘You got her tire on before driving yourself to the emergency room. You had me tie your pinky to your ring finger with your handkerchief so you could finish.’

“‘Your mom gave me hell. Stopping to help a stranger with you kids in the car. You’d have thought I stapled a baby to the front bumper.’

“They sit for a while. Lawrence figures the topic is closed. Then Mr. Barker speaks.

“‘When you step back and look at it there’s a hell of a lot of psychic freight in that female voice, no? Do you really wonder that a man finds it necessary for his psychological well-being to put up a shield from time to time? And that it gets both easier and more necessary the longer a man is with a woman?’

“‘I guess not,’ says Lawrence.”

I was watching Sydney for her reaction. She had a hell of a poker face.

“His father shakes his head. ‘Where did you get that giggle bush?’ he says.

“In a moment of dazzling clarity, though he has never heard this expression, Lawrence understands. And rolls over on me.”

“Oh, no!” says Sydney.

“Oh, yes. Then Mr. Barker says, ‘You got any on you?’

“Lawrence shakes his head. The skin around his eyes feels dirty.

“‘Figures,’ Mr. Barker says. ‘Throw your clothes in the wash and have a shower before you join us for breakfast in the morning.’ He gets up, wobbles a bit. ‘I’d as soon your mom not smell that on you. Don’t need her wandering around with a contact high and bumping into things. Hate to see a bruise on that beautiful skin of hers. A girl of fifteen should have such skin.’ He looks down at his son. ‘You got her hair and her dreamy eyes. Wash that jacket too. It’s strong tonight.’

“Lawrence is still thunderstruck. He says, ‘Yes, sir.’ Probably the first and last time he calls his dad sir.”

“That’s so cute,” Sydney said, big brown eyes wide. Again I felt a flick of envy with a shame chaser. “I wish I’d seen it.”

I said, “Mr. Barker says, ‘Sir? I’m not a sir. I’m your dad, and I love you.’ He ruffles Lawrence’s hair, something he hasn’t done in like five years. He looks into his son’s glassy eyes. ‘”Iron fifty-nine,”’ he says. ‘Jesus.’ He bends and kisses Lawrence on the top of his head, says goodnight and goes to bed.

“Lawrence watches the rest of Seven Samurai. His high starts to mellow, then fade. Did you know that was always his favorite part? The coming out of it.”

“Mine, too,” said June. “That lovely clearing and leveling. But what a disturbing conversation.”

I said, “It came to Lawrence that his father figured he’d forget about it. Or, he reasoned further, his father may have been too drunk to care.”

“Do Lawrence’s parents have a good marriage?” said Sydney.

“Sure,” I said. “Don’t most wives complain that their husbands tune them out?”

June said tartly, “A more pertinent question might be, don’t most men tune out their wives?”

“Anyway,” I said, “that conversation got into his head, conflated with Seven Samurai. Which became his favorite movie. But he never shared it with a woman.” I raised my glass to Sydney. “Until now. Cheers, Sydney.”

“You must be the brightest star in his heaven,” said June. “Lawrence’s own Arcturus.” She inclined her head at me. “This one glazes over three minutes into a conversation.”

“That is unjust,” I said.

“Less if he’s involved in something else.” June said, “which he usually is.”

I said, “One might suggest gently that if you waited for an opportune moment to make your approach—”

“I’d be waiting still. You’re always in the middle of some project.”

“I try to keep busy,” I said.

June looked levelly at Sydney. “Lawrence must realize he’s hit the jackpot.”

Sydney blushed and looked at her lovely hands. Then she said quietly, “Do you think he’s forcing himself to not tune me out?”

“He’s not forcing anything,” I said. “He doesn’t have to.”

June looked at me.

I said, “She clearly has his full attention. Should it not be so?”

“Oh, it should,” June said.

“He doesn’t need me to install a stereo. I can do plenty of things.”

“Honey,” June said, “Lawrence knows that.”

“We all do,” I said. “If anybody should be insecure, it’s Lawrence.”

I wondered if June was going to give me that pointed, interrogative look every time I offered Sydney an innocent reassurance. I returned a look meant to say I’m just trying to make her feel better. Chill out.

A silence fell.

The doorbell rang. It was Lawrence.

* * *

“It should be on the stands in just under a year,” Lawrence said.

“Which ending did they pick?” Sydney said.

“You let them pick the ending?” I said.

“I couldn’t decide. We can put out a later edition with the alternate ending.”

“What were the choices?” June said.

“The Arcturans have rounded up all the women and are keeping them separate from the men.”

“Three billion women?” said June.

“This ain’t the Arcturans’ first rodeo,” said Lawrence.

I said, “I suggested giant cage trucks covered with signs reading ‘Come in for your free gift.’ Did you use that, Lawrence?”

“I had every intention of doing so, but fate in the form of my editor decreed otherwise. In one ending, a group of these women break into a broadcasting station and tell the men to fight on. In the other, the Arcturans win because they get women to tell the men to surrender.”

“Why would women do that?” said June.

“To preserve the race. It was surrender or be wiped out.”

“The power of the female voice,” Sydney said.

“The girls I knew were always at us,” Lawrence said. “In the neighborhood, at school, in the family. Barking orders. Finding fault. Shrill. Not seeming to realize that... that it may not be... appropriate. That they really shouldn’t.”

“But in your novel, it saves the world,” June said.

“Or loses it,” I said.

“I had a third ending where the men tune the women out.”

“What happens?” I said.

“Some fight, some give up. I leave it hanging with an enclave in the Teutoburg Forest preparing to launch an attack on a prison where hundreds of women are held. The prison is built on Kalkriese Hill, where Arminius wiped out three Roman legions. My fighters called themselves the White Feathers and wore bands of the things. I didn’t include it in the draft I sent the publisher,” Lawrence said.

“I think that was the best ending,” Sydney said. “I felt the men’s desperate resolve. But I didn’t know where you got the name.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“I thought it was your sense of whimsy. Or a remnant of boyhood cowboys and Indians.”

“Remember when we could call it that?” I said. “Nice of him to let you read the thing.” I glared balefully at Lawrence. “I got the stink-eye every time I asked.”

“Why didn’t you offer that ending?” June said.

“Too much like a cliffhanger, I imagine,” I said. “Not having been allowed to read it.”

“They might have wanted me to make it a series,” Lawrence said.

“And that’s bad why?” June said.

“Not that sort of story. And I cordially dislike the idea of mangling it to the degree necessary to turn it into that sort of story.”

“But the money,” June said.

“One book has not bankrupted me of ideas.” Lawrence said. “Consider my muse.”

“Your muse?” June said, eyebrows climbing in a comical caricature of disbelief.

Lawrence waved a languid hand at Sydney where she snuggled him on the couch. “The beautiful and ethereal female who is my inspiration, and to gain whose favor I toil.”

“You have drawers full of ideas from before we met,” Sydney said. “And I don’t expect you to do for me.”

Lawrence gazed at her with such devotion that I felt I was intruding. June looked on hungrily.

“No,” Lawrence said. “You don’t. A muse who cracks a sweat is more inspiring. You’re better with technical things than I am. While I make more fuss over babies. And now some fools have picked up that sort of thing and run with it, telling us gender is made up. That we pick it like we pick a pair of shoes.”

“Some people get slotted into the wrong category,” June said, shrugging. “Then they try to generalize what they feel.”

“Girls who seek danger, boys who play dress-up,” I said. “It enrichens the mix.”

Sydney said. “This is a lot to take in. For all it illuminates other things.”

“What’s to take in?” Lawrence said.

“The Seven Samurai story.”

Lawrence waved his hand airily. “An old conversation with my dad, me high, him drunk, that I think about sometimes.”

“It seems to have shaped your novel,” Sydney said.

“I admit it got in there.”

“Should we not have told it, Lawrence?” I said. “Left it to you?”

“You told it,” June said.

“You told me to,” I said.

“It’s cool, Teddy.” Lawrence said. “I think it amuses you more than it does me at this stage.”

“There was nothing amusing about it,” said Sydney. “Although picturing your dad tousling your hair and you calling him ‘sir’” — her hand fluttered to her bosom. “My little girly heart goes pitter-pat.”

June said, “Don’t forget the kiss on the top of the head.”

“I can scarcely imagine it. I don’t think I’ve seen the top of Lawrence’s head. I have to stand on tiptoes for a kiss.”

“He has a bald spot,” I said.

“Teddy!” June thumped me on the shoulder. “He has no such thing.”

“I wouldn’t care,” Sydney said. “You understand, Lawrence? I wouldn’t.”

“And I wouldn’t care if you stopped wearing your leather Jim Morrison pants with the Concho belt,” Lawrence said. “Although Jim Morrison’s pants never had it so good.”

“What’s the novel’s title?” June said.

“The Iron 59th. That’s the name of the resistance regiment we follow throughout the story. The White Feathers are a battalion of the Iron 59th that broke away.”

“Ah,” I said.

“Did you keep the dedication to your father?” Sydney said.

Lawrence nodded. “I told him today. I hope he knows. Mom says he does.”

“How’s he doing?” I said.

“Nobody will commit to a prognosis. Mom reads to him. She’s convinced he can hear her. That it gives him the strength to fight.”

“It must be terrible to feel so guilty,” June said.

“She shouldn’t,” Lawrence said. “She was willing to work. Dad wanted her home with the kids, so he put in every hour he could. By the time it came out how dangerous the stuff he handled was, the damage was done.”

“Do they think that’s where the Asperger’s comes from?” June said.

“Who knows? Last year it was mercury, next year they’ll pick a new villain. Maybe it’ll be heredity again. Unprincipled swine will write books to cash in on parents’ need to hope.” Lawrence grimaced in contempt. “There again, the damage is done.”

June said, “If there’s a chance of sparing babies yet unborn what you’ve suffered all these years—”

“Being an Aspie is the best thing that ever happened to me,” Lawrence said. “I feel I’m part of an exclusive club. Gifted. Privileged to look at the world in a different way. So what if a little pain is involved?”

Sydney closed her arms around Lawrence and pressed him to her. “It’s all right,” she said.

“The Aspie few against the neurotypical many. Armies of dullards overrunning the earth.” His voice rose. “Preaching empathy while practicing none. My parents won’t see that it isn’t their fault. My sister’s as neurotypical as they come. Not an original thought in her head for all her degrees.” He broke Sydney’s hold and jerked to his feet.

“Easy, buddy,” I said. “We’re on your side.” Lawrence was not pleasant company when he escalated.

“Goddamned neurotypicals. They’ll probably screw me on this novel. While my father lies dying, they’ll screw me.”

Sydney stood and took Lawrence’s shirt front in her bunched fists. Barefoot and tiny, she yanked him down so they were nose to nose.

“If it looks to me like they might be gonna try,” she said, “I will tear out their hearts and eat them. While their children look on. Weeping and begging me to spare poor Momma and Poppa. I will then lick my fingers clean of their blood. After that I might get nasty. Got me?”

Lawrence was silent, gaping. She shook him. It was like watching a mouse shake a grandfather clock. “Got me?”

“Yeah, all right,” Lawrence said.

“You need to understand that you no longer fight alone,” she said.

That stung. June saw me flinch.

“I got it, Sydney,” Lawrence said. “Calm down already. Do you want to make a scene?”

“You know,” I said, “it isn’t like—”

June put a hand on my arm. “It’s all right, Teddy.”

“Lawrence, let’s go,” Sydney said.

“I was hoping for some leftovers,” Lawrence said.

“June, will you pack us some—”

“On it,” she said, rising and making for the kitchen in one fluid motion. Her silly black and yellow socks looked like black and yellow lightning bolts playing leapfrog across the green shag carpet. Despite my hurt, I reflected on what a pleasure it was to watch June move.

“Wait, what?” I said.

“We’re gonna jet,” Lawrence said.

“We’re supposed to play naughty-word Scrabble,” I said. “I just learned a beauty.”

“Next time,” Sydney said. “I need to see Lawrence now.” She stepped into her loafers.

“He’s right there,” I said, gesturing feebly.

June was back with a container. How did she do that so fast?

“Teddy, they need to be alone.” She handed Lawrence the leftovers. “And so do we.”

“We do?”

“You’ve been good,” June said. “I’ve decided you may make me a slave to your carnal appetites this evening. Dominate me like the whore I am, you filthy brute. Or you be the samurai and I’ll be the smitten village girl.”

“Oh,” I said. “That’s all right, then. Goodnight, you two.”

“They’ll see themselves out. To the bedroom. Or would you prefer another location? You’re the boss. Decide. Come on, the engine’s purring.”

“Got your dinner? I’ll drive,” Sydney said.

“To hear is to obey,” Lawrence said.

She looked at him as she opened the door. “About that,” she said.

The door closed behind them.