Bold Gods

2. Stiches

WHEN SOMEBODY ELSE WAS THERE, HOME WASN'T SO BAD.  Arm wrapped around Maria's waist, face buried in her dark hair, Fox couldn't hold her close enough.  She always woke before he did.  Sometimes she stayed and sometimes she left a note and went into town.  He almost didn't want the airplane back—every other night he woke up somewhere else, somewhere that wasn't Goodier, somewhere she wasn't.  Fox was out of money, but he was happy.  For the first time since the sun had abandoned the North, he was happy.  Brushing some of the hair from Maria's face, which was almost blue in the half-light, he kissed her cheek.  "Mornin'." 
   
"Morning."  She let him kiss her cheek again, her ear, her neck, her shoulder, then spit out, "Fox." 
   
"Yeah?"
   
Turning over to face him, Maria touched Fox's chest.  "I think I love you."
   
Fox's lips parted.  Was he speechless?  He could get out a choking sound but no words.  Maria's face fell.  His heart sank into his stomach.  After a lot of stumbling and a head scratch, he finally asked, "Why?"
 
"Why?"
   
"Uh, yeah, something doesn't quite connect here," he said through gritted teeth.  "I didn't even finish eighth grade, Mars."
   
"So?"
   
"I—" Fox ran a hand through his hair.  "How does somebody like you fall in love with somebody like me?"
   
Sitting up, Maria put one hand on either side of Fox's head.  "Do you love me or not, asshole?"
   
"Of course I fuckin' love you."
   
Maria kissed him hard, then let Fox go too soon again and got out of bed.  She sat down at Fox's desk, where she kept a compact mirror and a hairbrush in one of the drawers. Unable to do anything else, Fox sat against the headboard, watching Maria brush her hair.  He probably should have realized things were a little more than casual when she claimed one of two drawers in the whole place for herself.  "Your house is cold," she said over the sound of bristles pulling against her hair.
   
"Why do you think I spend so much time at the tavern?"
   
Maria rolled her eyes.  "You don't spend much time there at all.  Daddy always chases you off."
   
"Well, I used to when I was still a stranger."  He clicked his tongue.  "Simpler times, huh?"

"Back then we were just sleeping together for fun." 

"I'll still sleep with you.  Even if there are strings attached now."

Maria threw a glance over her shoulder.  "You sure know how to make a lady feel special."

"Lady?  Do you even own a dress?"

"Sure."  Setting the brush down, she pulled her hair into a bun.  "But you try wearing one in twenty below."

Fox put his hands up.  "Wasn't a complaint." 

"Good."  Maria kissed his cheek.  Ran her thumb across his five o'clock shadow.  "You should keep this.  You look good with a beard."

"Don't I look good without a beard?"

"You do.  You just have a baby face."  She smiled.  "And I like mountain men." 

"I'm from East Texas, Mars.  You're lookin' in the wrong place."  Fox kissed her.  Told her not to leave.  She left anyway. 

When Fox came back to the hangar, someone else was working on the airplane.  He knew it wasn't Foster because no one was saying "dang" and "darn" under his breath like they were curse words.  No one was saying anything at all aside from the radio, but Fox heard the familiar drumbeats of hands against fabric stretched tight across an airframe, and a head of dark hair sat high on a ladder between the Bellanca's nose and wing.  Moving past a tidy Cessna, which had replaced the other three airplanes, he stopped a few feet away.  Touched its horizontal stabilizer.  Looked upward, which was a strange feeling.  Questioned the sanity of addressing a stranger with a needle in his hand from behind when he asked, "Are you the other Hellman brother?" 

The stranger, a native, turned to look at Fox over the collar of his furs.  His eyes were two different colors, one glacier blue, one black as winter.  Like Poppy's.  Fox missed that old horse. "Do I look like the other Hellman brother to you?"
   
Fox shrugged.  "You adopted?"
   
Blue-eye looked at Fox the way a year-dead corpse would.  Rolled his eyes.  Turned back to the airplane.  "No."
   
"Then uh, I don't wanna be rude, but where'd you come from?"

"Foster needed help and my passenger left me stranded so I'm sewing up airplanes for fuel," he said, pulling the needle upward through the wing.  The stitches were tidy.  Almost medical.  "Is this your airplane?"

"Cannot confirm nor deny," Fox said, rocking back on his heels. 

"Do you gamble?"

Fox frowned.  "What are you getting at?"

"Just looks like you're one lucky son-of-a-bitch," said Blue-eye, looking down his nose at Fox. 

"Hey."  Fox pointed a finger at the stranger.  "I told Foster that goose flew into me."

"Did the tree also fly into you?"

Fox rolled his eyes.  "No wonder he hired you.  You two are the same person."

Blue-eye scoffed.  "Foster isn't here.  He's out sick."

"Really?  Has he ever taken a day off?"

"He didn't have much choice.  His wife said he couldn't move."

"You—" Fox threw his head back.  Took  a deep breath.  "You've met his wife?"

Blue-eye set down the needle and thread.  "Did you miss the part where I told you he couldn't move?"

"What's she like?" Fox asked, his hand finding the Cessna's wing strut.  "Is she ugly?"

"What the hell kind of question is that?"

"Is she?"

"I mean."  Blue-eye gritted his teeth.  Ran a hand through his hair.  "She isn't my type." 

"Knew it.  She must be a good cook." 

Blue-eye sighed like Fox just spilled milk all over both of them and didn't bother bringing a towel to sop it up.  "Do you need something from me?"

"Yeah.  I need you to come to the tavern with me.  Foster's my only fuckin' friend in this shitty town." 

"You're lucky I'm not from here," Blue-eye said.  "But Foster wouldn't have gone with you anyway.  He's Mormon."

"The fuck is a Mormon?"

"It's some sort of religious thing.  They don't drink alcohol.  Or coffee." 

Fox nodded.  "That explains why he's so tired and grumpy all the time."

Blue-eye's shoulders shook with laughter, but he bit his lip before Fox saw any more friendliness.  "I don't have any money." 

"I'll buy you a drink, uh—"  Fox put his hands in his pockets.  "What's your name?"

A pause.  Blue-eye looked Fox up and down.  "Ira." 

"Isn't that name kind of—"

Ira pointed the sharp end of the needle at Fox.  "If the next word out of your mouth is 'white' I swear I'll undo every stitch in this wing." 

"I was gonna say 'short,' but . . ."  Fox shrugged.  "You know." 

"Okay."  Ira set the needle on top of the wing sideways so it wouldn't roll, and climbed down the ladder.  "And what's your name?"

"Fox," he said, already guarding his stomach, but Ira didn't punch him.  Another friend in Goodier.  Close enough, at least.