Chapter Text
The air conditioning was out when Art got home from work, which was unfortunate considering just how sticky and hot the air was outside and that the same thing had happened at his job downtown. That went hand and hand with the fact that he’d had to walk back today since the bus line he usually took was re-routed for road work. The detour turned a forty minute commute into a two and a half hour walk, so he didn’t make it to his front door until four-thirty. It was hard not to complain when he’d left the house before the sun came up.
He’d certainly had better afternoons.
If it had been pay day, he would have considered gifting himself the consolation prize of a sno-ball from the stand nearby. His usual order was half chocolate and half raspberry, and if he asked politely, the man at the stand would fluff up the ice instead of shaping it into a cone; New Orleans style, which made the whole thing seem more decadent. If it had been pay day, maybe he would have even treated himself to a scoop of ice cream in the cup, under all that ice and syrup. The ice cream only ever came in one flavor, vanilla, but that was fine by him. Sweets were sweets, ice cream was ice cream, and nowhere else sold it so cheap. It would have been nice, but it wasn’t pay day, so it would just have to wait. In its place, he settled for a cup of cold water and drank it leaning against the sink in the kitchen.
Down the hall, he could hear the muffled sounds of his grandmother’s beat up, bulky, old television. He listened close enough to hear that she had just now changed the channel from her afternoon trivia game shows to the news. This told him two things, the first was that she must have taken her medication already and would probably attempt a nap soon. She always liked to fall asleep watching the news. The channels that they got it on had worse static than the others, and she said that it sounded like rain. The second thing that it told him was that she must have been in more pain than usual today, having taken her pills so early. Normally, she would try to hold off until at least around dinner time, that way they could all get together at least once in the day, but some days simply took more of her energy than others.
It might not have been true or fair, but Art couldn’t help but assume some responsibility for that. If he had been home earlier, then he could have helped her more around the house and then she wouldn’t have been so worn out. He knew he had no say in the bus schedule or the work on the road, but even so.
Art finished the water, pressed the coolest part of the glass to his forehead and then put it into the sink. He was going to go down the hall and at least sit with her for a while before she nodded off but just as he made his way out of the kitchen, he heard a knock at the front door.
That was odd, he wasn’t expecting anyone and his parents hadn’t said anything about one of their neighbors coming by. His grandmother didn’t get many visitors either without a call first to make sure she was feeling well enough for company. There wasn’t any reason for anyone to stop by this time of day, when everything was just starting to wind down into the evening and a much needed respite from the day's work.
That was, not unless something was horribly wrong. That must have been it, and that must have been why his stomach sank so suddenly as he went to answer the door. What could it be? He wondered, had another one of the local kids gone missing? Had there been another raid in town? Another Church burning? Were his parents alright? Dear Lord, what would he do if his parents weren’t alright -
He opened the door so quickly that the knob hit the wall, only to find that it was the mailman, Marney. He lived down the street-a-ways, and his wife was always calling to ask to come by and borrow recipe cards from his grandmother, who didn’t like loaning them out to her on account of the fact that she wasn’t so good at returning them, or keeping track of them at all, actually.
‘I just end up writing them up over and over and over. It never ends.’ Geraldine Baker had said more than once.
Art never asked why it was she continued to see fit to hand them out to her, in that case. He knew the answer she’d give. He knew that their Lord and Savior would never tire of giving to his community and therefore aiding in the betterment of the lives of others, and shouldn't they strive to be like him? Why else would they call themselves 'Christians'? Art wasn’t sure that Jesus Himself would have felt so passionately about recipes for chicken mull and sugar-boiled custard, what with the rest of the great wide world to worry about, but he kept that to himself as well.
“Afternoon, Arthur.” Marney said, smiling.
No, it was more than just a smile. This was a genuine *grin*, Marney was excited about something.
But what?
“Afternoon, Mr.Jones.” Art replied, and took a guess. “You got a special delivery there?” He asked, pointing to the large, clean, white envelope that the mailman carried in his hand.
“Oh, Yes-sir.” Marney’s accent was more creole than cajun even after all these years away from New Orleans.
He said it like one word, Art spoke the same way sometimes, if he was excited or in a hurry. His father’s people had been in the same place for a while and Baton Rouge was a sort of go between for city life and the rural swamp area nearby leaving him unable to fully commit to one or the other.
Marney handed the envelope over and Art was surprised by just how *thick* it was. It was nearly a book.
“I just wanted to make sure it got right to you.” Marney said, “And to let you know that I’m real proud of you. I’m sure everyone else’ll be too, once you tell ‘em.”
Art’s brows furrowed and he looked down, hoping the explanation for all of this might be closer than he thought.
It was.
There, on the front of the paper envelope was the deep blue wax seal with the insignia of The Academy.
Art ran his thumb over it, a gasp escaping before he could stop it. The symbol itself stood out in a completely different color from the background of the seal; golden and full of every promise that Art had ever heard about the Star Pilot Corps. He couldn't help but notice at the same time, though, just how *heavy* those promises were now that they had emerged from his hopes and into his hands.
Art looked back up at Marney, all he could get out was:
“Thank you, really, Sir. I can barely believe it.”
Now the grin made sense and Art couldn’t help but share in it.
“You ain’t gotta thank me, boy.” Marney said and put a hand on his shoulder. “You already done plenty, and you’ll do more to boot. This is the rest of your life right here.”
The rest of his life.
It should have been affirming to hear, that’s an awful bright rest of his life to look forward to. But there was an unshakeable, invisible *something* on the back of his tongue that was searching for the words to bring itself to life, but couldn’t find purchase in the congratulatory state of the revelation at hand.
He could only nod as Marney gave a low whistle filled to the brim with his uninterrupted glee.
“Get on back inside, now.” He said. “Go give Miss Geraldine the good news.”
“I will. And you get home safe, alright?” Art said.
“Will do!” Marney’s voice was still all but ringing.
As he walked away with a wave and one more, “Congratulations!” Art heard him murmuring something about one of ‘Their very own’ finally making it all the way up to the stars.
He went back inside and closed the door gently. Instead of making his way down the hall though, he went back to his kitchen table and pulled out one of the chairs to sit down in. The table was old and polished lovingly but still suffered a burn mark from a pot here and a scratch there, it was as old as he was- no, older, most likely. He didn’t know for sure, as he’d never felt the need to ask, but he’d have no trouble believing that this table had existed before him, it just happened to be the only one he ever remembered having in this particular kitchen, in this particular house. It had always had that lazy susan that wobbled when it turned and a perpetual stack of bills in the far corner that got moved around often enough but somehow continued to find their way back.
He’d never lived anywhere else.
He set the envelope in front of him. If this had been a letter that read:
‘Our deepest apologies Mr. Baker, but your application was not selected this year.’
Then it would have been a standard size, the way all mail usually came in. No show, no fuss. It would have been a disappointment if that were the case, wouldn’t it?
Of course it would, right.
But he didn’t have to worry about that. He had gotten the big, important envelope. His ticket to the stars, an answer to those bills on the table, a way to make sure there weren’t any more gaps between pay days. It was all right here.
So then, why was it that he felt his hands trembling as though he were handling some live, dangerous creature?
“Art?” His grandmother’s voice called from her bedroom, “Who was at the door, cher?
“It was Mr. Jones, ma’am.” he answered. “I’ll be right there. I’ve got some great news for you.”
Then he picked up the welcome packet, the rest of his life, and headed down the hall.