OUR LIVES, CHAPTER 9: DON'T TOUCH THAT DIAL
By The Binary Alchemist 2012
Roy was startled when his stepson burst into his office at nine a.m., three days before his birthday gala. "Uncle Roy!" he crowed, "I drove past the book store and guess what? They've pulled down the sign about Kelley Winchell's book! I called about it, and they told me that they've changed the shipping date! Isn't that incredible!"
His stepfather's face expression was most peculiar but his tone was nonchalant. "I'm sure it's still coming out."
"Yes, but not on your birthday! Aren't you relieved?"
"It's been….postponed. I…I…ah…suppose that's better than nothing." He drew in his breath sharply. "Right. Thanks for letting me know. Now if you'll excuse me, son, I have to get back to work."
The young man's shoulders sagged a little. "Okay. Sheesh, I thought you'd be happy." He turned to leave, then swung back around, a suspicious look on his youthful features. He rapped hard on the top of the President's desk with his knuckles. "'Bye, Dad. Don't hit your head on the underside of the desk drawer." Maes was grinning now. "You guys," he sighed dramatically and strolled out of the office, whistling off key.
###
"That….bastard! That low-down, conniving, cocksucking son of a bitch!"
Kelley Winchell slammed down the receiver so hard she broke it, as well as one perfectly lacquered nail. If she had had a dog in her town house she'd have kicked it halfway to East City out of sheer frustration. She glanced around but there was nothing within reach that would make enough noise when flung across the room so she pummeled the sofa cushions and rained curses on the publishing house of Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons.
The entire first run—ruined!
"I'm so sorry, Miss Winchell," her publisher had told her, "The offset print wasn't making a clean impression and the pages that were rolled out were not legible-"
'—I have a contract! I have a contract!" Winchell snarled into the phone. "I delivered my manuscript on time. I followed my end of the deal!"
"—indeed, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly appreciate your professionalism. No, this was a mechanical error, and we at Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons greatly regret the delay," Mr. Howe babbled. "I give you my word that Dewey, Dickon and Howe and—"
"—and Sons-you sound like a fucking parrot, you know that?" she growled, her fingers twisting in the phone cord. If Howe had come to her place and told her to her face she'd have had the satisfaction of splitting his scalp with a crystal ashtray flung from ten paces. "When my lawyer gets through with you-"
"—he will point out the line item in your contract with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons that absolves us from any liability in the event of natural disaster or mechanical failure. Now," Mr. Howe was regaining his composure. "we can offer compensation in the form of a reprint of one of your previous bestsellers with Dewey, Dickon and Howe and Sons—or we can offer you-"
"I'll see you in court!" she snarled before breaking off the conversation and breaking the phone at the same time. She would have to send her assistant out to replace it—and to put in a second line while they were at it. "I'm going out, Matilda!" she shouted. "I want the phone fixed by noon—no later, or you're fired. And get my lawyer on the horn—I don't care if you have to walk five flights and use the payphone at the front desk. You tell Mr. Babcock to find me a way to break that man's balls or he's fired. Is that clear?"
She was in a foul mood in the taxi as she sped across the city to Barnes and Walden Booksellers, and when she saw that they had already yanked her advertisement poster out of the window she was ready to storm in, handbag swinging, and start threatening litigation before she stopped herself. After all, she reconsidered, she was a literary lioness-she had fans that she did not want to antagonize. She composed her features and adjusted her hat, refreshed her blood-red lipstick and stepped into Barnes and Walden with an imperial wave and a thousand watt smile. "Hello, dahhhlings!" she cooed.
Nobody turned their heads.
She cleared her throat. "HELLO, MY DAHHHLINGS!" It was ten o'clock in the morning and the scant handful of customers were buying the national and foreign-language newspapers which Barnes and Walden imported from Drachma, Aerugo, Creta, Ishval and Xing.
In the corner there were several tables where shoppers could help themselves to fresh coffee and buy sweet rolls from Il Gattina's that were delivered every morning. A man in coveralls had his face buried in a Drachman newspaper, three empty paper cups of black coffee at his elbow. He peered around the page he was reading and lifted his eyebrows.
Winchell dashed over to him, beaming. "Hello, dahhling!" she gushed. "I'm Kelley Winchell," as if her name should mean something to him.
"Кто ебет вы?" (who the fuck are you?)
She released his hand and backed away, her smile looking a little bit forced. "Very nice to meet you." She spied a young woman, dressed like domestic in a heavy winter cap, flipping through the pages of an Aerugoan language guide. Surely she looked young enough and uneducated enough to be an avid reader. Winchell thrust out a bejeweled hand. "I know it must be dreadfully disappointing that my latest biography won't be delivered on time—but I'll be rescheduling my book signing and I hope you'll join us, won't you?"
The girl offered a charming smile and shrugged her shoulders. "Voglio mangiare escrementi di cane e dolorosamente, die tu prostituta. Rivolta a me." ("I want you to dine on dog excrement and die painfully, you woman who sells herself. I find you revolting.") The girl giggled and offered a dainty curtsey. Then her eyes lit up in recognition. "Kel-Kelley Winchella? I am right, si?" She pointed to the biography end cap where an assortment of Winchell's bestsellers were on prominent display. "Famoso-famous—Signora Winchella?" Winchell's eyes sparkled as she nodded. "Signora Winchella! Famoso!" The girl impetuously hugged her and kissed her on both cheeks. She snatched a paper napkin from the coffee counter. "Autografe, per favore?" She held out a fountain pen with such a pleading smile that Winchell could not refuse.
"It's so wonderful to meet my fans from all over the world," she gushed. "What is your name?"
The girl looked puzzled for a moment then smiled eagerly. "Name? Il nome? Oh, sì – il mio nome è Lucrezia." Winchell repeated her name and scribbled a dedication on the napkin. "Lucrezia" curtseyed again. "Vi incoraggio ad avere relazioni coniugali con un maiale. I seni sono falsi, tu non hai talento e hai il rossetto sui denti. Vi sconfiggeremo. Buongiorno!"(" I encourage you to have marital relations with a pig. Your breasts are fake, you have no talent and you have lipstick on your teeth. I will defeat you. Good morning.")
As soon as Winchell roared away in her famous pink brougham the girl and the young man with the news paper hugged each other, carefully pocketing the autograph. Maes gently tugged a loose strand of his sister's chestnut hair. "Nice job,Lucretia.Like she has any clue who Queen Lucretia of Aerugo was—or what she did to her enemies in the 17th century."
"I positively draw the line at thumbscrews and poison—and that business about the rat cages," Nina shuddered. "However, I quite applaud her personal motto: 'Ci insultano a vostro rischio e pericolo'" ('Insult Us At Your Peril")
###
"Professor Elric? You have a delivery. It requires a signature."
"Huh?" Ed shoved his glasses up the bridge of his nose. Ruby had buried him in backlogged paperwork and three of the Cretan guest professors were complaining that their office had no heat this morning and Winry and Pitt had wired that Granny Pinako was back in the hospital again—somehow he would have to get up there to see her in case…well…he wouldn't think about her dying. Granny was going to live forever, after all. All she needed was a little rest.
Collins knocked again. "Sir, I'm sorry, but this is that shipment you were expecting from Xing. This was dropped off from the Aerodrome an hour ago."
Ed nearly knocked the young apprentice butler on his backside as he shot out his office door. "Holy crap! I gotta get that to the meat locker right away—and don't let anybody open it! That's Roy's birthday present!"
"The meat locker, sir?" Collins looked bewildered as Ed yanked the clipboard out of his hands, scrawled his name and then anxiously inspected the box. 'No leakage. That's a relief. Gimme a hand with this, will ya?"
"I'll get a freight dolly, sir—and I'll inform Ramsay to make room. I daresay he may be cross over the short notice—"
Ramsay wasn't cross. He was pissed. "Bugger that, Professor!" he snapped. "You can't just come in here and have me heave out half a side of beef and all those steaks and chops for—what the hell IS that thing?"
"Your employer's 50th birthday present—and you have no fuckin' idea what I went through to get it. It's in a crock of liquid nitrogen and I need a place where it won't be disturbed."
###
Dr. Knox jammed the cotton-tipped swab down Jean Havoc's throat with the same force that Havoc would have rammed a barrel-swab up the nose of a rifle. "I can't get sick," Havoc rasped. "There's too much to do. Doc, you gotta get me some medicine and straighten me out!"
"Some soldier you are," Knox grumbled as he dabbed at a clean slide, covered it and slipped it under his microscope. "Anything else you need to whine about today?"
Havoc looked slightly abashed. "Yeah. I got a killer case of jock itch. I need some cream or something." Knox didn't answer, intent on the slide he was studying. "It's kinda…red down there…y'know?" Knox stepped away with a short bark of cynical laughter. He felt the glands in Havoc's neck then ordered him to drop his pants. "Can you give me some cream for that, Doc?" Havoc repeated as if the doctor was ignoring him. "Can you fix me up?"
Knox turned away and pulled something out of his medication cabinet. When he turned around he was holding up the biggest syringe and the longest needle Havoc had seen since he'd been hospitalized after Lust attacked him. He sucked in his breath abruptly. "Ah…heh heh…um…Doc? Is that supposed to cure my jock itch or my throat?"
"It's a cure for Neisseria Gonorrhoeae. "
"Nessy—what?"
"You've got the clap, son. Bad a dose as I've seen since the war." Havoc nearly bit his lower lip in half when the needle rammed into his backside. "Pull up your pants." Knox grabbed a pad and pen, scribbled something down and passed to the horrified Havoc. At the top of the sheet was written "LIST OF SEXUAL CONTACTS—CALL CEntral 69482". Dr. Knox had already written 'COLONEL RIZA HAWKEYE' on the list. "All your contacts need to be treated. Immediately. Have Colonel Hawkeye report first thing in the morning."
"Sh—sure thing, Doc." Havoc's insides turned over. "If she's not in the brig for shooting my nuts off."
###
All in all, it had been good. Damn good. And now she was tired.
She was in her ninth decade—"ninety and some spare change," she used to joke. There wasn't much that she had wanted to do that was left undone, other than perhaps enjoy watching a crop of great-great grands grow up. Neither Maes nor Nina was fool enough to rush into the kind of stupid, half thought out entanglements that had made Edward and Winry miserable for those mercifully brief years of their marriage. Still, it would have been nice to see the next generation of Rockbell children. Winry had given her seven great grandchildren by two good men and she was proud of every last one of 'em. And in spite of all odds, Ed and Winry had made peace at last and Winry had finally quit chasing Alphonse and had settled down with the right man in the end.
It had been a good life and she was ready to close the book and lay it aside and rest—but not for long. She didn't know what lay beyond the Gateway but the Pantheress of Resembool relished the idea of finding out. Sometimes when she dreamed she could see old friends and loved ones smiling and hear them laughing and calling out to welcome her. Urey. Sara. Trisha. That old reprobate Hohenheim—she could still drink him under the table. Faust and his limonchello, Dominic le Coulte—ohhh, could he face her now? And her long dead husband, Doc Rockbell who never tried to tame the Pantheress but kept up with her until the day he died—smiling—in her bed. Her friends. Her lovers. Her child. It would be good to see them again.
Of course, Winry was making a fuss. Wouldn't be Winry if she didn't. "You'll be up and out of that bed in no time." "Don't be silly, Granny! You're going to live forever!"
Pitt was no fool and didn't try to hide it. "Are you comfortable? Is there anything you need…anyone you want-"
"I want to see the boys—and Maes and Nina. Roy's got some big fuss about his fiftieth birthday—"
"—and I know Roy Mustang well enough to know he'll understand." Pitt patted Pinako's hand in a way that didn't annoy her. Pitt had been the best blessing in the last decade of her life: a man who was a true son to her, and so like Urey in spirit she couldn't have wished for a better husband for Winry even if she still cast occasional yearning glances at Alphonse after making her choice, since Alphonse and Julia hadn't tied the knot or started a family. No, Al had been wise to bring Julia home that Solstice, because seeing them together drove Winry straight into bed with Pitt with that same determination she'd shown towards Edward long before. This time, though, she'd bedded and bred with a man who was willing to give her the whole of himself, not just half a life.
Yes, she sighed with satisfaction. It all turned out just about right.
"Pitt? I want to talk to Roy. Can you get him on the phone for me?"
"Not Ed or Al?" Pitt looked puzzled.
She shook her head wearily. "I want to talk to Roy—and don't take all day getting him on the phone, either." She smiled. "I may not HAVE all day to wait on him…."
###
That's one of the perks I will shamelessly exercise as President, Roy mused as Sheska rang him up to announce that Donal Samuelson was on his way to Rose Hill for a live interview promised weeks ago. I make them come on my turf, on my terms.
Not that Roy had to go begging for press. Even as a young rising star in the state military Roy had captured more than his share of the limelight, much to the chagrin of his senior officers. Now Radio Capital was not only broadcasting an interview with him it was being captured for newsreels that would be shown in theaters all over Amestris, even abroad.
The mirror congratulated him for eating right, working out and staying fit. Only a few faint touches of gray at his temples and his belly was washboard taut. Barely a whisper of laugh lines in the corners of his eyes—he'd looked older when he came back from the war. A decade and a half of mattress gymnastics with Edward and a soul-satisfying family life—and the odd gifts of being one of The Father's "sacrifices"—and he never felt better other than the aches of old wounds in his side and the palms of his hands.
His dress uniform fitted him to perfection and Sebastian had carefully cleaned all his battle ribbons and medals. Collins buffed his dress shoes to a dull sheen and there was not one single fingerprint on the scabbard of his sword. "Damn, I'm good looking," he told himself, and he was relieved he did not have to lie.
He knew from experience that they would roast under the hot arc lights needed for filming and accordingly ordered the windows in his office left open to the November chill. It might seem bitter when they set up but Donal and the crew would be thankful for it. Roy himself nearly passed out the first time—he was buttoned tight into that heavy wool uniform and the heat was as bad as the Ishballan desert where Donal had first interviewed Roy Mustang a lifetime ago…
"What the hell-?" Maes had put down his beer and glanced over his shoulder. It was some captain from Signal Corps snapping pictures and talking with the troops for some heartwarming piece of half-fiction for the folks back home. Roy noticed the captain was carefully avoiding the wounded, focusing on sunburnt, sweaty men with good looks and maybe the odd cut or scrape on a photogenic chin or forehead. Maes brightened considerably, yanked a comb quickly through his thick black hair, wiped the beer foam off his lips and dashed over, all but shoving other soldiers out of the way to get the captain's attention. "If I get in the papers, maybe Gracia will see it," he shouted back to his lover.
Roy had cracked open another half-cold one and was chewing thoughtfully on a hunk of dried sausage made from some mysterious meat he'd prefer not to attempt to identify when the captain came over and saluted. "Major Mustang? Captain Samuelson, sir—Army Signal Corps. Sir, the folks back home have heard rumors about State Alchemists in the field—would you mind telling us a little bit about who the Alchemists are and how they are helping to win the war?"
Oh, how he wanted to tell the truth. How he wanted to tell his—what, the kid couldn't be more than sixteen? Seventeen?—greenhorn "by roasting the innocent—and no, that's not a hunk of pork you smell roasting over a campfire. Those are children and their parents, asshole, and men like me lit the fires. How's that for a morale feature, huh?" He bit his lip, knocked back his beer and forced a smile for the camera…
"….and welcome to Eye On Amestris. I'm Donal Samuelson, and tonight we are broadcasting live from the Presidential Palace in Central and we are honored to have as our guest this evening President—and former Fuhrer—Roy Mustang, who will be with us the full hour of our show to answer questions and, if our audio link is working, take some calls from our listeners. Mr. President, it's always an honor."
Roy offered back his most winning smile. "It's a pleasure to see you again, Donal. Of course, I hear you every afternoon. Midday Amestris is very popular with the ladies on my staff. In fact I would not be surprised if a few of them aren't waiting impatiently for us to finish this interview so they can get autographs."
They bantered back and forth cheerily for a minute or so and then Samuelson leaned in closer, ready to change to a meatier subject. "So, Mr. President…I don't believe anyone would debate that for a fifty year old man you certainly appear to be fighting fit and ready to take on all comers in the tough presidential race ahead. I've noticed that your opponents have been noticeably quiet up to this point, but the odds are that once your birthday gala is over and the candles have been blown out it's going to get messy. Just how far are you willing to go to insure you stay in office?"
Roy looked thoughtful. "Why, Donal, you make this sound like a battle for control. I don't see the presidency in those terms. The presidency is a position of service more than power. As we move towards democracy, more of the power per se will pass to Parliament, whose representatives will be elected by the people, not appointed any more. My intention is—and always has been—to serve the best interests of Amestris and her people. THEY are the ones who will decide whom they wish to serve. And as far as an election being 'messy'…slinging mud and stabbing backs is childish and distracting. I intend to pursue a clean campaign. I would hope any serious candidate would follow a similar set of ethics."
"You're aware that there is a book that is coming out—or rather, was coming out—this week by best-selling author Kelley Winchell that claims to blow the lid off the Mustang presidency and your involvement with the plot to overthrow Fuhrer Bradley. I am one of the few who has actually read the early proofs of this book, and in all honesty, Mr. President, she makes a very compelling case against you."
Roy was unruffled. "I regret that I don't really have time to read popular fiction, which is how I tend to regard sensationalistic biographies of public figures. I understand it is a very lucrative way of making a living, rather like those old stories of men who would unearth the bodies of the dead in order to loot the bodies of any jewelry and steal the brass plates off the coffins. Distasteful, but profitable. If she is as popular as I am led to believe it would be refreshing to see her turn her talents towards actual news reportage. Failing that," his smile became subtly cynical, " perhaps she could write children's books. That's a profession in which the knack for telling a tall tale can be entertaining without 'looting corpses' or attempting to destroy lives."
"You regard her exposés as ghoulish? That's rather strong language."
Roy lifted a cautioning finger, still smiling. "Tell me, Donal-you've been an insider in the field of information since you were in the Signal Corps during the Isballan war. In fact, you were the first to ever interview me, there on the battlefield, which was widely read as the first in-depth story on the lives of State Alchemists. It was a laudable piece, as I recall-and that was due to your painstaking research into the lives of those called to serve the nation as State Alchemists. It wasn't an altogether pretty picture—but it was accurate and well received by all sides. Now," Roy inclined himself slightly towards Samuelson, encroaching subtly on his space, "I have known Former Fuhrer President Grumman for a great many years. I have served proudly with Alex Louis Armstrong and while General Olivier Armstrong and I have often held opposing views I have never questioned her patriotism or her outstanding skills as a commanding officer. Not one of them was ever approached by Miss Kelley or her research staff when she wrote her alleged exposés of their lives. Nor was I approached-nor was my family or personal staff. Presenting second or third—or fourth-hand—rumor and innuendo as fact and selling it to the public as entertainment is unethical at best and offensive at worst."
"So the publication was not delayed, as rumored, by threats from your personal aides?"
"Absolutely not. Anyone on my staff that would do such a thing would find themselves at the unemployment bureau in short order. As I have stated in the past, I believe in a free press. Miss Winchell is free to publish her…creative interpretations…of the lives of others. And Amestrians are free to support her if they choose. But," his expression became smooth and the warmth evaporated from his voice, "it is important that the readers consider the source. I'm sure the average citizen would not enjoy having their reputations speculated on by their neighbors—oh, look, there's Mary! Did you hear that she has a terrible drinking problem? And there's James—they say he's a terrible wife beater!" The smile slide back artfully over his handsome features. "And nobody telling the tale has even bothered to talk to Mary or James. Would they enjoy it? I seriously doubt it. Besides," he added with a wink towards the camera, "the truth is always more interesting than fiction. And it makes for better reading."
It was during the second half of the program that one of the engineers handed a note to Samuelson. He glanced at it and nodded. He handed it to Roy who suddenly looked very concerned. "My apologies, Donal, to you and our audience. I'm afraid that I will have to cut this short"
"Understood, Mr. President, and I want to thank you for inviting us into your home for this interview. Ladies and Gentlemen, when we return from commercial we'll open the phone lines for your comments-so please, don't touch that dial! This is Donal Samuelson-and you're listing to Eye on Amestris…."
###
"Sorry to ruin your birthday, Roy, but I need the boys—and the kids."
"Dr. Pinako…ma'am….are you sure…?"
"Well, I was hoping to make it to a hundred, but…what the hell. Wish they'd let me have my pipe in here. And a dog-not right not to have a dog here. Maybe I'll see Den when I see that damned Gateway Ed and Al keep talking about." She paused to cough. "Anyway, do this old lady one last favor and send my kids home. I want to say goodbye…but more than that, Ed needs to know it's okay…I'm tired and I'm ready and he needs to know there's nothing to be sad about this."
"Havoc has already called the airfield. There's an airship to East City leaving at 10 o'clock. I'll have a military escort meet them upon arrival and get them straight to Resembool. However," he added with a soft chuckle, "you have to give me your word that you'll stay long enough for them to say goodbye."
There was a rusty laugh on the other end. "I'll do my damndest. If I miss 'em, tell Ed and Al I loved 'em like they were my own—and I'm proud of them. Tell Maes and Nina to take care of their dad-Ed's not going to take this well. You know how he is."
"Yes ma'am. And…thank you….for everything…Granny."
"You're a handful and a headache, Roy Mustang, but you're family too." Her voice was faint but there was an unmistakable fondness in her tone. "Thank you for raising the kids right and keeping Ed out of trouble."
"I'll take care of them, I promise."
"Thanks, Roy. Goodnight."
Goodnight, Granny. Safe journey."
"See you when I see you, son."
…TO BE CONTINUED…