by Jane Smiley
Minnie, whom Joe couldn’t see, said, “All the scientists say it’s easy to figure out. The more we say it’s our secret, the more they are going to want it.” Minnie sounded rather unlike herself—confident and a little argumentative.
Walter opened the door, saying, “Who are you talking about?”
“Well, who do you think?” said Rosanna. “Henry Wallace. It said on the radio that he told the Senate that we should hand over the bomb to the Russians.”
“What do you care?” said Walter.
“Oh, he just gets my goat,” said Rosanna. “Always has.”
Walter glanced at Joe, made the briefest face, then said, “Why is that, since, as far as we know, you aren’t related and he was never a friend of the family?”
“Better for him if he had been. Might not have been telling people how to run their lives since the day he was born.” Rosanna scowled. Joe went over and kissed her on the forehead. The argument subsided. Minnie, who had left Mrs. Frederick napping and only come by for a minute, took her plate of food and ran home. Lois and Claire set the dining-room table.
Maybe if Walter hadn’t been tired and irritated from the tractor mishap, the argument would have been over, but just at the wrong time, that time when they had all finished their first helpings and were thinking about seconds, when Rosanna stood up, lifted the carving knife and fork, and directed her gaze at the roast, Walter said, “I think Wallace should have been president instead of vice-president. I like him better than Truman. He knows some things, he’s thought about things. Truman is a hothead.”
“Yes, and if he was from Independence, Iowa, rather than Independence, Missouri, he would be fine with you.”
Joe wasn’t sure he had ever heard his parents argue about politics, especially with slightly raised voices. He and Lillian exchanged a glance. Henry said, “My science teacher said that they didn’t find any radiation at Hiroshima, and that the Japanese lied about it.”
“What are you talking about that at school for?” said Rosanna.
“We’ve talked about it Friday and today. Two girls were crying, so he told them that. He said that there were five buildings left standing and a hundred thousand people died. There was one building pretty far away, and the blast was so hot that the chairs inside the house were scorched through the closed windows. It was five thousand degrees.”
“And Henry Wallace wants to let the Russians do that very thing!” exclaimed Rosanna.
Lillian said, “I can’t believe telling the girls those things made them feel better. I don’t want to think about it, and I’m glad it’s not my business.”
Henry said, “He said that, even at our age, it’s better to know about something than to imagine it all the time.”
Joe said, “Happy birthday, Lillian.” Everyone shut up, and after a short silence, Claire told about the rabbit Miss Rohrbaugh had at school. It was gray, not white, but it had white tips on its ears. Its name was Paul, not Peter, and each of the nine children at school would have a turn feeding it—in alphabetical order. “I am ‘L,’ ” said Claire.
When he was walking to his place that evening, carrying the remains of the cake, Joe didn’t know what to think. His main feeling about the bombing of Hiroshima and Nagasaki had been surprise mixed with a sense of relief. His main feeling about Henry Wallace was more like his dad’s than his mom’s—someone in Washington had to be a nice guy, and Wallace had that Iowa way of doing it, draft horse rather than Thoroughbred. He looked around. The sky was clear; the corn was certainly drying in the fields, and maybe, if he paused and stood still, he could hear it. But he had seen the picture of the mushroom cloud, and in spite of what Henry’s teacher had said, he could imagine it rising above Usherton—a mile high, was it?—achingly bright and loud. Would that be the last thing you would see? Was that the last thing someone like himself on a street in Hiroshima did see? Joe prayed a little prayer—may he not have known what he was looking at, may he have vanished from this earth the very moment he turned his head and said, “What in the world is that?”
LILLIAN WAS WORKING late. It was just about time for the soda fountain to close—she was wiping down the counter—and here he came, in the door, stepping aside for Charlie, who was picking up one of the displays, and then over to her. He had on a camel-hair coat and was carrying a brown leather briefcase. His hat was pushed back a little, as if he were ready for anything. He set the briefcase and his hat on one stool and sat down on another one. His smile was quick. He said, “Where am I?”
“Usherton, Iowa.”
“What time is it?”
“Almost ten.”
“And who are you?”
Lillian couldn’t help smiling. She said, “Who’s asking?”
“Arthur.”
“Lillian.”
“Lillian. How lovely. I expected irises and poppies and a few dandelions, but no Lillians.”
“May I get you anything, sir?” She saw Charlie looking at her.
“A cup of coffee and a Coca-Cola.”
“Both?”
“You’ll see.” And she did—he poured some of the Coke into the cup of coffee, and drank that down, then finished the Coke. After the drugstore closed, he asked her to show him the block. The block was nothing special, but he put her hand through his arm, then made up a story about every building as they strolled through the darkness: Was that where the hole in the basement was, the one where the gold bars had been found, that Pretty Boy Floyd had left there? Hadn’t she heard about that? In Rapid City, it was all they talked about. Or that place there, didn’t she see the faces in the window? Mrs. Lester Tester had twenty-seven children, twenty-six of them girls. “We just wanted a boy,” said Mrs. Tester, “so we kept on trying.” Lillian laughed and laughed. “What are you laughing at?” exclaimed Arthur. “These are serious matters.”
He walked her to her car (Papa’s car, which she used when she worked late) and insisted she lock the doors before she drove off. When she came on her shift at noon the next day, he sat down at the counter and ordered a hot dog.
It took two days for Lillian to learn Arthur’s surname, and by the time she did learn it, he had already proposed and she had already accepted. His surname was Manning. Arthur Manning. Arthur Brinks Manning. Mrs. Arthur Brinks Manning. Lillian Manning. Lillian Langdon Manning. Lillian Elizabeth Langdon Manning. She wrote them all down on a piece of paper, and then folded the paper into a tiny wad and put it in the pocket of her favorite sweater.
Arthur Manning was driving from Rapid City, South Dakota, to Bethesda, Maryland. He had to be there on October 15. It was now October 13. Lillian sat on her bed in her still-pink bedroom, and looked at the pictures she had never changed, the alphabet, a faded photograph of Mary Elizabeth in a white frame, a picture of some lilies. The pink-and-white-striped curtains. The rag rug her granny had made. The profiles of the farmer, his wife, their cow, their horse, pig, lamb, rabbit, squirrel, fox, and bird. What to take with her? Why was it so alluring that Arthur had not gotten down on his knees, or offered her a ring, just put his chin on her head and said, “You’ve got me, Lily darling, Lili Damita, Lily Pons, Lily Langdon. I said I would never marry again, but I must, if you will.”
“Were you married, Arthur?”
Then he sat her down on a bench, looking at the park, and he said, “Lily Langdon, I was married for two years, and my wife got pregnant, and when she was eight months along, she had a stabbing pain in her back. I was away on a trip, and she was from Alabama and didn’t have any friends in Bethesda, so she didn’t call anyone. By the time I got back, the bleeding had gone on for two days, and I only got her to the hospital in time for her to die. The baby was already dead.”
“What caused that?” said Lillian. Lillian knew she was saying this to give herself time for the sadness of what he was telling her to register. He kept looking at her. She swallowed.
He said, “They told me the placenta broke away from the uterine wall.” He put his hands on either side of her face
. He said, “Marriage can be a terrible thing, which is why I propose to you in despair.”
Lillian slipped her arm under Arthur’s and laid her head against his chest. They both took that as a yes.
As she sat on her bed, looking around, Lillian thought that he had suitably terrified them both, and therefore he was just the right person for her. She actually didn’t think that Rosanna would dislike him or that Walter would make a fuss. But she wanted him all to herself. So she found a paper sack and put a few things in it—two brassieres and some panties, an extra slip, and her white batiste blouse she had just bought. The twill gored skirt Rosanna had made her. Nothing she was taking was pink, which amused her. Then she opened the drawer of her chest and took out her savings and the golden feather—they were wrapped together in tissue paper. She tucked the packet inside the folded-up skirt. She set a few bits of makeup on top of the skirt—her compact was in her purse, but she chose two lipsticks, a foundation she had just opened, the mascara. Her boar-bristle hairbrush. She folded up the bag and slid it under the bed. Joey would unknowingly drop her at the drugstore at ten, and they would leave from there. She had already written her note to Mama and Papa. She would slip that under her pillow, and leave the bed unmade. Mama would flounce into the room, annoyed that Lillian had not made her bed, and find it. Then—who knew? It gave Lillian a bona-fide thrill to think of it.
1946
LILLIAN WOULD NOT have said that she knew a great deal about Arthur, but she only thought about this when he wasn’t around. During the day, she tried to spend her time appreciating her apartment in an imposing brick building with white trim that rather reminded her of her high school and the short walks she could take in the neighborhood. She had a small but warm bathroom, reliable hot water, and a deep and satisfying bathtub. She had a gas range, and every time she checked the pilot light, it was still lit. There was a park that ran up to the boundary of the insane asylum, but Lillian preferred the little looping streets and sometimes took the streetcar to different sections—Georgetown and Woodley Park were her favorites—and walked around there. She liked to shop at the Giant supermarket, and she especially enjoyed something called “Cheerios.” After nearly twenty years of oatmeal, these Cheerios were a constant pleasure.
In the fall, she had gone to all sorts of sights around the District, first with Arthur, then on her own—the Smithsonian, the Capitol Building, the Memorials—all of them in the howling wind. In fact, the best time they’d had was just before Christmas, when an ice storm coated all the cherry trees along Potomac Drive and then the sun came out and set the ice alight. It hadn’t even been cold that day—they’d marched along with their coats open, laughing and glorying in the sparkling blackness of the branches. But now she was nearly four months pregnant, and though she didn’t look it, she felt it, so she stayed around the apartment, secretly feeling that the many flights of stairs to their front door, twice a day, was plenty of exercise. What in the world they would do when the baby came and there was a baby carriage, Lillian had no idea, but she had faith that Arthur would take care of it.
She did know that Arthur was the same age as Frank, that he had spent the war in Washington, working for the OSS, breaking codes; that he spoke German and also French; that his mother’s family was from New Orleans; that he had gone to Williams College, which was in Massachusetts. Colonel Manning, his father, visited sometimes. He lived in Charlottesville, Virginia. When he came and when he left, he leaned over slightly in order for Lillian to plant a kiss on his cheek, and he always took her right hand in his and patted it three times with his left. Like Arthur, he had a twinkle in his eye, but he didn’t tell stories the way Arthur did. Arthur’s mother had been a great beauty and had died. Of all the things they never talked about, she was the prime mystery. All Lillian knew of her was her photograph on the mantel. She looked like Greta Garbo with blond hair. Sometimes, Lillian thought that the picture was too much—she, Lillian, would never be that beautiful, and with the baby and all, she was getting less beautiful every day. Her hair, for example, was falling out—she didn’t even have to brush it, it just dropped all around her. The first wife, Alice, had been a beauty, too. Her photograph sat beside the mother’s, because, Arthur said, there was no one else to remember her but himself. Did Lillian mind?
No, not when Arthur sat beside her on the couch, holding her hand, and having her recite all the names: Hermann Augsberger, Augustina Augsberger, Otto Vogel, Mary Vogel, Rosanna Vogel, Rolf Vogel, Eloise Vogel Silber, Kurt Vogel, John Vogel, Gus Vogel, Lester Chick, Etta Cheek, Wilmer Langdon, Elizabeth Langdon, Walter Langdon, Frank Langdon, Joseph Langdon, Henry Langdon, Claire Langdon. It didn’t matter that Walter wasn’t yet speaking to her (though Rosanna was), or that Arthur hadn’t met a single one of them yet; these were the relatives, he said, that his son or daughter (Timothy or Deborah) was going to have, and there were scads and scads of them. “Have you ever been lonely, darling?” said Arthur. And Lillian always said, “No.” But of course she was lonely now, except when Arthur was at home. Arthur banished loneliness.
Every evening at six, she could hear him running up the stairs, and then he threw open the door and took her in his arms. He patted her belly and kissed not only her lips but her neck, on both sides, which tickled and made her giddy. Then, while she was setting the table, he sat in his place and told her what had happened that day at the office—two birds had flown in the window, and Arthur had been assigned to get them out, so they opened all the windows, and Arthur ran around with his hat, and then, the most amazing thing, he realized that they were talking, and they had plenty to say. They spoke with something of a French accent, which was surprising, because they were English sparrows—lovely blue color, forked tails—and once Arthur had shown that he was willing to listen to them, they settled on his shoulders as he sat in his desk chair, and told him what they had seen. It was all very important, but, unfortunately, only to birds: the mosquito population is plentiful, but the insects themselves are so small as to be hardly worth eating; there had been a nice harvest of horseflies in Virginia, but every bird in the flock got a little sick afterward; flies outside of grocery stores can be very good; etc. By this time, Lillian was laughing, and Arthur went on earnestly, “I thought they were coming to me—me, Arthur—with information that I could use, but they were just like a couple of blabbermouths on the streetcar, going on and on.”
Lillian played her part. “How did you get them out, though?”
“Well, I simply showed them the door, and said that looks aren’t everything, and they’d have to come back with something worth my time.”
After supper, he helped her with the dishes. He sang songs, like “The Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” and “People Will Say We’re in Love,” and he got her to sing along. When they listened to the radio, or he read a book or some papers, and she leafed through a magazine, he liked to lay his head in her lap or hold her against him. Just before bed, rain or not, he put her coat on her and walked her outside around the apartment building, once in each direction, “so you won’t get lopsided,” and then they were yawning. In bed, he tucked her up against himself and held her until she fell asleep. She thought it was very lucky that she had slept with so many dolls over the years and so was used to sharing the bed.
But where had he grown up? New England. What did he do all day? So boring, put me to sleep to talk about it. Who was on the phone? No one you know, darling. Was there anyone besides his father that he would like to have over or go out with? No one nearby. He didn’t resent the questions, he just acted like they were impossible to answer, and like she was far more interesting than he was, anyway. It wasn’t until Frankie (Frank!) dropped by on his way home from Europe that she saw even a little of another Arthur.
This Arthur was tougher than she knew. She could see it the moment he opened the door.
But there was Frank. His shoulders had broadened, and his hair and eyes had darkened, and the angles of his face were stark. You would not look at him ever a
gain and say that he was cute. He had the same dazzling smile and the same grace, but he deployed both of them differently than he had—more cautiously, more suddenly. Arthur was clearly struck by him, though Lillian had told him over and over that Frank was a sight to see. Frank was only a couple of inches taller than Arthur, but he looked down on him. It was as simple as that. In the same room with Frank, Lillian felt like she and Arthur were a pair of rabbits. When Arthur stuck out his hand, though, and he and Frank shook, the muscles along the back of his arm flexed. Arthur’s chin even jutted out a little, and his voice deepened as he said, “Welcome back, soldier. I hear you’ve had an interesting four years.”
Frank gave her a big kiss on the lips and ruffled her hair, then actually smacked her on the backside. Lillian decided that he had no idea what he was doing. He sat down at the table while Lillian served him some meatloaf and mashed potatoes from dinner, then a slice of pecan pie. He ate as he always had—meticulously and systematically—and Lillian was surprised she remembered that.
When they went into the living room after dinner and sat down to chat, the thing she noticed was that, after he sat in the armchair (which was fine—they preferred the couch), he adjusted it automatically so that the back of it faced a wall rather than a window and the front faced the door. And when a car backfired while they were talking, he ducked. Of course, being Frank, he sat up at once and said, “Joke’s on me,” and they laughed.
Yes, he had had some odd adventures since V-E Day. Mostly it was beating the bushes for Nazis and herding displaced people here and there—so many had fled from the East that they were camped everywhere, and they were so terrified of being sent back to Poland or Prague or wherever that they could hardly speak. And then there were those, young ones, who didn’t know a thing—could hardly remember who they were, and certainly didn’t know where they were from. Children who had lived in the forest for years, or in a tunnel somewhere, or a bombed-out house. But there were funny ones, too—a fellow they’d run across in the mountains of Austria who wore a towel around his head, looked into a glass ring that he wore on his finger, and went into a trance. When he came out of the trance, he told them the whereabouts of “Germany’s greatest scientist,” or “Germany’s most important invention,” or “the son of Herr Hitler.” Always, these desirables were to be found in the next village over. When a squad went to find them, yes, the building existed, and, yes, a machine existed, but it was a coal stove. The son of Herr Hitler turned out to be forty-two years old—Hitler would have fathered him at the age of fifteen. Of course, it was possible, but Frank somehow didn’t feel the connection. “This guy sent us on six wild-goose chases. Finally, we found a valuable cache—some woman’s collection of fur coats. My buddy Ruben sent the ermine one back to New Jersey as a souvenir.”
