Cocoa nods. I’m feeling helpless; everything they want to know is in her head or already on the notepad.
“The big ship,” Captain Nelson says. “It was probably an aircraft carrier. Do you recall seeing a number? If you do, we’d have a chance to pinpoint its current location.”
Cocoa closes her eyes, breathes deep.
We wait.
Finally, she shakes her head. “The metal, all of it was battered. Part of it was missing. I don’t remember a number, or even part of a number.”
The captain is taking his own notes. “Was there anything else that might set this ship apart from others?”
She doesn’t think as long this time before shaking her head.
“Planes on the deck?”
“No planes. Bodies.”
“Anything about the city you don’t have in your notes? Unique buildings? Bridges? Waterways? Signs? Billboards? Statues?”
She opens her eyes. She’s trying. But she shakes her head no.
“The terrain, Cocoa,” Pete says. “Flat? Hilly? Mountainous?” The questions aren’t unfriendly, but they’re coming too fast. I want to take her hand, but of course I don’t.
“Flat,” she says after a moment. “Everyday.”
“Could it have been tropical?” Pete says. “Hawaii? Pearl Harbor again?”
“Regular clothes . . . regular trees . . . no beaches . . . no ocean surf. Not tropical. Temperate, perhaps. I am almost certain it is the United States mainland.”
“The movie theater,” Captain Nelson says. “Did it have a name?”
Her head takes a break from its back-and-forth. “It did,” she says. “A short name, beginning with an L. Or perhaps something—another sign—masked part of it, or perhaps it was partially blown away.”
“What about the words on the marquee?” the captain says. “Aside from the actors’ names—Noel Coward and the rest—which would likely be the same no matter the location, were the words in English?”
She stares up at the space where ceiling meets wall. Imagining, maybe. “Probably,” she says at last. “Anything else—even German—would have struck me as foreign. Or at least different.”
The captain and Pete are quiet while she continues to think. I get the coffee pot and refill our cups.
As I sit back down the head-shaking starts again. “Sorry,” she says. “I can’t be sure of the language. And making something up would be fruitless.”
“You’ve done fine, Cocoa,” the captain says. “I’m going to call General Groves and give him what you’ve given us. Anything else you can think of?”
“The Nazis have the atomic bomb. They are going to use it.”
“Thanks for the reminder. But we believe you. Now. And what you’ve told us is way too big to forget. Or ignore.” Captain Nelson carries the notes to the counter. “Bobby, this conversation may take a while. Tell your folks they’ll be reimbursed for the cost of any calls I make.”
“Sure.” My parents love this country, but they aren’t rolling in dough.
He reads the operator a number. In no time, he’s telling General Groves that Cocoa has remembered some vivid, though not clearly helpful, details of what appears to be an atomic bomb detonating in a large American seaport. Then he methodically reads through her notes and the few he’s made, giving the general time to digest, or write, or shit his pants.
Even from ten feet away I can hear the bark of the general’s voice, and when Captain Nelson doesn’t respond I realize the general has people with him and he’s giving them orders: Do this, do that, look up this, find a map, call this number, tell them this, ask them that. Move!
At last the conversation ends. The captain comes back to the table. “He asked me to thank you, Cocoa. He’s serious about responding to what you’ve told us. He’s making calls to other important people, happy to get them out of bed. Assistant War Secretary McCloy, War Secretary Stimson, generals, admirals, anyone who might have the insight to figure out where this place might be and the power to stop what you’ve described from happening.”
“You’ve made believers out of them, Cocoa,” I say.
“Not McCloy. Narrow minds like his are what doomed the world.”
“He’ll be outvoted,” Pete says.
“Or muzzled,” she says. “How many ports are there?”
The captain frowns. “Dozens. The question is, how many of them have a Navy presence? But someone will know the answer, so you’ve already whittled it down.”
“Not enough,” Cocoa says. “I should be able to remember more. Then we would have a chance.”
“We have a chance,” Pete says.
For a while we’re quiet, waiting for another lightning bolt of inspiration to strike her. But she looks empty, and the captain and Pete get up and say their goodbyes.
Cocoa and I are about to head back to bed when Dad shows up, and we have to explain what he missed. When I finally make my way to my bedroom, I realize I have to be back up in less than an hour. It’s going to be a long day.
TWENTY-THREE
I’m practically on top of the base camp before I realize that all of its exterior lights have been extinguished. Blackout curtains cover every window.
Somebody’s taking precautions.
With the lack of light added to the condition of my sleepless body added to the extra weight of the Sunday papers, I struggle through my route. I don’t spot Pete or Captain Nelson.
Nobody, including Lolly, is up when I get home. I’m tempted to return to bed, but as I lay Dad’s Journal on the table, the headline catches my eye.
HUNDREDS MARCH, THOUSANDS JEER. Below it is a photo of a Santa Fe street crowded with sign-carrying peace marchers. Surrounding them on the street and sidewalks and hoods and roofs of cars and even clinging to light poles is an unruly mob. Scowls, mouths twisted with rage or some other poisonous emotion.
Are they worried that a negotiated peace will allow Hitler to continue his dirty work? Or that these people promoting peace will jeopardize their sons’ or grandsons’ chances for glory, or the privilege of being buried in the cold, wormy ground of some far-off hellhole?
Above the street, people lean from windows. One man has his arm cocked, poised to throw something. I don’t see Dad, but was he the target?
Halfway through the article comes mention of a rumor that the government is considering action against those in the peace movement. I recall John McCloy’s comments. His linking Americans working for peace to Japanese Americans who have been locked up behind barbed wire since early in the war. It sounded like a threat then. It feels more like a threat now.
Dread grips me. The feeling is intense but not new. It’s exactly what I felt when I accompanied Dad to the government office in Albuquerque and sat on the edge of the wooden chair while the old guy with the thick glasses and drifts of dandruff on his brown suitcoat’s shoulders shook his head with disapproval over Dad’s conscientious objector papers.
To our great relief, he signed them. He gave Dad the names of people to contact for CO jobs, although, in the end, Dad didn’t qualify. Created for healthy and draft-age conchies, the jobs weren’t routinely given to the remanded—the old and nearsighted or otherwise lacking. Dad didn’t mind. He was still at the Journal then. He hadn’t yet gotten entirely under the skin of his coworkers and bosses—and the government—and been shown the door.
The meeting with the asshole official happened more than three years ago. But I still recall Mom’s concern over it, despite Dad’s advanced age and bad eyes. She was so apprehensive that she couldn’t bear the prospect of attending the hearing.
Which worked out nicely. Because I thought I could somehow prevent anything bad from happening to him, I was planning on going along anyway. So, I volunteered to stand in for her. I didn’t expect to get rewarded, but afterward Mom was so grateful that she offered to do my chores for a whole week. I accepted.
It seems like only this morning that she greeted us in the front yard, tears in her eyes, and hugge
d Dad tight, as he told her his CO status had been approved.
I’m finishing the article when the kitchen door opens and Dad walks in, blanketed in the sweet-sharp smells of hay and cows and milk and manure. I’ve been picturing him in bed, but he’s obviously been outside, taking care of our animal friends.
“Bobby,” he says. “Why aren’t you back in bed?”
“In a while.”
He gets coffee and sits, and I slide his newspaper across to him, front page showing. Up close, his face looks worse. Beneath the bandage, the cheek is just as swollen, and above it the eye is purple, going black. His lids form a slit.
It doesn’t take him long to read the story. “There were some hate-tainted people there, Bobby,” he says, “but I think underneath they’re mostly good folks. They’re simply blindfolded by their own prejudices and unwilling to look at another point of view.”
“The government is on their side, Dad.”
“Oh?”
“You heard McCloy. He was threatening you. Cocoa has a bad feeling. Now this article.”
“I’m not about to become less vocal,” Dad says. “Which doesn’t mean I can stomach the thought of a Nazi victory. I’m happy that Cocoa and the generals and politicians are trying to prevent her bomb story from coming true. And if she shows us that a huge piece of history can be altered, maybe we can keep this smaller piece you’re talking about from coming true, too.”
“Smaller, but not small. You have to back off.” I point at the photo. “You see these faces?”
“I saw them up close. But me backing off would be like a prickly pear shedding its spines.”
“A prickly pear doesn’t have a choice.”
“Besides,” he says, “it’s probably too late.”
“Too late?”
“If something’s in the works, it’s in the works.”
I don’t like his response, but I’m tired of the conversation and just plain tired. Before I head to bed, I spot a smaller headline near the bottom of the page. SEARCHES FOR SURVIVORS CONTINUE. The article that follows rehashes the Indianapolis and Augusta stories and covers the latest on rescue efforts and the numbers of missing. It doesn’t mention secret missions or bombs or the derailment of the chance to end the war or what Hitler and Hirohito have up their sleeves.
I sleep through breakfast and lunch and get up to find Cocoa and Lolly in the kitchen. The radio is on, a low murmur but loud enough to catch any change in content or emotion. The clock says one-forty. Once again, Cocoa has a pad of paper in front of her. I feel her eyes on me as I go to the refrigerator, half-starving, and open it. Someone has made liverwurst and Velveeta sandwiches on homemade bread and stacked them on a plate under waxed paper. I love liverwurst and Velveeta sandwiches.
I take the plate to the table and wait for Cocoa to acknowledge my presence. She’s dressed nice—yellow blouse, red shorts. Her hair is brushed. She smells good, not like a barnyard. Her paper is blank.
“Robert,” she says finally. “You do not have to be ridiculously silent. You can’t distract me. My mind is constipated.”
“Sandwich?” I say, diving in.
“I have had my fill,” she says, but an instant later grabs a half and goes to work on it.
“My parents?” I say. I mumble the words through a mouthful.
“Town. Chuck went to church. Dottie is visiting a soldier’s pregnant wife. They will be back by three.”
“Heard from Captain Nelson?”
“Twice. I had nothing to tell him. He had nothing to tell me. He’s sure people are working on it. He and Peter will be here this evening.”
I nod. The Albuquerque Journal, looking more well-read, is on the table. “You saw this?” I say. “The article on the peace march?”
“McCloy has more ammunition,” she says. “As if he needs it.”
“Still have a bad feeling?”
“Feelings, Robert. And frustrations. But am I fooling myself, thinking I can do something to alter what has already occurred?”
“You have done something.”
“Too little, once. And maybe again.”
“Maybe not. Everywhere should be on alert by now.”
“How can they prepare for an attack everywhere? Everywhere the people will think it is happening somewhere else.”
Although we both would rather be outside under a blue sky, we turn on the living room radio and settle on the sofa. Lolly stretches out on top of Cocoa’s feet. She has her paper and a pencil in case she gets inspired, but she’s probably not counting on me for the inspiration. I still haven’t figured out what she thinks of me, and maybe she hasn’t figured it out, either. Painful to consider, but maybe she thinks nothing at all. From the morning we first met, her mind has been on more important things. And people.
Mom and Dad come home. They listen to the radio for a while, then head outside. They make us promise to get them if the news we’re dreading becomes a reality.
Despite my prayers and crossed fingers and lucky socks, at five-twenty a network announcer interrupts the local weather report.
“I have shockingly dreadful news to convey,” he says in an undertaker’s voice.
My heart stalls. I can’t breathe.
“We have just learned that the war’s devastation has reached the shores of the United States.” He pauses, and I’m certain it’s not for dramatic effect. I’m certain it’s because he’s swallowing his emotions, struggling for composure.
“Minutes ago, at approximately 6:55 eastern daylight time, the city and port of Norfolk, Virginia, were all but obliterated by a huge explosion. According to a pilot flying high overhead, the blast originated in the harbor but instantly sent ripples of destructive energy in every direction, sinking ships, launching a tidal wave toward the city’s shoreline. The force of the explosion raced inland, incinerating and knocking down buildings, destroying bridges and other structures. A giant mushroom-shaped cloud rose over the city. Tens of thousands of Norfolk residents and military personnel are feared dead.”
Dead launches me to my feet, running. Through the house, into the yard. I’m screaming “Mom! Dad!” and sprinting for the barn. But already they’re on their way out. We race back to the house, and all I can manage is “Norfolk! Norfolk! Norfolk!”
When we skid to a halt in the living room, neither Cocoa nor Lolly has budged. Cocoa’s face is in her hands. Her shoulders are heaving. “Norfolk.” The name spurts from her lips like something bitter—a double dose of cod liver oil. “Of course,” she murmurs. “Why couldn’t I remember? I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”
I don’t care what anyone thinks, I sit next to her and put my arm around her and try to let her know that it’s not her fault and this family still loves her and, no matter what, it’s going to be okay. Still mostly bones and skin, she kind of melts into my side and we both just sit while she swallows air and tears.
The announcer is still going, and we’re all captivated, even though we know better than almost any other listener what’s happened in Norfolk. What caused the blast? Who is responsible? Who tried her hardest to stop it?
“You did everything you could, honey,” Mom says, sitting on Cocoa’s other side and taking her hand but not interfering with my arm, which is not going anywhere.
“Government personnel in Washington have asked news organizations to refrain from speculation about the bomb,” the man on the radio says. “But I can tell you that calls for help have been sent out by the Virginia governor and mayors of neighboring cities to military, police, fire, and medical personnel, and qualified volunteers. As I speak, those calls are being answered.
“We will give you updates on this heinous enemy attack as the information becomes available, but for now we return you to regular programming.”
The regular programming, a local agriculture show hosted by a guy who is obviously distracted, has barely begun when the phone rings. I pull away from Cocoa and run to get it.
It’s Captain Nelson. Once I tell him that we’re all aw
are of what happened, and none of us, especially Cocoa, is doing very well, he asks to talk to Mom.
I give her his message, watch her hurry off, then sit back down next to Cocoa. Dad perches on the edge of his chair, the Journal and its headline prominent on his lap.
Cocoa stands, begins pacing. “You thought those people were pissed off before, Chuck,” she says. “Now they will greet you with pitchforks and whips. You need to stay away from demonstrations.”
“Thanks for your concern, Cocoa,” Dad says. His way of saying Don’t count on it.
Mom returns. “Captain Nelson and Pete are coming over,” she says. “The captain has asked permission to bivouac in our yard. Use our facilities. Eat here, if it’s convenient. The government will pay all expenses.”
“The government,” Dad says. As in, The pig shit drying on the sole of my boot. “You tell him yes, Dottie?”
“They want to be as close as possible to Cocoa.”
“You couldn’t tell him no,” Dad says.
“They’re bringing a trailer. Food from the camp storehouse. Supper for tonight.”
Cocoa returns to the sofa. “They will expect me to know something. About what comes next.”
“Pushing you won’t be helpful,” Dad says. “They know that.”
“Someone—Groves or McCloy or maybe even Stimson—will be pushing them,” I say.
“McCloy,” Dad says. Pig shit, part two.
“We won’t let it affect Cocoa,” Mom says.
Once again, a news bulletin interrupts regular programming. As the announcer begins speaking, Mom sits down and takes Cocoa’s hand. Why didn’t I think of that?
“Although our leaders have asked that news sources be cautious in releasing information,” the guy begins, “it appears likely that the explosion in Norfolk’s harbor this evening was due to the detonation by an enemy country of a devastating weapon of war heretofore only imagined by readers of scientific journals and science fiction. Science writers are speculating that someone—most likely Nazi Germany—has appropriated the work of Albert Einstein and other physicists in the field of atomic energy and concocted a way to harness that energy for evil purposes.
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