by Lydia Millet
—Leo, said Oppenheimer, leaning up from the seat behind Ann, —how long is this going to last?
Fermi had packed a lunch for them: egg-salad sandwiches cut diagonally. But Ben wanted to patrol the street. He needed to know whether they were still under observation, whether the dark sedan was hulking somewhere nearby waiting for them. He talked Fermi into coming with him.
After the crane had rolled off, ponderous and tanklike, they changed their shoes, washed their hands and set off down the hill toward Canyon Road, toward a café where Ben knew the staff.
The sedan was nowhere in sight, but as they were walking Ben’s cell phone rang. It was Ted the lawyer.
—They came to see me again, he said. —Tell Leo I’m off the case. Would you? From this day forward I’m not working for him. It’s giving me too much grief.
—You should tell him yourself.
The passengers got out of the bus at the lip of Sedan Crater, a vast and yawning conical hole in the dirt.
—This was a one-hundred and four kiloton blast, said Virgil, leading the crowd behind him to peer over the edge from a white metal platform. —That’s about seven times the explosion at Hiroshima. I would call it an underground blast but as you see it did cause a large subsidence crater, what we call them, and yessir, ladies and gentlemen, it did release some small amount of nukular radiation at that time. It was part of Project Plowshares as we called it, which was the peaceful use of nukular weapons.
—They were going to blow up Panama City to make a new Panama Canal, announced Szilard, turning to their group of twelve to orate as the other passengers rubbernecked. —One of my old friend Edward Teller’s pet projects. Single stupidest idea the AEC ever had.
—Now we do have some opinions here, ladies and gentlemen, said Virgil, smiling broadly. —I personally, as a layman, I think it definitely would have worked. Do you know how much earth we moved here in just a matter of two seconds? Ladies and gentlemen, it was twelve million tons.
Project Plowshare was Edward Teller’s baby, a plan he pursued with funding and approval from the Atomic Energy Commission between 1957 and 1962. The idea was to re-engineer the earth using nuclear weapons. They would be exploded to build canals and harbors, change the climate, redirect ocean currents and in general, as Teller put it, “change the earth’s surface to suit us.”
Teller—with the full support of the U.S. government—planned eventually to use three hundred and fifty megatons of hydrogen bombs to blow open a new Panama Canal. To practice for this, for years he pursued a project to set off a five megaton blast in Alaska, near a native community called Point Hope. This sub-project of Plowshare was called Project Chariot. Ostensibly the massive blasts in remote northern Alaska would be meant to create a harbor, although there was no need or use for one in the region since there was nothing nearby to export. Between Point Hope and oil that might be shipped out of the new harbor was a massive range of mountains.
A handful of Alaska natives finally stopped Project Chariot with the help of powerful friends in Washington. But Project Plowshare’s “nuclear excavation” program—a multimillion dollar effort that resulted in no excavations—lasted until 1970, when it became illegal.
Roger came in for a bagel while Ben and Fermi sat eating. They sat quietly, reading the newspapers that were spread out on the table between them. He was sweaty from squash, carrying his racquet.
It occurred to Ben that the courts were nowhere near. Roger was carrying the racquet ostentatiously.
It also occurred to him that if he faced down and appeared to be reading Roger might not notice or speak to him. Consequently he peered hard at a story about a young girl who was raising money for abandoned pets by collecting recyclable bottles.
—Hey man, what’s with that giant fucking boulder?
—Roger, how are you? The rock was your wife’s idea. We didn’t feel it was the best choice for the space, but we’re here to please the client. She didn’t discuss it with you?
—I was on a business trip. That thing’s fucking huge. It’s right where my putting green was going to be.
—Yes it is.
—She did this just to piss me off, said Roger.
—Yoshi objected but she overruled him, said Ben. —She said it was feng shui.
—It’s a fucking boulder.
Virgil Williams gave a nod out the window, smiling and deferential.
—There on your right we have the tower we built for the last bomb we were going to set off, back in the Year of Our Lord 1992. That was going to be an underground blast, since of course we weren’t doing the air blasts anymore by then, ladies and gentlemen, due to the Limited Test Ban Treaty we got back in the sixties under President Kennedy. So this was going to be an underground blast.
—Look at that, Jimmy. Is it some kind of a prairie dog? asked the woman in the row behind them, pointing out the dirty bus window and raising her camera. The shutter clicked.
—It’s like a ferret weasel, said her husband.
—Folks, that there is a squirrel, said Virgil.
—Oh! said the woman.
—Unfortunately, the moratorium was issued before we could fire it up. The moratorium came at midnight the very day before we were going to fire off this shot at 4:30 in the morning. So, and this is unfortunate, the shot never went.
Ann gazed out the window across the bleak valley, its brown and beige flats beneath the low mountains. It was a deader version of Trinity, the dark hills in the distance surrounding the dry used-up land, the land burned and in this case pocked with craters that were reputed to be visible from space. It looked like the surface of the moon now but once, many thousands or tens of thousands of years ago, it must have been fertile, home to a river and grassy wetlands that spread out across the valley, home to birds and fish and mammals long gone extinct.
—But it’s just waiting there ladies and gentlemen, said Virgil, smiling and adjusting his glasses on his nose, —and if we ever get the go-ahead from the president for a new round of underground testing, well, we’re more than ready. And that right there will be the first shot we fire.
By two o’clock in the afternoon the crane was back, setting up to hoist the rock out again. Roger called Ben and Yoshi over to watch it with him, removing a cigar from his pocket and lighting up like a proud father as the crane maneuvered into place. Lynn was reported to be sulking and did not put in an appearance at first. But just before the rock lifted off she bustled past them with her arms full of dresses and coats and got into her car, flashing a smile at Ben as she gunned the engine.
—Dry cleaners! she called brightly, and the tires spat gravel.
—I’m going to vomit! Let me off the bus, said Szilard loudly as the bus turned out onto the interstate outside the Test Site, the tour finished. He held his hand over his mouth.
Ann thought it was an obvious fake.
—Sir you can certainly make yourself at home in the rest room there at the back, said Virgil, as the bus driver looked up at Szilard, considering whether he was serious.
—Stop the vehicle now, said Big Glen, towering from his seat.
The bus heaved to a stop on the side of the road and the front door opened as the driver shrugged at Virgil and shook his head. Szilard descended onto the bottom step and waved them forward.
—Oppie! Larry! Everybody off now!
—We’re getting off here, Leo? asked Oppenheimer. —In the middle of nowhere?
—No sir, said Virgil in protest, —ladies and gentlemen?
But Big Glen loomed over him at the front and the group surged past and down the steps, Ann and Oppenheimer lagging behind.
—Leo? called Oppenheimer again. —Please. What is this?
—We have business here, said Szilard, looking up at them as they dismounted. He stood on the dirt shoulder of the road with a yucca behind him, brown and ragged from the long drought, and craned his neck to wave up at Virgil through the bus door. —Thanks for the tour, but we’re done.
—
Business? asked Ann. —I mean how long are we staying here for?
—As long as it takes.
—Who decided that? We don’t get input into where we’re going?
—This isn’t a democracy, said Clint, as he jumped to the ground in front of her. —Or hadn’t you noticed.
—You didn’t consult me, Leo, said Oppenheimer severely.
—I didn’t have time. We had to act quickly, said Szilard. —It’ll be fine. We’ll rent a couple of RVs and some minivans. You’ll still be sleeping in comfort, Oppie.
When all twelve of them were standing on the shoulder of the road the bus’s doors wheezed closed and the bus pulled away, Virgil shaking his head at them sadly from the dark interior. Ann felt they had gravely disappointed him, and looking at the others she saw ambivalence on their faces.
As the bus receded she thought of Virgil inside it, disappointed. His pride was a giant thing, surging inside a small man.
Here they were. It was bright and clear and the sky was a hostile white.
—Let’s go see what we got, said Szilard, and they followed him in twos and threes as he trudged back up the shoulder of the road toward Peace Camp. Larry talked to Oppenheimer about irradiated sheep near the Test Site, which he claimed had given birth to lambs with more than one head. A number of calves, he told Oppenheimer, had been born without any heads at all.
—They were just lumps of flesh when they came out, he said. —But with hair.
Ann lagged behind them, half-listening, wrestling with her discontent as Webster the contortionist slogged along quietly beside her. Suddenly he was tugging with frantic haste at his bright-yellow drysuit, in a rising panic.
—Help me! I gotta get this off!
His face was flushed.
—Don’t worry, she said, reaching out.
—I’m going to suffocate! I can’t breathe!
She stood and helped him to wriggle out of his jacket, pulling it over his raised arms and off his head. Beneath it his cotton undershirt was soaking wet.
—Oh my God, he said. —Lord! I thought I was going to die in that thing.
The ground was hot against the thin soles of her shoes as she waited for him to fold the bulky jacket into his small fanny pack, a task he performed with fastidious care. An eighteen-wheeler thundered past them and she fumbled in her bag for her sunglasses. It blew grit and dust into their faces as it rumbled off down the road. She blinked and rubbed her eyes and wished she had eye drops with her and remembered her suitcase in the room at the Luxor. She wondered what the cleaning staff would do with her toiletries left spilled over the counter, her dirty clothes left crumpled on the bed, whether they would handle her box of tampons and her still-wet toothbrush with the same attitude.
It was hot and dry, hot and dry, in her mouth as well as on her cheeks, nose and arms. It was bright. She wanted water sweeping over her to make her clean. She wanted dark and smooth privacy.
—What about my tampons, Szilard? she felt like saying belligerently, but could not. She was trapped in his spontaneous, inconsiderate bullshit.
Skin smelled different in the desert, she thought, lifting her hand to her nose. It smelled as though it might taste good.
—If you wanna know the truth, said Roger, sucking at his cigar as the rock lifted, —we just decided to get a divorce.
After a long pause, the boulder wobbling as it ascended and the first cool air of early fall rising around them, Ben offered condolences.
—Oh—I’m sorry? he said, confused at the sudden and casual disclosure.
—Yes, said Yoshi, —very sorry. Painful for each person.
Fermi nodded.
—I mean, I’m sure it’s a difficult time for you, said Ben.
—Are you kidding? It’s time to celebrate, said Roger. —Ding, dong, the witch is dead. You hear me?
—Excuse me, said Yoshi. —The house?
—You mean who’s getting it? We’re selling. I wouldn’t mind staying here but you know how it is. We don’t have a pre-nup so I’m pretty much fucked. But it’s worth it. Shit! It sure is. I’d give up the Taj Mahal to get clear of this.
—Do you still want us to—?
—Yeah, go on, finish the job. Raise the resale value.
—OK, said Ben, and nodded slowly.
—All I want is hot young women. I mean it, man! It’s all I think about these days.
—Midlife crisis? asked Ben, forgetting to edit.
—Call it whatever you want! I call it a goddamn party.
—Blessed be, said the woman who had first greeted them. She had a plump, kind face and eyes set wide apart. Behind her people were drumming softly. —I’m Loni. And we got food cooking under the big tarp. There are vegan-friendly options.
Webster went off in search of a yoga mat while Oppenheimer and Szilard talked to a tall Indian man in a turban and Larry and Tamika sat with a full bong beside the drum circle. Ann watched Clint inspect a Harley whose saddlebags were decorated with a rose and a skeleton. It turned out the biker had once been a Deadhead and Ann listened idly as he said —And he goes: Hey you! I don’t care if you are security! Jerry doesn’t like guys in uniforms staring at him!
To her left Boogie wandered over to a toilet in a white-metal box that Loni pointed out to him. It was for people who preferred not to use port-a-johns and was hidden behind a clump of Joshua trees. Ann could still see him squatting there, a blur of tanned legs behind the spikes of the arms.
—I’m gonna go help those guys with dinner I guess, said Leslie forlornly, standing next to her with nothing to do, and Ann gave a vague nod and smiled in apology as she trudged away.
She did not want to do anything. She did not want to help.
Instead she found a dirty white lawn chair with a frayed woven seat that no one was sitting on. She picked it up, turned it toward the road and sat down to watch the traffic.
The traffic was sparse.
Looking at her foot against the sand, blending in, she thought: if I could fade into whatever was near and forget that I was separate, there would be nothing to fear anymore. It’s only ego that makes me afraid of death. If I could be humble and self-effacing I wouldn’t be looking for anything anymore.
But on the other hand the ones who were most afraid of death often seemed most alive.
—One week maximum, said Yoshi, and raised his water glass to toast.
They were eating dinner together to celebrate the end of the mansion job. Roger had dropped the putting green from his list of demands; native vegetation would be planted in its place, and they would soon be moving on.
The waitress had just delivered a second basket of rolls when Ben looked past Fermi’s slumped shoulder and saw a man across the room staring at him.
It was rare that men looked at him, he thought. It was rare that men looked at each other.
Next he thought: It’s one of them.
He was just rising from his seat when Ted the lawyer appeared in front of him holding a napkin and chewing. He wiped his mouth.
—Hey. You talk to Szilard yet?
—No. I don’t talk to Leo unless I have to, said Ben. —But turn around. Behind your back. Is that one of the guys who was harassing you?
When Ted swiveled to look Ben saw an empty table.
—Damn it! He was watching us.
Ted nodded. —Listen. I left Szilard a message. Even though I’m off the case, you know? I figured I’d let him know what was happening. The DOD lawyers finally filed their brief. It’s a motion to dismiss for lack of standing. There’s also a mootness claim.
—Mootness?
—Mootness, said Ted, louder.
—I’m not a lawyer, Ted. I’m a human.
—They’re arguing that the case shouldn’t be heard because Szilard doesn’t have the legal right to sue. They’re saying that because Szilard, Oppenheimer and Mr. Fermi here are dead, they got no standing. Will you tell him from me?
—The guy was I don’t know, about six feet. Medium brown hair, k
ind of receding a little?
—Look, said Ted. —My fiancée’s sitting there with her food in front of her and we just got engaged. I mean like five minutes ago. So I don’t want to be rude. I just thought he would want to know.
When Ted was gone Yoshi turned to Fermi with a worried look, and bowed his head to ask a question earnestly. —Henry. Someone says you are dead?
—Many thanks, said Webster politely to Loni over the campfire, when she handed him a sharp stick. —But I do not eat marshmallows. They contain gelatin, extracted from the hooves of dead cows.
—Hey man, I thought we left Albert back in the hotel room, said Clint, waving flying cinders away from his face.
—Adalbert, said Leslie.
—I’m sorry, said Webster. —I don’t mean to be a problem. I try to eat macrobiotic, is all.
—I completely understand, said Loni. —I used to avoid processed foods, but now I embrace them. I had this revelation. Everything is part of the world, you know?
—That means you gotta eat it? asked Clint. —What, next I gotta eat dogshit? Cause it’s part of the world?
In the dark their faces were orange, and behind the smoke Ann blinked away floating ash and watched Szilard ushering activists toward the Airstream. A few feet away Oppenheimer stood with a cigarette watching two young girls in front of him twirl glow-in-the-dark balls on ropes around their heads. The balls made blue and green streaks through the air like the tails of comets.
Nothing, she thought. Nothing to do but spin balls of color. It must be nice.
—Finally! Here they come, said Larry, and deposited his cup of beer on the sand as he rose.
Two mammoth recreational vehicles were pulling in from the highway.
Ben woke up in the middle of the night from a dream in which black bears had been playing soccer standing on their hind legs. All they did was run sideways, and finally their awkward sideways motion, like dancing on crutches, disturbed him. He woke up thinking Don’t move that way.
But it was them talking. They were talking to him.
