A Fierce Radiance

by Lauren Belfer

  “It’s simpler than you might think,” Claire said, guiding his hand.

  The gown fell to the floor, and Jamie placed his hands upon her breasts. She unbuttoned his shirt and slipped it down his arms. He undid the cuffs, pulled the shirt off. She pressed against him, their skin touching at last. She unbuckled his belt, undid his trousers, took him in her hand and in her mouth. As much as he enjoyed it, he put a stop to that before it was too late, pulling away from her, undoing her garters, rolling down her stockings. They were kneeling now upon the Persian carpet. Two desires warred within him: the urge to be fast and the urge to be slow; to fulfill his passion, or to prolong it; to be inside her while still thinking only of her fulfillment.

  She maneuvered her mouth upon him once more.

  “I need a turn,” he said.

  “I am giving you a turn,” she paused to whisper, teasing, “A turn to accept what I’m giving you.”

  “Then I also need time for you to accept what I want to give you.”

  We might never have enough time, she said, although by then she wasn’t certain if she’d said it aloud. He knew her thoughts, though. Of that she was certain.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On Friday, May 22, Claire took the train from Atlanta, Georgia, back to New York. She dropped her film at the office and arrived home at 11:00 PM. Maritza had left a note for her on the kitchen table, listing two telephone messages from Mack and reporting that she’d given Lucas his last walk for the day. And she’d attached a telegram. Claire’s fingers trembled a bit with expectation as she opened it. It was from Jamie, as she’d hoped. Home this weekend. Love, J.

  The surprise of his visit filled her with contentment. With luck, they’d find some time to be alone together, she thought as she made herself a drink and went out to the garden. She sat down and leaned her head against the back of the chair. The evening breeze was sweet. She was glad to have some time, even if it was after eleven, to relax and catch up with herself.

  Over a month had passed since she and Jamie had first made love. A month filled with traveling for them both. For her, stories at a hog farm outside Fort Wayne, Indiana, and an aircraft factory in Ypsilanti, Michigan. Without making a conscious decision, Claire had slipped into the new role the magazine required of her. Charlie was safe at home with Maritza and sounded happy enough the few times she’d been able to get a long-distance call through to him. The calls were an extravagance, but she’d wanted to hear his voice. She and Jamie exchanged letters, which somehow felt better for them than trying to speak of their emotions down a staticky long-distance telephone line.

  Claire let herself drift through the peaceful, almost-summer evening. The sound of giggling and murmured, half-serious protests reached her from a garden down the block. Teenagers in love, she decided. Somewhere a baby began crying and was gently hushed.

  In the weeks that she’d been in and out of town, she’d walked Charlie to school exactly once. She remembered that day. It was May 7, and she’d woken to a concert of birdsong from the gardens along the block. As she’d walked Charlie to school, the crab apple trees bloomed like snowflakes along Grove Street, giving off a floating sweetness. The day before, the island fortress of Corregidor had fallen to the Japanese after a long, brutal siege. Many thousands of Allied troops had been taken prisoner.

  Outside school that morning, the parents had been quiet. On her way to the subway, heading for the office, Claire sensed a silence on the streets. Corregidor…although it was on the other side of the earth, it felt as close as the Brooklyn side of New York Harbor. Claire had studied the sky. The day was magnificent, the sky clear blue, the air pure. Manhattan was an island, too, like Corregidor. In a gust of wind, crab apple blossoms blew off the trees and settled in the gutters. The morning newspapers had printed the final message telegraphed from Corregidor. They are piling dead and wounded in our tunnel…. Get this to my mother…. Tell Mother how you heard from me. Stand by…. And then nothing, the telegraph operator dead or taken prisoner.

  The following morning, she’d been off again. The story: female shipyard workers in Mobile, Alabama. Then, seven days in the life of an army induction center in Atlanta. She’d profiled boys entering the military who looked more like Charlie than like grown men. Claire met their mothers and fathers, simultaneously proud and nervous. She listened to stories of the Great War from the officers supervising the boys’ enlistments. How many of these boys would survive to come home again?

  Claire quickly downed her gin and tonic and pushed the memory of these boys from her mind. She went in, locked the back door, turned out the lights, and went upstairs.

  Before going to bed, she looked in on Charlie. Sleeping soundly, he lay on his side, clutching his teddy bear. Although he’d given up the teddy bear years before, he’d retrieved it from his closet shelf soon after Pearl Harbor. Beside Charlie’s bed, Lucas sighed and turned in his sleep, revealing the almost-white fur of his chest and tummy. He barked softly, his front limbs pawing the air, as if he were chasing squirrels in his dreams.

  When Charlie slept, he looked very young. As she had done since he was an infant, she checked for his breathing, watching the slight movement of the sheet up and down upon his back. In less than a decade, he would be old enough to serve in the military. The front lines were manned by boys.

  When he was old enough to be drafted, maybe this war would still be raging. Or some other war would have taken its place. She’d be saying good-bye to him beneath the monumental arches and skylights of Pennsylvania Station, trying to hold back her tears until after he’d gone down to the train platform. How would she bear it? Her eyes welled with tears from imagining it. By then maybe she’d have more children, Jamie’s children, and they’d be crying at the station, too, seeing their brother off.

  She looked out the window. Because of the finally enforced dim-out, she could see the stars. She found Orion’s belt. The lights of a plane flashed through the sky. The plane made her think of enemy bombers. In recent weeks, the Germans had been bombing British cities in retaliation for the RAF bombing of German cities. Exeter, Bath, York, Norwich…historic cities were the targets. The Germans called these the “Baedeker Three-Star Raids,” professing to use the guidebook to choose which cities to bomb.

  How many stars did New York have in Baedeker?

  If New York City were bombed, Greenwich Village would never be a target—or so Claire tried to convince herself. Because of underground streams, the buildings were low. There were no targets of strategic or psychological importance. God and nature protected the neighborhood.

  The plane banked toward the east. Claire imagined herself a passenger on that plane, gazing down at the Village. From the air, the West Village was a dark emptiness. Then she remembered: the Hudson River was only a few blocks away. The docks at the end of Christopher Street were a target. Bombs could go astray. In fact, a few blocks probably didn’t even qualify as “astray.” A few blocks either way were most likely considered part of the target. She’d read about German bombing raids on the London docks that wiped out nearby residential neighborhoods. You could tell when a bomb was headed toward you, Claire had read, because it sucked the oxygen from the air and trapped you suffocating in a vacuum.

  The air raid warden shouted at someone down the street to either turn off the light or close the blackout shades.

  After Corregidor, Charlie said that he no longer wanted to take the subway. What if a bomb fell on the street above and blocked the subway stairs, and they were trapped? he’d asked her. Much better to be on a bus if a bomb fell nearby, Charlie said, because at least they could run away. Much better to take the George Washington Bridge if they needed to leave Manhattan, instead of risking the Holland Tunnel, because if a bomb fell by mistake into the Hudson River, maybe they could escape from the bridge, but they could never escape from the tunnel. The water would pour in like a tidal wave. But what if the target was the bridge? The bridge was a logical target, Charlie assured her. Then they’d be better of
f in the tunnel.

  Charlie had explained this while he and Claire sat at the counter of their neighborhood Schrafft’s at Fifth Avenue and Thirteenth Street. While he talked, he devoured a gigantic chocolate-marshmallow sundae. They’d come here after school, when the restaurant was crowded with children and their mothers, grandmothers, or nannies. It was also crowded with men in uniform on leave in New York, four army privates at one table, three sailors a few tables down, a Marine Corps officer and his girl dining in a corner.

  Claire didn’t share with Charlie that she harbored similar fears, had thought through similar options. The newspapers, magazines, and radio were filled with advice on what to do if New York were bombed. City authorities assured the press that thousands of municipal employees were trained to restore basic services like electricity and water. Nonetheless, Claire had stockpiled candles, matches, jugs of water, and cans of food and condensed milk in the basement, not forgetting a can opener, in case they had to survive without the daily services provided by a functioning city. She’d kept these preparations secret from Charlie.

  The plane banked again and went out of her view. Worrying was futile. She’d done what she could to prepare. Now all she could do was wait. She was luckier than most: she had Jamie in her life, and her father, so she didn’t face the future alone.

  She pulled the blanket over Charlie’s shoulders and left his room. Following the rituals that had comforted her since her childhood, she bathed and prepared for bed. After turning out the light, she reviewed her plans for the weekend. On Saturday evening, she and Charlie were planning to have dinner with her father. Now Jamie could join them. She’d invite Tia also. After their evening at the River Club, Claire had been feeling more willing to include her father in plans, more willing to bring together the disparate parts of her life. On Sunday, she’d arrange for Charlie to spend the afternoon at Ben’s house, so that she and Jamie would have a few hours alone. Or better yet, she’d call Hannah, a high school girl in the neighborhood who looked after kids on the weekends. Hannah could take Charlie and Ben to a movie. They’d like that; in fact they’d consider it a treat. She’d telephone Hannah first thing in the morning. As Claire fell asleep, she imagined making love to Jamie on Sunday afternoon, their desire especially strong from their time apart. In the afterglow, the sheet lightly upon them, she’d fall asleep with his arms around her, the fragrant spring breezes enveloping them.

  That same Friday evening, May 22, Jamie’s train pulled into Pennsylvania Station at 11:30 PM. A minor miracle: he’d actually made it back to New York, and only three hours late. Probably too late to go to Claire’s. He didn’t want to wake Charlie, and Claire needed her sleep, too. He’d phone in the morning at a proper hour and invite himself over for breakfast. Besides, he wanted to shower and shave before seeing her, and change his clothes. He reeked of the cigarette smoke that filled the interior of the train.

  Tonight he could visit Tia. Share a midnight snack with her, since without doubt he’d find her in the lab. They hadn’t had a meal alone together in a while. He missed her.

  He retrieved his small suitcase and waited his turn amid the packed crowd exiting the train. On the platform, he followed along with the others to the exit, maneuvering up the narrow staircase. The woman in front of him was gray-haired and dressed in black: an elderly widow who went slowly, gripping the handrail.

  “May I carry your bag?” he asked, to quicken the pace. When he put his hand lightly on her elbow to assist her, she smiled up at him. He saw more than gratitude in that smile. He saw a kind of closeness, as if he were her son. She offered him her bag, more of a canvas grocery bag than a suitcase.

  Arriving at the top of the stairs, the cavernous station opened before him. The old woman was pulled into the embrace of her waiting family. He gave the bag to her daughter.

  The concourse was crowded even at this late hour: lounging officers, clutches of parents and children, lovers gripping hands…the whole human drama of arrival and departure. Enlisted men slept against the walls, using their duffel bags as pillows. Young draftees in civilian clothes lined up for the trains that would carry them to their induction and basic training. The Red Cross’s coffee and doughnut stand welcomed anyone in uniform. A sign pointed to the USO canteen. A woman with an Irish lilt in her voice announced the trains: “Midnight to Chicago, boarding at the east gate, track twelve.”

  How many times had he been in Pennsylvania Station? A hundred? And still his reaction was like the first time. The soaring arches and steel girders gave him a sense of freedom. Of exhilaration and exaltation.

  Suddenly in front of him was a man he knew, accompanied by an older man he didn’t recognize. His mind took a moment to catch up with this unexpected situation. Someone he knew, waiting at the station. Waiting for him, or for someone else? Jamie strode forward.

  “Nick! Good to see you!” He reached to shake Nick’s hand, pat him on the back, greet him like who he was, his best friend.

  But Nick didn’t smile. Nick didn’t pat his back, didn’t meet his eye. Jamie stopped. Waited. Suspected. Knew. Claire. Something had happened to Claire. An accident. Her travels, and the risks she took to get the right shot. The archways, the skylights, the station’s midnight bustle…everything faded around him. There was only the here and now, this small circle of space, these two men before him.

  Nick said nothing. Seemed incapable of saying anything. The other man stepped forward.

  “Lieutenant James Stanton?”

  “Yes,” he replied.

  “Detective Marcus Kreindler. New York City Police Department.” The detective was white-haired, strong rather than stocky. His face was lined with a thousand small wrinkles. “I’m afraid we’ve got some bad news for you. Let’s find a quiet place to talk.” He motioned into the distance, in the direction of the Savarin coffee shop.

  “Whatever it is, you can tell me right here.”

  Neither Nick nor Kreindler spoke. Did he have to force them?

  “Nick,” he demanded. “Is it Claire?”

  “Claire?” Nick seemed to wake up. He looked confused. “Claire Shipley?” Nick thought for a moment, figuring this out. “No, no, not Claire Shipley. I mean, I don’t know anything about Claire. I haven’t seen her. I don’t know where she is. Do you know where she is?”

  Kreindler intervened. Put his big, strong arm on Jamie’s shoulder. “Lieutenant, it’s your sister. We believe it’s your sister.”

  Someone had combed out her hair. Jamie wondered who. He seldom saw her hair combed out, long, around her shoulders. Framing her face, as the saying went. The heavy sheeting was pulled up to her chin, with a lighter sheet covering her face. It was this lighter sheet that Detective Kreindler pulled off to reveal her.

  Despite the pennies placed on her eyelids to keep them closed, and despite the scarf tied around her head to keep her jaw closed, she looked perfect. At any moment she would wake up, take off that silly scarf, climb off the table, get dressed, and walk out with them. They’d go for a walk across the Institute grounds, where the azalea were in bloom.

  “Is this your sister?” Kreindler said.

  “Yes.”

  “The injuries are bad, especially the back of the head. But the staff managed to hide it. Knowing you were coming.”

  “Tell them thank you. Please.”

  All his adult life, Jamie had been around morgues. He was now in the basement of his own hospital, where he’d spent so many years. The basement was cut right into the cliff. The windows were cut through two feet of stone. He looked out at the middle-of-the-night blackness he knew to be the river, and Queens beyond, lights flickering here and there, despite the dim-out. He was familiar with the border between life and death. He knew how porous it was. How frail.

  He had a sense of observing himself from a distance. He must be in shock, he realized. He’d seen enough family members over the years to recognize the signs. He looked at the wrapped figure on the gurney. He saw. He identified. He did what the law requi
red. He felt empty. Confused. Doubting. He didn’t think, My sister is lying cold and dead on a table in a morgue.

  Beside him, Nick said, “She’s so beautiful.”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh, God.” Nick covered his face with his hands. Nick was crying. Weeping. “Oh, God,” he said again.

  Jamie watched his friend weeping. He wasn’t prepared to comprehend Nick’s weeping. Jamie felt disconnected. Nick, this room, the figure on the table, the detective waiting and watching a discreet distance away. What was the day? What was the time? He checked his watch. 1:15 AM. He’d arrived at the station on Friday night, so this must be Saturday morning.

  Why was his friend weeping?

  Jamie felt as if he were living in a connect-the-dots puzzle. He didn’t know what to do next. Where to go. How to take care of everything that no doubt needed to be done. Who could tell him? His weeping friend was no help. He looked at Kreindler. Met his eyes. Jamie felt like a child waiting for a grown-up to tell him what to do.

  Kreindler strode forward. Covered Tia’s lovely face with the sheet. “You can call the funeral home now, to come and get her.”

  Jamie nodded. He didn’t know what Kreindler was talking about, but a nod seemed like the correct response. Later, someone, he didn’t know who, maybe Nurse Brockett, would tell him what to do.

  “Let’s go,” Kreindler said.

  Jamie was grateful to have someone else take charge.

  “We’ll get you a cup of coffee, and then we’ll sit down and have a talk.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  On Saturday morning, the phone rang, startling Claire out of a deep sleep. She checked her bedside clock. 9:00 AM. The extension was on her desk in the other room. Surely Maritza would pick up downstairs, Claire thought, fighting against waking up. When the ringing continued, Claire remembered it was Saturday and she’d given Maritza the weekend off. Maritza would have left for her own home earlier this morning.