Universe of Two

by Stephen P. Kiernan

  “This is a really large gift,” he marveled, weighing the box.

  “For the love of Pete, kiddo. Open it.” My mother gulped her eggnog.

  It was an overcoat, black as coal with a velvet collar. “My goodness,” Charlie said. He put it on, discovering that it was double-breasted, smoothing the front down with his hand. “I feel like Humphrey Bogart.”

  “Well, well.” My mother half-hid a smirk behind her eggnog glass. “Brenda, doesn’t he look smashing?”

  I felt a little clench in my heart. I was not in love with Charlie Fish. I liked him well enough, and he was sweet as cinnamon candy. But he was so skinny, almost frail. I had higher hopes. Still, I hated when he had to cancel a date because of duty, and I liked our little confidences. Any Monday he didn’t visit the shop, I’d spend the whole afternoon at the spinet model, trying to lift my mood with show tunes. Now my mother’s urging was not helping to clarify matters.

  “He does,” I said at last, because it was true. “Smashing.”

  He went to the hall mirror and examined himself. “Well, hardly. But now I’ll be warm.” He turned to us, beaming. “It’s wonderful. Thank you.”

  “Brenda next,” my mother bossed, ever the dictator. “Open your gift from Charlie.”

  The woman knew what she was doing. He handed me a small box, long and narrow. Wrapped in graph paper. Can you imagine anything less romantic? Light green, covered with square grids. Granted, Charlie had drawn a little spruce tree on it, a few holly leaves, and in the corner what I guessed was either the sun or a star, sending rays in all directions. At least there was a personal touch.

  Today I wish like anything that I had saved that paper. I wish I had those little drawings, sketched with a red pencil, probably made in stolen time at his math office. I would frame them in silver, hang it on my apartment wall, and call it “Before.” That is, before everything happened with us, and to us. Before I learned to cherish his kindness. Instead I tore it all away, ripped open the box, and then had to catch my breath. Gloves—beautiful calfskin gloves the color of butterscotch.

  “What is it? What did he give you?”

  “One second please, Mother.”

  I touched the one on top, soft as spring leaves. I slid one finger inside, and felt some kind of fur.

  “They’re lined,” Charlie pointed out, “so they’ll be warm as well as fashionable.”

  “How did you know?” I asked him.

  “The night at the movie. Your fingers were white the whole time.”

  “Charlie, they’re beautiful.” I slid on the gloves, then stood and gave him a quick hug. He was still wearing the handsome overcoat. “Thank you.”

  “Sure.” He ducked his head a little. “Any time.”

  I glanced at my mother then, expecting her to want to open her first gift, but she was taking a drag on her cigarette. She let out a huge blue plume, then tapped her lips with one fingertip, over and over.

  All through dinner I was chatty. Charlie had given my mother matching ashtrays, three of them, monkeys who see and hear and speak no evil. She held them up and cackled, then gave him a poke in the arm.

  “You are an all right guy, Charlie Fish. You are all right.”

  Which was better than I could have hoped for. The food was good enough, the lights stayed low, the snow turned to rain, but we didn’t care. Sometimes Charlie would say something that sounded like math, about how air moves in waves through organ pipes for example, and I would think: this is not the guy for me. Other times I would glance up from my plate and he would be looking at me, straight on and not hiding it one bit, and what girl doesn’t like to be admired a little?

  During dinner my mother was prickly as a cactus with me, as usual, but to Charlie she was ripe peaches and sweet ice cream. When the meal was done, and he’d brought the last plates into the kitchen, she told us to vamoose while she cleaned up.

  “I need to get back to the dorm anyway,” he said. “Lights out is at eleven, and I have early duty tomorrow.”

  My mother, wearing yellow rubber washing gloves whose fingers were almost worn through, threw an arm around his neck. “Merry Christmas, Charlie Fish.”

  “Thanks for a great dinner. And for the Humphrey Bogart coat.”

  “It’s nothing, kiddo,” she said in a Bogart voice. “Brenda, walk him to the door so he doesn’t get lost along the way.” She made a sweeping motion with her rubbery fingers, then cranked the hot water on and began washing dishes.

  Of course it was awkward at the door. How could it not be? Maybe some kids are sophisticated about such things by that age, but not us. As Charlie pulled on his coat, snug as he did the double-breasted buttons, I slipped my new gloves on again.

  “That was a really nice evening, Brenda,” Charlie said. “You saved my life with the eggnog—”

  I silenced him with one gloved finger on his lips. Charlie started to make his surprised face again, startled wide open, until I stood on my toes and put my lips where that finger had been.

  You never know about some people. You think you do, you have an expectation, and then they turn out to be something else entirely. I would never, for example, have imagined that Charlie Fish would be a good kisser.

  I could not have been more wrong. Charlie pulled me to him, suddenly very much strong and in command, and kissed me for all he was worth. I found myself grabbing the hair on the back of his head—where did an idea like that come from?—while he swept me closer and our bodies pressed together their whole length.

  There is no shame—I say this now as a frail old lady who has not been smooched in a long, long time—no shame in enjoying a kiss at nineteen. Or any other age. Sooner or later the kisses will stop, this is a certain thing, one day there will be a last kiss, and I would venture to say that for every single human being, it will come too soon.

  Today I would gladly exchange every remaining hour of my life to have one minute more with Charlie Fish, just one, and to spend it kissing. Like days, the kisses of a life are numbered. Perhaps that makes each one all the more precious. And none so special as the first.

  Then he released me. It took us a few seconds to untangle. “Merry Christmas, Brenda.” Eyes bright, he swept open the door, damp and cold poured in, and out went Charlie Fish into the slushy December night. I could hear him singing the “Hallelujah Chorus” as he skittered away up the street.

  I stood there a full minute, stunned by the strength of desire I felt for this unimpressive fellow—a sensation I had never known a glimmer of with the boys I’d smooched after a night of dancing or a show—bringing the gloved fingertips to my mouth, touching my lips, fully perplexed and utterly changed.

  “Brenda?” my mother called from the kitchen. “I’m running out of rack space. Would you please get in here and dry?”

  8.

  Santangelo was a terrier with a rag in his mouth. He would not let it go.

  Every noon, he’d invite a different guy to join him for lunch. Half a sandwich along, he’d start asking about that boy’s math, what was he working on lately, a regular interrogation that continued either until the guy became suspicious, or Cohen rang the one o’clock back-to-work bell.

  “Damn that bell,” Santangelo said, falling into line. “I feel like a pet.”

  But one afternoon he sidled up to Charlie’s desk in better humor. “I’m putting it together,” he confided. “Everyone has a separate part, but they all interlock. It’s a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Charlie made less conversation than anyone else in those days, as he strove to accelerate his output. Outside it might snow all day, and he would only know when he left the building at night. If the hour was reasonable, he went to Brenda’s, but many nights it was too late. Dorm proctors locked the doors at eleven, and he had missed lights-out only once—going back to the math rooms to spend a miserable night on the floor. Once had been enough.

  “A puzzle?” Charlie continued with his work. “Figure anything out so far?”

  “Well.” Santangel
o sat on the adjacent desk—which, after its prior occupant shipped off to the army, had remained unoccupied. “There is a major installation somewhere in New Mexico. I’ve seen the numbers. They’re using tons of construction materials, plus heavy equipment like bulldozers and bucket loaders. There is at least one mine.”

  “A mine? What in the world for?” As he spoke Charlie drew an x on his page, to represent an impact spot one thousand feet off the ground. That was his latest assignment, and he could not imagine anything more useless. Calculate the falling time, aiming, and variables for an object released at thirty-five thousand feet, but stopping a thousand feet off the ground. Why not start at thirty-four and end on the earth, like all bombs do? Raising his eyes, he realized Steel Wool was waiting for an answer. “Maybe all that equipment is so they can put in a swimming pool for Mather.”

  “I admit it sounds flaky.” Santangelo bent closer. “But I know one thing.”

  “How’s it going, girls?” Cohen snapped from the doorway. “Fish, you guppy. Always glad to see you have time to chat.”

  “He came over to my desk.”

  “He came over to my desk,” Cohen mimicked in a falsetto, before ducking back down the hallway.

  “Most annoying human on earth,” Charlie grumbled.

  “What does he care anyway?” Santangelo asked. “It’s not like your uncle is going to heave you.”

  “That is exactly what he means. I am sitting in the bucket of a catapult. Snip the rope and wheeee.” He made a curve with his hand, as though it were sailing off somewhere.

  “Not a chance.” Santangelo stood. “I haven’t figured out yet why arcs matter so much, but you’re the only guy working on them. If they heave you, no more arc math.”

  “Please.” Charlie pointed at his full in-box. “I really have to finish today’s pile.”

  “Well, excuse me,” he said, hands in the air as if Charlie held a gun. “I forgot. Director’s nephew, no time to talk.” Santangelo turned away, feigning hurt. But he brightened at a new boy’s desk.

  “Hi there. What are you working on today?”

  Charlie bent over his arc problem. He’d already calculated the falling time from thirty-five thousand feet to one thousand: forty-three seconds. But the object couldn’t be a bomb, or his task would have ended with an impact on the ground.

  Meanwhile two more assignments sat in his in-box, and it was already a quarter till four. If he skipped dinner again, he might get to see Brenda for an hour—assuming he could solve the problem on his desk at all. Charlie drew an arc from the top corner of a sheet of paper to an inch above the bottom. Everything else was a mystery.

  By the time he finished for the day, he was alone. Cohen had popped his head in at seven to announce that he was heading home, and told Charlie to put finished papers in Simmons’s in-box. Now Charlie gathered his things, pulling on his new coat before switching off the lights. Again the hall was dark except for the office at the far end. Charlie assumed it was the custodial staff, until he heard a cough from within.

  “Uncle John?”

  “Charlie? Is that you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The boy stood in the outer room beside the secretary’s desk, wondering whether or not he should leave his work there and hurry along.

  “Come on in,” the professor said. “You may as well.”

  “Sorry to disturb you,” Charlie said, inching into the office.

  “No, it’s good timing. Are those today’s calculations?”

  “Yes, sir.” Charlie held them forward. “All three trajectories.”

  Simmons took them, opening the folder and flipping through the pages. “Any idea what you are working on, Charlie?”

  “None at all, sir.”

  He waved the papers that concerned the object stopping its fall at one thousand feet. “None at all? Such discretion becomes you.”

  “Oh.” Charlie realized he was being credited with understanding something, when he actually had no idea. “Thank you, sir.”

  “What strikes you as meaningful, in this calculation?”

  Charlie felt a small rise of panic. Glancing around, he noticed the rough drawing of a catapult still on the blackboard. “I suppose the question is how to stop the rock from hitting the ground, so it will cause even more damage.”

  “Exactly.” Simmons clapped his hands together. “You understand completely.”

  Charlie shuffled his feet. “Sir, I don’t mean to—”

  “It’s all right.” The professor held his hands up as if in protest. “I’ve been saying it all along. No matter how much work you give them, bright boys’ minds will not sit still all day.”

  Charlie had no idea what his uncle meant. “I suppose not, sir.”

  “You suppose not.” Simmons returned to his desk, gathering a sheaf of papers. “Well, let’s get down to business.” He tossed down a folder an inch thick. “Charlie, here are the results from your first six weeks here. See for yourself how many substantive errors you made in that time.”

  He read the upside-down cover and saw three red checks. “Wow. Sorry, Uncle John. I had no idea you all were keeping track of that sort of thing.”

  “Who do you think we work for here? We keep track of everything.”

  Charlie shifted his weight from foot to foot. Warm with his coat unbuttoned, he realized he had not been invited to sit this time. “Yes, sir,” he said.

  “Here is your second six weeks.” The professor tossed another folder on the desk. It was thinner, but with only one check on top. “More accurate, but less work completed. That period ended in December, about the time we had our last chat.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And here—” He took the papers Charlie had just brought, added them to a third folder, and dropped it on top of the other two. “Well, you can see for yourself.”

  It was thicker than the other two combined. But the cover had so many red checks, Charlie had to lean closer to count. “Nine?”

  “That’s right, Charlie. Nine substantive errors. Each one of which, if we didn’t catch it, would cost equipment, or money, or lives.” He flattened his palm on the stack of folders and sighed. “You did what I asked you to do, you sped up. But your accuracy went all to hell. And that’s assuming today’s pieces are correct.”

  Charlie stood straight. He found himself looking out the window: an early February night in Chicago, cold rain angling across the glass. He realized he did not know what day it was. He had not seen Brenda in weeks. The window also contained the reflection of his uncle’s back, which was ramrod upright.

  “I’m not good enough,” Charlie said.

  “‘Good’ is the wrong word,” Simmons said. “You are a good person, a good citizen, and you have an excellent work ethic. But when it comes to arcs, Charlie Fish can be accurate, or he can be fast. But not both.” He let that sink in. “Bear in mind, I am not showing you any other fellows’ folders, and none of them looks perfect either. Because you have worked on trajectories, however, you are not someone I can simply let go.”

  “I’m sorry, Uncle John. I don’t follow you.”

  “You know things about our special catapult. I can’t send you off to the army now, or turn you loose on the streets of Chicago when there are spies everywhere. Some Kraut might capture you, and learn what we’re doing here.”

  “I can keep a secret—”

  “Don’t be naive, Charlie. These people will cut off your fingers one at a time until you spill. They will drug you and ruin your mind, purely for sport. There is no shame in saying that you could not withstand their torments. No one could.”

  “I suppose so, sir.”

  “The question is what to do with you now.” He stood and went to the window, surveying the street below. Half a minute passed. “How are you liking Chicago, son?”

  “I like it well enough, Uncle John.”

  “I love it here. This city is full of vitality and muscle, without all the pretentiousness and self-importance you find
on the East and West coasts. I prefer Chicago to pretty much everywhere else.” A bit of moisture had fogged the lower part of the window, and Simmons rubbed it clear with his thumb. “My superiors want to move me, this whole kit and caboodle, to a more secure location.”

  “New Mexico?”

  “What?” Simmons whirled to face him, then checked himself. That easy smile came back to his face. “Charlie Fish. In a world where everyone is bragging about themselves all day long, you are much smarter than you let on.”

  “I don’t know about that, sir.”

  “Don’t be humble with me. I’ve got your number. But here’s the wrinkle.” Wiping his wet finger on his pants, the professor returned to his desk. He stacked the three collections of Charlie’s calculations together. “I can’t have folders with more red on them than all the Valentines you and I will get next week. It stands out. And trust me, Charlie, certain kinds of standing out are not good.”

  “I’m willing to do my part and then some, Uncle John.”

  “Of course you are,” he said. “But you’ve become the one thing that neither I nor this country has time for right now.” He held his hand out.

  Charlie, realizing he was being dismissed, shook that hand. “What is that, sir?”

  “A problem.”

  9.

  The being-late part I grew accustomed to, though not without a struggle. Ever since boys first started paying attention to me, in tenth grade when I developed, I always had punctuality rules. Ten minutes late on the first date and there would never be a second one. Fifteen minutes on a subsequent date and he’d better have an explanation that defied gravity. Plus an apology that included candy, flowers, or both. Twenty minutes late and his mother better have died.

  Partly it was a matter of supply and demand. There were many fewer guys during the war, while I still did my socializing with the same five gals, and my best friend Greta leading the charge. You would think that made the boys choosers and the girls beggars, but the way I figured, scarcity meant a girl had to value herself more highly, so boys would respect her.