“Have mercy,” the hungover man said, pressing his eyes closed.
A mile farther, the bus needed to turn onto a paved road, and it brought another shudder and screech. Charlie checked, and the other passengers dozed or conversed in quiet Spanish. The vehicle was clearly unsafe. Why were they not worried?
“We’re going to die on this bus,” the hungover man said before dozing off.
The ride to Santa Fe took an hour, Charlie trying to sleep, too, but he’d napped enough on the train. The bus rattled along. He hummed to himself, bits of a French song he’d learned in college, but it felt as false as whistling past a graveyard. Gradually they began to pass houses with small corrals in back, then clusters of homes, and eventually they entered the city. They passed adobe houses, shops, street markets, until the driver brought them to a final squealing stop.
“Bueno,” he said, clapping his hands as if in self-praise. “Bueno.”
“Here we go,” the soldier announced. “East Palace Avenue, number 109. Everybody off.”
The hungover man grabbed his suitcases and stumbled out of the bus. Charlie, his bags overhead, decided to let the other passengers off first. As they streamed past, he could not help noticing their dress: wide-brimmed hats, brightly colored cover-ups like blankets with an opening for their heads. Through the window he saw them line up outside the stores, where they sat against the wall and settled in to wait.
“You always a lollygagger?” the soldier asked.
“Not usually,” Charlie closed his picnic basket. “It’s a long ride from Chicago.”
“That’d take the wind out of anyone’s sails.” Hoisting Charlie’s duffels onto his shoulder, the soldier trundled down the bus steps. “Welcome to Santa Fe.”
A wooden canopy shaded the sidewalk, like something out of an old western movie. The gate of 109 East Palace hung wide, opening into a courtyard. The soldier set the duffels inside the gate. Charlie balanced the basket on top and sidled into the office.
“The top item is your pass for The Hill,” a woman was telling the hungover man, who slumped in a wooden chair. Striking, with bright red lipstick, she handed him a folder. “Don’t lose track of it.”
The room was sparsely furnished: filing cabinets, metal desks like he’d had in Chicago, a little corner fireplace in which quiet coals glowed. A boy occupied a chair to one side, his legs tucked up like some sort of elf. The walls were bare but for a calendar that, on closer inspection, was from 1941.
“I imagine you are unaccustomed to military ways,” the woman continued. “Few civilians are. But I promise, carrying your pass at all times will be as useful as wearing shoes.”
As she spoke, she handed the hungover man’s travel papers to the boy. He crumpled each page into a ball and dropped it onto the pile forming between his feet.
“Normally we have food for new arrivals,” the woman said. “Not today though. But most people prefer to have an empty stomach the first time they make the drive.”
“One question,” the hungover man said. “What is my mailing address?”
“The mail. How could I have forgotten? Everything is censored, incoming and outbound. Don’t seal your envelopes, please.”
“I’ll have no privacy?”
“No location information, no names of coworkers, no stories about what you’re working on.” She smiled. “We’re all encouraged to stick to our knitting.”
“If those topics are forbidden, what does that leave for a fellow to say?”
“I’d suggest focusing on the weather. It’s quite sunny here, as you’ll see.”
“The weather.” He rubbed his face. “I’d been hoping to share more than that.”
“I sympathize.” She touched her lipstick with the tip of a pinkie. “We are all learning to adjust our expectations. There are women on The Hill who do not know what their husbands do all day. That is the reality, and I live by it too.” She smiled again. “Your address is Box 1663, Santa Fe, New Mexico.”
“Sixteen sixty-three.” The man stood, tucking his folder under an arm as he moved away. “Thank you, I think.”
The woman nodded to the boy, who immediately tossed his pile of crumpled papers into the fireplace, where they smoked and then flared. Charlie watched the papers burn, until he noticed she had extended her hand toward him. He shook it briskly. “I’m Charlie Fish. How do you do?”
The woman gave a quick laugh. “Pleased to meet you, Charlie. I’m Dorothy McCay, and I was actually reaching for your papers.”
“Oh. They’re in my bag.” He pointed over his shoulder. “Be right back.”
“No hurry. I’m not going anywhere.”
But he did hurry. Charlie was nineteen, farther from home than he had ever been before. He suspected he was in way over his head. Even the hungover man had a self-possession Charlie envied. Digging out the documents, he resolved to do his best at every moment.
Dorothy opened his papers to scan the top. “I hope you enjoyed the trip from Chicago.” She flipped through the documents so quickly he could not imagine she was actually reading them, handing each page to the boy as she’d finished it, then rose and went to a filing cabinet. By the time she returned with Charlie’s folder, the boy had crumpled most of the travel papers.
“The top item is your pass for The Hill.” He peered in to see a cardboard rectangle the size of a driver’s license. Dorothy continued: “I think you heard my lecture on keeping it with you. Your housing assignment is in a barracks, for which I apologize.”
“Why would you say that?”
She smiled. “Construction on The Hill has not kept up with the flood of new babies, much less the growth in staff. Your assignment is in TA-6, Detonation. Your packet has a map so you can find it.” She handed him the folder. “Any questions?”
Charlie thought the hungover man had asked a useful one. “My mailing address?”
“Box 1663, Santa Fe.”
“That’s the same number you gave the other fellow.”
“And everyone else on The Hill too.” She nodded. “We all live there now.”
He wanted to probe further, but the boy tossed Charlie’s crumpled papers into the little fireplace. It was like erasing his past, consuming it in a tidy fire.
Outside, the hungover man occupied the only bench, head in his hands. As Charlie sidled over and sat, the man straightened. “So, I overheard that you’re Charlie Fish. I’m Giles Crosby, straight out of Princeton’s Applied Mathematics.”
Charlie’s eyes went wide. “As in Einstein?”
“I’ve seen him twice in the hallway. Therefore I take full credit for his success.” He made a small bow. “Feel free to send flowers and money.”
“Terrible thing, really, not to be thanked publicly, after all the man owes you.”
Giles smirked. “I’m glad you appreciate how I’ve suffered.”
“It’s the same for me.” Charlie was smiling now. “At the University of Chicago—”
“Bastards, all of them.” Giles gritted his teeth. “That place is notorious for not recognizing how twenty-year-olds are revolutionizing the world.”
Charlie mock-sighed. “We are woefully underappreciated.”
They sat companionably for half a minute before Giles spoke again. “I’ve actually heard you fellows in metallurgy have been going great guns.”
“Just nosing forward an inch a day.”
“The first controlled chain reaction in history? That’s not nosing, friend. That’s elephant-trunking.” Giles scratched himself under one arm. “You managed not to blow yourselves up too. Bully for that.” He heaved the sigh of a general learning he had lost a platoon in battle. “Now we’ve reached the big time, and I feel miserable.”
Charlie opened his folder, then closed it without looking inside. “It’s not my business, but maybe if you cut down on the drink . . .”
Giles bristled. “Is that what it looks like?”
“Near as I can tell.”
“We’re at seven thousand f
eet, chum. Altitude hits me like a hatchet between the eyes.” He chopped a hand toward his forehead. “You don’t have a headache at all?”
“Come to think of it, I felt one back in Lamy. I blamed it on travel.”
Giles dug in his pocket. “It’ll worsen. Project Y is three hundred feet higher.”
“Project Y again.”
“Now you know what it means. And yes,” he sighed. “You’re right about my condition. I had a six-hour layover in Denver, and arithmetic took over.”
“Arithmetic?”
“Giles plus layover equals hangover. For which your ham sandwich proved medicinal. Here.” He opened his palm to reveal a small white pill. “Feel better.”
“No thanks,” Charlie said, recoiling. “What is it, anyway?”
“Suit yourself.” Giles tossed it in his mouth, swallowing without water. “Aspirin.”
The bus from The Hill arrived late. But it was in better condition than the one from Lamy, with firm seats and brakes that did not scream. The driver paid attention.
He needed to. After twenty miles of flat pavement, they turned uphill onto a dirt road that surpassed anything Charlie had imagined. Potholes and bumps. Gut-wrenching washboard, when the entire bus and everything in it jarred from side to side.
Once they crossed a bridge with a small sign—Rio Grande—the climb began. They navigated perilous switchbacks, sharp corners with a cliff on one side, no guardrails, and the bus swaying to the edge time after time.
“I spoke too soon,” Giles whispered from across the aisle. “This is when we die.”
Charlie swallowed dry-mouthed, while another stretch of washboard rattled his innards, and the next swerve attempted to pitch them off the cliff.
“How about that view, people?” the driver yelled over his shoulder. “Right?”
Charlie glanced out at the landscape below, the multicolored cliffs and jutting mesas, but a rut jerked the bus sideways. Wedging his feet to brace himself, he realized: there is nothing beautiful about being terrified.
“Alchemy,” Giles said, leaning across the aisle. “Know what I mean?”
“Pardon me?” Charlie was not inclined to conversation.
“The Egyptians pursued it first, then the Chinese. In the twelfth century it became a Western obsession too.”
“Sorry, I’m half asleep. What are you talking about?”
“Alchemy, Charlie. The theory that with the right method and ingredients, a base metal like mercury could be turned into a pure one, like silver. People believed it would provide a pathway to immortality. The ultimate challenge was changing lead into gold, because it does not tarnish or decay. Gold stays perfect forever.”
“The place we’re going is trying to make gold?”
“A military version of it, yes. You’ll see soon enough.” Giles slid closer in his seat. “It is not possible to turn lead into gold. But it may be possible to split uranium into barium or radium.”
“And what’s the value of that?”
Giles cupped his hands and made them into a ball. Then, as he spread his hands apart with fingers wide, he whispered, “Poooosshh.”
The bus lurched and they both grabbed their armrests.
“Alchemy,” Charlie muttered. “Whatever in the world.”
Two hours later, dusk settled on the land, the cliff casting long shadows into the canyons. The ground grew level, and the driver downshifted.
“East entry, people. Present your pass, and I’ll be waiting by the gate.”
Charlie followed a queue to the guardhouse. More like a shed, he mused, with a sign on the front: Los Alamos Project, Main Gate. They were surrounded by high barbed wire, with bright lights shining all around. The air smelled sweet and clear. By contrast, the guards wore helmets and uniforms, and carried rifles.
This time Charlie did remember to bring his papers, and he found the cardboard pass. He worked a kink out of his neck. The journey was nearly finished. Giles fell in behind him, digging in his pockets again. Then he started patting them, one by one.
“Hello,” Charlie said, handing his pass to the guard. The man scowled like a bulldog. He studied Charlie’s face, then examined the pass with the same flat expression. He handed it back and waved him on, no words said.
Charlie had returned to the bus before he realized that Giles was no longer behind him. He turned.
“The damnedest thing,” Giles was telling the bulldog guard. “I had it with me when I got on the bus.”
“It’s true,” Charlie said, ambling back. “I was with him when he got it, back at the East Palace Street office.”
Two guards appeared and stood in front of him.
“Move on,” Bulldog said.
“I can vouch for him though,” Charlie persisted.
“Don’t worry yourself about me—” Giles began.
But the guard poked his chest with a finger. “You keep quiet. And you,” he snarled at Charlie. “This would be a good time to mind your own business.”
Giles waved Charlie on. “We’ll get it straightened out.”
“All right,” he said. “If you’re sure.” He returned to the bus, watching the guards pat Giles down. As the last passenger to reboard, Charlie happened to glance to his right, where the guard was opening the gate. All at once the weight of the situation fell on him: in a few seconds he would venture into a place he knew nothing about, to work for people he had never met, and he was not allowed to tell anyone about it.
“Rough trip?” the bus driver asked.
“A bit,” Charlie allowed.
“You’ll settle in quick. My advice is to stick to your knitting.”
Charlie started up the bus steps. “That’s the second time I’ve heard that.”
The driver closed the door. “Won’t be the last either.”
Charlie took a seat, the guard waved them on, and he rolled into Project Y.
19.
My mother put a plate of meat loaf before me, then sat at the table across from me. “He’s probably getting there about now.”
I was no fan of meat loaf. In fact I considered it the most boring meal on earth. Which she knew perfectly well. But I was still all diplomacy. I felt her anger at me still simmering, and I had no intention of bringing it to another boil.
“How awful,” I said, “to be traveling all this time.”
Since Charlie Fish kissed me in the Great Hall of Union Station, I’d had two workdays, five meals, and a good night’s sleep. He had probably needed every one of those eleven sandwiches. I was not about to bring that up again either. I ate the meat loaf like a good, dutiful daughter, and it was not an act.
Apparently, meanwhile, all the organ buyers of Chicago were on Charlie’s train too. The first day, after the taxi brought us from Union Station, we did not have a single customer. I practiced for hours, and was interrupted by the little bell jingling not once.
The next day we had foot traffic, folks test-driving a Hammond, and one fellow who played an accordion at absolute top volume, before banging it down on a piano bench and saying it was too loud.
The rest of the week? Tire kickers, a man who was visibly drunk, a woman asking directions to the library. One dad brought in his ten-year-old princess, who was too shy to sit on the spinet model’s bench, yet he scowled the entire time I demonstrated. Finally I cajoled her into playing a Tinkertoy tune, which I praised triple what it deserved. When she slid off the bench, he took her hand and they left without a word.
It didn’t matter that I learned the latest show tunes. That I tightened my introductory patter down to three sentences. That I became an expert on lipstick application, a doyenne of the sales floor dress, an ambassador of welcome to every person who opened the door of Dubie’s Music and made the little bell ring. No one was buying. Or haggling. Or putting down one thin dime of a deposit.
And from Charlie? Silence. All of my sales energy had to be faked, to hide how blue I was. I’d wake up thinking about him, how he made me laugh and opened the door an
d always insisted I go first when we’d spoken at the same time. I dwelled on memories of him asking for a slow song and watching with soft eyes while I played. On and on like that, until it was an effort to get myself out of bed.
I came down for breakfast, not speaking till I had a piping hot cup of coffee. My mother was reading the morning paper, but I could tell she had one eye on me.
“What?” I said.
“Nothing.” And she buried her nose back in the paper. “Not a thing.”
I counted on work to revive me. Retail can be fun if the customers pour in and the register runs and the goods move along. When a whole city loses interest in your store? When hours go by without a walk-in? And you’re only there out of duty to your family, when you’d rather be at a conservatory improving on the organ? There’s a reason retail halfway rhymes with jail.
Was it the war? How could it be? We were finally winning in the South Pacific, capturing the Marshall Islands, for example. Hitler was on his heels too. I knew that because one night my mother interrupted her before-dinner cigarette and forced me to read the evening news: the British air force had bombed Berlin.
I put the paper down. “Why do you think business is so slow?”
She laughed in surprise, a billow of smoke snorting out. “That is not what I expected you to say. Germany matters, you know.”
“Of course it does. But honestly, why do you think?”
She considered. “Maybe people are too tired to make music. Or too sad.”
“But they need it more than ever. Yesterday in the grocery I heard two different people whistling ‘As Time Goes By.’”
“Whistling isn’t putting money down on an instrument you have to learn to play, especially one that’s not easy. Organs might be too hard for now.”
It was my turn to ponder. “Maybe we should start carrying harmonicas.”
She picked the newspaper back up. “That, my girl, is a smarter suggestion than you realize.”
But we didn’t. Instead the days stretched long, spring dragged its heels, and customers were as rare as lottery winners. One afternoon I did the closing, while my mother bought groceries and went home early. Which meant that she saw the mail first. When I came home, in the middle of the kitchen table there sat a letter, addressed to me and postmarked Santa Fe. Still sealed, too, though I could imagine my mother’s temptation.
Universe of Two Page 12
