“A friend of mine here says war is when someone is shooting at you.”
“By that measure, you are not at war, are you?”
Charlie shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Well, I am.” He was not smiling anymore. “My definition of war is when a government slaughters law-abiding citizens, when it invades peaceful neighboring nations.” His voice rose, and he paced faster. “When it preaches a gospel of the state crushing individuals and their freedoms, when it attacks my country, when it kills our boys. Then, Charlie, then I am at war sure as hell. And I will be at war until that government and its leaders and its entire goddamn idea is wiped from the earth.”
By the end, Simmons was shouting. Charlie stood perfectly still. His uncle was not trying to persuade him. This was something else, and Charlie waited to see what it would be.
Meanwhile, the professor had stopped pacing. “Look at what’s happened to me. A mathematician, calling for blood.” He shook his head. “I’m not ashamed though. That is how important this project has become.”
Simmons arrived at a chair Charlie had stood on, the day before, to add a piece to the middle of the assembly. Simmons turned the chair around and straddled the seat, forearms resting on the chair back.
“Imagine a day that brings an end to armed conflict. No longer will madmen be tolerated when they choose to make war. Would the next Hitler dare smash the ghettos of Poland, murder those innocent people, start years of terror and waste, if he knew we possess a weapon to obliterate not only him, but his entire capital city?”
“I hadn’t considered—”
“Would the emperor of Japan attack Pearl Harbor, if he knew the extinction of his family’s bloodline, and those of a million other residents of Tokyo, is only a few hours of air travel away? No, those men would never attempt such terrible things again.”
“Do you really think so, Uncle?”
“The Gadget will do much more than deliver victory today, Charlie. Our power to annihilate will bring an end to war.”
Charlie wandered to his desk, the array of papers, calculations, and designs. He thumbed the bar of a slide rule out and back.
“Everyone here is depending on you,” Simmons persisted. “But that’s not the real story. The future of mankind is depending on you too.”
“I am the wrong guy to wager the future of mankind on.”
“Then look at it this way. You are in debt. You owe a working detonator to your nation, after all the opportunities it’s given you. Hell, son. You owe me.”
Charlie pushed a sheet of paper aside. “What if I told you that I have not been stuck at twenty-three detonators on purpose? What if it really is that difficult to build?”
“You forget, Charlie. We’re family. The same blood in our veins.” Simmons stood, turning the chair right side around. “If you say you can’t build it, I don’t believe you.”
And with one last flash of a smile, he marched out of the room.
The test the next day did not show twenty-three detonators working. Instead it was twenty-two. Charlie suspected the component his uncle had touched was the one that misfired, but he had no proof. Bronsky came by his desk after the test to say that David Horn would begin work the following day, in his own lab.
“One way or other, Fishk,” he seethed, “we are have twenty-four soon.”
Charlie worked nearly every waking hour, leaving the lab only for meals, or refills of coffee till his stomach burned. He stopped going to the barracks, sleeping instead under his desk like the senior scientists.
The exception was Saturdays. Then he caught the early bus to Santa Fe. A sign outside the last gate read: “Are you continuing to protect information?” and Charlie tried to stay awake till the bus passed it. Usually he failed, and slept the whole way down. Those days with Brenda flew past, whether they had plans to visit an adobe village, or simply take a stroll. She was kinder then, softer. Once she took him to her church so he could hear the organ, which had fine tone but many mechanical problems.
Nonetheless Brenda played the Bach Toccata and Fugue in D Minor with high proficiency, though after the fugue part he lost his fight with exhaustion. At the end, instead of applause Brenda was surprised by silence. When she found Charlie stretched out on a pew, sound asleep, she did not snap at him, or say he had insulted her playing. Instead she lifted his head to rest it in her lap, and sat with him there till the bells tolled seven, which meant it was time to catch the bus up to The Hill.
Back inside the fence, he skipped dinner and went straight to his desk.
That month showed a world in convulsions. Each new development stirred Charlie’s hopes—and fervent discussions in the barracks—over whether the Gadget would be needed. Not two weeks into Truman’s presidency, Mussolini and his mistress were executed, their corpses hung upside down in public in Milan. The next day, American forces liberated the camp at Dachau. Everyone saw the photos of skeletal men, women, and children. Also that day, Hitler married Eva Braun—their love like a dark flower, blooming from all the spilled blood. What did it portend?
The answer came in the papers of May 1: Hitler and his bride had committed suicide. A day later, after murdering their six children, Chancellor Goebbels and his wife also killed themselves. Then a thousand Germans committed mass suicide in Demmin.
“By their own hands,” Giles declared at the bonfire that night. “By their own hands they set us free. There’s no need for the Gadget. Surrender is imminent.”
“It don’t say much good about my morals,” Monroe said, pausing to swig from a bottle. “But damn those boys make me happy, doing our job for us.”
Sparks rose in the spring twilight, climbing, lost in the stars overhead.
“I don’t care if our work amounts to nothing,” Charlie said. “If we don’t have to finish, and all those innocent people—”
“Mister Charlie?” Monroe said. “You’re half a mile ahead of yourself. Stop talking and start drinking.”
Charlie shook the length of his body, like a dog fresh out of a pond. He reached for the bottle. “I believe I will.”
35.
For the first time, when Charlie stepped off the bus I was not there to greet him.
I can still imagine it: the other passengers filing off, a few heading into the government offices, others meandering one way or another. He’d be standing alone.
That image made me give up at last. The organ had too many problems. I switched it off and headed for East Palace Avenue. At some point I’d have to tell Reverend Morris, before the wedding at three o’clock: there would be no music that day.
Charlie looked hungry, exhausted—until he saw me. Then he rose from the bench and held his arms wide and I swear I felt warmth from him all the way across the street.
“What’s the matter?” he said before I had reached him. “Something is wrong.”
“Oh, Charlie.” I ran into his arms. “I’m sorry I kept you waiting.”
He pulled me close. “Brenda, that’s the way of wartime. Like me making you wait for me all week. I live for the day we do not have to wait anymore.”
“I’m afraid it won’t be today.”
“Tell me what’s wrong.”
“The organ,” I said. “There’s a cipher in every manual now. All three. If I can’t have at least one working properly, I can’t possibly play the wedding this afternoon.”
“What can I do?”
“You fixed that one in my parents’ basement.”
“That was basic stuff, Brenda. Split pipes.”
“Charlie, I have nowhere else to turn.”
The silence that followed was unique. Somehow that single sentence changed him, altered Charlie’s whole relationship to me. For the first time, I was asking him for help. Unguarded, unvarnished, I needed him, and he recognized it.
“Let’s take a look,” he said. “Maybe we can get one of those ciphers to quit.”
An hour later, he had abandoned that idea. Whenever I opened a stop, on any o
f the three keyboards, a random note would begin playing on its own.
“It’s a different note on each manual,” Charlie called from beneath the console. His legs stuck out like a mechanic’s under a car. “You have three separate problems.”
“You’re not making me feel much better.”
“I don’t know how you’ve been able to play this instrument.” He slid out, his sleeves and back covered in dust. “Let me see the music for today.”
“It’s typical wedding stuff. This is not the time to get appreciative—”
“What keys are the songs in? Maybe we can try a different approach.”
We spread the pages on the church floor: E major, A minor, and D major.
“Only one uses the A-flat note—that’s the cipher on your first manual. So I will disconnect that key completely. It won’t sound when you play it, but it only occurs”—he scanned the pages—“six times. So the gap won’t be too noticeable or frequent. If you stay on that one manual, I bet you can get away with it.”
“Charlie, you are a genius.” I gave him a good smack on the lips.
“Now I have to figure out how to disconnect a key.” He blushed a little, then slid back under the console.
Charlie sat in the balcony during the wedding. Although I made it a point not to look, I liked thinking about him up there, seeing everything, hearing my playing on the limited instrument. It was a Hispanic family, the men wore dark suits and ties, the women dressed in brights: green and yellow and red. They were a prayerful group, heads bowed often. One elderly woman wept audibly the whole service. I loved her.
The music was more than satisfactory. Granted, I could use only simple stops. But the hymns were celebratory, with a nice triumphant finale, and I bet Charlie himself could not tell where the absent A-flats belonged.
As the congregation filed out, a white-haired uncle came forward. “Senorita, that was wonderful,” he said, bowing with great formality. “Beautiful, beautiful music.”
By the time Charlie came down, I was organizing for Sunday’s service.
“Your playing,” he said, pausing by the front pew. “You’ve improved.”
I put the papers aside, crossed the aisle, and planted another kiss on his lips. I am not ashamed to say it: I wanted more. I wanted him entirely. I was sick of missing him, tired of being patient, done with having our lives dictated by the war.
Meanwhile, Charlie wrapped his arms around me, and it felt like we became one person. Would another guy propose at a time like that? Right after a wedding? While kissing in a church? What would a girl say if he did?
The moment passed, we released each other. Not five seconds later, Reverend Morris came back down the aisle.
“Lovely families,” he boomed. “Well done, Brenda.”
“Reverend Morris, this is Charlie Fish. He’s . . . an organ repairman.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes, sir,” Charlie said. “I managed to quiet one cipher for the service today. But this instrument needs considerable work.”
“It certainly does.” The minister nodded. “And, Brenda, I commend you for finding him on short notice. But you might have asked what our repair budget is.”
“If I may, sir,” Charlie interrupted. “I’m sure we can come to terms that please you. My primary interest is in seeing this organ perform as it is capable. Particularly in the hand of a musician as skilled as Brenda Dubie.”
“Is that right?” Reverend Morris said. “Do we have an ace here?”
“The ace of hearts,” Charlie said. “You need an instrument that befits her talent.”
“I suppose we do.” The minister nodded approvingly. “Carry on, please. And I’ll hold you to your word about favorable terms.”
“Depend on it, sir.” Charlie and Brenda wore sober faces, avoiding looking at each other.
Reverend Morris went into the sacristy to hang up his formal vestments, then gave them both a wave as he headed home for dinner. The second the side door closed behind him, Brenda and Charlie burst out laughing.
“An organ repairman?”
“It’s true. An experienced one.”
“Because I’ve now done it twice?”
“Charlie you saved me. And the wedding. I don’t think the reverend could handle much of an upset right now.”
“Why don’t I spend a few minutes seeing if I can make any other easy fixes, and we’ll save the hard stuff for another day?”
“Every person who comes to services here tomorrow will thank you.”
“As long as you do, I don’t care about anyone else.”
I kissed him again, and we ambled back to the console. Charlie lay on his back and slid out of sight.
We stayed for hours. While he was absorbed in the work, I went to the sacristy and did push-ups. By then I was up to eleven. When I returned I noticed that the front doors remained open from the wedding, and with the sun angled lower, the light had turned to gold. I fooled with light switches till Charlie could see beneath the console. Then I sat by his legs, having found a toolbox, handing him tools as he called for them.
I had never really considered Charlie’s legs before. Like the rest of him, they were skinny. But they were oddly graceful, too, like a dancer’s. Whenever he stretched to reach something underneath, he had this unconscious habit of pointing his toes. It was like he was jumping, how ballerinas point their toes when they’re in the air.
Every half hour or so, he would come out for a breather. Each time he emerged dustier, and dirtier, and wearing a bigger smile. “This thing has gigantic bellows,” he said one time. “They could pump enough air for two of these sets of pipes.”
We talked a minute more, I brought him a glass of water. He grinned the whole time like he’d just won at bingo. Then he flopped on his back and slid under again.
After the third or fourth break I realized: He was happy. Charlie was doing something that delighted him. He was humming under there, and I hadn’t heard him hum since Chicago. He didn’t want to break for dinner, though I heard his stomach grumbling. It pleased me to see this anxious man at ease, working but content.
This was the guy I had run around the theater with. The fella who gave me lovely gloves. Here I was, in a New Mexican version of sitting on the cellar steps. Saturday night and there was no other place I would rather be.
Eventually Charlie slid out and sat upright. “All my life,” he said, completing a thought that must have started under the console, “I’ve believed that authority meant wisdom. That’s why I obeyed it. Knowledge and prudence, based on education and experience.” He wiped his hands on his trousers. “I was wrong. The Hill has convinced me. All authority actually means is power.”
I wanted to hear more, but something had occurred to me: it had been a long time since I heard any churches toll the hour. “Charlie,” I said, “what time does the last bus leave for Los Alamos?”
“Eleven. We’d better get moving.” As he stood, he glanced at his wristwatch. And deflated entirely. “Brenda.”
“What time is it?”
“Twenty past the last bus.”
In a way I was pleased. It was an echo of the night in my father’s workshop. I considered the tools scattered around me. “My fault. I should have been keeping track.”
“Forget who’s to blame. What do we do?”
“A hotel?”
“I only brought enough money for dinner.”
I had a wrench in one hand, needle-nose pliers in the other. I dropped them in the toolbox with a clatter. “I’m sorry, Charlie.”
“Enough of that.” He squatted to bring his face level with mine. “No one put anyone in charge of the clock. Besides, now you’re in good shape for tomorrow.”
Collecting the other tools, I put them one by one into the box. When I’d finished, I raised my eyes and he was still squatting there. “I don’t know what to do,” I said.
“Why don’t we try the East Palace offices? It can’t be the first time this ever happened.”<
br />
So I locked up the church and we hurried across town. The whole way, I knew what the answer would be. The iron gate was closed, no lights on, no one home.
An idea fluttered inside me, disobedient and exciting. It had come to me on the way over, and there by the iron gate it had me by the leg.
“Well,” Charlie said. “We are in a bit of a pickle. Or I am, anyway.”
My idea was full of risk: my housing, my job, my reputation. But it did not feel like temptation, it felt like opportunity. I could not imagine going through with it, much less convincing Charlie.
I put both hands flat on his chest. He seemed so skinny. Sometimes I forgot.
Out of nowhere I remembered a time at my aunt’s place in Wisconsin, the summer I was eleven or twelve, and we went to a beach house that had a high dive. All my cousins were scrambling up the ladder and throwing themselves off. But I hung back, scared of the height. Even Bonnie, the eight-year-old, inched her way out and jumped from the platform.
“Go on, Brenda,” my mother said, behind a fog of cigarette smoke. “A little courage won’t kill you.”
Funny how one sentence can reverberate through the whole rest of your life.
“Why don’t you walk me home,” I said to Charlie, “and we’ll see what comes up?”
Which was how we wound up outside the boardinghouse, a quarter moon overhead and heading west. I whispered to Charlie. “Take off your shoes.”
“Excuse me?”
“Socks too. And do exactly as I say.”
Charlie chuckled. “Haven’t you trained me to do that already?”
I put a finger to my lips. As soon as he was barefoot, I eased the door open.
“Really?” he whispered.
“A little courage won’t kill you.”
Today I am proud of that girl, and her boldness. Life has many high-dive moments, and some turn out to be belly flops. But Charlie was not sleeping in some park or hideaway, not if I could help it. Lizzie had been smart enough—or coconspirator enough—to switch off the light at the top of the stairs. That meant we climbed slowly, in the dark, every creak amplified.
Universe of Two Page 28
