At the top, I took Charlie’s hand and led him to my room. The worst of it was over, and we could see well enough by the light of the moon. Closing the door, I had him sit on the narrow bed. The mattress creaked under his weight.
“What are we doing?” he whispered.
I leaned close, my lips an inch from his ear. “You are sleeping here.”
He shook his head no, but I nodded and whispered again, “You can stay till it’s almost light. No hanky-panky.”
He gave me a look I did not understand. Pained, almost.
“Not that I haven’t thought about it a hundred times,” I added, the boldest thing I had ever said to a guy.
Charlie smiled. “A thousand times,” he whispered.
“But not tonight,” I repeated. Then I kissed his forehead. “I’m going to brush my teeth. You get comfortable.”
When I returned, Charlie had stretched himself out on top of the covers and snug to the wall, leaving two-thirds of the bed for me. I grabbed his toes with both hands. “Hello, Charlie’s feet.” Then I made a spiral with my finger, so he turned away as I slipped out of my clothes and into a nightgown.
I lay down as gently as if I were made of eggshells. He curled around me as softly as if he were made of glass. The mattress sagged. We had no choice but to touch.
“Sweet dreams,” I said, kissing his knuckles.
“You too, Brenda,” Charlie whispered, his lips against my shoulder.
Moonlight poured through the open window, onto the floor like a blue-white spill.
That night was an agony. I remember it all these years later, clear as if I’d cut my finger this morning. I had just turned twenty-one, for heaven’s sake, and Charlie was even younger. We had no experience with the opposite sex beyond kisses and hugs. And here we were, touching the length of our lovely bodies. Charlie’s feet tucked up beneath my feet, his knees nestled behind mine, his hips snug to my rump like I was sitting in his lap. Longing filled me, top to bottom and hot at the core. I pressed his wrist to the bone between my breasts, and we lay with eyes wide.
At first it was a bath of pleasure. Warmth, and comfort, and melting into each other. Charlie smelled like dust from the organ repairs, but also leather somehow. Of course I wondered how I smelled to him too. An hour passed, I heard the church bells, and I was no nearer to sleep than when we’d put the church’s toolbox away. We snuggled closer, but it only made things worse. Another hour. Another.
I ached for him. There is no other way to put it. I craved Charlie Fish in every cell. I experienced the physical pull that in the moment seemed naughty and wrong, but that I now know to be natural and right. It was a delicious yearning, and I wondered if Charlie was feeling the same torment.
He let out a huge sigh. Not the sound of a sleeping man, not deep or easy, but wide awake. That sigh contained all the hunger I felt, perhaps more. With that, I gave up on trying to sleep, pressed myself back against him, and decided to let the night pass under that powerful, unfulfilled spell.
There comes a day in the life of many women when the man they love is gone for one reason or another, and she would trade her best days now for her worst days before. That’s me. Take the next month of my life, and I would gladly exchange it for that moment, Charlie’s healthy young man’s sigh, and I the woman in his arms for as long as the night would last.
36.
At dawn he woke with a start. Brenda was sound asleep, her face relaxed, her breasts supple under the nightgown, her legs tangled in his. Charlie moved with great care, trying not to wake her. When he rose the mattress squeaked in relief, but Brenda only rolled onto her other side, and he stood studying the curve of her back.
Then he tucked his socks into his shoes and tiptoed out. At the landing, the stairs seemed long and exposed, with windows opening into the house proper. Spotting the fire escape stairs, he climbed out the open window. Pigeons startled away at his appearance, cooing, flying out over the street.
It was a clear morning, early May, pale light pearly in the east. Charlie kept to the edge of each step to prevent creaking, and made it down without undue noise.
He tiptoed out to the sidewalk, intending to sit on the step and put on his shoes. But there was a woman by the front door, a woman in a housecoat who came down the walk to pick up the newspaper. She snapped it open and scanned the front page. Whatever she saw froze her in place.
Charlie spun on his bare heel and charged in the other direction, though it meant heading away from the bus. Shoes still in hand when he reached the corner, he glanced back. The woman had not moved. She was not reading the news, though. She was staring at him. Her face was streaked with tears.
Soon enough Charlie reached East Palace Avenue. As always, a group was gathered by the bench, but the early passengers were different from his usual afternoon or evening trips. They were all Latino—the cleaning help, the kitchen staff. They smiled and moved their things to make room for him.
“Gracias,” he said, but not with confidence.
The woman in the office who had greeted Charlie when he’d first arrived in Santa Fe was now unlocking the iron gates. As always, the elfin boy hovered nearby, holding her coffee, taking the keys when she’d finished. She spied Charlie and said something to the boy, who nodded emphatically and disappeared into the offices.
Charlie would gladly have sat with the locals. But he’d been working under that organ for hours, hadn’t showered, and suspected he was more than a little ripe. He leaned against the building and closed his eyes.
Instantly he wished he was back in bed with Brenda. They had been so warm together, so easily affectionate with their pretzeled limbs. He’d been excited by her body nearly all night too. He wondered if she’d noticed. Should he be embarrassed or proud?
“My mother thought you’d want to see this,” a voice said. Charlie opened his eyes and the boy was holding a newspaper toward him.
But Charlie had been enjoying his reverie. “Thank you, but I’m fine.”
The boy seemed confused, and held the paper forward again.
“All right,” Charlie said. “Thanks very much.”
“Very good.” The boy ran with swinging arms back into the office.
Charlie leaned against the building again, wishing he knew what time the first bus departed. With no special interest or attention, he unfolded the newspaper.
Germany Surrenders. War in Europe Over.
Charlie lifted his head. The workers murmured in conversation, or napped. No one was in the street, no one celebrating. Didn’t anyone know?
General Alfred Jodl, representing the German High Command, signed an unconditional surrender in General Eisenhower’s headquarters, a schoolhouse in Reims, France, to take effect today. The successor to Adolf Hitler, German Chancellor and President Karl Donitz, has ordered all troops to lay down their arms. President Truman will address the nation later today.
The implications were so many and so vast, Charlie nearly fell over. What would he do in peacetime? Where would he live, and doing what job? Would Brenda stay here or return to Chicago? Might he actually get to see his family in Massachusetts again?
Maybe this was why the woman in the housecoat had been crying. Maybe someone she loved would be coming home.
Then another possibility struck Charlie: He might not have to finish the detonators. America might not need to use the Gadget. With victory, thousands of innocent lives might be saved. He lifted the newspaper higher so that none of the friendly locals could see him weep.
On the ride to Los Alamos, he read every word in that paper. There were celebrations in all the major cities, where the news arrived first. Photos showed crowds thronging the streets in joy. Churches were filled too. He imagined Brenda would be playing in the next few hours, and he was glad he had left the organ at least minimally functioning. The Germans had stopped fighting on all fronts, from Prussia to Prague to their own cities. High-ranking officials from America, Russia, and France had accepted the surrender. It was real. All
wonderfully real.
The interior pages had other news, however. Thirty-seven days into the battle of Okinawa, US troops were making progress—sinking seven ships and controlling more of the island. But the fight was brutal. The Japanese had resorted to using child soldiers. The hills of the island were honeycombed with tunnels.
He crumpled the paper in his lap. Peace was still far away. No denying it, the news from Europe was exhilarating. Normal life would be possible again someday. Accustomed by now to the curves and ruts of the bus ride to The Hill, Charlie stared out at the view and wondered what would become of him when the last battle had ended.
The guards at the gate behaved like any other day: as friendly as porcupines, growling to see everyone’s passes, grunting as they handed them back. Choir members were arriving at Fuller Lodge as usual, to practice before Sunday services. In fact, nothing on The Hill seemed different. Did they not know?
Charlie decided it would be better to arrive late to rehearsal, but in fresh clothes and having brushed his teeth, so he jogged across campus to the barracks. Behind the building the previous night’s bonfire still smoldered, smoke spiraling into clear blue sky. The scent drew Charlie, and he saw one person still tending the coals.
“Look what the dog drug up,” Monroe said, wearing a big goofy smile. “Right on time for the celebration.”
“Where is everyone?” Charlie asked. “Why aren’t there trumpets playing and people raising the roof?”
“Business as usual, Mister Charlie. A memo’s already done gone out.”
“But the people we were preparing to bomb have surrendered.”
“Don’t I know it.” Monroe poked at the coals with a charred stick. “Apparently they’s another enemy though. Only a rumor at this point, but the signs are promising.”
“We’re already firebombing the Japanese into extinction. This was always about beating the Germans.”
“Well.” Monroe wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “You try telling that to Oppie.”
Charlie paced beside the fire. “You mean to say we should keep on working?”
Monroe shrugged. “More people in labs right now than any Sunday I can recollect.” He spat into the coals, which hissed in reply. “What a species we are, right? Walking puzzles with fancy clothes on.”
Charlie turned away, but stopped. “Have you seen Midnight lately?”
“The hour? Thanks to insomnia, every dang day. The cat? Not in a while.”
“Me either.” When Charlie entered the barracks, instead of the usual Sunday quiet of guys sleeping in, writing letters, folding laundry, the place was empty. He paused at the door, taking it in. Then he remembered he had choir practice. Hurrying to his locker, he pulled out a change of clothes. Time to sing some hymns.
37.
Lizzie and I did not get drunk immediately after we heard about the German surrender. First there was worship.
It began at breakfast, when Reverend Morris led us in prayers of thanksgiving. His voice choked every so often, as if someone had a rope around his neck, and whenever he started to think about all the lives lost, that person would squeeze the rope tighter. Mrs. Morris kept her chin raised, like her head was a glass of water filled past the brim, and leaning in any direction would cause something precious to spill.
That didn’t keep the woman from darting her eyes at me whenever a prayer finished. If Charlie got out without me knowing or Lizzie suspecting, he certainly didn’t wake the Morrises up. Still, I felt like it was tattooed on my forehead: Slept beside a man last night. Wanted him ninety-nine ways. Still thinking about it. Amen.
The surrender news arrived too late for Reverend Morris to cancel regular services, so he abbreviated them both, calling everyone back for a victory worship in the afternoon. Lizzie went back to bed before I could spill anything to her, while I headed to the church for the day.
Oh but I was sinful. Anytime I wasn’t playing the organ or conducting the choir, I was thinking about Charlie, and how it had felt to have him pressed against me all night, especially when we were half-asleep and I could feel his excited manhood against my thigh, my arousal so strong it made me ache. Who knew that humans contained electricity? It was like he’d found a switch inside me, and I hadn’t even known it was there until he turned it on.
Nobody noticed, not even when I missed notes during the meditation piece. The church felt giddy, a congregation that wanted not to sit and pray, but to whoop and cheer and gulp some gin.
Between hymns, I thought about what the surrender might mean. My father, Frank, Lizzie’s husband, Charlie—all those people might be done with war work. Even Chris, who by then only crossed my mind when my conscience was after me. I hoped he’d come through the war intact, and could start his life again without the likes of me in his way.
Beyond that, everything was guesswork. I knew as I sat there, I would not jump a train back to Chicago without a burning reason. I would not reapply to conservatories until my father came home. I would stay in New Mexico as long as Charlie did.
For the afternoon service, the church was packed to the rafters. I was playing on a single manual, with no piano for backup if that A-flat cipher started up again. Walking a musical tightrope. I decided to warn the choir, so if the instrument failed I would give them a note from my tuning mouth harp, and they would finish a capella.
But Charlie’s repairs held, and the music went as smoothly as it could. There was one odd thing: The organ notes did not sound at the same volume anymore. Certain notes boomed and others barely chirped. Fortunately, no one else noticed.
Reverend Morris was louder than ever that day. After inviting community leaders from the congregation to read scripture—Psalms about the Lord’s victories, the Old Testament about the warlike power of His wrath—the minister came to the pulpit. Unfolding his notes, he delivered the sermon in a sustained shout.
“Mighty,” he cried. “Mighty is the power of righteousness. Awesome is the hammer of justice. Tireless is the sword of vengeance.”
The man carried on like I’d never heard him before, full bore and top volume. It did not feel that we were celebrating peace. More like we should stomp on our enemies and tear down their cities. Which I guessed we had pretty much done already.
As he gathered steam, Reverend Morris’s face turned red, he pounded the lectern with his fist, he broke into a sweat. I was closest to him, of course, sitting below the pulpit. So maybe I was the only one to know that he was also weeping. It stopped my naughty daydreams, all right. His voice never wavered, though, not the least tremble.
“Damnation,” he shouted. “Let heaven rain damnation on those who instigate war and slaughter the innocent. Let judgment deliver them to the eternal fires of hell.”
But his eyes gave him away.
Only at the end did the minister diminish. His voice made him do it. He croaked, and coughed, and eventually paused. He did that tic with his neck.
“People in this community have lost loved ones in the conflict,” he said in a hoarse hush. “People in this church right now. Some we know about, others keep their sorrow private. There is nothing wrong with keeping sorrow private.”
Reverend Morris scanned up and down the pews, and then he gripped the lectern with both hands. “It is possible that . . . for some of these people . . . the enormity of their loss may have caused them to question their faith.”
The place was quiet as if it had been empty. I wanted to sit back, to prevent my hands from accidentally hitting a note in all that silence, but I was afraid to move.
“Now we know,” he continued. “Now we know that doing God’s will, which is to bring peace to the world, requires sacrifice. My prayer for this congregation today, and for every person whose loved one made that sacrifice, is that victory renews your faith. May peace—”
He choked up again, and had to stop. I waited, everyone waited, while Reverend Morris took as long as he needed. I felt the pressure on him, what a time like this demanded of a preacher. If he had given me
the least look, one eye blinked in my direction, I would immediately have begun playing a hymn.
But he never so much as glanced. Instead he took a deep breath, and let it go. I could feel half the room exhale with him. “May peace make it possible for you to believe in God again.”
Then the minister nodded to me, like always after a sermon, and I played a two-minute meditation piece. He asked us to stand, and the congregation joined the choir in singing “A Mighty Fortress Is Our God.”
Instead of the usual procession up the aisle, so he could shake people’s hands on their way out, or receive their hugs, when the song ended Reverend Morris rushed away to the sacristy where—from my bench I was the only person who could see this—he ran straight into the arms of his waiting wife. She held him with her eyes tightly closed. Her hands were balled into fists.
I made some mistakes playing that last hymn. And after that day, Reverend Morris never raised his voice again.
Later that afternoon Lizzie arrived in the doorway of my room and shook a brown paper bag at me. “We have celebrating to do. Do you have any limes?”
I’d never tasted tequila. Her bottle was straight from Mexico, a gift from one of the domestics who’d come into her clinic with an infection and no money. But that did not improve the flavor. We drank it in shots, biting on a slice of lime after each big gulp. I kept thinking the next one would go down easier, but it didn’t work.
“My husband?” Lizzie said, delaying her next shot by braiding her hair. “He has a big nose.”
I laughed. “What in the world are you talking about?”
“Tim.” She triangled a hand over her face. “It’s practically this big. I have to lean my head to the side when we kiss.”
“You are hilarious,” I said.
“But you know what?” She leaned forward and whispered, “It’s sexy.”
“Do you never quit with the sex stuff?” I said, swatting the air.
Universe of Two Page 29
