by Nancy Thayer
“I do. The formula is for creating nuclear energy from cold fusion.” When Jean tilted her head, looking puzzled, Erich continued. “I’ll try to explain. There are two ways to create nuclear energy: by fission, which is splitting the atom, and by fusion, which is combining atoms.”
Jean felt impatient. “Well, of course I know something about that, given the atomic bomb, but—”
Erich held up his hand to interrupt. “Fission is unpopular for all kinds of reasons. It’s dangerous, and it creates radioactive waste. If science could find a way to create energy through fusion, we could have an inexhaustible source of clean, safe fuel.”
“Are you saying the paper in my father’s study—”
“—holds a formula for cold fusion? Yes. We think so.” And he told her about Brown and Oshevnev, about their code. “But then the war began and Brown was, shall I say, urgently invited by your government to stop work on fusion and assist in the work on the atomic bomb. He died during the war. In Russia, Oshevnev lost his lab, and all his communications with Brown were destroyed. Oshevnev did continue working on fusion. He was part of the group of scientists who exploded the hydrogen bomb in 1953. But without Brown, and Brown’s formula, he never got back on track.”
“Why didn’t he look for the formula before?”
“After the war, the Soviet Union was secretive about its research, even about what projects it was interested in. Oshevnev died recently, but a colleague of his told us of the importance of Oshevnev’s early work. I am on a task force for improved communications between the U.S. and our country. I’ve always wondered about the code, and when the scientists came to me, I told them about it. I spoke with someone in your government—and here we are.”
“And now that you’ve found Brown’s formula?”
“Now scientists—American and Russian scientists working together—will interpret it, test it, and see where it takes them.”
“So it could be a scientific breakthrough.”
“It could be tremendously important, no question.”
“This is a lot to take in,” Jean admitted.
“That’s understandable. Most people would be surprised to realize that what they think of as an ordinary life has somehow touched history,” Erich replied. “If you hadn’t taken the code, it eventually would have been destroyed with the other papers in your father’s safe. As it is, you’ve preserved something that might give new hope to the world.”
Jean sat quietly in her chair, remembering those days, her brash, eager optimism, her youthful pride … her overpowering love. Smiling wryly, she softly concluded, “All this, because I was a fool … over you.”
“You weren’t a fool, Jean,” Erich objected, his voice tender.
“I certainly felt like one.”
Erich leaned forward. “I never would have left you that way if I hadn’t been literally, quite literally, forced to. It was the most I could do to send the locket to you.”
“Yes, I understand that. Still—” Jean lowered her eyes, struggling to form her words, and she felt her cheeks flame with humiliation as she lifted her eyes and faced him with the truth. “You used me.”
“I loved you, Jean,” Erich declared.
Smiling gently, Jean shook her head.
“I loved you,” he insisted. “I didn’t intend to love you; I didn’t expect to. I was surprised by my own feelings.” Reaching out, he put his hand gently over hers. “I apologize for lying to you. But I don’t apologize for the times I made love to you or the words of love I spoke to you. Those were all true.”
Jean studied the man across from her, seeing through the lines and age spots the man she had loved all those years ago. A sudden lump in her throat prevented her from speaking, and she simply nodded her head in acknowledgment.
“I think I’ve loved you all my life,” Erich told her.
Jean felt tears well up behind her eyes. Gently she withdrew her hand, picked up her glass of vodka, and took a sip. “Are you married?” she asked.
He was about to answer when a discreet knock sounded at the door. Erich barked something in another language—Russian? Finnish?—and two waiters entered carrying trays. They cleared the table and set out the main course, plates of poached salmon, boiled baby potatoes, and sliced cucumbers. Erich waited until they had poured the wine and left the room before speaking.
“I was. My wife died several years ago.”
“Do you have children?”
“Two. A son. A daughter. My daughter is a physician. My son is—following in my footsteps. I hope you will meet them both.”
“You know everything about me, I suppose, with your connections.”
“I know you married Al. I don’t know if you got my wedding present.”
“Wedding present?” Jean tilted her head, remembering. “Of course! The carpet! The mysterious, fabulous carpet! But I had no idea it came from you.”
“No. You couldn’t have known. It was a romantic gesture. I wanted you to have something beautiful, and lasting. It was a pleasure for me to think you had it in your home all these years.”
“That was a clever time to send it. We assumed it was from friends of our parents. I wish I had known it was from you.”
“Do you really?”
Jean considered. She and Al had put the carpet in their living room, where it gave the home of the newlyweds an air of permanence and luxury. She’d put her babies down on its velvety surface to crawl. Her family had spent Christmas Days seated on the carpet unwrapping presents. How would she have felt knowing it was from Erich, the lover who left her? She would have felt compromised, confused.
“No. You’re right. But I’m glad I know now.”
“You had a happy marriage.”
“Yes. You know Al died this summer?”
“Yes. I’m sorry.”
“He was a good man. A good husband. We had four children. Diane, Bert, Susan, Art.”
“Yes. I’ve met Diane.”
“What?” Jean looked at Erich in amazement.
“When she was in Russia about ten years ago. When it was feared her daughter had meningitis. I was able to help her leave quickly. It was a pleasure to see her. She looks very much like you.”
“My God!” Jean said. “You were the one who helped Diane. What a lovely coincidence!”
“It was hardly a coincidence,” Erich told her.
Another knock came at the door, announcing the arrival of the waiters with a dessert of berries and cream and a beautiful silver pot of aromatic coffee.
When the waiters had bowed and left, closing the door behind them, Erich continued. “They tell me you were traveling and that we interrupted your trip. I wonder if I might persuade you to postpone your journey some more. I would like to take you to Moscow with me. I would like to show you my country.”
Jean concentrated on stirring cream and sugar into her coffee. “I don’t think I could visit Moscow now. I’d better go home. I’ve got to spend some time with Diane—I’ve got a lot of explaining to do. No, I’m afraid I can’t go now.”
“Perhaps later?” Erich asked. “Perhaps in the spring?”
“Perhaps,” Jean replied, smiling.
Erich had to leave after their lunch, but first he returned Jean to Mr. Kaarinen’s care. Mr. Kaarinen helped her put through a phone call to Diane. Her daughter’s voice sounded so clear that Jean had to remind herself she was half a world away. Quickly she made arrangements for Diane, who was bursting with questions, to meet her plane the next afternoon. Jean smoothly insisted they wait until they were together to talk about it all.
She had three hours before her flight left for London and when she said she wished she could see something of Helsinki, Mr. Kaarinen suggested she visit the famous waterfront. He drove her there, promising to pick her up in two hours to take her to the airport. She thanked him and stepped out by herself for one last, deliciously solitary walk on foreign soil.
It was a glorious day, brilliant with a slanted sunlight that spa
rkled across the Gulf of Finland and lay warmly on her shoulders like a shawl. An enormous, radiant expanse of water lapped at the clean, modern harbor. Gulls soared and screamed above the fishing boats, launches and trawlers hummed and blared their horns as they set off for other shores, stately cruise ships rocked at anchor, and salt and a tangy foretaste of winter glittered in the air. She enjoyed the mix of people she passed among, kerchiefed farm women and husky fishermen, Gypsy women dressed in bright full skirts, tourists in their sensible sneakers. It pleased her that she could not understand even a syllable of this language. Diane had come here once, she remembered, years ago … if she had time, she could look up the jeweler Diane still corresponded with … but no, there was not enough time today. Perhaps if she returned … Perhaps if she returned on her way to Moscow.
Wandering through the market set up beside the harbor, Jean admired the plump, glossy vegetables, the vibrant bronze and gold chrysanthemums, and the variety of fresh, pink fish. Herring were marvelous to look at, seemingly made of silver when they were brought up dripping from the water; once smoked, their scales turned into gold. Stopping before a stall of clever wooden toys, she realized that she hadn’t bought presents for any of her grandchildren. She’d allocated a certain part of her money especially for gifts—but even if she rushed, she couldn’t choose and buy them all now. Well, she would have to come back, if not to Helsinki, at least to Europe. She would have to. She was cutting this trip short.
The delicious aroma of coffee drifted out from a cafe and she entered, glad to sit down. She was tired. She ordered coffee and sweet pastries, then settled back in her chair and simply looked out the window at the passing crowds.
She thought of Al. He would not be amused to see her here—an older, and therefore vulnerable, woman, alone. He’d never wanted to travel through Europe, preferring the more comfortable pleasures of the tried and true. She had never pressed the issue, and they had vacationed in Florida during the winter, where Al played his beloved game of golf, and they had dutifully visited their children and grandchildren during the holidays, and it had all been very pleasant.
She wondered whether or not Al could see her now. Over the past few months, after her husband’s death, Jean had tried to be open to the possibility of contact from those “on the other side.” Friends of hers, widows, widowers, assured her that they had seen or heard or even been touched by a spouse or child who had died. Al could appear at any time, they told her, as a voice, or perhaps in a dream. She had waited. She had neither believed nor disbelieved. Al had not appeared.
During the last few years of their lives they had lived like friends or comrades rather than man and wife. Finally, theirs had been an affectionate, but not sexual, relationship. Looking back at her life, she was certain that she’d been a good wife to Al. She had made him happy; she had given him four children.
And she had been the love of his life. She knew that.
If he could see her now, would he begrudge her this happiness? She didn’t think he would. She hoped not. For in this strange northern latitude, during this chilly season as the year moved toward its winter, she felt strange stirrings in her heart, and an eager anticipation of all that was yet to come. She still had years and years to live, and much to see, and so much she wanted to do. She took a final swallow of the rich, aromatic, dark coffee, then counted out the shining Finnish marks and pennies and hurried back out into the tantalizing bustle of the unfamiliar streets.
Chapter 12
Jean, Diane, and Julia
Saturday morning Jean awoke in the guest room of her oldest daughter’s house. For a while she simply lay in bed, collecting her thoughts. The flight from Helsinki to Boston had been interminable, with a long layover in London; and after passing through customs and waiting for her luggage, Jean had wanted to do nothing but take a long, hot shower and stretch out in bed. Diane had been wonderful, understanding that even though it was only noon in Boston it was night according to Jean’s body; and while Jean showered, Diane had put a plate of buttered toast and a pot of tea on the bedside table, then left, closing the bedroom door. Jean had crawled into bed, nibbled enough of the toast to settle her stomach, then slipped down into a dreamy sleep. She’d slept straight through the afternoon and night, for almost twenty-four hours.
No wonder she’d slept so late: the sky was dark. Throwing back the covers, Jean padded across the thick carpet to the window. Rain battered the glass, and thunder rolled ominously in the distance. She was glad they hadn’t had to endure weather like this during her flight home. Hadn’t Diane told her that Julia and Sam would be driving up from Middletown this weekend? Jean had always been edgy when one of her children was traveling on wet roads in bad conditions. But she’d met Sam; she thought he’d be careful.
Now Jean opened her bedroom door and listened, but she didn’t hear any voices. Eager to see her family, she quickly washed her face and dressed. As she brushed her hair, she noticed how bright and clear her eyes looked in the mirror. Because of the long sleep? Or because she was so happy? She could see some of her youth shining in her face.
Stepping out into the quiet of the wide upstairs hall, Jean let herself indulge in a moment of nostalgia, and instead of hurrying down the stairs, she went into her grandchildren’s bedrooms. Chase’s room was so neat that it felt empty, as if it were a photo album he’d arranged and closed and abandoned to a shelf in his parents’ house. But Julia’s room was a glorious mess, the jumble of a young person metamorphosing so fast that the stages of her life blurred one into the other. Her beloved pink toe shoes hung by their ribbons from the closet doorknob, her windows were swathed with streaked and tie-dyed scarves, her desk was piled with frighteningly fat guides to colleges, and next to her bed stood the white wicker rocker she had sat in as a toddler, now holding her favorite teddy bear. On her dresser was the elaborate musical jewelry box her grandparents had given her the Christmas she was eleven.
“Oh, sweet,” Jean murmured, smiling, and crossed the room and lifted the lid of the music box, wanting to hear the tinkling tune, to see the ballerina twirl. And she heard the tune and saw the little doll creak along in its stiff circle, but she also saw, tucked in the bracelet compartment, a bunch of shining foil-wrapped condoms. “Oh, my,” Jean said, slamming the lid shut. During their drive home from the airport the day before, Diane had told Jean about all that had gone on with Julia this week; still, the condoms were shocking.
“Serves you right for snooping,” she admonished herself aloud and left Julia’s room, but still she could not keep herself from stopping at Diane’s study. The door was open, so Jean only leaned against the doorjamb and looked in, at the long desk with its computer and phone and copy and fax machines, at the easel with a half-completed sketch of a necklace, at the easy chair and ottoman with the good reading lamp and the basket of trade magazines nearby, at the walls covered with framed ads for Arabesque and photographs of Diane receiving awards. How successful her daughter was, with all these accolades, and a good marriage, and such fine children, too. She hoped she’d told Diane how proud she was of her.
Turning, she went down the stairs and into the living room where a fire of cherrywood and birch blazed behind the brass screen, warming the room. For once her daughter was not sketching or reading or sewing but, instead, sat curled up in an armchair, gazing out into the room as if she’d never seen it before. When Jean entered, Diane looked startled—Jean even thought Diane blushed, although perhaps that was simply heat from the fire.
“Oh! Mother! I didn’t hear you come down. Did you have a good sleep?”
“Yes, dear, it was bliss. Just what I needed.”
“I’ve got coffee on, and I’ll just heat up some muffins, that is unless you’re hungry for eggs—”
“No, that sounds lovely, although I would like a glass of juice. But I can go get it. You don’t have to wait on me.” She followed her daughter into the kitchen and while Diane heated up the muffins, then spread them with butter, Jean poured herself
a small glass of orange juice and fixed her coffee the way she liked it.
“Jim’s at the lab,” Diane said as they moved through the kitchen.
“He works even on Saturdays now?”
“He works all the time now. He has no life,” Diane answered, bitterness tinging her voice.
“Perhaps he’s close to a discovery.”
“He’s always close to one. He’s been close for years. Oh, I don’t want to waste our time complaining—we’ve got so much to talk about.” Diane turned suddenly and surprised her mother with a look of admiration. “Mother. What’s this about a man before Daddy?”
Jean took her breakfast in by the fire and settled onto the sofa. Diane curled up again in the armchair, and they talked as they never had before. Jean started at the beginning, describing her family with an honesty she’d never felt free to express when her parents were alive—they were her children’s grandparents, after all, and that was what was important. She described her college days, her pacifist beliefs, and then she told Diane about her love affair with Erich, trying to capture the romance of it all. She didn’t say whether or not she and Erich had actually been lovers, and Diane didn’t ask. Probably she could guess, Jean thought, for she kept smiling. She told Diane about her trip to Helsinki and about meeting Erich again.
“And that’s it,” she finished. “Here I am.”
“Uncle Bobby will be apoplectic when he hears about this!” Diane remarked with a grin.
“I don’t see why he should know about it,” Jean replied. “I don’t see why anyone has to tell him. Erich says it will be a long time before they know whether or not the formula is all they’re hoping for.”
“What was it like seeing Erich again after all these years?” Diane asked.
“It was wonderful,” Jean confessed. “He was so elegant, and he had such beautiful manners. And he’s such an impressive-looking man—you’ve met him, you know.”
“What?”
“He told me about it. When you went to Leningrad the time Julia had spinal meningitis.”
