Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  When they pass an ill-dressed, unwashed man rattling a can of pennies, Weaver pulls a five-dollar bill out of his pocket.

  “How you doin’, buddy?” he asks.

  “Lots better now,” the man says, astonished by the bill, which he folds into his pocket.

  “Here’s to good luck,” Weaver says.

  “Why’d you give him so much money?” Ava asks when they’re far enough away that the man can’t hear. “My mother says bums should get jobs.”

  “The way I see it,” Weaver says, “with rotten luck, any of us could be that man. Sometimes a fellow can’t find a job. Sometimes he’s sick.”

  “You gave him five dollars. Are you rich?”

  He stops and smiles. Rosalind can see Ava surprises, maybe even charms him.

  “I’m richer being with you and your aunt Roz today. The richest I’ve been in a long, long while,” he says.

  He buys them Popsicles from a man with a cart. Both Weaver and Ava choose turquoise.

  “What flavor do you think this really is?” she asks him.

  “Blueberry?” he suggests.

  “I think it tastes like the sky.”

  They sit on a bench side by side, Ava between them, kicking her long legs. Rosalind notices her observing Weaver, smiling. Apparently, he charms her, too. Rosalind, on the other hand, keeps wondering how she ended up in Grant Park with the one man she least wants to see. He’s always gotten what he wanted. But she can’t help being surprised at his new kindness. And how he makes Ava smile.

  * * *

  The Art Institute is surprisingly quiet for a Saturday. A few grandmotherly types in potato-sack dresses. One large family. Perhaps it’s too beautiful a day to be inside. Instead of climbing the grand staircase to the skylit rooms of Impressionist paintings, Weaver leads them down to the lower level first.

  “What’s down here?” Ava asks Weaver.

  “Ever seen the Thorne Rooms?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You have,” Rosalind says. “The dollhouse-size rooms?”

  “Oh, those!”

  Roz took Ava to see the rooms three or four years ago. Now her niece’s patience and interest will surely have grown. Roz has always loved these perfectly scaled miniatures of rooms throughout history. They’re not just dollhouse cute, but breathtakingly exact tableaux of other eras, with glimpses out doors and windows to gardens and streets beyond. So intricate, so authentic. Lit as though real sun is shimmering through glass windows. Rosalind feels she could step into each scene, sit on the perfectly upholstered sofa beneath a crystal chandelier, drink from the teacup waiting on the table, gaze at the intricate decorative plaster ceiling, and rest her feet on an Aubusson rug.

  “They’re so dreamy,” Ava squeals.

  The English hall from the Tudor era. The chic California breezeway from 1935. Roz loves them all.

  “It’s like going on a trip, don’t you think?” Roz asks Ava.

  “Even better.”

  “Come here, Ava,” Weaver says. He holds out his hand to help her niece up onto the riser built so children can have a better view. “Who do you think takes a bath in this grand room?” The placard reads, FRENCH BATHROOM AND BOUDOIR OF THE REVOLUTIONARY PERIOD, 1793–1804. An oval stone bathtub is sunken into the floor of the room, decorated with lions’ heads and brass chains. The room is lit with candle sconces. A stone fireplace is there to warm a bather.

  “A princess,” she posits.

  “A French princess,” he tells her.

  “Her name is Ermine Gina,” she declares grandly.

  “What a perfect name for a princess.”

  “She’s so beautiful, men faint when they see her,” Ava whispers. “One right after another.” Weaver beams at Rosalind. Rosalind can’t help but think that soon poor Ermine Gina will surely meet the guillotine.

  * * *

  By the time they’ve investigated every Thorne Room, seen the Impressionists, and stepped out of the museum, the sky has deepened to gray flannel. At the edge of the horizon Rosalind observes flickering lights, and a moment later comes the distant gurgle of thunder.

  “Hungry?” Weaver asks.

  “I am!” Ava says. Roz has been moved by his interest in Ava. She’s begun to think he really is a different man than she once knew. Is it possible he’s truly sorry for betraying her? That something seismic has magically changed him or led him to regret his choices? It would have to be magic, because she doubts people are capable of real change. If I let him in, I’ve got to remember it’s only for the FBI. Only to do the right thing.

  “See there down the street?” he says. “Tin Sing. They have wonderful egg rolls. And egg foo yong. Do you like Chinese, Ava?”

  “Is Chinese food all made of eggs? I never tried any,” she says.

  He laughs. “I don’t even think there are eggs in egg rolls. Not sure why they call it that.”

  Fat yellow taxis glide up and down Michigan Avenue. A breeze has picked up off the lake. It will rain for certain, which will hopefully dispel the heat. In front of them, a little girl is licking an ice cream cone. She’s leaving sticky chocolate dots all along the sidewalk. Roz is doing her best not to step in them. In her heels, she stumbles into Weaver.

  “Steady there, girl,” he says taking her arm.

  “Steady theah, gel,” Ava repeats in his English accent, giggling. She grabs Rosalind’s other arm. Together they cross the street.

  A complex red Chinese cornice announces the entrance to Tin Sing. The neon sign in the window blinks: BEST CHOW MEIN. It’s just five, but patrons are already dining. The hostess seats them at a table near the window, just behind the neon sign.

  “What a pretty family,” she says as she hands them their menus, bowing.

  “Thank you,” Ava says, trying not to laugh.

  Weaver looks at them both warmly. “I agree. We are a lovely family.”

  Ava says, “Thank you, Father!” and then turns to Rosalind to whisper, “Do you know where the ladies’ room is, Mother?”

  Rosalind points to a sign in the back, which spells out the word “Restroom” in faux Chinese letters.

  “You want me to come?”

  “No!”

  Roz watches her walk away, poised and self-certain.

  “She’s wonderful,” Weaver says.

  “I think so.”

  “In her, I see you as a little girl.”

  “I was never so full of life.”

  “You won’t persuade me of that.”

  He takes her hand and kisses it. She doesn’t draw away. She can smell his shaving soap, his warm, masculine aroma she once knew so well.

  “Give me a chance,” he whispers, pressing her hand to his cheek. “That’s all I’m asking. I love you so. Just being with you again is everything to me.”

  Her heart hurts as though it’s filling with too much blood, too much life, after being asleep for years. Did he ever tell her he loved her like this in the past? Can she even for a moment trust it?

  “Can you say what you need to tell me?” she asks.

  He shakes his head. “Not now,” he says. “We need time alone for that.”

  “Can’t you just give me an idea of what it is?”

  He shakes his head. “I promise. Next time we’re alone.” Next time. Each time he sees her, he assumes there’s a next time.

  The waiter brings a pot of tea. The sky flickers. The thunder draws nearer. Ava comes back and sits with a contented sigh. Just then, rain begins to pelt the window. It’s a glorious sound. They’re inside, together. The hot tea is grassy and calming. Weaver starts telling a story of a dog he had when he was a boy, imitating his father’s Yorkshire accent. By the time the meal comes, he’s imitating the dog’s facial expressions. Ava is laughing so hard she can hardly eat. Roz feels Weaver’s leg pressing against hers. She
could move away from him but doesn’t. He is a drug. Still, the joy of Ava’s hilarity, the tenderness when his eyes rest momentarily on her face, are richer and more rewarding than anything she’s felt in a long, long time.

  * * *

  When Weaver drops them at her front door (with Frank now on duty, glowering at him), he kisses Ava’s hand and tells her it’s been a pleasure spending time with her. He kisses Rosalind’s lips and whispers, “Thank you, my love.”

  Ava has a tired, happy expression on her face as they ride the elevator up to the apartment.

  “Mr. Weaver is so nice. Isn’t he your old boyfriend? The one my mommy doesn’t like?”

  Rosalind nods. “She doesn’t trust him because once, he broke my heart.”

  She unlocks the door, cranks open the windows. The rain has cleared. The breeze is soft.

  “In the movies people are always breaking each other’s hearts, then making up and living happily ever after,” Ava says. “Maybe you and Weaver could too . . .”

  “We’ve had a long day, dolly. Time for your bath.”

  “Someday, I’d like to find a man just like Weaver. We’ll eat sky-blue Popsicles. And maybe by then . . . by then, we can live together on the moon. You could visit us. You could even live with us.”

  “You’re sweet,” Rosalind says. “And I appreciate the invitation. But grown people need lives of their own.”

  “You should marry Mr. Weaver, and you can both come live with us—in a separate moon house,” Ava says, looking like she’s solved an impenetrable mystery. “I can be your bridesmaid. I’m very good at holding bouquets.” She smiles a perfect, puckish smile.

  “Darling, if I’m planning to marry Weaver, you’ll be the first to know.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Sunday, in his good suit and tie, Charlie walks to mass with Peggy and her family. Peggy couldn’t be happier if he’d handed her a gallon bottle of Chanel No. 5.

  “I’ve been praying for this,” she tells him, kissing his cheek. She’s a picture. Freckled and coiffed, her caramel-colored hair tucked under a navy hat. The golden locket he bought her at Field’s gleaming. As they near St. Mary’s, there’s a parade of people on the sidewalk heading toward the church. When the rest of the family is ahead of them, Mack slaps Charlie on the back.

  “Old man, you were my hero. How’d you let Peg whip you back into being an altar boy? You’re breaking my heart.”

  “You think I’m making a mistake coming to church?”

  “I think if you get hit by a bus tomorrow, you may get a free pass to heaven. But that’s not where the fun girls are.”

  Charlie considered two options this morning after a night of no sleep: heading to the gun range in Bridgeport, which, surprisingly, is open on Sundays, or going to church. Church is closer and opens earlier, and it’s probably unwise for a man with no sleep to handle a firearm. He’s hoping he’ll find a moment of peace beneath the vast arches of St. Mary’s, in the liturgical music, in the old rituals of childhood, if not with Jesus or God. He’s still on the outs with them.

  It’s just that ever since Friday evening he can’t shake a feeling of unease about Rosalind Porter. He feels guilty for what he’s pushing her into. He can tell Weaver represents a real threat to her. But is that really what’s haunting him?

  His tie feels too tight—Peggy ties all his ties. They wait in his closet, hanging like a row of nooses. Once he has one around his neck, he wiggles the knot up with his good hand. The system works except when he slides the knot too high. He’s never been able to loosen his tie without ruining the knot. He runs his finger around his collar because, damn, it’s warm today.

  In front of him, his niece and nephew are dressed like miniature adults. Stevie in a suit with long pants, Cindy with white gloves, white anklets. Both in hats. By the time they reach the church, Stevie doffs his, revealing that his mop of red hair has darkened with perspiration. Cindy hands hers to Peg.

  The church is huge but already filling. Thank heavens the cavernous ceiling is keeping the room cool. Charlie picks out old classmates across the aisle. And Peggy’s friends, too. A few look startled to see him. Some wave. Three of his old teachers, all nuns, are in attendance together. They nod as they see him, with serious, cautioning lips pressed. They look the same as they did fifteen, twenty years ago. Childlike and sexless. And then coming up the aisle he spots Linda Dubicki, a baby on her shoulder, a toddler trailing behind her. Linda. He should have known she’d be here. She’s pregnant. Her face is so painted she doesn’t look like the same girl. He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for a moment. And when he opens them, he sees her husband, his old classmate, Stash Majewski, scuttling up the aisle, trying to control the toddler who keeps veering off one way or another. Stash has grown a beer belly and hasn’t had time to shave. His suit no longer fits. The seams along the arms are threatening to pop their stitches. He looks exhausted.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Stash. Hurry up,” Linda snarls from the pew. “If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be late to begin with.”

  Maybe Charlie should believe in God. Because there but for the grace of his grotesque hand goes he.

  * * *

  Father Janowski hasn’t changed since Charlie saw him four years ago. His hollow face and skeletal fingers terrify children. Ichabod Crane with a high, chirping voice. Peg made Charlie go see him when he got back from the war. Father spent a lot of time worrying over Charlie’s crisis of faith, yet never once asked him what happened during his captivity, nor what happened to his hand. One time when Charlie tried to tell him about how people around him were beaten or beheaded for the most minimal infractions, and how his hand was destroyed, Father Janowski was so uncomfortable, he jumped up and said another parishioner was waiting to see him.

  The mass begins in its droning way. Lack of sleep and Latin are a potent brew. Twice, Mack has to elbow Charlie in the ribs. Charlie once read if you can’t stay awake, you should bite your tongue. He bites too hard, releasing the dirty-penny tang of blood. His biggest fear is that if he falls asleep, he’ll wake with a nightmare, shout out, embarrass his family. It’s cruel how a man who’s been to war has to relive the suffering long after the actual torment has stopped.

  To keep himself awake, he glances over at Linda. He has more than once characterized losing her as an amputation. The pain of what she did to him after the war burns like his hand when he tries to sleep at night, yet when he actually touches the injured skin, he experiences no sensation. Similarly, when he glances at Linda now, pregnant, her lipstick a bright pomegranate red, he feels nothing whatsoever.

  * * *

  Linda was worried but supportive when Charlie’s mother insisted he enlist. Everyone knew the draft was coming and America would join the war by the end of the year. Poland needed defending. “You’re a smart boy, Charlie,” his mother said. “You could save Polish lives.”

  “A guy has to think about his duty to the world, doesn’t he?” Linda whispered to him later. “I guess it’s part of being a man.” Charlie was flattered that she thought of him as a man. Her soft smile told him she’d be proud of him in a uniform, proud that he’d go bravely forward to defend the old country that held a place in their hearts. He looks back now, remembering his naivete with bitterness.

  The letters Linda sent him while he was in training could have made a stone blush. It was a wonder the censors didn’t pocket her confessions. But the letters that stick with him now are the tamer, sweeter ones. They sketched out dreams that Charlie and Linda shared: a brick suburban house with a glider on the back porch and a garage for a family-size Chevrolet. Two children: a tall, sincere boy like him; a girl as blond and pretty as her.

  “You go overseas, my love. Our children are waiting . . . ,” she wrote.

  Then, instead of being sent to Europe to defend Poland, he was shipped to Corregidor, a Philippine island at the entrance of Manila Bay. Hot, dis
ease-ridden. Lined up like target practice, every airplane in the Philippines was blown to bits the day Pearl Harbor was bombed. The few tanks that were available were so new, no one really knew how to operate them. And not enough food had arrived to keep the troops in full rations. Underfed, badly armed, sick with dysentery, Americans and Filipinos were soon forced to surrender to the enemy. In the Japanese culture, surrender is the ultimate shame. Death is preferable.

  Beaten, starved, humiliated at every turn, the captives were sent to a hellhole called Camp O’Donnell. Charlie was lucky he’d been stationed on Corregidor. Those stationed on the Bataan Peninsula arrived after a nine-day march with no food or water. Thousands fell along the way. Of those who survived, many died in their first few hours at O’Donnell.

  Charlie lived. But each day made him wonder why. After months in the Philippines, he and a few hundred more were loaded onto a rickety ship to Japan. Surely, they thought, the camps in Japan would be better.

  As soon as they arrived, they were stripped naked, their filthy khakis and shoes thrown into a burning pile. Creatures in white suits, hoods, and masks sprayed them with noxious fumes to kill the lice. They were handed pajama-like gray prisoner clothing made for five-foot-six men. The pants came to just below Charlie’s knees. The shirt could hardly be buttoned. The strange black canvas shoes had an insert between the big toe and the next and were closed in the back with two eyelets. Charlie had to tear the fronts open entirely to force them onto his size fourteen feet. “Giant. Freak!” one Japanese guard spat at him in surprisingly good English. Since there were no soles under the front half of his feet, he wrapped his toes in layer after layer of burlap torn from the bags that had held the shoes. In their new uniforms, the prisoners were loaded onto a train headed to a town high in the mountains.