“Well, you and I will have a nice weekend and talk all we want. How ’bout it?” She gives Ava a squeeze. “We just have to figure out what we want to do. The world is our oyster.”
“See? Another dumb adult thing! Oysters are disgusting. I tasted one. It was a ball of phlegm.”
“The world is our Oreo, then? So what do you want to do with it?”
“Can we go to the toy department at Field’s?”
“Oh . . . okay.”
Ava eyes Roz, perhaps noting her lack of enthusiasm. “I don’t mean to buy anything. We can just play a game that we’re very, very rich and can have any doll we like and all the clothes and shoes and hats that go with her. My friend Shirley says that there are roller skates for Ginnys now. They must be this big!” She squeezes her thumb and forefinger together. Going to Field’s is the opposite of fun for Rosalind. But it would be worth it to make Ava happy.
“Let me grab my things and we’ll catch the bus.”
Just as she’s checking her purse for a handkerchief and keys, the buzzer sounds. When she answers, Wally, the afternoon doorman, announces there’s a package from Marshall Field’s. They’re bringing it up on the elevator.
“What is it?” Ava asks.
“Beats me.” Money’s been too tight for anything but groceries lately.
She answers the door on the first knock and confronts a carton so unwieldy, two deliverymen have brought it up on a cart. Another smaller box sits on top.
“Are you sure this is for me?” she asks.
The portly one in his green Field’s jumpsuit plucks a piece of paper from his shirt pocket, which is embroidered with the name Chet.
“Rosalind Porter?”
“Yes.” She wonders with some astonishment if she’s won a raffle as a Field’s employee.
“Purchased by a Thomas H. Weaver. Where do you want it?”
“It’s a gift from Weaver!” Ava says, brightening, clapping her hands.
“If you’ll step aside, young lady,” Ralph, the other man, says. Rosalind’s sat through enough Field’s Means Good Manners classes, right beside deliverymen like these two. The men lay a sidewalk of brown grocery paper before they wheel the cart in.
“So where’s your pleasure?” Ralph asks.
“I don’t know. What is it?”
At her behest, they cut through the edges of the box and pluck away miles of protective packaging—the padded kind with lint between walls of brown paper—to reveal a glowing mahogany cabinet. Weaver went into Marshall Field’s to buy it without her knowing. But why would he send her a piece of furniture, as elegant as it is?
“Over there, I guess.” Roz points to a space between two chairs.
“No, miss,” Chet says. “It’s got to be across from the chairs. Or the sofa. And by a plug.” Chet points to a spot on the opposite wall. She’s bewildered that a deliveryman would involve himself in interior design. And then he grabs both of the elegant pulls—lions biting down on brass rings—and opens the doors with a thwack.
“It’s a television!” Ava exclaims. “A really pretty television!”
“A top-of-the-line Philco.” Chet slides the doors back to either side of the screen, so the lions’ heads just peek out. Louisa has deemed television a ridiculous distraction. But everyone in the break room at Field’s has been chatting animatedly about what was on last night, what will be on tonight. Rosalind’s been curious. The men move the TV across from the sofa, then plug it in and turn it on. The screen, from a pinpoint of white, opens like an umbrella to a field of sparkling light. A voice speaks.
“And here we have another small fry, Jimmy McHale from Westport, Connecticut, with a wonderful story! Go on and tell us, Jimmy.”
“Well, sir, my mother tole me this story and it sure is a doozy . . .”
The TV babbles on, but Rosalind can’t see a thing.
“They call that snow,” Ava tells her wisely. “It means bad reception.”
“How do you know that?”
“I have friends with televisions. I watch at their houses.”
“Don’t worry,” Ralph says, jumping up from where he’s been crouched down. “Your fellow purchased some rabbit ears.” He cracks open the second box and yanks out a brown Bakelite ball with two silver wands and a curl of wire rising in the middle. As he adjusts the wands, the blizzard coalesces into a little boy in a cowboy outfit speaking earnestly to the camera, an avuncular-looking host by his side. Ava plops herself down on the floor right in front of the set.
“This is the keenest! Our own TV!”
“Okay, then,” Chet says. “Just sign here; you’re all set. By the way, young lady, Kukla, Fran and Ollie comes on channel five at four. Everyone loves that. And tonight’s Beat the Clock on channel two at eight. My favorite!”
“Never miss it,” Ralph says. “My wife’s in love with Bud Collyer. I swear she puts perfume behind her ears before it starts.” He winks at Rosalind.
When they’re gone, Rosalind asks Ava, “You still want to go to Field’s?”
“Are you kidding? I’m watching television! Sit down, Rozzie!”
* * *
Later, as Ava is surprisingly mesmerized by Howdy Doody—which seems to be aimed at six-year-olds—Roz pulls a half-written letter out of her desk drawer and rereads what she wrote.
Dr. Ross J. Beckworth
Associate Dean
University of Illinois College of Engineering
Dear Doctor Beckworth,
I just read your letter to the editor in the June issue of the American Journal of Physics. I was intrigued to learn about the new relationship between your department and Argonne National Laboratory. It led me to wonder if your department has plans to pursue a program dedicated to teaching the potential of nuclear energy and the future of its development.
As a former member of the Manhattan Project, I have long wished to expand upon nuclear energy’s possibilities and would be interested in discussing a prospective program with you.
She began writing the note last night after drinking a thimbleful of Scotch. She felt she needed the liquor to push herself to write to this man. The letter she started to Argonne still sits in her desk drawer, mocking her every time she comes across it. Last night, she thought, Maybe it’s easier to begin with a university. No need to reach out to Professor Fermi. No need to find out how he feels about her. That all feels risky, humiliating. But as she works on this letter, her shame is muted and she begins to believe her time and experience at the Met Lab could truly benefit a new program. It’s fulfilling to think her passion for peacetime energy could help set a new course. She finishes, addresses, and stamps the letter. And then she takes the Argonne letter and completes it, too.
* * *
After dinner, they post both letters, then take a nice long walk along the lakefront, pointing at boats, strolling up to Michigan Avenue. The empty-eyed man is nowhere to be seen. Do spies take the weekend off? she wonders. Still, wherever she and her niece walk, Rosalind scopes the street, the shadows, the cross streets. Ava seems to have picked up Rosalind’s uneasiness. Later, as she stands in her turquoise pajamas, her face still rosy from washing, she asks, “Rozzie, can I sleep in your bed? If you want to know the truth, I’m kinda nervous.”
“About your parents?”
Ava nods. “About everything.”
“Okay. But when I come to bed, there’d better be covers for me.”
“I’m not responsible for what I do in my sleep.”
Rosalind laughs. “Well, you can try, Miss Cover Hog.”
“Just don’t wait too long to come to bed.”
* * *
Roz goes to bed early but wakes to a catastrophic crash. Horns are blaring on the drive. The clock says only 10:48. She hasn’t even been in bed a half hour, and having been explosively awakened during her initial descent into sleep, s
he’s dizzy. Ava is peacefully snoozing, a beatific smile on her lips.
Getting up gingerly, Roz peers out the window. Down on Lake Shore Drive, a sedan lies crumpled against the guardrail, its fender inside out. Another black car lies in the other lane, as misshapen as a tin can crushed beneath a foot. It isn’t long until a police cruiser arrives and then an ambulance. She watches, hardly moving, until the emergency workers remove someone from the near car and slide the stretcher into the ambulance. Even from here, she can see black liquid dripping from the victim’s hand.
The accident roils inside her. How do we survive a world where death awaits us at all times? She closes her eyes and tries to absorb the peace that Ava gives off, but she knows she can’t sleep now. Stepping out into the living room, she shuts the bedroom door and picks up the phone to call her sister. It’s late, but she’s sure on a weekend she’ll still be up.
Even Lou’s “hello” sounds firm and closed off. “Sorry to call at this hour. Just wondering if you’re okay.”
“Why shouldn’t I be?” Was there ever a time her sister didn’t deflect? Didn’t push her away?
“Ava says you were crying last night.”
“My own daughter’s tattling on me now?”
“She’s worried about you. I’m worried, too . . .”
“Since when have you ever worried about me?” Lou’s voice is so brittle, it would be easy for Roz to just cut the call short. Everything about her sister’s answers says that’s what she wants. But Louisa’s right: When has Roz ever been worried about her sister? When has anyone worried about her?
“Is there anything I can do for you?” Rosalind asks. “Really. Anything.”
Lou clearly didn’t expect her little sister would be solicitous. She’s quiet for a moment. “How’s Ava?” she asks.
“She’s fast asleep. Fine.”
“Then you’re doing what I need most.”
“Good. Listen, do you remember that psychiatrist you took me to when I was at my worst?” Roz asks.
“What about him?”
“Maybe you should go see him. Maybe he can help.”
“He was a charlatan. His only thought: to lock you up in a loony bin. Is that what you and Henry want to happen to me?”
Rosalind sighs. Why are some people so combative when they’re hurting most?
“You’re right. You deserve someone better.”
“You really called just to ask about me?”
“To see if you’re okay. I was worried about you.” When was the last time she said that to Lou?
“Well. You shouldn’t have bothered,” she says. “I’m going to bed now.”
“I hope you’ll sleep well.”
“Fat chance,” she says. “Night.” She hangs up. Rosalind takes a deep breath. She understands why she rarely asks about her sister’s happiness. Still, she should do more.
Not ready to get back into bed, even more riled up after talking to her sister, she opens the TV cabinet, then, making sure the volume is at its lowest, switches it on. Down on the Drive, she hears a second ambulance arriving but doesn’t want to look. On the channel she last watched, there’s an orchestra, a bandleader. It doesn’t hold her attention. She flips the dial to what appears to be a film. At the bottom of the screen are the words CIVIL DEFENSE. A man in shirtsleeves is sitting at a desk, smoking and speaking to the camera. She turns the volume up just loud enough to hear.
“Man at last has a weapon that can destroy civilization,” he says in an insistent voice. “Does this mean we are helpless against attack? Note very carefully what is to follow.” She shudders. What reckless information might they be peddling?
Stepping over to the couch, she sits, pulls in her feet, leans forward, and watches. It’s all a farce: the neatly stocked bomb shelter, the children ducking under their desks with their hands over their heads, the instructions to bury contaminated clothing rather than burn it, to avoid releasing radiation. She’s read reports of the Japanese survivors, of their burns and blisters and blindness, the cancer and subsequent diseases. Can it even be called surviving? This film was created to soothe a terrified populace, not to tell the truth. Down on the Drive, the second ambulance leaves with a wail of its siren. Just the right music to punctuate her dark thoughts.
She snaps off the TV, slips back in bed with Ava. She’s sick with complicity. What sort of future has she created for her beloved niece? Someday, the entire globe may be ringed in clouds of fire. And all that will remain behind is ash without memory. She only falls asleep after she envisages a safer world, illuminated by clean nuclear energy, and dreams this achievement is partly due to her.
* * *
On Monday night, she meets Zeke for a drink and dinner. He hugs her close, kisses her cheek. He even holds her hand while describing in detail his latest amour. A married businessman.
“He lives a secret life,” Zeke says, shaking his head sadly. “I guess all of us do, in a way,” he says. “But he more than most. It must be heartbreaking to live a life entirely based on a lie. I want to rescue him.” When Zeke speaks about his homosexuality as a tribe to which he belongs, Roz is happy for him because he feels part of something, but sad because it excludes her. She can only peer in from the outside. “I think I could love this man,” he says. “But he’d have to leave his wife for me to even consider it. And then, I suppose, I’d feel bad for his wife, who must be purposely ignoring every obvious signal. It hurts to talk about it, if you want to know the truth.”
“Oh, baby.” She sets her hand on his. She would do anything to make her best friend happy.
“It’s your turn. Tell me about Weaver,” he says.
“I don’t know, Zekie. How do you trust someone who’s betrayed you?”
“You bite the bullet,” Zeke says. “And give it a shot.”
“Do I?”
“You obviously love the man. If you get hurt again, you’ve got scar tissue to pad the pain.”
“Does it work that way? Or is scar tissue more fragile? Doesn’t it make one more vulnerable?”
“Give it a shot, Bunny. You and Weaver are meant to be together—even if he once was a total jerk.”
Rosalind observes her friend, his spiky red hair so sparse, she can map his scalp through it; his childlike face, small and serious. She would be so happy if Zeke could find love. He wants the same for her. They are two lonely people who adore each other but will never be able to meet each other’s needs. Sometimes life is such a tragedy.
After she says good-bye, kissing him on each cheek, she can’t help thinking about what he’s said: that she and Weaver are meant to be together. Weaver has become more vulnerable each time they’ve met. He so clearly longs to make it up to her, aches to know if she still has feelings for him. The way he looks at her is now so much closer to the love she finds in Zeke’s eyes. She’ll call him when she gets upstairs, she decides, her feelings for him warming, blooming.
But when the elevator doors part on her floor, she’s shocked to see that down the hall, a door is ajar. Hers. Dear God, could she have been so distracted this morning that she left it open? Could one of the janitors have come in, checking for a leak? She steps up to it, taps the door into the apartment and steps back with a gasp. The place is in shambles. Pillows are thrown off the sofa. Drawers are open everywhere. She hesitates. Can she go in? Will someone be there waiting for her? With a gun? A knife? A bludgeon? She thinks of running downstairs, having Frank call the police. Or insisting he come up with her.
But something tells her if the intruder were still there, the door wouldn’t be open. So she pushes herself into the apartment, looks behind doors, throws back the shower curtain, opens every closet. In less than a minute, she can see no one is there. Still, the cabinets have been emptied. Plates, vases, glasses, are stacked in a tumble on the countertops in the kitchen. In the bedroom, the contents of her dresser are strewn ever
ywhere. She’d left her mother’s diamond ring in a dish atop the dresser. It’s her most beloved possession. Feeling certain it’s the first thing a robber would take, she frantically pulls aside bras and slips and nightdresses to find the dish sitting right where she left it. She lifts the beloved ring, presses it to her heart, slides it onto her finger. Her earring box also has been dislodged from the drawer and sits atop the dresser. Nervously opening it, she sees that the diamond snowflake earrings Weaver gave her years ago still wait inside. And the little gold knots her father gave her for college graduation. What sort of robber wouldn’t take such obvious loot? Nothing seems missing at all.
Her first thought is to call the police. But if it isn’t a robber, if it’s perhaps the man with the empty eyes looking for something, should she call the police? Charlie Szydlo’s card is in her wallet with his office number, and written on the back, his home number. She glances at the clock. It’s after nine P.M. Taking a deep breath, she picks up the telephone and starts with his office.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Hey, Charlie, telephone call,” Mack yells down the stairs. Charlie’s just had dinner with Peg and her family for the first time in weeks. Pork chops in spiced tomato sauce, scalloped potatoes, chocolate cake. Why doesn’t he come home early more often? He loves the laughter around the family table. Mack knows how to crack the kids up with imitations and jokes, which he tells very slowly and with a great deal of fanfare. Charlie loves eating real food that isn’t wrapped in white paper. And he’s always grateful for the way his sister makes him feel so welcome. After dinner, he helped her with the dishes just to say so. Drying off the big white platter, she told him that she’s been thinking of taking a class in stenography, because it might land her an afternoon job at the church during the school year.
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