Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  Louisa looks up, surprised. “You really want to hear it?”

  “Of course I do.”

  “I want to tell him . . .” Louisa’s eyes are distant and desperate. “I want . . . I want to tell him I feel stuck,” she says. “I want to tell him . . .” Rosalind notes that her lips are quivering. “That I feel taken for granted. That I feel . . .” Tears run along her nose. Tremble at the edge of her lips.

  “You feel like Henry doesn’t appreciate you?”

  “You and Ava don’t either. I’m just Louisa who puts the food on the table and does the laundry and vacuums the floor. I’m invisible. Nobody respects me. No one cares what I say or think. I’m nobody.”

  “You’re not nobody.”

  “What have I accomplished in life? I used to be an A-plus student. Just like you. Did you know that?”

  “I . . . I guess not.”

  “The one time I felt alive was during the war when they took me off the floor at the factory and asked me to join the management. I’d made some suggestions about increasing speed on the line. And my ideas worked, Roz. They worked! They said I was too smart to be just polishing torpedoes. And I made a difference in that office. I reorganized everything. I created systems that worked better. For the first time in my life, I was respected.”

  “I knew you liked that job. But then, why did you leave? Why don’t I recall?”

  “Ava was just four. I only worked because they needed us women during the war. And after a while, you know, it didn’t feel right—leaving Ava with Agnes Dodworth and Father. At that point Father was already failing. And Ava was already too smart, too curious, for poor old Agnes. So I gave it up. While, at that same time, you were out changing the world.”

  “Maybe I was, Lou. But not for the better. Come, sit down,” she says, pulling out a chair for Louisa at the table by the window. Roz takes the seat beside her. In the strong summer light, she can see the lines that have mapped her sister’s face. They’ve deepened with time, like streams cutting through stone. When did Rosalind last really look at the woman who raised her? Or think about her needs?

  Rosalind has always assumed her sister embraced her narrow, prescribed life, was satisfied in her traditional role. After all, she seemed giddy with joy when Roz’s career took its tumble, when her life became more appropriate for a woman. But maybe—and how is it that Rosalind never saw this before?—maybe it was because Louisa envied her. Maybe it was because Louisa felt left behind, caught in a web of everyone else’s expectations.

  “I’ve taken you for granted, and I’m sorry for that. Deeply sorry,” Rosalind says. “But, Lou, you have accomplished something.”

  “What?”

  “You’ve raised me. You’re raising Ava.”

  “It’s not enough,” Louisa says. “I know you think it should be, but it’s not.”

  “I don’t think it should be.” It may be the very first time she’s really understood her sister. Perhaps they are not so different. Listening to her sister, being there for her, makes Roz feel good for the first time in hours. “You want more. You deserve more. You want to be someone. Not just a wife or even a mother. And you know you’re capable of it.”

  Louisa closes her eyes and nods. “Yes,” she whispers. “Yes.”

  “Maybe this rift between you and Henry, maybe it’s not about Henry at all,” Roz says.

  Her sister looks up with questioning eyes.

  “You’re unhappy. You take it out on him. But maybe it’s not him you’re angry at.”

  Louisa’s face is almost childlike.

  “Maybe it’s not.”

  Rosalind takes her sister into her arms, relieved that Lou lets her.

  “We can change things for you. I know we can. You could go to college. Or you could get a job, find a place to shine.”

  “Don’t be absurd. At my age?”

  “I’ve heard of older people going to college.”

  “No. I never could.”

  “You could.” Roz hugs her sister tighter, feels her sobbing. “There are answers to this. Now that we understand, we can explain to Henry what’s going on. We can—”

  “Rozzie’s here? What’s wrong? What’s going on?” Ava wanders in, looking at the two of them with a concerned frown.

  “Nothing, Ava,” Roz says. “Just adults talking. Give us a minute.”

  “But I never get to see you.”

  Louisa sits back. “No. We’ve talked enough. Go with Ava.”

  “Ava, give us more time. Okay?”

  “Rozzie!”

  Roz shoots her niece a stern look.

  “It’s okay,” Louisa says, getting up, lifting the hem of her apron and wiping her tears. “Go with her. Thank you.”

  “But there’s more for us to say.”

  “Not right now.”

  “You sure?”

  “I’m sure.” Rosalind sees that for all Lou’s whining and discontent, it’s hard for her to expose her vulnerable side, the side Rosalind can love, the side she’s always craved to find.

  “We’ll talk more about this,” Rosalind says. “A lot more, okay?”

  “Okay.” Rosalind smiles at her sister, and Louisa actually smiles back. It’s a shy, rusty smile.

  Rosalind leans over and kisses her cheek. “I love you,” she says. “You’re not invisible to me. You’re my savior.” She says it right to her face. She means it.

  * * *

  At that moment, Rosalind’s heart tells her what she’s going to do. Louisa was there for her when she needed her most: saving her when Rosalind didn’t have the fortitude or insight to save herself. When she didn’t even want to be saved. And now she’s helping Louisa when Louisa’s first instinct was to push her away. It’s time to do the same for Weaver. The FBI already suspects him. How long until he’s arrested? Charlie says if Weaver turns himself in, if he puts forward a full confession, they’ll protect him the best they can. It’s Weaver’s only shot at absolution, Rosalind’s only chance of finding safety. She shudders at the thought of wearing the secret recording device, at Weaver touching her and discovering it beneath her clothes. She hates that she’s trapping him—even if it’s to coax him to do the right thing. But she doesn’t see that she has a choice.

  She goes out Louisa’s door to where Carlisle is waiting on the sidewalk, smoking a cigarette, a handful of crushed butts lying all around him on the ground.

  “I’m on my way to the FBI office,” she says as she passes him. “You’d better keep up.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Weaver?” Rosalind knocks at his door but there’s no answer. “Weaver?” she calls again. She imagines he must be napping and searches for the key he insisted she take a few weeks ago. She stares nervously at the unwieldy men’s watch on her left hand as she slips her right one into the dark depths of her purse. The watch contains a microphone. When she reached the FBI office, she discovered that Charlie was spending the day in Hinsdale. But as promised, his secretary had been fully briefed. Donna helped Rosalind snap on the stiff leather harness fitted out to hold the heavy wire recorder. She carefully threaded a wire from the watch up Rosalind’s sleeve to the recorder. She showed her how to switch it on. Two and a half hours of recording time. Secrets to be captured. Rosalind has to tell herself, as she’s done again and again on the bus ride down, that she’s doing the right thing. If only Charlie had been there. He could have helped her feel so much more certain.

  She fears Weaver will ask about the watch. She’s decided to say it was her father’s, though she’s never been a very good liar. The harness bites into her right breast. The Minifon was clearly never meant to be worn by a woman. One hug and Weaver would feel it beneath her jacket. She’ll have to stay away from him. She’ll insist she’s still processing her anger at him, working through it, keeping her distance. At last, her fingers locate Weaver’s key at the dus
ty bottom of her handbag.

  She knocks one more time. “Weaver? I’m coming in.” She slides the key into the lock and twists it. The door opens to an unlit apartment. It’s overcast, sure to rain, and Weaver hasn’t turned on the lights. Maybe he isn’t home yet, got caught up with work. Or he’s resting. He’s been so tired lately. Still, he knew she was coming, seemed excited about it. Clicking the wall switch and another lamp by the sofa, she gingerly moves toward the shadowy bedroom. She tries to see through the murk, to make out his form under the covers. She doesn’t want to turn on the light and scare him. Still, the bedroom faces a narrow gangway where little light gets in. “Weaver?” she whispers. “Weaver?” She comes to the edge of the bed and reaches out to find cold sheets, sweeps her hand across them and feels something sticky. No one’s there. When she switches on the bedside lamp, she gasps.

  The wooden headboard is shattered in one spot, as though hit by a bowling ball. And a wide red-brown streak of what surely must be blood runs along the sheets from that spot, all the way to the side of the bed and along its edge. There’s blood on her hand, a pool of blood in one spot on the bed. And dark drops on the floor. As though his head might have hit the headboard, shattered it, and then he either dragged himself or someone dragged him off the bed. Terror shoots to the tips of her fingers, to the roots of her hair. Dear God. Backing away from the bed, she runs to the bathroom, its door ajar, the shower curtain open. There’s no one in the bathroom, no one in the kitchen either. Where is he?

  Panting, close to screaming, the recorder in its harness choking her with every step, she runs down the stairs and cries out for Carlisle.

  * * *

  She gives Carlisle the apartment number, tells him that the door is open, but she doesn’t follow him back upstairs. She can’t face the blood, the tide of violence so evident in the apartment. She knows if it was Charlie, he would have insisted she stay with him. But the young agent doesn’t even think of her. And she’s glad. She’s shaking. Is this her fault? Because she didn’t give the empty-eyed man the key this afternoon? The thought rolls over her like a dark fog. She pulls a tissue from her purse and tries to wipe the blood from her hands. The tissue sticks and tears. She spits into her hand to wipe it away. Weaver!

  She must reach Charlie. She knows there’s a broken-down phone booth at the corner in front of a seedy bar. She’s passed it many times. Walking there, all she can feel is the deadweight of the recorder, strangling her, reminding her that her last act toward Weaver was a plan to blackmail him into saving himself. Reminding her that she failed. The door to the booth is hanging by one hinge and it reeks of beer and urine, but she finds three dimes in the side pocket of her purse, holds her breath, and slips one into the slot. Standing outside the booth, reaching in, she dials Charlie’s office number, praying he’s working tonight as he’s told her he often does, praying that he went directly to his office when he returned from Hinsdale. The night receptionist sounds half-asleep. “Who?”

  “Special Agent Szydlo. Charles Szydlo.”

  “Hold, please.”

  The phone rings and rings. “I’m sorry, it seems he’s gone for the evening,” the receptionist says. “I can take a message.”

  “No. I’ll call him at home.”

  Rosalind flips the card over to find the number for his sister’s house. She slips in another dime. Her heart feels too big for her chest. If only she could slow it down.

  “Hello.” A housewifey voice answers. It must be his sister, Peggy.

  “I’m looking for Agent Szydlo,” she says. “It’s an emergency.”

  “He’s not here yet. I’m sorry.”

  “Do you think he’s on his way home? Did he say when he’s coming tonight?” Rosalind looks at the oversize watch. It’s only six thirty.

  “Unfortunately, my brother almost never tells me his plans. Did you try his office?”

  “They said he’s gone. He was out in Hinsdale this afternoon.”

  “Can I take a message? You sound upset.”

  “Tell him it’s Rosalind,” she says. “Tell him . . .” But what can she say?

  “I’m ready. I’ve got a pen.”

  “Tell him Weaver’s gone . . . and there’s blood in his apartment. I think something awful’s happened. Carlisle’s here. But Charlie should come. He’s got to come.”

  “Wait, I’m writing this down. Who did you say is missing?”

  “Weaver. Tell him I’m not going home. I’m going to my friend Zeke’s if he’s there. He should try this number to find me.” She gives her Zeke’s number and hangs up.

  Sliding in her last dime and praying he’ll be home, she dials Zeke.

  * * *

  Zeke is waiting. She sees him watching out his window on the third floor. She climbs the steps to his apartment two at a time and when he opens the door, she flings herself into his arms.

  “Dear God, what’s happened? You were a madwoman when you called. I couldn’t understand a word you said. What the hell are you wearing under this jacket, Bunny? A metal safe?”

  “Lock the door,” she says.

  “What?”

  “Lock the damn door!”

  “What the hell? Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  She nods. “Yes.”

  “Is this about Weaver?”

  “Yes. He’s— Something’s happened to him.”

  “Something?” Zeke asks.

  She just shakes her head.

  “You need a drink,” he says. “A martini maybe? I’ll make it extra-strong. I’m all out of olives, though.”

  “Just a Scotch. Can I have Scotch?”

  “Bunny, Bunny, Bunny, you’ve got to clue me in here!” Zeke goes into the kitchen. By the time he returns with a Scotch, she’s taken off her jacket and is undoing the last snaps on the harness, unhooking the wire to the watch. She pulls the harness off with distaste and drops it on the sofa between them. For the first time in what feels like hours, Rosalind can breathe.

  “What the hell is this?” he asks, lifting a leather strap with two fingers and holding it away from himself as one might the extremity of a dead animal.

  While he observes, she unbuckles the watch. “I was wearing a wire recorder. This is the microphone.”

  “A wire recorder this small?”

  With shaking hands, she slips the recorder out of its leather pocket and, just as Donna showed her, sets it into the green leather case she’s been carrying in her bag. “It’s got three kinds of batteries. It weighs a ton.” There’s a place in the leather case for the watch too, and she presses it into the white satin shaped to cradle it, wraps the wire carefully on the spool meant to corral it, and snaps the lid shut. When she sits back on the sofa, she’s numb, miserable. In too much pain to cry. Zeke lifts the harness between them and drops it on the coffee table, then scoots closer.

  “What’s going on?” he asks. He plucks at her hair, moving it about with some plan she can’t guess. She closes her eyes and enjoys his ministrations for a moment, the comfort of being with her best friend.

  “Just hold me, Zekie, okay?”

  “Okay, I’m right here. Start at the beginning. What happened to Weaver?”

  She is comforted by Zeke’s heartbeat through his shirt. “I think he’s dead,” she says. “There was blood. A lot of blood.” She looks down. “God, it’s still on my hands.”

  He gasps, pushes her away to see what she’s talking about. But before she leaves to wash, she curls her stained fingers into a fist in her lap and tells him everything. Even about Charlie. Because when Charlie finds out how she’s been keeping the information about the key, he’ll hate her anyway. And she knows Zeke will always love her, no matter what.

  “And who were you recording?”

  “Weaver. I was supposed to record Weaver . . . but he was gone . . . he was gone.”

  When Rosalind fi
nally washes, no matter how she scrubs, no matter how hot the water, the dark red of Weaver’s blood clings to the whorls of her fingerprints. She can’t help thinking he will mark her forever.

  * * *

  It’s nearly eight when the phone rings. They’ve finished dinner—Campbell’s Chicken Noodle Soup. She made herself eat it because two Scotches on empty stomachs later, they’re both drunk. Zeke rises with a groan, then, clapping his hand over the mouthpiece, holds the phone out to her, whispering, “Bunny, it’s Shadowman.”

  She grabs the receiver. Swallows hard. “Charlie?”

  “Are you okay? My sister said . . .”

  “I’m so glad you called. I’m so glad to talk to you.”

  She describes the scene at the apartment, tries to keep her voice from wavering or sounding drunk. But as she goes on, describing the shattered headboard, the blood, the words pour from her.

  “Is Gray with you? Or Carlisle?”

  “No. Neither.”

  “Why not?”

  “Gray wasn’t there yet. I left Carlisle. I couldn’t go back up there . . . I . . . Charlie, it’s all my fault.”

  “It’s not your fault. What are you talking about?”

  “Anson approached me this afternoon. He wanted something. I think he hurt Weaver because I didn’t give it to him.” She is drunk or she wouldn’t have spilled it out like that.

  “I’m listening,” he says.

  “I pretended I didn’t know what he was talking about.”

  “And what was he talking about?”

  “It’s a key to a safe-deposit box. Weaver said keeping it a secret was life or death. He made me swear I wouldn’t tell anyone . . .”

  “I told you I couldn’t keep you safe if you didn’t clue me in.” Charlie sounds furious. “But you felt more loyal to Weaver.”

  His words plunge a knife into the spot where she’s stored her longing for him. An inch or two below the hollow of her throat. A swelling of joy and yearning that hasn’t left since he kissed her. Now that very place pulses with pain.