“We don’t have time,” Addleman says.
“Being reminded of that is not helpful,” Cocoa says.
“Can you tell us something about yourself, Cocoa?” Doctor Serber says.
She nods, and goes on to give an account of her day-to-day existence in her former life. The devastation, the hardships, the love affair with the ruined library and its antiquated, depleted treasure of books and periodicals. She speaks of her curiosity about how the earth and its inhabitants were damaged beyond repair and where the missteps happened and how she found answers to questions that no one else was asking because they spent all their time figuring out how to stay alive or how to die or were caught in the stranglehold of indecision.
Her story puts another hush on the room. Addleman rolls his eyes, but he gets no backing. Frowning, General Groves looks at his watch. He goes to the window and gazes out. The sun has dropped lower, silhouetting his bulky shape.
“Nothing, General?” Doctor Bainbridge asks.
“Not yet.”
“Expecting someone else?” Dad says.
General Groves returns to his chair. “The secretary of war has given one of his assistants—the man who squelched the contents of the letter—a chance to redeem himself. He was scheduled to land at Kirtland Field an hour ago and come here posthaste.”
“Is he willing to listen now?” Cocoa says.
I jump in. “Is he on our side, or just coming here to make excuses?”
“He’ll either have his hackles up,” the general says, “or his tail between his legs.”
“Just what I need,” Cocoa says. “Another fucking flea biting at my shins.”
I stifle a snicker but can’t hide my grin, and neither can Dad. General Groves doesn’t hold back; he laughs deeply, and immediately the others, with the exception of Addleman, join in. Even the two soldiers lose their military bearing for a moment and let themselves chuckle. This isn’t a meeting of the unimaginative bureaucrat’s fan club.
“Without turning ourselves into fleas,” Dr. Bainbridge says, “is there anything we can do, Cocoa?”
“She likes being outside in the fresh air,” I say.
“Doctor Kersey?” the general says. “Should we be worried about her health?”
“Cocoa and I and her new family have discussed her condition,” Doctor Kersey says. “Her previous living environment has resulted in compromised health, possibly chronic in nature. But there’s nothing acutely threatening. With rest, proper diet, exercise, and, as Bobby indicates, clean air, she has a chance to improve significantly.”
“We have to keep the lab rat alive,” Cocoa says.
“That would benefit all of us,” the general says.
And I agree. Keeping Cocoa alive would benefit all of us.
The next half hour consists of uncomfortable small talk and Cocoa and I escaping to the kitchen to make popcorn and General Groves getting up and down and pacing.
Finally, through the screen door and the open windows comes the growl of a car hurrying down the driveway. Once again, the general gets to his feet and peers out. An engine shuts down. Doors slam.
“Beware the flea, Cocoa,” he says with a grin, and goes to the door.
When he opens it, a man in a rumpled brown suit is first in, followed by another captain. I wonder if the Army will soon run out of them. The suit shakes hands with the general and takes a vacant chair across from the sofa. Cocoa glances at General Groves.
“For those of you still in the dark, this is Assistant Secretary of War John McCloy,” the general says. “He’s well aware of the contents of the letter and he’s been briefed on the fact that the warning originated with Cocoa. He flew all the way from the nation’s capital on one of our fastest bombers to be here, so we shouldn’t complain about his tardiness. Secretary of War Stimson asked him to make the journey to talk to Cocoa in person and assess the situation.”
Cocoa sits on the edge of the cushion. She’s already told her fantastic story in this room and mostly escaped ridicule. But what will this guy, who’s already scoffed at the warning once, think of it now? What will he think of Hitler and the Axis powers rising from the ashes, and time slippage and a future without hope and this skinny girl who knows it all?
Pete, who’s been quiet in the face of all the power and brass in the room, moves from his chair to Mom’s vacated spot next to Cocoa. If there’s going to be an inquisition, she and the remaining members of what the doctor called her “new family” are going to meet it together.
“I take it you’re Charles Hastings?” John McCloy says to Dad, whose faded shirt and jeans and boots give him away.
“Chuck,” Dad says, trying to be cordial.
“Whose idea was it to make the warning in the form of a letter to you, Chuck?” McCloy spits out Dad’s name like it’s something he found stuck to his dentures.
Another asshole.
“My idea.” This time my words don’t come out strangled. McCloy has a title and a suit, but I know a bully when I see one.
He yawns through my explanation and Dad’s attempt to shoulder some of the blame, and then tries to turn his attention to Cocoa.
But Dad isn’t done. “I’m disappointed by your lack of imagination, Mr. McCloy. But not surprised. You and your War Department cronies can’t even imagine a world without war.”
Uh-oh.
“We didn’t start this war, Mr. Hastings. Remember Pearl Harbor? The Nazis overrunning Europe? They declared war on us.”
“I’ve interviewed people who endured those hardships,” Dad says. “Unimaginable brutality. Unforgettable people. But I also remember all the missteps that led up to the war.”
“You’re advocating appeasement.”
“No,” Dad says. His face is redder than usual. If he were still writing for a newspaper, this is where his editor would steer him back to moderation. But this isn’t an article or opinion piece. There is no editor. These are airborne words, unmoderated. “I’m not talking appeasement. I’m talking communication and cooperation, and I’m not talking the weeks or months while everything was going to hell. I’m talking years. I’m talking before war became inevitable.”
“My sources tell me you’re a pacifist, Mr. Hastings. And a writer. A dangerous combination.”
“I am. And I—and my family—pay for it constantly. What have your choices cost you, Mr. McCloy? Before the war, you underestimated the threat from Japan. After it started, you lost focus on the real enemy and wasted the country’s time and resources and years of innocent people’s lives by locking up 120,000 Japanese Americans as potential collaborators. But we really know why they were treated like the enemy, don’t we?”
McCloy’s jaw clenches. My armpits flow. “Ironic you should mention the Jap internees,” he says. “You’re not in a position to be shooting off your mouth. Drawing attention to yourself is the last thing you want to do.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Dad says.
“Pray you don’t find out.” McCloy glances meaningfully at the FBI guys and, now that he’s given Dad something to think about and me something to be frightened about, he finally gets back to Cocoa.
“Do you really expect us to believe you came from the future?”
“Some people already do,” she says.
“Me, then. Do you expect me to believe it? It would be infinitely more reasonable for me to believe you’re a spy.”
“A spy?” Cocoa says. “I’m sure you’re embarrassed, but your bluster is clouding your judgement. I’m sixteen. I’m ill. The only government people I’ve ever talked to are in this room. And I am giving you information. And asking for nothing in return.”
“And where does this information come from?”
“From my memories,” Cocoa says. “Not whispers in the night or cryptic notes on scraps of paper. I’m the farthest thing from a spy.”
“It doesn’t matter where she’s from, McCloy,” General Groves says. “Or how she learned what she knows.” He looks amused,
as if he enjoys the exchanges between the good guys and the suit. “She had exclusive knowledge, it was amazingly accurate, and she was willing to share it. And you failed to act. If that was because you’re overly involved in another matter, your priorities are pure shit.
“Now you may get a second chance, and if and when Cocoa has more information for us, you’re to refrain from putting a lid on it. You need to pass it on to Secretary Stimson and General Marshall immediately.”
“That has already been made clear to me, General.”
“Let’s keep our minds open,” General Groves says. “Let’s give Cocoa some breathing room, and pray that she can recall the kind of detail that will help us get back on the road to victory.”
I should stand up and shout Amen! But I’m content to sit next to Cocoa and stew about McCloy’s narrowmindedness. And while I stew and hear the asshole ask her questions that are more courteous and reasonable, I also wonder what he knows that we don’t.
Cocoa is patient. She doesn’t call him a fucking flea. When he’s done with his questions he flashes a phony smile and thanks her and gives her his direct phone number as well as the phone numbers of two of his top aides and Secretary of War Stimson himself.
After a flurry of farewells, McCloy and his driver are gone like a passing hailstorm, heading back to Albuquerque for the night before returning to Washington. The rest of us sit and wait. For what? Something from Cocoa? Nobody stares at her, but she’s the center of attention anyway. An encyclopedia. A time-bomb. A secret weapon harboring secrets not even she knows.
Dad turns on some lamps. He goes to the kitchen and returns empty-handed, his way of pacing. The presence of all these military and government men has him on edge. Without Mom to hold his hand, he’s not himself anyway.
General Groves gets to his feet, so everyone else does. “Most of us are returning to Los Alamos,” he tells us. He gestures toward one of the captains, the taller, younger one, who was driving the general’s car when they arrived. “But Captain Nelson here is to remain billeted at Trinity—the base camp—for as long as necessary. We’ll drop him off there.”
He hands Dad a slip of paper. “Thanks to Doctor Bainbridge, this phone number has been assigned solely to the captain. He’ll check in with Cocoa by phone three times a day, and in person daily. He’ll know how to reach me at all times. In the event that you recall anything at all, Cocoa, your first phone call should be to him. He’ll make the decision on whether or not to call me, but I’m encouraging him to freely do so. My job will be to assess the information and if necessary make the next call.”
He gives Pete, Dad, and me a quick once-over.
“I expect that if Cocoa needs any support, you three and Mrs. Hastings will be there for her. And your country. And, Sergeant,” he says to Pete, “at my request, Doctor Bainbridge has spoken to Lieutenant Bush. For the duration of Captain Nelson’s stay at the base camp, your primary duty will be assisting him with his responsibilities—manning the phone when he has to be elsewhere, getting him access to what he needs, driving him where he has to go. A car will be at your disposal.” He pauses. “I notice you have a limp that you’re doing a fine job of disguising. I assume that you’re fit enough for this assignment?”
“Any assignment, sir,” Pete says.
“Thank you for your steadfastness,” the general says. “And your sacrifice.”
I half expect Pete to say it was nothing, but it wasn’t nothing, and he just nods.
Near the door, the general turns back. “Thanks for your hospitality, Chuck. Please thank your wife for her words of wisdom. And thank you, Doctor Kersey, for your insights.” He aims a grim smile at the doctor. “Keep her healthy.”
The general’s entourage files out. Lolly, halfway in, handles the doorman responsibilities.
“Can we give you a ride back to the base camp, Sergeant?” Captain Nelson says to Pete once we’re outside.
“Appreciate the offer, sir,” Pete says. “But I got here on a horse. Big Muddy. They’re expecting her back with me in her saddle.”
Captain Nelson grins. “Sounds like more fun. But when you get back look me up. We’ll get acquainted.” He turns to Cocoa, his grin even warmer, and I can see why the general chose him to babysit us. “You’ve got my number and I’ve got yours, Cocoa. We’ll talk soon. I’ll stay within shouting distance of the phone—and the sergeant here—at all times.” He slips on his garrison cap and hurries to catch up with the rest of his party.
TWENTY
After the crowd leaves, Dad promises us grilled cheese sandwiches and Campbell’s tomato soup if we get some fresh air while he cooks. And while we’re at it, he says, we can see Doctor Kersey and Pete off, tend the animals, and pick raspberries for dessert.
Cocoa is glowing. She’s made it through the inquisition, and now she gets to see Big Muddy again. On our way out, she grabs a couple of sugar cubes. I don’t have the heart to tell her sugar is rationed. We let Lolly come along. He’s been around the mare for hours, unchaperoned, and he’s still standing.
Before Pete, Cocoa, and I head to the barn, we say goodbye to Doctor Kersey. I’m sure he never imagined something like this as part of his small-town doctor duties.
Big Muddy greets us with a toss of her mane. “We’ll have an easier going than coming, girl,” Pete murmurs as he swings into the saddle. She backsteps toward the open barn doors. “Go ahead, Cocoa,” he says. “You have something for her?”
When Cocoa removes her fist from her pocket and unfurls her fingers, her acorn is sitting on her palm with the two sugar cubes, attracting Lolly’s interest. He’s always been a fan of anything resembling a ball. Cocoa lets him sniff the acorn and then slips it back in her pocket, a souvenir of the creepy carnival ride that she calls home.
Big Muddy laps up the cubes, gives Cocoa a horse-nuzzle, and gazes up at Pete as if to say Let’s head home, pardner. Then they’re off, cowboy and horse, silhouetted by the falling sun.
Hounded by Cocoa’s version of the future, I picture a different desert landscape with different occupants. But I put the picture away before it gets too detailed. Maybe she can uncover more memories in time for General Groves and Henry Stimson to do something. Which could be the start of changing her story, and mine. If she can’t remember, or the bigwigs can’t act in time, or it turns out that the fate of the world is set in stone, the death throes and the dying will begin right here and now.
We feed the nameless pigs and chickens and the Andrews sisters. Cocoa wants to try milking, so I demonstrate on Maxine, the pushover, and then let Cocoa take charge. When the first spurt makes the pail sing, her smile lights up the barn.
We head into our desert surroundings—red dirt and sand, flats and mounds, gopher and snake holes, jimsonweed and creosote bush and prickly pear cactus, spindly yuccas standing among the scrub like lost girls. Lolly leads the way, avoiding the snake holes. He’s never been bitten, but he has a natural aversion. He’s been known to bark at coiled rope.
Cocoa stares at the clear blue sky and drops her gaze to the distant mountains.
“Some people call them the Mockingbirds,” I say.
“In my time, they have no name.”
“They do. It’s just been forgotten.”
“What if this all goes away, Robert?”
“It won’t be your fault.”
“I—my story—wasn’t convincing enough.”
“You were convincing back at the house, with all those hotshot politicians and brass and brains.”
“McCloy is a prick.”
“Next time he’ll listen.”
“Truman, Churchill, Stalin—they think they have Hitler cornered, but he has something he’s been preparing for them.”
“Bombs.”
“Yes, but when do they start? Where? How are they delivered?”
Lolly brings me an egg-shaped chunk of wood. When I ignore him, he drops it in front of Cocoa. She kicks it into the scrub and he bolts away.
“Maybe the answers wi
ll come easier if you get away from the radio and newspapers and commotion,” I say. “Maybe if you’re out here breathing in all the good oxygen and good smells and peacefulness, you’ll remember.”
“I’ll try.”
“You’ve got your own bike now,” I say. “Feel like getting up tomorrow, early, and doing my route with me?”
“The newspaper shack?” she says. “Leo? The base camp? Peter? Captain Nelson? All of it this time?”
“The thrills won’t stop.”
Lolly races back. We ignore him and turn back to the house. Lit up by the setting sun, it smolders.
“Don’t let me sleep longer than you,” she says.
Lolly shadows us, staring up at Cocoa, begging. She takes the soggy chunk of wood from him and flings it, and as he zooms off in a cloud of dust I realize I was wrong about her arm. She may not throw accurately, but she doesn’t throw like a girl.
TWENTY-ONE
Saturday, July 21
Cocoa is dressed and sitting on her bed. Her eyes spark in the light from the hallway. “What took you so long, Robert?”
“Couldn’t sleep. When I finally did, I was dead to the world. Including my alarm clock.”
“In my other life, I tried to sleep as much as possible. Sleep and read, sleep and read. It kept me from dwelling on my situation. Repetition. Sameness. Inevitability. But here, I’m too curious. And anxious. There is unspoiled countryside, and interesting people, and animals, and a chance to help, and surprises in store. I try to stay awake for all of it.”
“You’re sure you’re okay to go?”
“Did you not just hear my speech, Robert?”
On our way out, we cut off hunks of homemade bread and plaster them with butter that Dad churns himself. Twice a week he loads crocks of butter and cans of milk into the trunk of the DeSoto. Mom drops them off at the co-op. The proceeds barely cover upkeep on the Andrews sisters, but we have as much butter and milk as we want, despite rationing.
Cocoa is wearing jeans, so she has no trouble hopping on her bike and pedaling into the starlight, and I stay as close as I can without trading rubber. The morning air intensifies the desert smells, but I’m able to pick out hers: shampoo, soap, deodorant. A hint of bread and butter, maybe. A sweet combination. I’d like to bottle it and keep it next to my bed. But, for now, I’m content having it drift back to me, making me almost forget that it’s early and we have a long way to go and a day of uncertainty ahead.
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