“Anything exciting at the base camp this morning?” Mom asks. More fake cheer.
“A shooting star on the way there,” Cocoa says. “A nearly full moon. Shadows on the desert sand. A galloping horse. All breathtaking.”
“Busy,” I say. “Lots of people up early, going places. New customers.”
“Robert’s throws were off target,” Cocoa says. “Mine were accurate.” She gives me a grin. Everyone is trying to lighten the mood.
“Cocoa dreams a lot,” I say. I hope it continues.
She and I are barely through the breakfast dishes when an unwelcome sound reaches us. A car on the road. Mom and Dad are outside, wandering, saying goodbye to the animals. I haven’t even thought about Dad’s chores, but Cocoa and I should be able to handle them. Another thing I haven’t considered is how we’ll get the Andrews sisters’ milk and butter to town.
Least of our problems.
Everyone, even Lolly, meets the strange yet recognizable car near the front of the house. Pete and the captain are back in uniform. If the FBI guys are inclined to give my parents any shit, it won’t be easy in the presence of two soldiers, both of whom have given and taken on fields of battle.
The front doors of the familiar car open and two familiar men get out. Browning and Swan. From the day of the bigwig party in our living room. They don’t look happy to see us. We aren’t happy to see them. They don their hats, like fedoras are part of their uniform.
Swan notices the two suitcases on the steps. “You’re going, Mrs. Hastings?”
“Is my husband going?”
“Yes.”
“Then so am I.”
The sun has made its way into the yard. My parents put on their hats. Browning opens the trunk. “Ready?”
In answer, Dad and Mom exchange handshakes and hugs with those of us staying behind.
Murmurs and tears.
I feel empty.
“Mr. Unser will be here Tuesday and Friday mornings to take the milk and butter to the co-op, Bobby,” Dad says before giving me a sighing, watery, crusher of a hug. “The payments will go into our account.”
“I’ll have everything ready.”
Mom hugs everyone, even the captain, once more, saving me for last. I don’t want to let her go. When will I see her again?
But Browning has the suitcases in the trunk. He slams the lid shut, shattering the quiet and putting an exclamation mark on the reason the two G-men are here.
Swan clears his throat. Pete glares at the uncaring asshole. I try to tell myself that he’s just doing his job.
They get in. Doors close. In the back seat, hands wave, faces sag, tears glisten. In the front, eyes are everywhere but on us. Swan starts the car, maneuvers back and forth and away. Mom and Dad’s faces appear in the rear window. We wave.
And they’re gone.
Dust and exhaust.
Loss and foreboding.
Sunlight and darkness.
The lump in my throat almost cuts off my breathing. I blink away tears. The car is a black speck, but in my mind’s eye it sprouts the wings of a giant hawk, safely carrying my parents to wherever it is they’re going.
I look at Cocoa. She’s trying on a brave face, but her eyes, overflowing, betray her. She’s finally found a family, and now this.
But she still has me. Better than nothing.
TWENTY-SEVEN
We make it through the rest of Tuesday in an apprehensive daze. At Mom’s “invitation,” Pete has moved into my parents’ bedroom. “To give me and the captain more stretching out room,” he tells me with a wink.
Obviously, even after my promise to take care of Cocoa, Mom continued to fret about leaving Future Girl and me. Alone. Together. But Pete’s nighttime presence won’t bother me. Cocoa and I will still have time alone. And I have almost no thoughts of being anything but a gentleman.
When we’re not feeding and milking and churning and cleaning and otherwise staying busy, we stick close to the phone. But there’s nothing new from General Groves and no word from Mom and Dad.
The house is missing its heart and soul.
Lolly still has Cocoa. And me. But he mopes.
Wednesday arrives. Leo is waiting at the shack. The papers are stacked on the bench, higher than usual. Business continues to pick up.
“Sorry about your folks, Bobby,” he says. He’s a silhouette, leaning against the warmth of his old car’s hood. The moon is low on the western horizon, but it’s full, painting the desert in glow and shadow.
Cocoa and I drop our bikes in the sand. “Thanks. They’ll be back soon.” Confidence I don’t feel.
“I hope so,” he says. “But if you need anything—”
“My uncle Pete is living with us.” I don’t mention Captain Nelson. Leo doesn’t know about the captain or the reason for his camping in our yard, and he won’t find out from me.
“And he has me,” Cocoa says. Inside, I smile. Laugh. Despite the lack of light, I’m pretty sure I see Leo’s eyebrows rise.
“Good,” he says. “That’s good.”
The sentries are being extra vigilant when we get to the checkpoint, holding up all vehicles to examine credentials before allowing them to move on. The camp itself is busier than ever. The engineers are out and moving in the dim predawn, not stopping to chat, business on their minds.
The day continues routinely. Home, radio, breakfast, chores, radio, lunch. Captain Nelson gets a call, but all I hear is a bunch of yes-sirs and a thank you, sir and he doesn’t volunteer anything after hanging up. Cocoa and I go outside to pin up laundry on the backyard clothesline, and we stay out for a while, taking in the sunshine and fresh air. But we remain within shouting distance. Pete promised to yell if something happens.
Cocoa looks tired, jittery, serious. I can tell she has too much on her mind, yet she’s trying to take on more. What happens next? After Boston? After New York?
As if he’s sensed the pressure on her, Doctor Kersey shows up halfway through the afternoon. She and Lolly and me are in the barn when I hear his MG gearing down. By the time he parks, we’re waiting near the front steps.
He says hello, asks Cocoa how she’s doing, says he saw she had an appointment tomorrow and he knew with my parents gone it might be tough for her to keep it. He tells me he’s sorry about the idiots sending them away. We invite him and his medical bag into the kitchen, where Pete sits at the table and the captain is on the phone. The radio spits out a Benny Goodman tune.
“Mind if Cocoa and I borrow the living room, Pete?” the doctor says. “I want her somewhere quiet so I can get a fix on her progress.”
“Take your time,” Pete says.
I sit with Pete, one ear in Cocoa’s direction, one in the captain’s, and page through the newspaper for the third or fourth time. I picture the instruments coming out of the black bag—stethoscope, otoscope, ophthalmoscope, blood pressure cuff, thermometer, reflex hammer, all the stuff voluptuous Marla once identified for me. I wonder what they’re telling Doctor Kersey.
Still on the phone, the captain says, “She’s with the doctor,” and “We have the radio on, but we’ll expect to hear from you first,” and “We’ll keep our fingers crossed, sir.” He hangs up and comes to the table. “Nothing yet.”
The doctor and Cocoa aren’t gone long. Their voices build from a murmur and they reappear at the kitchen entrance. I study their faces for a verdict. Unsuccessfully.
“How is she?” I say.
“She’s fine, Bobby,” the doctor says, snapping his bag shut. “Keep feeding her. Keep getting her outside. Keep taking her on that paper route.”
“She throws pretty good for a skinny girl,” I say.
“Not Wonder Woman yet,” the doctor says, circling his forefinger and thumb most of the way around her bare bicep. “But getting there.”
“Future Girl,” Pete says, and Cocoa smiles.
Captain Nelson walks Doctor Kersey to his car. I have a feeling the captain wants a more candid picture of his prize goose’
s health. When he comes back he looks the way I feel. Anxious.
The rest of the afternoon crawls. We’re all afraid to leave the house. I picture Norfolk as it crumbles and smokes and bleeds. Is the same thing happening in Boston right now?
Lolly goes out and comes in, goes out and comes in. He’s used to luring us into a game of fetch or an expedition to the barn or an exploration of the desert surrounding our house. He’s not used to this.
Cocoa and I are in the living room when the phone rings. In an instant, we’re in the kitchen. Captain Nelson has the phone to his ear. The clock reads 4:55.
A cautious grin brightens the captain’s face. “They’re sure?”
From out of nowhere, Cocoa takes my hand. I already can’t breathe, and now this? Pete, of course, notices. He looks away.
“It’s the one, though?” the captain says. He pumps his fist high in the air.
The captain nods and nods. He says nothing, but his expression speaks for him.
“That’s wonderful news, sir,” he says finally. “Thank you for calling. Yes, I’ll tell her. Them. Yes, I think we can manage that.”
He hangs up. Cocoa is still holding my hand. Everyone’s eyes are on Captain Nelson. His grin has turned into a full-fledged smile. He turns it on Cocoa.
“In case you haven’t figured it out,” he says, “that was General Groves. At a little after six o’clock on the East Coast, Navy destroyers on the outer reaches of Boston Harbor detected the presence of a U-boat. It had skirted one minefield and was approaching a series of steel nets strung up to protect the inner harbor. The destroyers pursued the submarine and sent it to the bottom. Ironically, it went down near an island called The Graves. They believe its entire crew is lost.”
“They’re certain it’s the one?” Pete says.
“Nearly,” the captain says. “But they’re not relaxing their guard. And as soon as possible, divers are going down to attach lines so the wreck—and its cargo—can be towed out to sea.”
“Will the public be told?” I ask.
“Soon. The harbor was essentially shut down and the military was everywhere, so there was no hiding the operation. The expectation—and fear—of Boston residents was that something was going to happen. Covering it up wouldn’t work. And the War Department feels that after Norfolk the country needs some good news.”
The kitchen radio has been all mumble and soft music. Pete turns it up loud enough to hear actual words.
“The general says there’s no way to thank you, Cocoa,” the captain says, “but that you deserve a mountain of ice cream. He says to keep up the good work, which I take to mean he wants you to keep thinking. Any new revelations in that remarkable brain?”
She shakes her head. “New York in two days,” she says, “but now history has changed. Will their plans change?”
“She never stops thinking,” I say. Or doing. Against all odds, she’s turned fate on its ear, shown it can be done.
“Friday, if they go ahead with it,” the captain says, “and Admiral King feels they will. He believes the U-boats are running silent, no communication in or out. If that’s the case, the sub heading for New York won’t know of the other one’s sinking. Regardless, it won’t know what we know.”
“Will we be ready?” I say.
“Same as Boston,” the captain says, “but more of everything—mines, nets, destroyers, torpedo planes, sonar, observers.”
“The general said I deserve ice cream,” Cocoa says. “I’m sure he meant we. So, Socorro? Slim’s Diner?”
“Of course,” the captain says. “And we’ll start off with some dinner. On Uncle Sam. We’ve got a big reason to celebrate.”
TWENTY-EIGHT
Wednesday, July 25–Saturday, July 28
There’s still no word from my parents. Wednesday ends. Thursday slips past.
When we get home from the route Friday morning, our soldiers are already up and, as usual, in the kitchen drinking coffee, listening to the radio, waiting. I put Dad’s paper on the table. It’s full of news of the cleanup in Norfolk and the near-miss for Boston.
Tens of thousands dead.
Tens of thousands who didn’t die.
The men in Washington owe Cocoa more than a chocolate sundae.
“I have a bad feeling, Captain Nelson,” Cocoa says. “More shit. Huge. But so far it’s just a feeling.”
“That’s okay, Cocoa,” he says. “We know you’re doing your best. This is a tough day, with all the anticipation.”
“The fear makes noise in my head,” she says.
“All of our heads,” he says.
I make a fresh pot of coffee. Thanks to the generosity of the Army, we can drink it like water while we listen to the radio and worry and prop each other up.
Cocoa sits at the table with Pete and the captain and the Journal. By the time I sit, she’s back up, pacing. She glares at the calendar and clock, daring them to tell her something. A date. A time. If we had a map on the wall, she’d glare at that, too.
A place.
“The next bombs won’t be here,” she says. “Not America.”
“Oh?” Pete says. Nobody says Where?
But she knows questions are on everyone’s mind. “I still don’t know where,” she says. “Or when. Soon, is all I know.”
“Would it help to go back to the library?” I ask. “The movie theater?”
“I don’t think I saw films of the next attack. Attacks. Everything is hazy. Phantoms and mumblings.”
“Don’t worry about it,” the captain says. “You’ve alerted us to a looming disaster. When we get past that, we’ll concern ourselves with what might happen next.”
“Did happen next,” Cocoa says.
“It’s too early in the morning for my brain to sort that out,” Pete says.
“But maybe it didn’t happen,” I say. “Won’t happen. It did, but it didn’t, I mean. Ebenezer Scrooge got a chance to alter his fate. You’ve already done it once, Cocoa. You’ll do it again.”
Pete and the captain nod, but Cocoa looks at me blankly. I decide A Christmas Carol isn’t—won’t be—on a shelf of her library. While my head spins, I tell her about Ebenezer Scrooge.
“Fiction,” she says.
“But you’re not,” I say, marveling at this amazing girl standing in my kitchen. How did I—and the world—get so lucky?
During breakfast Mr. Unser arrives, but other than our brief time helping him load the milk and butter into the cavernous trunk of his Packard, Cocoa and I stay near the phone for the rest of the morning. After lunch, Pete and Captain Nelson drive to the base camp to meet with General Groves, who is checking on the progress of all the renewed activity.
I picture a flash of light and a thunderous sound and a biting wind and a mushroom cloud, and I wonder about more tests. If the bomb worked once, won’t it work again? Are the scientists and the men who give them orders willing to waste one?
While Cocoa listens for the phone, I take advantage of “the cats” being away to drive the DeSoto to the mailbox. Aside from a bill from Ma Bell, there’s nothing. I try to picture Mom and Dad, where they are, what they’re doing.
To get my mind off our shared predicament, I turn onto the empty road and head east. I’ve never shifted gears for real, but my practice has paid off, and soon I’m rolling along with the wind blasting in the open windows and the engine singing to me.
I turn around at the Unsers’ place. Cocoa and Lolly are waiting for me when I drive up to our house like a big shot and forget to put in the clutch and kill the engine. I get out, trying not to look sheepish.
“You are a good driver, Robert,” Cocoa says. She has her acorn in her open hand, and as usual Lolly is focused on it.
“I need more practice.”
“Any mail?”
I sit next to her, show her the bill. She’s wearing shorts, and her knees don’t look as bony. Her thighs no longer look like calves. They’re no longer pasty white. They look nice. In the kitchen, Sinatra’s “I
’ll Never Smile Again” flows out of the radio. With Cocoa beside me, I can’t imagine never smiling again.
“Maybe tomorrow,” she says. “Maybe they will call.”
“Maybe.”
“They are thinking of you every minute.”
“And you,” I say. “Before they left, Mom told me you’ve been a gift to them.”
She doesn’t respond. Her eyes are watery.
It’s nearly four when Pete and the captain return. The living room is farther from the phone but cooler than the kitchen, so we migrate there with a pitcher of lemonade. A late afternoon breeze stirs the gauzy white curtains and softens the mutterings of the radio newsman.
I do some calculations. It’s approaching eight o’clock in New York. “You’re sure it’s today?” I ask Cocoa, who’s sitting a proper distance away from me on the sofa because neither of us is ready for aggravation from Pete and the captain. It’s a dumb question. How can she be sure? But it slipped out through my loose lips.
“They could have changed their plans,” she says. “If the submarine is receiving communications, it will be aware of Boston.”
“U-boats don’t need light to do their shit,” Pete says. “Until we got a better handle on how to deal with them, they hunted Allied ships like packs of wolves, camouflaged by darkness.”
“We have four hours left before it’s no longer Friday on the East Coast,” the captain says. “Six before it ends here.”
“I don’t know what time zone my memories occupy,” Cocoa says.
“Even Future Girls can’t know everything,” Pete says.
Captain Nelson and Pete volunteer to cook supper. It involves eggs, so Cocoa and I visit the hen house. We collect an even dozen, then head to the barn to say hello to the unnamed sow and her anonymous piglets and our friends the Andrews sisters.
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