by Lydia Millet
Bradley’s soldiers did not smoke or drink and these were the sole habits that the Huts retained, as though to showcase their toughness against the goody two-shoes.
—Did you see this? Larry asked her when the scientists were gone, and steered her inside the bus again, to a stack of magazines on Szilard’s desk. —Look, and he opened a magazine and slid it across the table.
A-BOMB SCIENTISTS GARNER HIGH RATINGS, read the headline.
She sat down in Szilard’s small wooden desk chair and bent over the glossy pages. The story told of a cult following for the scientists, which collected news clips about them from television stations and posted these on a slew of web sites. A one-hour news show had showed video footage and advertised it in advance. It showed the vastness of the crowds at a speaking engagement, with stadium lights in the distance.
Ann did not recognize the scene. She had never been there.
But more than a million viewers had tuned in.
Fan clubs had sprung up across the country, holding meetings to discuss the scientists’ progress, writing to their representatives in Congress, conducting educational campaigns and collecting funds to “promote the public image, and foster greater understanding, of the scientists and the anomaly.” There were slick digital pictures of Oppenheimer from the present day beside grainy photos of him from the 1940s. The center photo was of his porkpie hat, sitting alone on a stage behind a microphone, casting a shadow.
Driving away Ben felt light. He popped a CD into the player and cranked up the volume. At a gas station he spoke to the cashier about her son, whose mullet-headed high school photo was taped to the side of the cash register.
The rain had stopped but grass and bushes were still wet and the sky was still gray. Something new! he thought.
Something new.
Szilard came back angry, Oppenheimer indifferent.
—I’m not dealing with them anymore, said Szilard.
—What happened?
But Szilard was already in the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.
—Leo and Steve couldn’t come to an agreement, said Oppenheimer. —In fact Steve accused Leo of exploiting me for his own selfish purposes. He said Leo was putting words in my mouth, making me talk politics when I should be speaking Scripture. He said his flock believes that Leo is a profane influence interested only in expansion and monetary gain. He sullies my purity. They feel Leo is one of—how did he put it, Leo?
—The bad Jews, said Szilard, banging out of the bathroom again with a wet face. —The Christ-killers.
—I spoke strongly against this sentiment, said Oppenheimer, —and all that it represents, but they did not listen to me. They seem to have developed a real hostility toward Leo. Almost a vendetta.
—But not against him, because he’s one of the good Jews, said Szilard.
—Assimilated, they mean, said Oppenheimer.
—We’re leaving for New York tonight, said Szilard. He lifted a dishtowel off the counter and wiped the beads of water off his forehead and cheeks. —While the rest of them are sleeping.
Ben was relieved, and the relief felt like a victory.
After Ann called he went swimming in the motel pool in the dark, floating on his back in the future, full of a pent-up joy. The caravan would be gone and the world would shrink in scale and become his again: he would be free.
First Fermi had fallen off and away, a lost soldier. Now the parade was ending at long last, and they would all be able to stop waving their flags and go home.
Eventually Oppenheimer and even Szilard would follow in disillusion, and he would be alone with his wife again. They would go for long walks in the forest, beneath the soft redness of ponderosa pine. A breeze would sweep through the high branches and they would shed their memories of all this and be filled with a new momentum, the sense of a hopeful enterprise, the air around them but moving.
He sculled with his arms slowly, speed gradually fading, letting his feet sink and pull his legs down until the rest of him went under too, and then he pulled himself up again and flipped in the water, sputtering.
Inside the motel, through a glass door, he could see a vending machine that sold drinks, with a lighted panel depicting a refreshing splash of blue liquid. He splashed at the water beside him in an echo of this, like a child with flat palms slapping, and then looked away from the vending machine up into the dark, where, when the shock of former brightness faded from his eyes, he could make out the small lights of an airplane blinking silently in the sky.
After she had talked to Ben she tried to go to sleep, but she was too nervous. Anything by stealth set her on edge, made her alert and wary.
The last lights around the camp went out at two but it was not until almost 3 a.m. that Kurt the Hut finally turned the key in the bus’s ignition. All of them waited together in the darkness of the interior.
The Huts packed up the perimeter fence without flashlights, in the dark, and the second bus idled close behind them, its headlights off. Their tires crunched over the gravel as they pulled out of the lot, two dark hulks nose to tail with a guard van ahead and another behind. Ann stared out the window at the trucks and tents spread out beyond them, and as they pulled away felt relieved. She had not been able to tell Sheila but later Sheila would understand.
At fifteen miles an hour they left the camp behind them and crept slowly up the gravel access road to the Interstate.
—No headlights till we hit the on-ramp, said Szilard to Kurt. —I want to be sure.
—I feel better already, said Larry to Ann. —Don’t you?
Then there were bright lights around them, dazzling in the windshield. It was a circle, and Ann narrowed her eyes against the glare as she picked out the headlights around them. They burned at all the windows.
—What is that? asked Tamika, dozing fitfully with her head on Larry’s lap. —Turn it off!
—It’s not us, said Big Glen grimly, and the bus rumbled to a halt.
Ann put her face against the window. The night blazed and blurred and she could barely make out shapes.
—It’s Bradley’s men, said Szilard. —Their guns are drawn.
Kurt the Hut lifted his headset to make contact with the guard van, adjusting it against his mouth.
—Two of our guys are stepping out of the advance van to talk to them, he told Szilard. —Without their weapons.
They waited until he spoke into his headset again. The lights outside were harsh and unwavering. Ann looked down at her cold hands and saw they were shaking.
—They say we’re not leaving, he said, turning to face them.
—What, they’re holding us prisoner now? We can just call the cops! said Szilard. —What are they thinking?
Oppenheimer stood in his bedroom doorway in plaid flannel pajamas, blinking.
—What is this?
—Now we’re hostages, said Szilard.
—They want to talk to you again, said Kurt. —Szilard. Not Oppenheimer. They don’t want to put Oppenheimer in jeopardy.
—That’s nice, said Szilard. —But I’m not going out into a battle zone. Get Bradley on the phone.
Kurt spoke into his headset again and then shook his head. —No, they say they want a face-to-face. They say he’s coming in.
When I wake up, he thought, she will be here without the other thousands. The crowds will be gone again.
He felt his mouth smiling.
They stared at Bradley sullenly from their seats as he stood near the door with his arms crossed on his chest and a pair of night-vision goggles strung around his neck, a soldier on either side of him.
—What it is, he said, —is we can’t just have you clearing out like this without addressing your responsibilities. The disciples will feel abandoned.
—We have no responsibility to you, said Szilard. —But what we do have is the capacity to call the police. Tell me why I shouldn’t dial 911 this minute.
—The duty I’m talking about is not worldly, said Bradley. —It is a higher
calling.
They sat in silence after that, Larry shaking his head and Tamika reaching into a cupboard and pulling out a bong.
—Tell me why I shouldn’t call 911, repeated Szilard, and touched his cell phone where it sat on the desk in front of him.
—Because we’ll do media that will make you look like the moneylender you are, said Bradley sharply.
—Anti-Semite! said Tamika to Ann.
—Please don’t conduct illegal activities in front of me, said Bradley suddenly to Tamika, who was firing up the bong.
—I’ll do whatever I want, said Tamika indignantly. —I don’t even know you. And so far I think you’re a major asshole.
—If there is anything here worth saving, said Oppenheimer softly, drumming his fingers on the table and raising his eyes to Bradley, —it should be saved by grace, not violence.
—What our position is, said Bradley, —those of us that are the faithful, is if you are going to betray your flock you owe them at least an explanation. You owe them the truth about what you’re doing.
—Why do we owe them anything? asked Szilard. —I have to tell you, you lost me there, Steve.
—Because they can ruin you.
—I don’t understand, said Oppenheimer, still mild-toned and soft-spoken. —What can they ruin? We have nothing to hide. We are who we say we are. I am Oppenheimer, Julius Robert. He is Leo Szilard. Our colleague is Enrico Fermi. These are facts that science has proven to our satisfaction, even if others do not wish to credit them. We have a message of peace. We wish to speak to the president about nuclear nonproliferation, and the dangerous precipice on which this country stands. That is all. And I do not claim to be a messiah. I have no wish to be a religious figurehead. I am a physicist, plain and simple.
—The people don’t see it that way.
—The people are laboring under a misapprehension. If they wish to have it corrected, I can certainly speak to them.
—Nothing you can say will convince them you are not the risen Savior. Your protests will only further convince them.
—Fine, said Oppenheimer, —let them believe what they wish. But it does not make us beholden to them. I never asked to be made into a god.
—I think Dr. Szilard here may see things differently, said Bradley smugly. —Am I right, Leo? You have PR to think about. You have a media image. Bad press won’t help you right now, right before the whole climax and the march on Washington.
—Leave, said Szilard. —We will talk about it.
—Of course, we don’t care if the rest of you leave, said Bradley, looking from Tamika to Ann. —Dr. Oppenheimer is who we want.
—No way, said Ann. —We’re sticking with him.
—We’ll give you some time to yourselves.
—How generous, said Ann.
—Would you turn off all those headlights when you go, please? said Tamika. —It’s like we’re under interrogation by Nazi pigs.
The soldier nearest the door went out first, followed by Bradley, with the second soldier scoping all around the bus, rifle up, as he stepped down behind them.
Kurt the Hut closed the door in their wake and leaned against it, shaking his head.
—It has gone too far, Leo, said Oppenheimer. —These men are dangerous.
They gathered on the couch and around the desk and table, waiting for the blinding lights to be extinguished. It was a full five minutes of waiting until they went out.
—Their guns are still on us, said Larry. —You can bet. Pass me that, would you? I got a headache.
Tamika passed him the bong and lit a votive candle of the Virgin Mary.
—I think we need the Lady right now to watch over us, she said, and then into Szilard’s scowl: —It’s not a Christian thing, OK? It’s like more mystical. Womyn power. Heard of it?
Szilard opened a window.
—Our security forces are no match for theirs, he said, shaking his head.
—You’re telling me we’re outgunned? asked Oppenheimer, coming back from his bedroom with his cigarette case.
—In the final analysis armaments are irrelevant, said Szilard. —The outcome will be determined by tactics. But it’s worth keeping in mind that we have twenty guys with guns and the Christians have five hundred.
—And they don’t limit themselves to legal weapons, either, said Larry, nodding. —Some of them got their AKs converted to full-auto.
—Someone must have ratted us out, said Tamika. —Or how did they know we were leaving?
—Are you kidding? They got guys whose whole job it is to watch us twenty-four seven, said Big Glen, who sat on the arm of the couch with his large legs spread wide and his elbows on his knees. —I thought we had a distraction set up, but obviously it didn’t work.
—You didn’t mention a distraction to me, said Szilard.
—We had some guys blow up a port-a-potty near Bradley’s tent, said Larry.
—What? cried Oppenheimer, and fumbled the cigarette he was lighting. —What?
—There was no one in it or anything, said Big Glen.
—My God, said Oppenheimer.
—I didn’t see any explosion, said Ann.
—Maybe that was the problem, said Big Glen. —Far as I know they were just using the gunpowder from a few M80s. You know, wrapped up in packages. Maybe Clint screwed it up.
—I can’t believe I’m hearing this, said Oppenheimer.
—You got Clint to do it? said Ann.
—I say we call the police, said Oppenheimer. —I refuse to be held hostage by these people.
—Here’s the problem with that, said Szilard. —It’s one thing to go off on our own. It’s another to be completely repudiated by the Christian wing of this movement. I mean, a public breakup with Bradley would have national reverberations.
—Still, said Oppenheimer, sitting forward and puffing more rapidly on his cigarette. —Why do we need them at all? What we have here is a peace mission. We want an audience with the president, Congress and the United Nations. Do we need a following of thousands to get those things?
—It helps, said Szilard. —And FYI, Robert, it’s not just the thousands that are with us on the road. These people have drummed up a following for us in the hundreds of thousands.
For a second Ann heard nothing but the wall clock ticking, and outside one of the soldiers calling across the night.
—You’re totally bullshitting, said Larry.
—No way! said Tamika. —That’s so wild!
—What do you mean by following? asked Oppenheimer. —People who think I’m the Second Coming?
—People who say they’re willing to show up in D.C. and march for peace, said Szilard.
—I don’t believe it, said Oppenheimer.
Moths fluttered against the window. One of them was huge, inches long with dark, dappled wings. In the dark outside Ann heard a series of mechanical clicks.
—What’s that?
—Someone racking the slide on their gun, said Larry.
They were all quiet for a while, until a light went on a few feet outside the window and the moth fluttered toward away. It was a Hut with his flashlight, walking over from the second bus.
—Get the door, said Szilard to Big Glen.
When Big Glen opened the door and leaned out to hold it open, Ann saw him for a second as a broad, ample chest, a man not yet shot.
—They still got their weapons trained out there, said the Hut, when they let him in. He and Kurt did a handshake. He was nervous and sweating. —These people are freaks.
—You got news for us? asked Larry.
—Message from Clint, said the Hut. —Apologies. He says they were stopped before they could do it. They didn’t pat him down so they never knew what the plan was, but he couldn’t get close. That was the message. He didn’t tell me what the hell he was talking about.
—Oh, we know, said Oppenheimer, and glared at Larry.
—Let the people in the other bus know they’re all free to leave if they want to, said
Szilard. —We may not be leaving ourselves, but we encourage them to take the opportunity.
—Yes we do, said Oppenheimer. —It’s probably in their best interest. Bradley has no need for them. For him it’s all about me. All the others are free to go. Please assure the others they are free to go, won’t you? I encourage it. It’s not safe here anymore.
—We’ll still be in contact! put in Szilard quickly. —They can work on the campaign from a remote location!
—I don’t even like walking around with their infrared scopes trained on me, I tell you what, said the Hut to Kurt. —They got itchy fingers out there, I just got a feeling.
—I know, man, said Kurt, and clapped him on the back as he turned to leave. —They’re fuckin’ psychos.
—No, said Ben, —no. This is not happening. Outside his window in the motel parking lot a family was packing up their van. A girl and a boy chased each other in circles as their mother, in a blond ponytail and a hooded sweatshirt that read RUTGERS, stood watching them sleepily, holding a blue-and-yellow beach ball in her arms. It looked like the end of a vacation but it was almost October and beside the van a spindly maple already had red leaves. He wondered if they had been to the beach, if they had walked on the sand with a cold wing springing up, in jackets and sneakers. A family.
—We weren’t forced to stay, said Ann, a small voice on the other end of the line. —But we’re staying anyway. I mean Glen, Larry, Tamika and me. And Dory. The people in the other bus already left. They pulled out right before dawn.
—You’re staying there when these guys have guns pointing at you?
—They’re not pointing at us anymore.
—So now they trust you? Now they’re just going to let it go back to how it was before?
—Leo made a deal with Bradley. We can ride ahead of the crowd as long as the leadership van is with us.