“Nomenclature,” Giles said.
“Sorry?” Monroe dribbled the ball once. Low on air, it barely bounced.
“Part one was about naming things. The frightening part is still ahead.”
“Maybe,” Monroe said. “Mister Charlie?”
“I’m digesting,” he answered. “My thing is math. Not atoms.”
“Yes,” Giles said. “Occhiolism.”
Monroe laughed. “How come you don’t ever use human people words?”
“It means an awareness of the smallness of your perspective.” Giles rapped his knuckles on the bark of a pine. “Tree, right?”
“Looks like one to me,” Monroe said.
“Yes. Made of atoms, collected in nice sturdy molecules. But if those atoms can be split? To make an explosive? Then it’s no longer only a tree. Everything contains the potential for violent transformation.”
Charlie tapped the basketball in Monroe’s hands. “What do you think?”
“Well,” he drawled. “I don’t rightly know.”
Giles made a face like a gambler who suspects he’s being bluffed. “Try.”
“All right.” He took another shot, but it went wide of the whole backboard, rolling away in the grass. “Always hated this dang game.”
“The innate athleticism of a scientist,” Giles said.
“Come on,” Charlie urged. “Tell us.”
“Fellas,” Monroe shook his head, “I am twenty-six years old, and don’t know a thing about any of this truck. But I do have a PhD in chemistry from the University of Kentucky, so fresh the ink ain’t dried. I predict, soon as we’re back in there, we’re gonna be hearing about beryllium.”
Charlie trotted off to fetch the ball. “Why is that?”
“Neutrons. That element’s a regular neutron factory.”
“Explicate,” Giles said.
“You know the knife he was yapping about? Neutrons to cut atoms apart? Beryllium’s a knife thrower. With nine arms.”
“Hey, guys?” It was one of Giles’s friends from Electronics, calling from the patio. “They’re starting up again.”
“Be right along,” Monroe yelled back.
They fell into stride beside one another. Giles was frowning and Monroe noticed. “Something in your craw?”
Giles nodded. “Charlie, you may want to skip this part.”
“And miss the application of the theory we just heard? Not a chance.”
“You may not like what you hear.”
Charlie slowed. “Do you know something I don’t?”
“In fact, yes,” Giles answered. “Everyone in Electronics does.”
Charlie’s face grew serious. “Do you think I’m not smart enough to understand?”
“Oh I wish.”
Monroe snorted. “What in hell does that mean?”
“That Charlie will understand more of Sebring’s talk than I wish he did.”
“Hey, fellas?” the guy on the patio yelled. “He’s starting.”
Sebring had already begun, as the boys crept across the front to their seats.
“The idea,” he was saying, standing beside a flip chart with a drawing that resembled a cannon, “is that adding one mass of uranium to another mass causes a chain reaction of great volatility. We call it ‘going critical.’ In a lab, we dipped a control rod into a pile, and instantly the activity was greater than our Geiger counters could measure. When we withdrew the control rod, the reaction ceased. This design,” he tapped the drawing, “modeled after a gun, shoots a plug of uranium into a mass that is just shy of critical. The result is explosive. Another secret lab, in Tennessee, is amassing uranium for such a device. Our task here is more complicated. Let’s peel it off in layers.”
“Exactly what I said to a gal at the last dance,” Monroe whispered.
Giles chuckled but Charlie shook his head. He turned to whisper. “Sometimes you act like a six-year-old.”
“Proud of it,” Monroe said.
“First,” Sebring said, “we have what its inventors are calling ‘the nut.’”
He turned to a fresh page on the flip chart, which showed a sphere with a barrier through the middle. “Slightly larger than a golf ball, with a dividing membrane in the middle. In each half, we pack elements that generate free neutrons—on one side, polonium, and on the other, beryllium.”
Charlie glanced back at Monroe, who winked.
Sebring flipped the page. Now a larger sphere surrounded the nut. “This vessel contains plutonium, which is much harder to make and handle, but is potentially far stronger than uranium. The sphere is roughly the size of a beach ball, to keep the plutonium dispersed so it won’t spontaneously go critical. Therefore we need an implosion, to compress the plutonium into great density, at the same time the inward pressure will break the nut’s membrane and release a barrage of neutrons.”
A man on the far side of the room raised his hand. “May I ask a question?”
Sebring stepped away from the chart. “Of course.”
“The plutonium in the beach ball. How much of a pop will it make?”
Sebring raised his voice for the rest of the room. “The gentleman’s question is about yield. We estimate that four ounces of plutonium, via implosion, might equal the yield of twenty thousand pounds of TNT.”
A murmur passed through the crowd.
“Four ounces makes twenty thousand pounds?” Monroe whistled. “Woo-eee.”
“Oh, excuse me.” Sebring held up one finger. “I misspoke, pardon me. I meant twenty thousand tons of TNT. Not pounds, tons.”
Now the murmur rose into a hundred conversations, in every corner of the room.
“Are you sure you don’t want to leave?” Giles asked.
“Are you nuts?” Charlie replied. “This is fascinating.”
“All right, then. Here we go.” Giles raised his hand. “Professor Sebring?”
“Yes, another one.” He pointed at Giles. “If we could have quiet please?”
It took half a minute for people to settle themselves.
“Yes?” Sebring nodded at Giles. “What is your question?”
He gave Charlie a pained look, then turned forward. “How do you plan to accomplish this implosion?”
“I prepared for that one.” He marched back to his easel, flipping to a page with an even larger sphere, with dotted lines inside indicating the nut and beach ball, and with nodes sticking up here and there on its surface like prongs. “In our current design, implosion will occur when traditional explosives, in twenty-four detonators equidistant around the sphere, provide uniform contraction and pressurization.”
For the first time, Sebring smiled. “It’s rather elegant, really. Twenty-four conventional devices fire at precisely the same time, the plutonium compresses, the nut bursts . . . pop.”
This time though, as Sebring said the word “pop,” he made a sphere with his fingers, then slowly opened his arms as wide as they would go.
“Hey.” Monroe tapped Charlie’s shoulder. “Ain’t that what you been working on?”
But he did not reply.
Giles leaned closer. “Are you all right?”
“Good God in heaven,” Charlie said at last. “It starts with me.”
25.
The fastest I ever became an expert in anything was lying. It happened overnight. Unlike the organ, which even the basics of take years to learn, in the few hours between saying good night to Chris and waking the next morning, I acquired the skill of deceit.
In childhood, I might have tried the rare fib to avoid punishment, but it had never worked. In adolescence, I was capable of no worse than exaggerating a sore throat, to gain an extra day for writing my book report on A Tale of Two Cities.
Starting that night though, and for a time long enough that it pains me to admit, I became an artist of dishonesty. It worked two ways: deceiving my mother, who I kept in the dark about all things Chris, and lying to my friends, as I invented excuses for my sudden social unavailability.
&
nbsp; My mother made it easy. She left for the armory before nine, and until then I hid in the newspaper. An attempt to assassinate Hitler failed. The US sank the Yoshino Maru, drowning 2,495. Oh, Charlie.
She wouldn’t reach the store till one and I opened at noon, which left my mornings free. Once the front door closed behind her, I made myself count to two hundred before calling Chris. He always had some fun idea. The Lincoln Park Zoo, where we visited the monkey house, and Chris mimicked the lazy orangutan until the ape became angry. Wrigley Field, which was exciting even without a game under way. The only idea I rejected was the Great Hall of Union Station. Instead we went to Dearborn Station, where I made a big noise about the tall clock tower and Chris suspected nothing.
One telltale sign my mother might have noticed was my playing. The organ held no interest for me. Sure, I wanted to keep my chops sharp for conservatory after the war, and not lose the progress I’d made. But for months, every new piece I’d learned had been for Charlie. I dug out the old books of études, and during any lull in customers, I’d turn on the church model. But the exercises were dull as a sermon, and painfully repetitive. What was the point?
My mother poked her head out of the office. “What about that Bach toccata you were working on?”
“I don’t know.” I flipped through sheet music. “I guess I’m bored with it.”
“You seemed pretty interested last week.”
“Yawn yawn yawn,” I said.
“You know what I say about boredom.” And she went back to work.
What my mother said was that boredom is a self-inflicted wound. She was wrong this time, I thought. This time it was a Chris-inflicted wound.
Or maybe even Charlie inflicted, because any time I swapped the études for my newer repertoire, I couldn’t complete two measures without seeing his sweet, unsuspecting face. One day I ran across the sheet music for Chopin’s Nocturne no. 2, the first sonorous piece I’d played for him, and the notes read like an accusation.
But Chris had a magnetic pull on me. The next day we wandered through the main branch of the Chicago Public Library, holding hands in the grand building—though the high-domed skylight reminded me of Union Station—and between chatting and smooching in the stacks, we lost track of time. When the clock in the stately reading room rang twelve times, I realized I was late. It was pouring rain, too, no cabs available. My mother might arrive at the store before I did, and how would I explain that?
Finally a nice older gentleman let me have his taxi, and I tumbled into the back without a good-bye for Chris. When I reached the store at twelve forty, Mr. Kulak from the high school was standing outside. He saw me climb out of the cab and held his umbrella over my head.
“I hope I haven’t kept you long,” I said, fumbling with the key chain.
“Fifteen minutes, I’d say.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” I said. “I dashed out for lunch and everything took longer than I’d expected.”
“And took a cab back? Business must be booming.”
I blanched. “Silly of me, right?”
Would he tell my mother? Would he take his business elsewhere? I spun the key, the door unlocked, and he stepped aside to let me out of the rain first. “Are you here to order choir packets?” I asked.
“New year, new packets.” He took only a few steps inside the door, peering around the store as if examining it. “Next time you might put up a sign, ‘back at one’ perhaps. Because I would have preferred to return later, rather than stand in the wet.”
“That is a great suggestion, sir,” I tossed my coat on the office desk and hurried back with a notebook to take his order. “Really great.”
He eyeballed me the same way he had just been scrutinizing the store.
Nights were harder, but Chris always had a plan. I’d say I was going to one friend or another’s, my mother would remark about how very social I was being lately, and I’d say something snippy: I’m twenty years old and don’t need to sit at Mommy’s knee every night. She might roll her eyes, but that would end the inquisition and out I’d go.
On the afternoon two days before Chris was due to leave, Greta called.
“How is everything?” I asked her, feeling my mother’s antenna switch on in the next room. “How’s Brian?”
“The greatest, Brenda. The best.” She sighed. “Today he said that he loves me.”
“Yikes, Greta. He loves you?”
“I know. I know.”
“How did that feel? What did you say?”
“I burst out crying.” She laughed. “It made me feel so good, Brenda. He sees me, you know? He sees big-boned old me, and he loves me anyway.”
I heard my mother rise from her chair and go upstairs. “Do you love him?”
“I think so. What do I know, right? But I think I really do.” She huffed a couple of shallow breaths. “My mother said I need a night apart from him. For perspective. She says I need to pace myself.”
“Agony. What does your father say?”
“He says a girl must guard her reputation.” Greta giggled. “Right now I wouldn’t mind getting a reputation at all, as long as Brian was involved.”
We laughed together, easy as ever. I could have told her then. I could have been a true friend. Instead I checked the clock, counting the minutes till I would see Chris.
“So look, Brenda.” Greta was done laughing. “What say we go out tonight, maybe see a movie, or get a late coffee somewhere?”
I clenched, knowing Chris would already have left his house. Two more nights.
“I need to spill my guts about Brian to someone,” she continued. “We’ve been having a magical time. It is all so huge.”
“Greta, I would love that.” I twisted the phone cord around my finger. “Really I would.” I lowered my voice. “The thing is, I’ve been laid up with a stomach bug. That’s why I haven’t been in touch.”
“Aw, honey. I’m sure sorry to hear that.”
“It’s almost better,” I said, half-convincing myself. “But you know my mother the dictator. No going out till I’m one hundred and ten percent.”
“She and my parents ought to take a vacation together.”
“To the North Pole.”
Greta chuckled. “Bye-bye. Bon voyage. Don’t forget to write.” I pictured her waving at their imaginary departure.
“Maybe in a few days?”
“You bet, best pal. And if you need anything . . .”
“Thanks,” I said. My mother sidled down the stairs and opened the fridge about two feet away from me. “Congratulations about Brian.”
We hung up and my mother kept her head in the fridge. “Greta’s engaged?”
“No, but a serious beau. Until he ships out in six days.”
My mother straightened to look at me. “Lucky thing you have Charlie.”
“You bet,” I said. “Lucky.”
Half an hour later, Greta’s invitation was my excuse for meeting Chris. No chance my mother would object. He’d planned a picnic dinner at Rainbow Beach. I would have loved to bring the food, but that would have been too much to manage and conceal. Besides, our picnic basket was somewhere in New Mexico. Chris had his father’s Oldsmobile, and we held hands while he drove. It felt grown up. Without his sling he moved more easily, athletically. At red lights he tried to kiss me but I dodged him.
After sunset we stood at the edge of the sand, the beach surprisingly uncrowded. I realized I had always taken Lake Michigan for granted. Now I saw how special it made the city, to sit beside a huge body of fresh water, the sun gone down with the thinnest grin of a moon close behind.
Chris carried grocery bags from the car, while I followed with a blanket from the trunk. After folding the blanket double on the ground, so we would not feel the little rocks too much, I sat with my knees to one side, demure as a saint. He unloaded a jar of pickles, a wedge of cheese, a long summer sausage.
“Do you have a cutting board?” I asked.
That took the wind out of his s
ails. “I am an idiot.”
“That’s all right,” I replied. “I bet we can find a flat spot on the rocks. Did you bring a knife?”
He burst out laughing. “Brenda, I am the worst picnic planner in human history.”
I smiled at him. “At least you brought this blanket.”
He shook his head, still chuckling. “It’s my father’s. For some reason, he always keeps it in the trunk.”
“Well, good thing I’m not hungry. Do you have anything to drink?”
“I sure do,” he said, pulling out bottles of beer. “And car keys can pop the top off.”
So that was our picnic: pickles and beer. We tried biting off pieces of cheese, but it felt more like gnawing and after a first try I declined his further offers.
Chris told me things every other soldier had insisted he was forbidden to reveal: where he was stationed (a Second Division airbase in Lowestoft, England), what kinds of missions he flew (at first mostly supply flights, but now bombing sorties at night). He told me his crash was due to equipment failure, a landing gear strut that buckled, and while he broke his arm in five places, two men were killed. As he spoke, I remembered girls in high school fawning over the quarterback, and wondered if I had become one of their kind. I considered myself awfully lucky to have the attention of a guy like Chris.
“You know,” I interjected at last. “I’ve never dated a pilot before, so maybe it’s different, but most boys keep mum about their military things.”
He smiled. It wasn’t just his teeth and lips. It was his eyes, his whole face. “See, I don’t have to worry with you like with other girls, Brenda, because one day you’ll be my wife and we’ll share all of our secrets, so today is . . . I don’t know, practice?”
I picked at the label of my beer. “How are you so sure?”
“Brenda.” Chris put his things aside, not hurrying, calm as could be while my insides were fluttering, then inched forward. “I’m sure because I love you.”
I didn’t know what I was supposed to say. Greta had burst into tears. Why did I want to run away up the beach?
In the year I’d known him, Charlie had never said such a thing. Neither had my mother, though I knew she would walk through fire for me. My father had said it three times: the night I made those two foul shots, after an organ recital when I was fifteen, and the day I graduated from high school. I’d said “I love you too, Daddy” right back.
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