He nodded.
“He says you were a very prominent nuclear scientist in the former Soviet Union,” I said, watching his reaction.
He didn’t look in the least discomposed. “Go on,” he said.
“Go on?” I asked. “Is it true?”
“That’s probably not an unfair statement,” he said mildly.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” I demanded. “This is no time for modesty. This sort of information alone will probably get you an approval from the INS.”
He smiled. “If your expert told you that much, he might have hinted at the reason I didn’t tell you. Am I right?”
I was surprised at his directness. I decided to respond in kind. Not that I had any choice. “He said you sort of disappeared after Chernobyl. He suggested … well, he said your skills were so valuable you might…” I couldn’t think how to finish the sentence.
He did it for me. “Have sold out to the highest bidder, you mean?”
“Something like that,” I said.
“Well, it’s possible. I certainly had offers,” he said.
“And?”
“And I didn’t. I could have, but I didn’t.” He searched in his pockets. “Now I really do need a smoke. Do you mind?”
“You can’t smoke here,” I said, hating it that I sounded like someone’s prissy aunt. “It’s a restaurant.”
“Even outside?” He looked surprised.
“Yes,” I told him. “Anyway, I thought you quit.”
“It’s a rare indulgence, but sometimes necessary,” he said.
“Like a meat-loaf sandwich,” I observed, as the waitress put a mammoth sandwich and a mound of fries down in front of me. The chicken salad looked anorexic by comparison.
“Is it good?” he asked with a grin. “I’ve never had one.”
I pushed the plate toward him. “If I give you half, will you tell me the truth?”
He eyed the sandwich. “You drive a hard bargain,” he said. He picked it up gingerly, as if it might contain explosives. He opened his mouth wide and took a bite. After an eternity of chewing, he smiled. “Not bad,” he said. “Actually, I was going to tell you anyway.”
“In that case you owe me a pickle slice,” I said.
He offered me his plate, and I speared the pickle with my fork. “Okay, now we’re even,” I said, “so tell me.”
AFTER CHERNOBYL, Alexei told me, many of the Soviet Union’s nuclear physicists were drafted into the cleanup. The world’s scrutiny notwithstanding, the results, for various reasons, were not an unmitigated success. “People are probably too frightened of radiation,” Alexei said. “There’s a lot of fearmongering.”
As someone who had read On the Beach in high school, I found this view surprising, not to mention a little disconcerting, and said so.
“Well,” he said, “a lot of people agree with you. The area around Chernobyl has been turned into a giant parking lot without cars. Some people still live there, but, let’s face it, that’s probably not the best option.”
“Plus, I’ve read that Chernobyl is leaking again,” I told him.
“Yes, I’ve read that, too,” he said.
In response to the accident, an elite team of scientists was formed to develop strategies to prevent similar disasters. Not just at nuclear power plants, but also measures to safeguard the many thousands of nuclear warheads warehoused around the country.
“Because of the defense concerns,” Alexei said, “the identity of the team was top secret. Your computer guy is right—we did ‘disappear’ from public view—from conferences and panels and university faculties. I told myself it was worth it, that the potential safety of millions of people was at stake, and not just in the Soviet Union.”
He reached absently for one of my french fries, then realized it was mine and stopped. I inched the plate toward him. “Be my guest,” I said. “So what happened?” I asked him.
“You have to understand that I can’t tell you anything more about what I did for those years,” he said. “I’m sure I don’t have to explain why.” After the Soviet breakup, he said, the potential for nuclear nightmares increased a thousandfold. With an economy in ruins, the state could no longer afford to maintain the reactors. Disgruntled, underpaid soldiers tried to sell weapons to rogue states like North Korea or to individual terrorists. “You’ve heard the story about the officer who prevented nuclear war when obsolete equipment identified a flock of birds as incoming missiles from the United States?” he asked. “He was given the order to retaliate, and he didn’t push the button. There were near misses like that all the time.”
“So what happened to you?” I asked him.
His hands stilled, and he let out a long breath. “My father told me that sometimes in combat, soldiers in desperate situations have an irresistible urge to give themselves up,” he said. “Not to capture, but to death. Just to get it over with.” He rubbed his eyes. “Maybe I’m not explaining this well. Maybe it’s like having some terrible disease. For a while you fight it, and then you’re just … resigned.”
He looked at me. The Russian jokes, the banter, the cosmopolitan ease with which he moved between two cultures were a cover for this naked anguish, and for just a moment he let me see it. “It was something like that,” he said. “Russia is a country with more than its share of corruption, not enough money for appropriate safeguards, homegrown terrorists, and a military that is unstable, underpaid, and unhappy. There is a thriving black market.” He shook his head. “What does anyone think will happen? It is not possible,” he said slowly, “to prevent some kind of nuclear disaster from happening. Not possible.” His eyes held a look that chilled me to the bone. “Once I realized that, I could not go on,” he said.
“You had a breakdown?” I whispered.
He smiled grimly. “Not quite that dramatic. But I couldn’t face it anymore. Not another day, not another sleepless night. So I quit, or I tried to.” He drummed his fingers on the table. “I really need a cigarette,” he said.
“Have another french fry instead,” I said, pushing the plate at him. “It’s almost as bad for you.”
“I know,” he said, picking up two. “I should give them up, too.”
“So you left your job,” I prompted him.
He shook his head. “It’s not that simple,” he said. “It’s not exactly a job, is it? What I had to do was … arrange my disappearance, I guess you’d say. I ran away. There wasn’t any other choice.”
“Why?” I asked.
His look told me I was naive. “For the same reason a lot of less-than-upright people have tried to buy my services,” he said. “I know things. Nuclear-warhead disposition, power-plant sites, construction vulnerability.” He lowered his voice. “I could even make a bomb, if I had to. It’s not that hard.”
I shuddered involuntarily, which did not escape his notice.
“Precisely,” he said. “So now do you understand why I’m tempted to get into a different field altogether? I took a postdoc fellowship at a university and then got the job at SLAC, but even that is—what’s the expression?—too close to home. And if I did start work on the big international project in Germany, the rumors would start up again. It might be nice to do something restful and lucrative for a change. At least till the end of the world comes.”
He sounded as if he were only half joking.
The last bite of sandwich turned to sawdust in my mouth. I swallowed with difficulty. “This is the scariest conversation I’ve had since …” There was no need to finish the sentence.
This time he was the one who touched me. He put his hand over my arm, and the warmth was surprisingly comforting. “I know,” he said. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you. It’s not something you should share, even with a friend.”
“Yes, of course you should. I asked you. I wanted to know.”
He shook his head. “You can’t stare down this fear, Lynn. All you can do is inventory the possibilities. It can poison you. It ruined my marriage, my
hopes, my career. That is why it has to stop.” He had not removed his hand, and I put my other hand on top of his.
“I’ll help you any way I can,” I said, in a far-from-businesslike manner.
“I know you will,” he said. He smiled.
I had a thought. “Alexei?”
“Yes?”
I lowered my voice conspiratorially. “Do they know where you are?”
“Who?”
“Whoever employed you before,” I said.
“The Russian Ministry of Defense? Probably.”
“And?”
“And if I get a green card,” he said, “I’ll be safe.”
“Safe?”
He smiled grimly. “I’m a dangerous man, Lynn. They want me back.”
“Well, they can’t have you,” I told him. “Not if I have anything to say about it.”
24
To: Lynn
From: Alexei
Lunch at your office next week? I promise—no more gloomy topics! Let’s talk about you next time.
To: Alexei
From: Lynn
What makes you think that isn’t a gloomy topic?
To: Lynn
From: Alexei
I have eyes, Ms. Bartlett.
Ever since Alexei’s revelations, I’d been feeling like some Calvinist sure that the Dreadful Day of Judgment was close at hand. The happiness of everyday life—the daily routine, the security, the freedom—was a chance event that could disappear at any time. It altered your priorities, that’s for sure. I mean, would you want to be spending your time doing the dirty laundry during Armageddon?
So what did I want to spend my remaining days doing? I was smart, I was (or at least I had been) successful, and a certified genius from the Soviet Union not only entrusted his future to my competence but found me attractive to boot. Whatever I decided to do with my life, what I did not plan to do, to use my father’s expression, was take any more guff.
THE HUGHESES WERE THE FIRST to feel the effects.
“Um,” Jack said to me one morning, “I’ve been finding a bunch of garbage in the family room. Apple cores and banana peels, stuff like that. Um, is Patrick leaving his trash in there?”
I took a leisurely sip of my coffee. “Afraid so,” I said.
He looked puzzled. “Why would he suddenly turn into a slob? Do you think he’s upset about something?”
“I imagine he’s upset about a lot of things,” I told him. “But there’s nothing sudden about it.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean I stopped picking up after him. That’s why his garbage is still in there.”
“Why didn’t you say something? I didn’t know you were doing that.”
He didn’t want to know either. Family life is easier with blinders on. I shrugged. “I’ve been sort of busy cleaning up other people’s messes at the office. I just got tired of doing it at home, too.”
“I’ll take care of it,” he said. “I’m sorry.”
“That’s not the big issue, Jack,” I said.
“No, I suppose not,” he said. “But the job market’s really tough now, you know that.”
“I’ve noticed,” I said dryly. “But we’re still coming up on six months.”
“I know, but …” His voice trailed off.
I didn’t help him.
“You seem a little distant,” he said eventually. “Is everything all right?”
Of course it wasn’t. “I’m sure it will be,” I said.
“I WONDER IF YOU FORGOT to give Jack my message about the invitations,” Janet said on the telephone.
She’d called with the information that the printers were expecting a check in advance. Far in advance, apparently, since the wedding was still eight months away, and even the locale wasn’t definite yet.
“I didn’t forget,” I told her.
“Well, did you tell him?” she demanded.
“Of course I did. If there’s nothing else, I have a lot—”
“He didn’t call back,” she said in an accusing tone.
I’m shocked. “I gave him the message,” I repeated. “I’d leave a message with his secretary, if I were you. Sometimes when he gets really busy, he forgets things.”
“I know that,” she said. Her tone suggested that leaving a message with Jack’s secretary was precisely what she thought she was doing. “You know,” she said, just when I was ready to hang up, “Jack doesn’t seem very enthusiastic about this wedding.”
“Mmm,” I said, in what I hoped was a noncommittal tone.
“You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” she asked sweetly.
I sighed. “What do you mean?”
“I just wondered if the explanation might be that the wedding is interfering with some plans the two of you might have. I know you were looking for another house. I thought that might be putting pressure on Jack not to—”
“Stop right there,” I said.
“I hope I’m not offending you,” she said.
Of course, when people say that, that’s precisely what they do hope, and moreover they hope to get away with it by pretending politeness. “The only pressure I’m putting on Jack,” I told her, “is to level with you and Meredith about how much he can afford to contribute to this wedding. Otherwise I’m staying out of it.”
“Jack’s rolling in money,” she said.
“Open your eyes, Janet,” I said wearily. “Haven’t you noticed what’s happened in Silicon Valley? Why don’t you two just sit down and discuss it frankly and stop playing games?”
“It’s your business, isn’t it?” she asked. “Jack’s rescuing your law firm, isn’t he? That’s why—”
I hung up on her.
“I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOTTEN INTO ME,” I said, taking a serious gulp of some wine that had doubtless emerged from a container with square corners. Someone less oenophilic had brought the refreshments this time. The other Anne Boleyn-ites nodded sagely, waiting for me to go on. “I mean, I thought I was sure this marriage is what I wanted, and now I’m not.” Not only that, but here I was babbling away about my personal life to, with the exception of Kay, a group of relative strangers. I felt as guilty as if I’d spilled my guts to the National Enquirer or 60 Minutes.
“We’ve all been there,” Claire Billings, the doctor, said. “You just have to decide if it’s worth all the hassles.” She sighed. “Sometimes it’s not.”
“See, last time you were here, you were far more concerned with behaving decorously,” Melanie, the Suburban Bombshell, suggested, surprisingly. “That made it easy for all of them to take advantage of you. Even your husband.”
“So now I’m turning into a bitch instead,” I said. “I still believe in behaving decorously, on the whole, but I don’t seem to be able to do it.”
“Being assertive about what you want doesn’t make you a bitch,” Kay said.
“And if it does, so what?” said Claire. “It’s better than being a doormat.”
“Repeat after me: ‘I am not a doormat,’ ” Melanie said.
The others laughed. “That’s our mantra,” Kay said.
“I don’t think I’m a doormat,” I said. “But I don’t think I’m getting much respect either. I mean, I’ve got a lot of important things going on in my professional life, and my husband is focusing on why his son is suddenly leaving garbage in the family room. I’m really tired of running interference for my husband with his ex-wife, of fending off her innuendos about the reasons for my actions, and of dealing with what is essentially an appalling lack of manners on the part of my stepchildren. It’s such a … dispiriting way to spend your life. I have other things to focus on, and I just don’t want to do that anymore.”
“Amen,” said Claire.
“So how do you feel about your husband now?” Melanie asked me.
Amazingly, I was not offended by the frankness of these questions. In fact, it was a kind of relief to get things out in the open.
“I don�
�t know,” I said. “Of course I still love him, but the context has changed. I admire his loyalty to his family, but I didn’t expect that they would so often come first. This is sort of over the top, but …” I hesitated.
“Just say it,” Kay urged. “You’ll feel better.”
The others nodded. It was an organizational mantra that the less you held back, the better.
“Sometimes I think my life is so arid,” I said finally. “I mean, where’s the passion? Maybe I settled. Or maybe I’m just evolving a set of elaborate rationalizations.”
“For what?” Melanie asked.
“For leaving him,” I said, shocked at the words after they came out of my mouth, but not taking them back either. At least I didn’t say, For having an affair.
“Robert died,” Lorraine, the elderly woman whose stepson had abducted her husband from the nursing home following a stroke, said suddenly.
“Oh, Lorraine, that’s so terrible,” Kay said. “We’re so sorry.” The others murmured their sympathy.
“I never got to see him again. I wasn’t even treated as his widow when he died,” she said. “I wasn’t invited to the funeral.” She shook her head sadly. “I should have fought for him when I had the chance. I shouldn’t have just let him go.”
“I’m sure there wasn’t anything you could have done,” Kay said soothingly.
Lorraine raised her head and looked directly at me. “There’s always something you could have done,” she said.
“ARE YOU REALLY THINKING OF LEAVING JACK?” Kay asked afterward, over coffee.
“I was almost as surprised as you were to hear myself say it,” I told her. “I really don’t know.” I took a big gulp of coffee, then another. “Maybe I’m just tired,” I said.
“I gathered that,” Kay said. She gestured at the coffee cup. “Go ahead, fuel up.”
“I’m going to pay for it later,” I said. “I can feel all that cheap wine fighting the caffeine for dominance.”
“So what’s really wrong?” she said after a moment.
“Do you ever stop to think about how short life really is?” I asked.
Secret Lives of Second Wives Page 16