Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Around one P.M., Ronnie, the stock man, presents Rosalind with the weekly shipment of new items. Whenever he carries up a delivery from the loading dock, he says the same thing: “For you, Miss Porter. Diamonds for my princess.”

  “Well, thank you, Ronnie,” she tells him. “A girl can always use more diamonds.” She watches him walk away, rotund, his hair, once golden, now thinning and translucent. A man with a kind heart. Today, she especially appreciates that kind heart. All day she’s been shaky, distracted, moved by Charlie’s story and sick at the thought of what men can do to one another. But she’s also warmed when she thinks of Charlie Szydlo. She’s surprised how intensely she longs to see him again, to feel his warm skin against her fingers. Even his ruined hand felt beautiful to her. Is it only because he played the white knight by staying? She wishes he’d come again tonight. She’s dreading going home alone to face the mess, the sense of intrusion that the break-in has left her with. She never knew how bitter fear could taste.

  She watches for the man who’s been following her, expecting any moment to spot those clear eyes, that mass of pale hair that can’t be real. Even when a customer comes at last, a woman interested in some of the oldest and most interesting rings, she finds it hard to pay attention, not to glance around nervously for the intruder.

  At about three thirty, she’s pinning a garnet brooch in the shape of a soaring bird to the black velvet plaque where she keeps the medium-size brooches, thinking abstractly about Charlie’s story of his mother embroidering bluebirds while he slept, when she hears a soft, “Miss Porter,” and glances up sharply to see an unfamiliar young woman standing in front of her. Buttoned into a sober blue suit and wearing no hat, the girl looks intimidating, though she’s surely younger than Rosalind. Her medium brown hair is tightly wound. Rosalind spots the hairpins: one after another, neat as stitches from a sewing machine.

  “Do I know you?” Rosalind asks.

  “I’m Special Agent Szydlo’s secretary, Donna. He asked me to give you something.” Her voice is a whisper. “He didn’t think it wise to come here himself if you’re being followed.” Rosalind nods. “By ten o’clock tonight, you’ll have a man watching you. He wanted me to say that first.”

  “Will I? I’ll be glad.”

  There’s something so formal and awkward about the girl that it makes Rosalind feel sorry for her. The woman unsnaps her handbag and pulls something out. “Hold out your hand,” she whispers.

  Into Rosalind’s palm the woman sets a small object so heavy, Rosalind’s arm momentarily dips. Positioning it just beneath the counter and turning it toward herself, Rosalind meets the smallest camera she’s ever encountered.

  “Agent Szydlo says you should put it away, somewhere you can grab it quickly. He wants you to use it if you see the man. Since you need to take the photo in a way that won’t be noticed, you can’t hold it to your eye. Understand? The round part is the lens. It needs to face the perpetrator as much as possible.”

  “Yes, I’ve used a camera.”

  “And he told me to remind you to keep it steady while you click the shutter—the little round button up top. Or the photograph will blur. Set it on the counter if you can. But tilt it toward the man’s face. The film’s already been loaded. Thirty-six shots. You may need to take that many to capture him without looking through the lens. Agent Szydlo said not to worry about wasting shots—up to thirty-six, of course. He also asked me to ask you . . .” She frowns slightly. “If you’re . . . if you’re ummm . . . feeling . . . okay?” The girl clearly thinks the question odd. She’s so serious, so nunlike. No lipstick. No jewelry. She wonders if Donna finds Agent Szydlo attractive, or is she put off by his injured hand? And what does Charlie think of her? This is a woman he works with every day.

  “Tell him I’m not looking forward to going home.”

  The secretary nods briskly, as if trying to memorize the words.

  “Show me a piece of jewelry,” the girl says.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Agent Szydlo says I should look like a customer in case anyone’s watching.”

  Rosalind slips a little mourning ring off her finger and hands it to Donna. Donna turns it over and over, frowning.

  “It’s a baby,” she says. Because Rosalind loves the ring, she’s been wearing it. On an oval of porcelain, the face of a curly haired, rosy-cheeked baby looks up at her with wide blue eyes. Those eyes were closed and that beautiful child was lying in a coffin by the time the miniature was painted. Two cherub wings etched on the gold bezel below the portrait say so. Inside, the engraving reads: Affection weeps. Heaven rejoices. Edmund Karl Michael.

  “Yes,” Rosalind says. “His mother had this ring painted to memorialize him. That’s what people did back then to help them mourn.”

  “Who would want to wear a reminder of a dead baby?”

  “A loving mother would,” she says. “I would.” She takes the ring and slides it back onto her finger. “Babies died all the time in the eighteenth century. I think it’s beautiful, but it’s not for everyone. Perhaps you’d prefer this?” She pulls out a regard ring with particularly tiny stones. Rosalind has been thinking of it as the “without much regard” ring, since the stones are so minuscule. Donna tries it on her finger and turns it back and forth under the spotlights.

  “They light this counter so the gems shine, don’t they?” she says.

  “It allows you to see them better.”

  “It’s cheating, though. It won’t look that way in the real world, will it?”

  “Sunlight will do the same.”

  “I’m not much for jewelry.” Donna hands back the ring as though it’s radioactive. “The man outside your door tonight—his name is Gray. He’ll knock when he arrives. Another man will join you tomorrow. Agent Lawrence.”

  “Tonight’s man will just sit outside my door?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “But what do I tell my neighbors? Or if Weaver shows up unexpectedly? What will I say? How will I explain it?”

  “I don’t know,” Donna says. “Call Agent Szydlo if you need instructions.”

  “Okay.” In order to keep Weaver from coming over, she’ll have to go to his place often. She takes the camera from behind the counter into her hand where only she can see it. So small, so easy to hide. A camera to catch a Russian. How has she gotten here?

  “Is there anything else you want me to tell Agent Szydlo?” Donna asks.

  Rosalind slides the gadget back onto the shelf behind the counter. She wishes she could say, Tell Charlie I want him to spend the night with me again. Instead, she says, “Tell him thank you for the camera.”

  * * *

  Just past dark, Charlie stands at the brand-new door of the yellow frame house on Paulina Street, working up the courage to knock. It’s red with three windows cut vertically. What on earth made Sondra choose a red door? With the jaundiced siding, the door is ketchup against mustard. He’s considering turning tail, telephoning from home to say he’s sorry, that he must have picked up the flu. Except he’s a terrible liar and Peggy would never back him up. “Lying isn’t a part of the Ten Commandments,” he once pointed out to her when he was about ten. “Except for bearing false witness against your neighbor, and I wouldn’t even know how to do that.”

  “What are you, a dope? It’s a sin anyway! All lying is a sin.”

  Christ. Why did he ask his sister’s friend to dinner? When he raps sharply, the red door swings back and Sondra stands before him in a fancy dress.

  “I thought I saw you out there,” she says cheerily. “Come in.”

  “You got a new door?”

  “The old one was rotten. Fell right off one morning. Like it?”

  “The door? Oh sure. Who doesn’t like red?” He for one. He imagines Peggy shaking her head at him.

  She smooths her puffed-up ski
rt as she lets him by. With her shoulders back, her hair done up, coral lipstick and rouge on her cheeks, coral nail polish—it’s far too elaborate for a simple dinner at Kutz’s. The dress is black-and-white and flowered, layered up in that see-through fabric that Peggy calls organdy. Sondra looks like a different woman from the one who came to lunch, so natural, so homey.

  “So, how are you, Sondra?” he asks.

  “Oh, fine. Fine. I just need to gather my things. A little powder for the nose. I should have packed my purse before you came but I didn’t have time.” Yes, because she was doing her nails and putting on lipstick and using Spray Net on her hair, he thinks. He tries to tell himself that she’s trying too hard because she’s a woman still in pain. Hurt by the war like he’s been. But he can’t help feeling threatened that she’s dolled herself up like this just for him.

  He glances around. He came to a summer housewarming party at this house with Linda the year Sondra and her husband bought it. Cookies and sandwiches cut into the shape of houses. Relatives, friends, new neighbors, all invited. Still teenagers, Charlie and Linda slipped into the dark narrow gangway between the Beckers’ house and their neighbor’s and, thinking no one could see them, began to kiss. He remembers pressing himself against his soft, yielding, and very willing girlfriend, sliding his hand up her shirt. Peggy slapped him when they got home. “You’re lucky I don’t tell Mama,” she said. “Do you have any idea how embarrassing your behavior was? If I saw, anyone could see. Sondra’s my friend, Charlie. And it was a nice family-style party. The angels were covering their eyes. What is wrong with you?” He flushes now, remembering. Oh, how much desire he had then—like a waterfall: ever flowing, loud, relentless enough to cut a hole in stone.

  For the most part, that desire was a victim of the war, of his captivity, of Linda’s rejection. Except last night, he’d had a taste of it when he slept on Rosalind’s sofa. He’d longed for her in the next room in a way he hasn’t longed for anyone in years. Yearned for her in his sleep, dreamt of kissing her, undressing her, woke himself up just in time not to mess up the sheets. It’s madness he should feel this way about the woman he’s encouraging to sleep with his number one suspect. His responsibility. His asset. And she still has enough feeling for her ex-lover that she’s withholding information on his behalf. Yet, this morning, the way she took his hand . . . Nothing has moved him that much since the war. Nothing.

  On the flip side, the only thing in his life that has consistently meant anything to him of late is his job. And if he were to start up with Rosalind, he’d be risking what matters most to him. Yet . . . the way she touched his scars, whispered about how his ruined hand was part of him and didn’t offend her. Is he only imagining she’s drawn to him too? She’s clearly still besotted with Weaver. At first, Charlie felt minimal guilt for making her reach out to Weaver. She and Weaver had already been lovers. But now . . . the thought of Rosalind in bed with that man, that traitor, makes him sick with regret.

  “Ready, then?” Sondra swirls into the room like a little girl showing off her new tutu. He takes a deep breath. Her nose is powdered. Her eyelids are colored. She has hopes for this date. Hopes for Charlie. She’s utterly forgotten or misinterpreted what he said about wanting to be friends. He’s never been willing to disappoint anyone. That’s one of the main reasons he’s kept so much to himself lately. He has nothing to offer. But it’s too late to back out, and she’s smiling at him like he’s the Christmas package she’s always hoped to find under her tree.

  * * *

  This morning before work, Rosalind called Zeke to beg him to walk her home and spend the night. She said she’d explain it all when she saw him. He’s outside the State Street door when she leaves Field’s, shooting photographs of random people. His oversize camera appears to weigh more than he does.

  “Stay still and watch that bus go by,” he commands, turning it on her.

  “What?”

  “Just do as I say.” She shifts her weight uncomfortably while Zeke clicks off a few shots.

  “It’s a mystery,” he says, “how someone as graceful as you can turn into the Mummy the second you know your photo’s being taken.”

  “Shut up.” She kisses him, then has to wipe lipstick off his freckled cheek. “Thanks for coming.”

  “What the hell’s up?”

  “I need to be with my best friend. Isn’t that enough?”

  “No. We had dinner last night. Wasn’t that enough?” When she doesn’t answer, he hooks his arm in hers. “What’s Weaver done now? Spill it.”

  “It’s not Weaver.”

  “Then what?”

  “I was robbed.”

  “What?”

  “I was robbed.”

  “And this isn’t a metaphor?”

  She shakes her head.

  “When?”

  “Last night.”

  Zeke gasps. “But we were together last night.”

  “When I got home, the door was open. The apartment was a disaster.”

  “And you didn’t call me?”

  “I called the . . . police. But now I’m afraid to go home alone. Also, it’s a mess.”

  “Why would anyone rob you? You don’t wear fancy jewelry. Or furs. You’re a washout to a robber.”

  “Thanks. Next time I see them, I’ll ask why the hell they bothered.”

  Knocking her with his elbow, he says, “I don’t know if I’d call you droll or sarcastic, but neither is attractive, young lady.” He pulls her closer, pats her hand. “I’m glad you’re okay, Bunny.” Zeke can’t do a damn thing to save her, but there’s nothing more comforting than his familiarity.

  When they reach the apartment, Frank nods and says, “Mr. Adams,” then waits until Zeke’s halfway to the elevator before whispering, “Miss Porter?” She turns back to him. “That man, that FBI agent last night. Is he your new beau?”

  She shakes her head and smiles. “Just a friend. I was lucky he was available to help.”

  “Nice fellow. It would be good to have a fellow like that for a boyfriend,” he says. Instead of Weaver, is what he’s really saying. “Want to know the truth, I feel bad about it. We haven’t had a break-in in this building in ten years or more.”

  “Frank, it’s not your fault.”

  “I don’t get how a thief could slip by me. I try to be aware. I just want to reassure you I’m on the job a thousand percent.” He looks stricken.

  “I always know you’re here to protect me.”

  “Hurry up, Bunny,” Zeke calls from the elevator. “I’m sweating bullets.”

  “Be right there. Thanks, Frank,” she says. “There’s nothing to worry about, I’m sure.” Still, in the elevator, as warm as it is, a finger of fear slips up her back, causing her to shiver.

  * * *

  When they open the door to her apartment, it’s extraordinary how assaultive the chaos feels. Zeke can’t stop clicking his tongue at the mess. He’s the one who turns around the second they’re in the apartment and relocks both locks and hooks the chain too. “Can’t be too careful,” he says. “But as for this mayhem, you need a maid, not me.”

  “I should have suggested you bring your maid’s uniform, duster and all. Me, I’m putting on dungarees.”

  When she comes out of the bedroom, Zeke grabs a red bandana that’s on top of a pile the looters dislodged from the hall table drawer.

  “C’mere,” he says. “We’ll make you into Rosie the Riveter.” He ties the bandana around her curls, then turns her to look in the mirror. He’s left the requisite two little tails on top. It’s soothing to have Zeke here. Still, the panic sifts down on her as she begins to put things away. Someone’s touched her possessions. Someone wants something from her. And even Charlie and his team have moved and handled everything: her lingerie, her journal, that box of love letters from Weaver.

  Dampening a rag, she picks up the fingerp
rint grit Charlie and the evidence team left behind, picks up the extra bed pillow Charlie left on the sofa this morning and briefly holds it to her nose to take in his scent—both clean and deeply masculine—before she finds a place for it in the linen closet. Zeke is in charge of putting books back in the bookcases, but every third book he sits down to explore. Around eight, they still have more to tackle but decide they’d better pause for dinner. Pulling out a can of Chef Boyardee, she holds it up to Zeke.

  “Gourmet fare?” she asks.

  “Who needs filet mignon?”

  She keys it open with the can opener and dumps the glop into a little enamel pot. She’s turning on the burner when the buzzer startles her.

  “Miss Porter, Mr. Weaver’s here for you . . . ,” Frank says.

  Dear God, did Weaver let her know he was coming and she forgot? Frank’s tone says, Send him away. For a thin moment, she feels panicked, uncertain. She’s wearing dungarees and a bandana. She must look a fright. But she has no choice. “Let him up.”

  “Weaver’s here,” she calls to Zeke.

  “Does that mean I can leave?” he asks.

  “And give up a dinner of Chef Boyardee? It’s up to you.”

  “I’ll just say hello to the Prodigal Lover and leave you two alone to do whatever it is you two do,” he says with a lascivious grin.

  She sticks the barely heated pan into the fridge and tosses the can in the trash. No need to further prove to Weaver that she’s a subpar cook. At the door, she yanks off the bandana. She can’t do anything about the dungarees, but she slicks on a layer of lipstick.

  When she finally gets everything unlocked, she’s astonished by Weaver’s appearance. He seems even thinner, and surprisingly more striking. His new sleekness emphasizes his cheekbones, his square chin, and makes his eyes—right now a clear mossy green—more the focus of his face. Has he ever looked so utterly masculine? She wishes she wasn’t so drawn to him.