Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  She lifts her hands to her face, presses her fingers against her brows. He waits a long while, but she doesn’t move.

  “Victoire Spenard was on a lot of watch lists as a foreign agent. We think that’s why she changed her identity. Are you okay?” he asks.

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Hey, come up for air,” he says. “This news isn’t all bad. It explains a lot. It’s very possible Weaver left you in ’46 because Clemence surprised him by arriving unexpectedly. It was after the war; there was passenger traffic across the Atlantic at last. He said it wasn’t his choice. She could have threatened to expose him as a married man. And a Communist. The Soviets may have sent her to America to draw him back in or watch over him to make sure he complied. By that time, I imagine he wanted out but felt trapped.”

  At last she looks up. Her eyes are red, her chin dimpled with bitterness.

  “He said there were things I didn’t know.”

  “For once he was telling you the truth. Listen. Let him spill what’s going on with the Russians. Let him confess if that’s what he needs. You’re the one person who could persuade him not to share what more he knows.”

  “I don’t know . . .”

  “Free him in that way, at least. You don’t fear he might . . . I mean . . . he wouldn’t hurt you in any way, do you suppose?”

  “Never.”

  “I don’t want you to risk anything. But if you’re sure he loves you, that you’re safe . . .”

  Again, she nods. Weaver’s told her he loves her. She believes him.

  “Do you think he’s home by now? Do you want to phone him?”

  “I couldn’t control my voice. I couldn’t sound normal.”

  “Okay, wait a while. Stay with me for dinner. What do you think?”

  “I couldn’t eat.”

  “Maybe in a little while you can. We’ll chat. You’ll have another drink. You’ll realize this isn’t going to be so bad.” He’s brought her to pain and tears. He wants time to fix it.

  She takes a deep breath and then she says, “Is the FBI paying?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “That’s good. Because I’m dead broke.”

  He laughs. “Dinner’s on us. Steak, seafood. It’s all here on your country’s tab.” He pushes the menu toward her.

  “Not yet,” she says. “After another drink.”

  He notes her Scotch is almost gone. “Do you need bread or anything?” He thinks of Sondra. “I don’t want to have to carry you home.”

  She laughs. “No. If I get woozy, I’ll stop. But I am feeling better. I don’t know if it’s you or the Scotch . . .”

  “I hope it’s me.”

  She smiles sweetly, wearily. He waves to the waitress. Is it wrong that he feels giddy with victory? Yet, he knows that at the end of the dinner, she will leave him alone at the table and step out to call the man she really loves.

  * * *

  Over dinner, Rosalind’s relieved that Charlie does all he can to distract her from the news of Clemence Weaver’s possible end and the fact that Weaver has lied to her from the beginning. She can’t disregard the anger that roils inside. Still, he’s able to charm her with tales about his childhood, his mother, his life in the Polish community, speaking so vividly, so lovingly, about a world she hardly knows. How can she not be moved by a man who has suffered so much, yet so embodies gratefulness?

  He draws her out too. When she speaks of her job, the whispers of the past she finds in the jewelry she sells, he rubs his finger over the gold ring she’s wearing. “Tell me about this one,” he says.

  “Read what’s inside it,” she says. She finds herself reaching out for his good hand, turning it over, and setting the ring into his palm. With the magic dexterity of his fingers, he manages to shake it to their tips so he can hold it up to the light. Squinting, he reads, “For the bravest girl in the world.”

  “It’s the reason I bought it. The ruby is nothing, really. Negligible. But the sentiment . . .”

  “It’s who you want to be?”

  Weaver took so much, left her with so little belief in herself.

  “It’s who I wish I could be, Charlie. I want to go back to science. I ache for it. But I’m a coward at heart.”

  “You could be that girl,” he says. “Life is giving you a chance to prove you’re anything but a coward.”

  She looks up into his eyes and is bathed in his belief in her. After he slips the ring back on her finger, he reaches out and caresses her cheek. She grabs his hand and holds it for a long, long while. When it’s time to call Weaver, she hates to let it go.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Dear girl, I’m so glad to hear from you,” Weaver says. His voice is muffled and breathy. He must have been napping. The telephone in his apartment is by the bed, which always struck her as a bit louche. She’s never known anyone who didn’t keep their telephone in the hall or kitchen. “I tried to call you,” he says.

  “I went out to dinner with a friend. Would you like me to come by now?”

  “God yes. I’ve been desperate for you all day.” She feels a twinge just below her ribs. Why do Weaver’s words still hold the power to thrill her? Especially after what she’s just discovered. And after the blissful dinner with Charlie.

  “I’ll take the bus down.”

  “Take a taxi. I’ll pay it back. I need you, Duchess.” Loving words, when all this time he’s been lying . . .

  She hangs up and stands for a moment in the hall with her eyes squeezed shut, her heart pounding. She thinks about what Charlie said: that she could help Weaver find absolution before he dies. That by persuading him to confess . . . she could even protect him. And protect the world by keeping him from sharing more. Could Weaver really be the one in place to share information about the H-bomb? If she’s capable of stopping him, how could she walk away from that duty?

  “So what’s the verdict?” Charlie asks. “Are you going to see Weaver?” She notes reservation in his eyes. Yet, he’s the one sending her down there. She nods.

  “Well then, let’s get you out of here.” He sets his napkin on the table, gets up, and gestures back toward the hall.

  As they pass, the maître d’ says, “So glad you could join us.” He no doubt thinks they’re a couple in love, that it’s just the beginning of their night together. In the dark vestibule between the doors, Charlie says, “Wait here. Let me check the street first.”

  He steps out the door, and in the late light, she watches his tall figure with a hollow longing. When he returns, he gently sets his hands on her shoulders. “Gray is out there in a navy car halfway down the street.” He points. “He’ll follow your taxi. Listen, with Weaver, please be careful.”

  “He won’t hurt me. He loves me,” she says.

  “Even so. It’s my nature to worry.”

  “Really? I wouldn’t have guessed that.”

  “When it comes to you,” he says, “I can’t seem to help myself.”

  She finds herself reaching up and touching his face. When he hugs her in return, she feels both safe and deeply thrilled, surprised by how long he presses her close.

  “Thank you for dinner,” she whispers.

  “Rosalind . . . I . . .” He smooths her hair, caresses her lips with his thumb. Oh, how his touch moves her. She waits for him to say more, but he just shakes his head, looking mildly embarrassed. The desire to reach forward and kiss him is almost unbearable. He touched her lips. How she longs to taste his.

  They step outside and he hails a taxi, opens the door. “Be safe,” he whispers, making sure her skirt is inside before he shuts it. He holds up his hand in farewell, and she watches him grow smaller as the taxi hurtles her toward Weaver.

  * * *

  In the cab she wonders how she’ll keep from letting on to Weaver all she now knows. She thinks of the engraving inside he
r ring. For the bravest girl in the world.

  “You could be that girl, Rosalind,” Charlie said. When she looked into his eyes, she saw belief, kindness, truth. Here in the taxi, she tries to muster her courage. She can’t help thinking about Clemence, that proud, cold woman with the dark, upswept hair who was the object of Roz’s hate for so long. Is it really possible that Weaver’s killed her? How could he have lied to Rosalind all these years? And lie to her still? All along, Weaver’s the one she should have despised.

  As she gets out at his place, she sees Gray driving up nearby, parking his car. That should make her feel safe, but she realizes, with a start, that she forgot to mention to Charlie that Weaver thinks her apartment is bugged. How on earth could it have slipped her mind? It was the first thing on her list. Especially because the Russians surely heard him talking about fingerprinting, might have gleaned that he’s FBI. And she still hasn’t told Charlie about the envelope. In her life, she’s never felt more at sea.

  Entering the big house, she climbs the steps. Weaver’s bell chirps beneath her index finger. When he comes to the door, she steels herself to hate him, prepares to pretend she doesn’t. Yet when his eyes light up at seeing her, his new vulnerability, his mortality, unexpectedly disarm her. How striking he looks in a crisp blue shirt, summer-weight gray slacks, a Scotch in hand. He’s always been a shade too handsome: a man from an advertisement. And sometimes he was so distant. But tonight, his pleasure at finding her there momentarily wins her with its gentleness. This man couldn’t harm even the most evil wife, she tells herself.

  “Come in, my love,” he says. “I’m so glad to see you.”

  The apartment’s neat and cozy. Inviting in a way her modern place will never be.

  He offers her one of the wing chairs and brings her a Scotch. “You’ve been standing behind that damn counter all day,” he says. “Let me wait on you for a change.” As they sip their drinks together, he tells her how his bus never showed up this morning because a woman went into labor at the stop before his.

  “She must have been in labor before she got on, because, apparently, she started having the baby right then and there in the last row. Firemen had to climb on board to help. I heard on the radio she had a boy. So who’d you have dinner with?” He tacks this question onto the end of his story so awkwardly, it makes her laugh.

  “A friend,” she says.

  “A man?” His question irks her.

  “Yes.”

  He takes a sip of his Scotch, then sets it down, shakes his head, stares at his hands. “I know you dated others while I was gone. And I can’t blame you. Still . . .”

  “You weren’t gone, Weaver,” she says pointedly. “You were with Clemence. What would you have me do?” She watches him wince. The truth is, all these years, Rosalind hasn’t dated. She said no to every man—the one who asked her out in the produce aisle at the grocery store, the cousin of her floor manager at Field’s, the man she met at a lecture. She couldn’t risk feeling close to anyone. Not after what Weaver did to her. And now she finds he’s been lying all this time. Her rage toward him is caged but decidedly alive, rattling its bars.

  “Is this man someone I should know about?” he asks insistently. “This man you had dinner with. Something . . . ongoing?”

  “You’re the one who has things to confess,” she says. “Not me.” It feels good to gain the upper hand for a change.

  “And I will,” he says. “I can’t help feeling jealous.” He stands up, takes her hand, and makes her stand too, then draws her close, kisses her passionately. “Come to bed. You’re what I need to give me courage,” he says. “Come to bed, and afterward, I’ll tell you everything.”

  “But,” she whispers, “isn’t your place bugged?”

  “A friend of mine is quite the electronics expert. He helped me get hold of a box this morning that locates devices like that. One was hidden in the light fixture over the toilet, which was rather rude, frankly. No one is listening right now . . . No one but me. Let’s see if we can inspire you to make those gorgeous little sounds you think I don’t like.”

  He draws her into the unlit bedroom. “Damn, I want you so badly,” he whispers as he unbuttons her clothes. After what Charlie told her tonight, she was pretty sure she wouldn’t be able to even fake desire. But she doesn’t have to fake anything. Their lovemaking is fierce and fevered. Maybe her excitement is fueled by anger. Maybe it’s his open longing that propels her. She does something she’s rarely done: climbs atop of him and rides him, utterly takes control. In the end, he makes her slow down, stretching their climax until she is caught up in a long, blissful eddy. Afterward, she lies beside him with her head on his naked chest. His heartbeat is even and steady, like that of a man who will live thirty more years.

  She doesn’t understand herself. Lovemaking with Weaver never felt this free. Perhaps Charlie’s information has unleashed her, stopped her from loving Weaver too much, weakened the sway he’s had over her for too long. Soon he will confess whatever it is he has to confess, and then . . . She’s aware she should relish this moment. Innocence, once lost, can never be retrieved. Funny how one aches to know. To be wiser, no matter how painful the truth. After a while, she lifts her head. Any trace of weariness has left his face. How peaceful he looks: eyes closed, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. His breath is slow, even, certain.

  “Weaver,” she whispers. “You said you’d confess.”

  His eyes open. First he stares at the ceiling, and then he fixes them on her with trepidation. “After I do, I know you’ll hate me.”

  She takes in the contours of his face, from his handsome cleft chin to his familiar forehead, more lined now and perhaps taller than before. He will never grow old enough to lose all that beautiful crisp hair.

  “I can’t really say how I’ll feel,” she says. “I can’t guarantee I won’t hate you.”

  He sits up, rubs his neck. “It matters, you know. It might be the only thing that matters to me.” And then he says, “I love you. I’m afraid of dying alone.” She doesn’t know what to say. Even his loving her might be selfish. She can hear the soft scratch of crickets through the window.

  He reaches for the glass of Scotch on his nightstand and takes a long swig. “I drink too much these days. I can’t imagine it matters. Not much matters anymore.”

  “Telling me matters,” she says.

  “I know.”

  She reaches for his face. “You’re burning up,” she says. “Do you want a cool washcloth?”

  He shakes his head, takes three or four large gulps of the Scotch in silence, lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. Sitting up, she pulls the sheets around herself, uncomfortably aware of her nakedness in the face of the coming truths.

  “It started at King’s College,” he says. “Have you ever heard of King’s?” She shakes her head. “I always considered it the most elite college at Cambridge. It was the beginning of the Depression, people were starving. But our parents had mansions, servants. They gave us whatever we asked for so that we’d leave them alone. Roadsters, horses, holidays abroad. It was an ugly time. International fascism was on the rise. All the things that led to the Nazi madness. But we spoiled scions headed down to the Eagle every night to get drunk and forget who we were. Every morning began with a hangover. And then Victoire told me about the Cambridge Socialist Society.”

  Hearing the name “Victoire” makes Rosalind move herself away. She can’t bear the heat of his flesh against hers. He stares at his glass, oblivious. “I met her at a drinks party at King’s. She was smart. Beautiful. Older. Sophisticated. I’d spent my youth in boys’ schools chasing the headmaster’s daughter and the girls who cleaned our rooms. But Victoire made it her mission to conquer me. She invited me back to her house for a toddy. Liquor was only the first item on her agenda. She was thirty-three and insatiable. You’ve no idea.” Rosalind closes her eyes, feels queasy.
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br />   “Lucky you,” she says. Men don’t need promises of love, she thinks bitterly. Unchecked sexuality is a badge of honor, not a stigma.

  “Everything about her was exotic. The fact that she had any interest in a young man like me, the meetings she took me to. Socialism wasn’t an ethos about owning things or each man for himself. It was about a greater good. I felt sparked, awakened. I thought I’d found a perfect way of life. Multiple rolls in bed every night with Victoire. Helping poor British workers during the day—when I wasn’t doing my schoolwork, which, of course, suffered.

  “After that, we both were drawn to Communism. It seemed purer. Better for the greater good. We thought Russia was a Communist state. It’s a lie.”

  “Is it?”

  “Russia was totalitarian . . . right from the start. A government with too much power is never about the people.”

  He smokes quietly for a moment, his eyes distant.

  “But for a long time, Russia had my sympathy. I didn’t know how bad it was there. And I believed it was wrong for America to have too much power, to have such a fearsome weapon alone.”

  “Why?”

  “It felt lopsided, dangerous. America isn’t the land of the brave. It’s the land of bravado. We’re show-offs. In this country, all we desire is things. America is a place that hoards and accumulates and boasts and compares. Meanwhile too many poor people are suffering. I don’t admire our way of life. Just as I didn’t admire Britain’s.”

  “If you felt that way, why did we never talk about it?”

  “Because it was all Victoire and I ever talked about. It dulled our feelings, ruined our marriage. I didn’t want our relationship to be like that. I . . . I loved your innocence, your sweetness.”

  “Well, that’s gone now.”

  He shakes his head with sorrow. “Look, you need to know I’ve spent these last years trying to untangle myself. When I came here, and especially after I met you, I wanted to be the man you thought I was. They wouldn’t let me go.”