He wants to cherish Rosalind, desperately longs to shield her, to be her hero. How dangerous it feels, this need to impress, to protect a woman who matters too much to him. He’s learned that life is unpredictable. Can he ever trust it again?
* * *
Carrying his briefcase packed with the equipment, he waits for the bus. The last thing he told her when they spoke was to leave a message for the night doorman to let him in without buzzing. And she promised to turn out her lights at ten thirty and open her door at exactly eleven fifteen without a word. The doorman nods when he says his name and lets him by. Charlie silently signals to Gray, who’s sitting on a folding chair in her hallway. Gray shuts his book, sets it on the chair, and passes Charlie on his way to the elevator. Charlie spoke to him earlier, told him that if Rosalind was at home tonight, Gray could go out for an hour after Charlie arrived to get himself a coffee or take a walk, then get back in his car and wait. The elevator comes and Gray is gone.
Charlie lingers in the hallway alone now, electric with longing. Suddenly the door shifts back and Rosalind’s standing in a spill of light from the hall, peignoir and bare feet, a glowing, shimmering apparition. He raises his finger to his lips and she nods, steps back to let him in, and closes the door silently behind him while he removes his shoes. He takes hold of her shoulder, compact and eggshell-like beneath his large hand, and gives it a gentle squeeze. He can’t help but touch her, so beautiful before him, so otherworldly. She reaches up and holds his wrist for a moment. They stand there, just breathing, trying to see each other’s faces in the dark.
Though he hates to, he’s the first to let go. Opening his briefcase quietly, he lifts a solid square instrument out of it: a box that detects radio waves. He’s already turned it to silent to keep it from beeping. Instead, it will light when he nears a bug and blink when it’s very near. It takes him more than an hour to find the three bugs they’ve planted. People don’t realize that homes are filled with radio waves. He needs to be sure he’s located them all. One is hooked into the light socket over her bed, which he finds disturbing. Another is in the kitchen fixture, which dangles down over a small table. It’s where he told her about his hand. It sickens him, thinking of Soviet operatives listening to his whole sad tale. The most unreachable bug is wired into the large, flat ceiling fixture over the living room. Anyone else would need a ladder, but he’s able to get to it by standing on tiptoe to as silently as possible unscrew the glass shade. He sets it on the carpet, retrieves the bug, and then screws it back on. Nothing in the bathroom.
He told Rosalind on the phone that the technical people at the FBI want to examine the devices and possibly learn from them, so Gray will be waiting in his vehicle to take them directly to headquarters. Of course, in time, the Russians will note the silence. He hopes they’ll think it’s a failure of their receiver and not realize the devices have been disabled. They’re the smallest bugs Charlie’s ever seen, each slightly bigger than a pack of cigarettes with two wires attached. The Soviets are masters at covert listening, far ahead of the United States. Why do they think Rosalind warrants the expense of these devices? As he goes out, she places her hand on her heart as though saying thank you. In the elevator, he hears the thunk and squeak of the elevator cords. Do the devices contain some magical battery as a backup to wiring them in? Are they listening even now? Can they hear the movement?
Outside, he scoops the three bugs from his pockets and hands them silently to Gray, who wraps them in white batting he got from who knows where. Good thinking—just in case.
When Gray’s car has driven out of sight, Charlie pauses a moment to breathe, to look across the drive and over to the dark water. The rush of traffic is itself water-like, endless. The ghostly lights of pleasure boats beyond the Drive spark and blink. You can’t know Chicago without knowing the lake. Its gravitational pull, the mingled aromas of fish and mud and something metallic and utterly clean. He recalls his mother bringing them to Oak Street Beach when he and Peggy were little. Towels. Sandwiches. Pails and shovels. It was so much cooler by the lake than in his neighborhood. He cried when his mother wanted them to leave. We go to the beach, then we go home. No tears, she said. That’s when he learned that lake breezes were for rich people.
As he walks back into her building, every nerve in his body sings. He flashes his badge on the way to the elevator, and the night doorman nods. When Charlie knocks, Rosalind opens the door right away and draws him in, closing the door behind him.
“Are you sure they can’t hear us?” she whispers.
“I promise. I didn’t miss an inch.”
She sighs, then speaks in her regular voice. “Can I get you something cold to drink? Or Scotch?”
“No. It’s late. But there’s something important I need to tell you before I go: We developed your photos. The man who’s been following you is Ronald Anson. We’ve put a team on him.”
“Anson. Is he dangerous?”
“He used to be a boxer. Got involved in some sort of crooked dealings, threw a few fights. Made him pretty rich for a while. I’m not sure when the Communists got to him. Other than the fights, he has no criminal record.”
“I guess that’s a relief . . .”
“Listen, tell me more of what Weaver said; then it’s probably best I go. Gray will be coming back as soon as he drops off the bugs.” He’s afraid of how much he feels for her. The sway she has over him.
“Sit for a while and talk to me,” she says.
Her face looks young in the shadows, open. She wants his company. Even in the dark, it’s visible.
“Okay,” he says. “Just for a while. No sleeping on the sofa tonight . . .”
She smiles. “I wouldn’t ask for that again.” She gestures for him to step forward into the living room. The windows are cranked wide. Unlike the last time, everything is neat, put away, orderly. Taking a corner of the sofa, he settles in, realizing how tired he is, despite the excitement of being with her. It’s late, and as he swept her place, he must have been tensing all his muscles. Now unclenching means exhaustion. She sits near him. The breeze makes him close his eyes for just a moment and luxuriate in the way it tickles his eyelids. And then he peers out at the dark quiet of the lapping black, the Drake at the shoreline, its lights doubled by the water, the Palmolive beacon every now and then brushing her windows, pirouetting across her room. It’s the Chicago he’s always longed for.
“This is a nice place,” he says. “You must love living here.”
“I chose it when I was at the lab and making more money. Now I’m just hanging on as long as I can. It reminds me of the girl I used to be—someone with a bright future. I don’t feel so shiny anymore.”
He takes in the silken sheen of her peignoir, the pale drift of her neck and bosom in the half-light.
“You look shiny enough to me.”
She shakes her head. “I was thinking about it the other day, asking myself, ‘When was the last time I was truly happy?’ I couldn’t remember.”
“Rosalind.”
“Are you happy? I mean, do you think of yourself as a happy person?”
He stares at her for a moment before he answers. He hasn’t asked himself that question in years.
“Not since the war.”
“Were you once?”
“When I was young, I was ecstatic.” Saying it recalls a gleaming moment when he had status in his world, a girl who thought he made the sun rise. “I belonged then,” he says. “I was in love.”
“What happened to her?”
“After this”—he raises his withered hand—“she left me.”
“The girl who said those hurtful things . . .”
He nods.
“She must not have really loved you.”
“She apologized recently. She said rejecting me was the worst mistake of her life. It didn’t take the sting away.” He sits back, crosses his arms, hidi
ng his bad hand.
“After you persuaded me to see Weaver, I thought it might bring back some of the joy I felt with him,” she says. “I now believe he actually might love me. But the fact he’s been lying all these years sucks all the joy from it.”
“We’re quite the pair,” he says. “I’m sorry I urged you to go back to him. I’m sorry I exposed the lie about his wife.”
“I would have mourned him if I’d found out he’d died without my seeing him again. I’m grateful for that.”
She’s silent for a while and then pulls a handkerchief from her cuff and presses it to her eyes. The lights from Lake Shore Drive pick out a trail of tears on her cheeks.
“You okay?” he asks.
“I always seem to be crying around you. I didn’t sleep last night. My emotions are right on my skin. You know?”
“Come here.” He opens his arm for her. She looks surprised, then moves closer and leans against him with a sigh. He doesn’t know how he found the courage. But nothing ever felt so good as the realness of her in the arc of his arm. “You want to tell me more of what he said?”
“I asked him to tell me if he was the one who gave the Russians information to build the bomb. He said yes.”
“You said it wasn’t just him.”
“There were others—Fuchs, of course, and two scientists he thinks at Los Alamos—but the Russians didn’t tell him who. He didn’t feel safe to talk to the men he suspected.”
“That’s their modus operandi. To keep their sources from knowing each other.”
“He feels bad about what he did. But . . . how can I ever forgive him?”
“You could help him make up for it.”
“Oh, you’re talking about . . .”
“If you wore a recording device. If you secretly taped his confession and told him you had it, couldn’t you then persuade him to tell us what we need to know? Details could make all the difference . . .”
“You’re asking me to trick him. Betray him.”
“He betrayed you, didn’t he?”
She looks down, shakes her head ruefully. “True.”
“You’d be helping him make the right choice.”
“I don’t know if I have it in me . . .”
“You do. You’re the bravest girl in the world.”
They’re close enough that he can smell the sweetness of her skin. Her nightgown is silky on his fingertips. And so sheer, he can feel the heat of her through it. He draws her closer, hugs her in the embrace of his arm.
“You should know I’m not supposed to do this . . . get involved with you. I could lose my job.”
“Do you want to be . . . involved with me?” she whispers, every breath evident in the rise of her bosom.
“More than I can say.” He bites his lip. “Am I presuming too much? That you do too?”
“I think I must be mad. I let Weaver back into my life, and now . . . I only find peace thinking about you.” Even in the dusky light, he sees her cheeks color, is staggered by the joy her words bring. Kissing the top of her head, he lets his fingers explore the wonder of her hair. Heavy silken threads. Glossy and inviting.
“There’s something I should tell you,” he says. “I haven’t been with a woman in a long time. I haven’t so much as kissed a girl since 1941.” He says it before he recalls the night Linda stole a kiss. But there’s no point in mentioning that.
“When you got back, you never found anyone you thought was attractive? Nine years . . .”
“The war changed me,” he says. He has no way to explain how ruined and unlovable he’s felt since, viewing the world through a shattered lens. Whenever he met a woman he would like to be with, even casually, his whole body tensed with the knowledge that she would reject him eventually. He didn’t think he could bear it. He doesn’t understand why Rosalind is different, why he’s willing to risk it with her, except that she, too, seems broken. “It was bad,” he says. “Worse than I can say. My hand . . . I couldn’t allow anyone to hurt me again like she did.”
* * *
Rosalind is moved by the elegance of Charlie’s face in the half-light. Noble. Sad. It’s grown more beautiful to her each time she’s seen him. As though her eyes are just beginning to make sense of the man in front of her. She’s inexpressibly touched that while he’s been incapable of opening himself to others, he wants her. “I told you: Your hand is just part of you,” she whispers. “It only offends me in that it makes your life hard.”
When he smiles, his eyes seem to light, even in the dark.
“You know,” she whispers, “I hear kissing a girl is like riding a bicycle.” Her voice is teasing. Kind. She can only guess how hard this must be for him. She wants to keep it light.
“As I recall, it’s nothing like riding a bicycle,” he says with a quirky smile. Even so, there’s hesitation in his eyes.
She gently takes his face into her hands, runs a finger over his brow, then finds the courage to press her lips to his. His mouth relaxes, invites her in. Satin and slip and honey. My God. It feels like opening the front door after a long time away. Like coming home. Both thrilling and so natural. She’s startled and moved when he lets out an animal-like sound, as though the desire she arouses makes him ache. She’s never been with anyone but Weaver. This soul-deep longing for Charlie is like nothing she’s experienced before. A fierce tide that could push her helplessly toward the rocks. She sees how defended he is. But if she could get past the barriers, with a man like Charlie there could be such a joyous outcome. A home. A true love. Years of tenderness ahead. And a chance to be a woman she can be proud to be.
“Take me to bed,” she whispers.
“Rosalind, you have no idea how much I want to.” He lets go of her, sits back.
“But?”
“We’ve got to think about this. We don’t want to just jump in and not think,” he says.
“I’ve thought. We’ve already thought.”
“We can’t kiss for the first time, then go right to bed.”
“Why not? We’re not teenagers. We’re not virgins.” And then a thought burns her. “You’re not pushing me away because I’ve slept with Weaver, are you?”
His gazes at her fondly, shakes his head. “How could you believe that?”
“Then, what?”
“We have to wait until this Weaver thing is over. If we make love, it could compromise everything. You mean too much to me. This is not just some infatuation . . .”
“It’s not for me either.” She feels offended.
“If we’re going to play this out, you have to go back and be with Weaver. You’ll no doubt sleep with him again. You think you can do that after we make love? If it won’t make things harder for you, it will for me. You feel something for me, don’t you?” he asks. “It’s not just . . . loneliness or . . .”
“What I feel for you is like the pull of gravity,” she says.
His eyes soften at her words. “Yes, for me too.” He presses his face against hers for a moment. “To be practical, we don’t have protection,” he whispers.
“If I did, would you take me to bed?”
He laughs nervously. “It’s hard enough to be honorable.”
“Who wants you to be honorable?”
“Hey.” He lifts her chin with his forefinger, traces her lips with his thumb. “I’m going to go now,” he says. “I’ll wait downstairs for Gray.”
“Why did I pick such a Good Samaritan?”
“I’ve waited nine years. I want it to be everything.”
“I don’t think I can live up to that,” she says.
“Oh, I’d put a thousand dollars on it you can. Listen, you asked if I’m happy? I haven’t been this happy in years. I’m drippin’ happy.” She laughs. “What about you?”
“I’d be happier if you made love to me.” She smiles devilishly.
“I have no interest in smashing your ship, Charlie.”
He laughs and gets up from the sofa, drawing her up too, pressing her body to his.
“This is just a beginning,” he says. “Okay?”
“Okay.” She looks up at him. How comforted and safe she feels in his embrace. She hates that he’s saying no, though she knows to wait will make their first time more precious. A time when Weaver is far behind them.
“Are you going to see him tomorrow night?” he asks.
“I guess . . . I guess I should.”
“Would you consider wearing that recording device?” His eyes beseech her.
“I don’t know,” she says grimly. The thought of stepping into the Hyde Park apartment and back into Weaver’s arms terrifies her. This time wearing a heavy, spinning trap?
“Will you think about it?” She nods. “You could come to headquarters before you go to him. We’ll help you put it on. If I’m not there, I’ll brief Donna. She’s reliable. She’ll help.”
“What if he . . . what if he wants to . . . be intimate with me?”
She notes a momentary flicker in his eyes.
Atomic Love Page 25