Atomic Love

by Jennie Fields

  “Even without protection, there’s so much more we can do,” he whispers.

  “Let me,” she says. Button by button, she exposes more of her skin, while his eyes glitter blue in the soft light. When she drops the gown to the floor and steps out of it, he lets out a long breath.

  “You’re beautiful.” His words burn into her. And so does his gaze. He stares as though trying to memorize her, then begins to trace the pink lines on her skin with his fingers.

  “Your clothes left tattoos,” he says softly. Each gentle touch sends sparks. He kisses her shoulders where her bra straps bit down, the V just below her belly button from the waistband of her girdle. She has to remind herself to breathe.

  “What left these?” he asks, kneeling down to trace the reddened lines from the bend of her legs to midthigh.

  “My garters.” When he brings his lips to each of the lines and kisses down them, she lets out a desperate moan. She thought she’d have to seduce him, but he’s doing all the work.

  Standing, he draws her to his bed, snaps off the lamp. A soft breeze blows from the high window, brushes her shoulders. He slips off his pajama pants, and she can’t ignore how ready he is to make love.

  “Charlie, I don’t care if we don’t have protection.”

  “Don’t think of it tonight, kochanie. There are so many ways to make each other happy.”

  “But there’s only one way that makes us . . . one.”

  He smooths her hair. “Don’t tempt me.”

  A watermelon half-moon spills light through the glass, its pure white outer rind and gossamer inner arc bright enough to pick out Charlie’s profile. His strong chin, his high cheekbones.

  He’s right. There are so many beautiful things they can share with each other. But tonight, she knows what she craves.

  “I can’t give you my virginity, but I’ve never made love without protection. I want to give that to you,” she says.

  He looks at her in the shadowy dark, tracing the shape of her face with his fingers. “Nothing between us,” he whispers.

  “Nothing between us.” She’s thrilled by the velvet of his naked body against hers. “I know there’s no safe time of the month. Still, this is the safest . . .”

  “Are you sure you want this?”

  “More than anything.”

  “If something happens . . . I’ll marry you. I want to marry you, Rosalind.” Never once did Weaver mention marriage. Never once.

  His fingers find the epicenter of her longing. It might have been years, but he hasn’t forgotten how to touch. And she touches him, too, with a rush of pleasure. She’s never wanted anything more. Just before he brings her to the edge of climax, he raises himself over her and enters. A delicious slip of pure nakedness. She can’t help but move wildly at first, but he compels them to go slowly, to make it last. She can hear his wonder with each move they share. Just as the sensation quickens and she’s sure to slide over the edge, he stops suddenly. “Open your eyes,” he whispers hoarsely. “Look at me. Look at me.” Panting, still caught in the powerful rhythm, she’s overwhelmed by the tenderness of his expression. “I love you,” he whispers. “I love you.” Riding the embrace of those words, she bucks against him and is pulled down into the vortex. She has to put her entire soul into staying quiet, even when the aftershocks are insistent and his movement takes her over wave after wave after wave. When Charlie climaxes, he lets out the most soulful sound she’s ever heard—nine years of aloneness lifting away.

  After a long time, a time in which she both hears and feels the hammering of his heart, they separate and he wraps his arms around her, breathing out a contented sigh. She has never felt so connected to another human being. She would be happy to kiss every inch of him and begin again. To risk everything for this man.

  “Do you think they heard us upstairs?” he asks.

  “They heard us in St. Louis.”

  “I meant that about marrying you,” he says.

  “I loved hearing it.”

  “You didn’t answer.”

  “Only because we have bridges to cross.” How much she already feels for Charlie, and yet what a short time they’ve known each other. Until these last few days they were strangers.

  “My hand,” he says.

  “What?”

  “It’s because of my hand you can’t imagine marrying me.”

  “Hey!” She turns and grabs his chin as she might a naughty child, sees his eyes, which are clouding with doubt. “Listen. I’m falling hard for you, and your hand doesn’t impede my feelings. I just want to know you better. To have a year of courtship. And flowers. An unexpected engagement ring . . . and a lot more lovemaking like tonight. A lot more.” She thinks of Weaver. All the years they were lovers and yet she never felt this beloved, never this hopeful.

  He shakes his head with wonder. “You sure aren’t like any girl I’ve ever met. I didn’t think I’d ever be this happy again.”

  “My plan is to keep you that way,” she says.

  * * *

  Once he’s walked Rosalind back upstairs and tucked her into the sheets on the sofa, Charlie returns to the basement and climbs back into his own bed with a long exhale. There would be hell to pay if his sister didn’t find Rosalind in her assigned bed in the morning. But how much pleasure he would have found holding her in his arms all night. Lying together was almost as satisfying as the lovemaking itself. Because, for the first time since the war, he doesn’t feel alone. It’s a giddy joy he didn’t know he was capable of feeling anymore. To feel entwined, supported, beloved.

  He lies there grinning in the dark, remembering how, in the midst of lovemaking, when he asked her to open her eyes—he needed to be sure she knew she was with him, that she wasn’t dreaming of Weaver—her face lit with delight at seeing him. It moves him that his words of love helped carry her to climax.

  Ever since the war, he’s tried to figure out why he lived when others all around him died. He thought the FBI would give him answers, but even when he did something that might save a life or catch a criminal, it was just a job. Another man could have done it. He wishes he didn’t have to carry a gun or think about what sort of person might do the next bad thing that crosses his desk. But tonight, with Rosalind in his bed, it was as though a door opened and light flowed in. For a moment, he could believe the world was essentially good, that he was worthy of that goodness. Maybe he’ll never believe in God again, but he can see God in the touch and love of good people. In her. He could begin to believe again. Surely the word “good” must derive from the word “God”?

  Ironic that it was Weaver who brought Charlie together with Rosalind. Did he share the information about the H-bomb with his torturers? He’ll probably never know. The lab will be looking at fingerprints from his apartment, fiber samples, all the detailed work and scientific hooey the FBI is so proud of. But Charlie thinks eventually Weaver’s body will just show up somewhere. Rising out of its hiding place with the insistence of an angry ghost. A man’s life is, in the end, nothing more than what he leaves behind. What Weaver bequeaths will live on to haunt them all. God knows what he suffered at the end. Fear. Terror. Weaver’s finger on the floor. It wrenches Charlie’s heart. Yet he can’t help feeling that the man who sold the secrets that made it necessary for kindergarteners to do drop-and-cover drills got off easy.

  * * *

  Rosalind opens her eyes to a little boy standing in front of her frowning. He’s wearing red cowboy pajamas and eating a banana.

  “Who are you?” he asks.

  “Hello. Who are you?”

  “I live here. What are you doing on my couch?”

  She sits up. It’s early, but sunlight spills across the living room carpet.

  “I’m Rosalind,” she says. “Your mom was nice enough to put me up for the night. Where is she?”

  “She’s sleeping. But Saturday they got Po
w Wow the Indian Boy on TV and you’re where I sit to watch it.”

  “Well, we’ll have to let you do that,” she says. She gets up and starts folding up the blankets, the sheets, setting the sofa back to the way it normally must be. She piles the bedding on a chair in the corner.

  “What’s your name?” Rosalind asks.

  “Stevie. Why doesn’t a lady like you sleep at your own place?”

  “It’s a long story. I’ll just get out of your way. I don’t want you to miss your show.” He shrugs, sits down, and crosses his legs in his favorite spot.

  In the bathroom, Rosalind hangs up Peggy’s housecoat and, moving the fresh towels to the sink, steps into the bathtub to shower. Washing the stickiness of lovemaking from between her legs, she’s rapt with feelings for Charlie. Emotions that are true and deep and might well be love. To think that every night could be like last night, that sensation of not feeling alone for the first time in her life. She never once experienced it with Weaver. Never once felt so cared for or understood or excited or lucky. Together they are much more than they are apart. She knows he feels it too. The thought that they could marry, live together, make a life. That she could feel safe in his arms until the day she dies. And he could find solace in her. Charlie, who lost the use of a hand rather than reveal the name of a man who acted kindly. He deserves so much more than he’s gotten in life, and she wonders if she deserves him. She, a failed scientist. A misused woman. What does he see when he looks into her eyes?

  Then she thinks: If it weren’t for Weaver, we’d never have met. And within a breath, she’s overcome by a vision of a smashed headboard with its shards of wood edged in blood, the streak of dark fluid, the sticky pool of it on his sheets. Weaver. Did he suffer? Did he scream? Did he call out her name? Hanging on to the little ceramic bar at the top of the soap niche, she doubles over in pain, in misery, and mourns. She weeps, hoping the sound of the water keeps others from hearing her heart tear in two. She can’t help feeling shame at this nascent love she holds for Charlie. How was she able to find such delight on the very day Weaver died horribly? She wishes she could step out of her own body. She turns the water so hot, it makes her skin sting. She stands as it pelts her, and she weeps. In the end, did he do something noble? In the end, did Weaver keep that one last vital secret even if it cost him his life?

  It takes her a while to be able to face the others. Dressed in yesterday’s clothes, she returns to the living room, shaky and chastened. There’s a little redheaded girl sitting on the couch next to Stevie.

  “Are you going to cook breakfast for us?” the little girl asks.

  “We’ll wait for your mom,” Rosalind manages to say.

  “If you like Pow Wow you can sit down and watch it too,” the girl says.

  “I think our guest probably has better things to do.” A pretty, middle-aged woman with sandy hair and freckles comes into the room tying on a robe.

  “You must be Peggy,” Rosalind says.

  “And you’re Rosalind.”

  She hopes her eyes aren’t too bloodshot. “I can’t thank you enough. It was so last-minute, and you were so kind.” Rosalind tries to sound enthusiastic. Can Peggy hear how her voice wavers?

  The show’s begun and tom-tom music fills the room.

  “Come into the kitchen, why don’t you? We can live without Pow Wow,” Peggy says. “Besides, I bet you’d like coffee.”

  Rosalind doesn’t say she prefers tea. Or in truth, that she could use a drink. It scares her how much she longs for one. But she’s grateful to be here, to be safe and in the presence of Charlie’s sister and her family, breathing to the throb of tom-toms.

  “Come sit down, dear,” Peggy says. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  * * *

  At breakfast Rosalind has a chance to meet Mack and discover the source of the family’s red hair. Charlie comes up from downstairs looking handsome, relaxed. At the breakfast table, he sits across from her, sharing a secret smile every now and then. At one point, she feels his stockinged foot caress her ankle. After she helps to clear the dishes, Peggy shoos her from the kitchen and Charlie takes her hand and draws her out into the garden to sit on folding chairs. The sun is sweet and not too hot. Bumblebees dance around Peggy’s many colored flowers. Rosalind struggles to be present, to pull herself out of her well of upset and mourning. For she has so many reasons to rejoice. And yet: Weaver. Weaver—her lover, her torment.

  Charlie touches her wrist. “I’m going to try to get someone to open Continental Bank today so we can get into your safe-deposit box.”

  “On a Saturday?”

  “The FBI has its ways.” He smiles craftily. “We need to see what’s in there. You won’t be safe until we do. I doubt there’s much we can do for Weaver . . .” She finds her heart clutching at the sound of his name. “If there’s even the smallest chance he’s still alive, we want to know all we can. In any case, I suspect there’s a treasure trove of information waiting for us.”

  Rosalind stares at the glistening emerald grass. A world without Weaver. Since he told her he was dying, she often contemplated what it would be like to know he’s gone. She never imagined he would go violently, or so soon.

  “I need to go get your key to the box, so you’ll have to give me some instructions,” Charlie says.

  An unexpected sound leaks from her throat. A moan of pain.

  “Hey.” He lifts her chin with his fingers, forcing her to look into his eyes. “What?”

  She shakes her head and is only able to say, “Weaver . . . us . . . last night.”

  She watches his eyes fill with worry.

  “You regret it?”

  “No. Never. I mean . . .”

  A shadow of feeling moves over his face.

  “I regret that it made me so happy . . .”

  “Ah . . .” His pale lashes draw rays over the aquamarine eyes. “You feel guilty.”

  “Yes.”

  He looks into her face, caresses her cheek. “Sometimes, when tragedy strikes, that’s when a person most needs to celebrate being alive. You know?”

  “I know, but . . .” Sick with culpability, she feels like she can’t breathe. Slipping on her shoes and standing shakily, she walks to the edge of the yard and stares out over the other houses, her back to him. She feels suddenly bodiless, can no long perceive the felicitous weather, the breeze on her fingers, or the sun on her shoulders. Her only sensation is shimmering misery. It overtakes her, pulsates, demands all her attention.

  He gives her time, as though he knows she needs to be apart, but eventually he comes up behind her.

  He touches her back and she feels herself flinch. “What can I do?” he asks tenderly.

  She turns. “Maybe I just need to be alone for while . . . Maybe if I could just go home . . .”

  At a house in the distance, a teenager is bouncing a basketball on a driveway. The sound bruises her ears.

  “Rosalind . . . you know you can’t. Not now. With Anson trying to get ahold of that key, I can’t leave you on your own.”

  “We could get Lawrence to come with me and I could go home. I can’t . . . I shouldn’t be with you right now.”

  “Shouldn’t be with me?” She can hear his hurt.

  “No, don’t misunderstand . . . I . . .” Still, she can’t shake the feeling she needs to escape. “Please. I’m begging you. Let me go home.”

  He turns quickly toward the house. She doesn’t know if he’s headed to the telephone to contact Lawrence or if he’s angry.

  “Charlie,” she calls out, but the door has already closed, leaving her alone in the yard.

  * * *

  After the intense sunlight, the dark of the basement is blinding. Charlie feels his way down the steps and folds himself into the threadbare chair that used to be his father’s. He just needs a minute, he tells himself. He’ll be okay. He just needs
to breathe. Since Japan he’s found it nearly impossible to deal with his own feelings. He saw too much hatred at Mitsushima, never wants to be a vessel for that sort of animosity. And since Linda smashed his hopes, his fear of being brokenhearted has hamstrung him. He’s swallowed every emotion since he’s been back: desire and rage, hurt and pain. His passion for Rosalind is the only true sensation he’s allowed. He risked everything. And she says she can’t be with him. For just today? Or forever? Maybe he’s overreacting. Maybe not. One thing he should have known: hurt people are bound to hurt each other.

  * * *

  In the taxi on the way to her apartment, out of the corner of her eyes, she sees Charlie sitting straight and stiff, his face pale. She hates that she’s hurt him and reaches for his hand. “I just need time,” she says. “I promise. I just need time. Okay?” But instead of nodding, he shakes his head. She has no idea how to interpret what he’s feeling. As the taxi pulls into the circular drive, Lawrence is waiting, throws his cigarette on the ground and scuffs it out, approaches the cab.

  Charlie gets out, walks around and opens her door, offers his hand to help her out—a kind gesture—but she can’t ignore the set of his mouth. “Wait for Lawrence just inside,” he instructs her. His voice is cool. She goes in but hovers by the door. The plan is for Charlie to continue with the taxi, pick up the key from Field’s—she explained just where to find it—and head to the Continental Bank. And then follow the instructions inside the envelope to Weaver’s safe-deposit box. She doesn’t hear their conversation, but as she sees Charlie leaving, she pushes the door open and catches his words before he ducks into the taxi.

  “She’s in your hands now.”

  * * *

  Rosalind paces her apartment, boils water. Her throat tightens as she drops a bag of Weaver’s English breakfast tea into a cup. She feels Weaver with her, the fevered heat of him, his scent, a complex weave of tobacco, wool, and Scotch. She never knew before that when someone is gone, he can suddenly be more present, that loss brings immediacy. She feels sure if she turns, Weaver will be by the open window, watching sails unfurl on the lake, blowing smoke out into the too-blue sky. She can see the tired crinkles around his eyes, that perfect dimple in his chin. She knows he will be a bag of stones—some diamonds, some coal—that she will carry with her for the rest of her life. Just hours ago, she was celebrating her new intimacy with Charlie. How she longs to freely love this tender man who’s risked everything to let her into his life. Now thoughts of Weaver have pulled her back to the past. She worries he will never let her go.