Day of the Bomb (18 page)

“We were wondering about coming out your way to see
all the monuments.”

“I’m in the middle of something here,” Bill said.
“I’ll call you back later.” The second sentence was code for “I’ll
call you back in ten minutes.” Hank enjoyed the secret agent
routine.

“Okay.” Hank sat in the chair next to the payphone.
“Grab us a cup of coffee from the lunch counter, Fred. It’ll be a
while.”

“Okay.”

Bill told his wife and three children that he had to
run to the store for “one last present.” His children’s’ eyes lit
up, his wife ordered him to hurry home. When the temperature
dropped fifty degrees as he stepped from the entryway onto the
brick walkway, Bill fished the stocking cap from his overcoat and
pulled it over his ears. The nearest pay phone was four blocks
away. By the time he reached it, his fingers were tingling.

What a hassle. There’s got to be an
easier way.
Maybe so but Bill took no
chances, especially when it came to his career. Cloak and dagger
work glamorous? Hardly. Thankless was a better description. It
meant watching your p’s and q’s twenty-four hours a day, seven days
a week. He had no inkling of what Hank wanted to know but whatever
it was, Bill did not want his superiors to know about
it.

Maybe Beth is right. Maybe I am getting just a
little bit too paranoid for my own good. But like I told her, just
because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get
you.

He had no way to learn if his phone line at home was
being tapped. But after too many years of surveillance duty as an
FBI agent he was no longer certain of much of anything. Spying on
those on FDR’s hit list had left a perpetual bad taste in Bill’s
mouth. He had hoped that transferring to the Army’s version of
Hoover’s bureau would be an escape from the worst years of a career
that would last over forty years. Now, because of the whispered
stories about the new boys on the block, the Central Intelligence
Agency, all bets were off. If just half of what Bill had heard was
true, he had reason to wonder if Standard Operating Procedure
included the bugging of the home phones of agents such as he.

“Better safe than sorry,” Bill’s mother had instilled
in her children. So here he was, freezing on Christmas Eve in a
glass phone booth that blocked most of the wind but none of the
damp cold that penetrated his bones. But Hank was a friend, which
made him worth the drudgery of leaving the comforts only family and
home can offer.

“Hello, operator. I need to place a long distance
call to Blue Lick Springs, Kentucky. The number is…” His fingers
shook as he unfolded the paper he had scribbled the number on and
read it to the one connecting him. “Okay, thank you.” He inserted
enough quarters to cover the first three minutes. The phone only
rang once at the other end.

“Hello.”

“Make it quick, Hank. I left the house with just
enough change for three minutes.”

“Okay. I need to know how far any radioactive stuff
will travel once they start testing atomic bombs by Las Vegas.”

“Why?”

“Because my daughter and her family live quite a ways
west of here.”

“Hang on a minute.” Bill removed the phone from his
ear and cradled it in both hands as he shut his eyes. His mind
traveled back to his assignment as Bill Pryzinski, maintenance man
on temporary duty at Los Alamos National Laboratory. Before him sat
Dave Freight and his dog Saturn, both of them stuffed with Mexican
food. On the wall hung a map of America. Superimposed on it were
wind patterns originating around Las Vegas, with the heaviest
concentration of projected fallout ending…

“Bill, you still there?”

“Just a minute, Hank. Please.” Bill yelled down at
the mouthpiece. Ending at…The map came into sharper focus. “The
worst fallout will probably travel as far as Indiana and the
western parts of Kentucky, Tennessee, and most of Mississippi.
Listen, that’s just a guess, an estimate. And in no way is it from
anyone official. And you did not hear this from me. If say you did,
I don’t know you.”

“Right. Thank you, Bill and Merry…”

“Your three minutes are up, sir.” The operator
interrupted. “Please deposit another…”

“Merry Christmas to you, Hank. And you too,
operator.”

“Merry Christmas, sir. Goodbye.”

The dial tone resonated down his ear’s canal into his
numb mind. As he hung up the phone Bill noticed his fingertips were
blue. He rubbed his hands together, blew clouds of steam on them
and shoved them into his pockets. It took twenty minutes before he
found a store still open. Armed with three chocolate bars for his
children and a half-dozen roses for his wife as final stocking
stuffers, he ambled home. His thoughts alternated between fallout
drifting from the deserts of Nevada as far as his suburban home or
a Russian bomber getting through and dropping a big one on
Washington. Those damn Soviets had stolen enough secrets that had
let them join the nuclear club last summer. Suddenly the Cold War
had become uncomfortably hot.

“Happy New Year, Arkhip.”

No response.

“I said Happy New Year, Comrade Arkhip.” Wilhelm
waved his palm in front of her face. Her eyes slowly focused on his
distraction, flesh without a single callus or other evidence of
manual labor.

“What?”
I
wonder how many calluses inhabit his brain.

“For the third time, Happy New year.” He toasted her
with his glass of vodka.

“Happy New Year.” She continued to stare out of the
window at the stars to the north and wondered if her father was
doing what they had on holidays when she was a child.

“And that is the Big Dipper and that…” Her father had
pointed at planets and constellations as her gaze followed.

“Arkhip, this is the fourth New Year’s party I have
attended with you. With each one you have been more sad that the
last one. Why? What troubles you so?”

“You wouldn’t understand.”

“What is wrong?”

“What is right?”

“We finally got an atomic bomb to work.”

“And for that I should be happy?”

“At least the fallout is not raining down on your
countrymen.”

She sighed. “No. Just the Chinese comrades right next
door to here. And that nearby village also. Maybe Comrade Stalin
considers them a threat too. He might as well. He fears everyone
else.”

Wilhelm studied his empty glass. “I wish it were
schnapps instead. I’ve served the Russians for five years now and
still am not used to your vodka.”

“Served them?” Arkhip turned to glare at him. “You’re
their slave, Wilhelm. Nothing more, nothing less.”

“That makes me your slave then. You are Russian.”

“In name only. You wish you had a drink from your
homeland. I wish I had my father…” Her eyes scanned the room for
eavesdroppers. One reveler seemed close enough to spy on them so
she lowered her voice. “I wish I could leave this country, once and
for all. I would do anything to be able to do so.”

“Even marry me?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“My usefulness is coming to an end here. I’m a
theoretical physicist. Now that we have set off our own atomic
bomb, what need is there for me? Do they want me to reinvent the
wheel?”

“Do you really think they will let you return to
Germany?” She scooted herself until her hips touched his.

“East Germany, yes. West Germany…” He shrugged. “I
doubt it.”

“That’s still better than here.”

“So you accept my proposal?” He reached out and
squeezed her hand.

“I must be honest with you. I do not love you.”

“Maybe we can marry as friends instead of
lovers.”

She laughed. “You Germans are so logical, even in
matters of the heart.”

He pointed to his forearm. “Ice water runs through
our veins, right? Without your vodka Germans’ blood would freeze in
most parts of Russia. I am glad we wound up in this dismal
republic. At least it’s warmer here.”

Arkhip’s face darkened. “Yes. Better than Siberia in
one of the camps like my father.”

He pulled her hand onto his lap. Ever since her
father had disappeared into the gulag, she had not heard from him,
now a nonperson in a never-ending exile that few survived.

Hundreds of folks turned out for Barney Tarrington’s
funeral, not for his sake but Mary’s. If ever a couple proved the
maxim that “opposites attract,” they had. Barney had been a
misanthrope, drunk, carouser, and wife and child abuser. Mary had
loved her husband despite his sins, her children to excess, her
neighbors as herself, and her country despite its faults. Those who
knew the details agreed that she was one of those rare individuals
with a heart of gold. So it was not surprising that three bachelors
circled about her during and after the funeral service. The hens of
Madisin clucked furiously.

“His body is not even cold in the ground yet and that
hussy is already drawing men around her.” The hens’ self-appointed
leader clucked the loudest. “Back in my day a widow mourned a good
six months before any man called on her.”

The flock gathered around, nodded, strutted, and
pecked away at Mary’s reputation. As Thelma walked by one of them
gave her an update.

“Psst, Thelma.” She grabbed Thelma’s arm and pulled
her toward their jealous gossip. “We were just discussing the
shamefulness of Mary letting all those men gather around her.”

“It’s a lot more shameful when all of you get
together to gossip,” Thelma said. “All of you are like a bunch of
vampires feeding off of other people’s heartaches.”

“Well, I never.” The head hen stomped off toward her
car and eunuch of a husband, who served as her chauffeur and butler
instead of lover and friend. “I certainly know when I’ve been
offended.”

Thelma elbowed her way past those clustered about the
widow and grabbed her hand. “Mary, I’m going to have you and your
kids over for supper on Saturday.”

“But there’s too many of us for you to go to all that
trouble.”

“Shoot. It’ll do me good to listen to someone besides
Jason and Stanley for a change. All Jason does is tell silly
stories to our son and he busts up laughing instead of eating.” She
stepped closer and whispered. “Jason is still going on and on about
Monkey Island. It’s making me crazy. Will you come on over?
Please?”

Mary smiled for the first time since the police
officer had knocked on her door with the news of Barney’s last
drunken driving misadventure. “Sure. We’ll be there.”

His wife’s kindness toward Mary bothered Jason. What
was he doing compared to her? How could he help Fred? After
“thinking this thing through” he decided to work up enough courage
to invite Fred when the next evangelist came to town. Summertime
brought them to Madisin more than any other season.

***

With spring came Easter. As usual, the size of the
congregations almost doubled at Madisin’s churches on Resurrection
Sunday. Pastors Trueblood and Lacharetti compared notes at Tom’s
Diner the following morning.

“It’s amazing.” Rev. Trueblood stared into his cup of
coffee. “Every Christmas and Easter people come out of the
woodwork. We had to set up extra chairs in the back yesterday.”

Rev. Lacharetti’s head popped about as if he were a
clown ejected from a jack in the box. “The time I got most people
at church was right after Pearl Harbor was attacked. But folks
gradually tapered away as the war wore on. Got some of them back
for a while after V-E Day and V-J Day though.”

They talked on through breakfast. As they finished,
Rev. Lacharetti grabbed the two checks. “I’ll pay for your
breakfast if you stop beating around the bush and tell me what’s on
your mind. I’ve known you long enough that it’s plain as day that
there’s something cooking in that head of yours.”

Rev. Trueblood blushed. “I guess you’re not one to
try and pull the wool over your eyes. Okay, here goes. I want to
invite an evangelist for a series of meetings but my church board
said I need to get at least one other pastor from Madisin to sit up
on the platform with me. You know good and well because of what our
church believes no other pastor will do it.”

“I can’t promise you anything but I’ll try. First I
have to run it by the board of elders. If they say okay, then I’ll
have to present it to the church membership at a voters’ meeting.”
He shrugged. “Church politics as usual.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“I’ll get back to you.”

***

Rev. Lacharetti’s seven elders unanimously endorsed
his participation. The members agreed with a stipulation that
stunned Rev. Trueblood.

“The members said that since all I’ll be doing is
sitting on my rear end, you are responsible for any who make a
profession of faith in Jesus Christ during the meetings.”

“But it’s not done that way.” Pastor Trueblood paced
around his tiny office. “Churches who get together for evangelistic
crusades always divide up the new converts.”

“Well, you know what the seven words of a dying
church are.”

“We’ve never done it that way before.” The two
recited Pastor Lacharetti’s favorite saying in unison.

***

The visiting evangelist, Rev. William B. Oxfort,
arrived ninety minutes before the first 7 p.m. service was
scheduled to begin. When the hosting pastors saw his vehicle, they
considered it a miracle that he had made it on time. Steam spewed
from the radiator of the dented black 1933 Oldsmobile. Rev. Oxfort
walked past the two hands extended toward him and unlatched his
car’s hood. He shook his head after checking the engine block.

“Overheated on us all the way down here from Sioux
Falls. Thought we might not make it. At least the block didn’t
crack.” He grabbed a rag stuffed by the radiator to wipe the grime
from his hands. “I’d like you to meet Charles.”