Joseph Kanon - Los Alamos

When he woke the next morning she was already up, sitting by the window in her slip, putting on red nail polish. A coffeepot and cups sat on the table.

“At last,” she said. “Come and have your coffee. They do have room service, you see. You just have to ask.”

He put on a robe. “What are you doing?”

“You want me to look the part, don’t you?” She spread her nails in front of her. “A girl has to look her best for this sort of thing.”

“It’s pretty red,” he said, pouring the coffee.

“Meaning too red. Darling, a lot you know. On Johanna Weber it’s too red. On me, it’ll be smart. There, see? Now we’ll just wait for it to dry. Let’s hope to God this fan doesn’t give out-it’s been going all night.”

He drank the coffee, shaking his head to wake up. “You always do that undressed?”

“Of course. Until it dries. If it streaks, it’s hell to get out. How many women have you actually been with?” she said, smiling. “Or don’t you usually spend the night?”

He lit a cigarette with the Zippo, then looked at her through the smoke. “Are you always this cheerful, or are you nervous?”

She gave a half-laugh. “Don’t be so knowing. A little of both, I guess. Maybe a lot. I’ll be all right.”

“Do you want to run through it again?”

“No. I know what to say. At least roughly. It’s not exactly a script, is it? I mean, a lot depends on what he says.”

“Okay. Let’s call him.”

“No. Finish your coffee and go take a shower. Then I’ll call. I really don’t think I can do this with an audience.”

He looked at her, surprised. She came over and took his cigarette in one of the nooks of her outstretched fingers, taking a drag, then holding it out for him to take back. “What’s the matter, don’t you think I can?”

“I’ll be at the restaurant.”

“I know. I can’t think why.”

“Just to be around. In case you need me.”

“Hovering, I suppose. All right. But not now, please. I mean it. Hurry up and clear out.”

Connolly looked at his watch. “You think he’s already at work?”

“You don’t know the comrades. Up with the sun, they are.”

“Better watch the jokes. He may not like it.”

She glanced up at him. “You know, I hate to point this out, but he is my husband. I already know what he likes.”

Connolly looked away and put out the cigarette. “Right. I keep forgetting.”

“I don’t mean what you think I mean. Oh, never mind. Come on, move. I’ve got a hair appointment.”

“Does he like that?”

“I like it. I don’t want to go looking like a ranch hand.”

He looked at her, interested. “You want to impress him, don’t you?”

She nodded. “A little. Is that so naughty of me? I suppose it is.”

“You want to see if he’s still attracted to you.”

“I just want to see if he notices.”

He stood under the shower, letting the water sting his face awake, feeling apprehensive. He hadn’t expected to be a bystander. But if he couldn’t trust her, what was the point? When the shower stopped, he heard her talking, low and indistinct, and he had to stop himself from flinging open the door. Instead he went over to the sink and started shaving, his ears straining to make out her voice. It had to be him. What was taking so long? He stood there, his face half covered with soap, listening, then turned on the tap to rinse the razor so that he wouldn’t hear any more.

When he came out of the bathroom, a towel around his waist, she was still sitting with the phone cradled in her lap, looking out the window.

“Any problems?”

“Twelve, not twelve-thirty,” she said, still looking away. “That all right?”

“Sure,” he said. “Why?”

She looked at him, a wry smile at the corner of her mouth. “He has to be back for a meeting.”

“A meeting?”

“You overrate my charms. Still, he did manage to fit me in.”

Her voice seemed light and wounded at the same time, and he didn’t know how to respond. “How did he sound?”

“Surprised.”

She got up and began putting on her dress.

“Did he know the place?”

“He’ll find it. Third and forty-fourth, right? He did wonder why we couldn’t meet nearer the office, but I said since I’d come halfway across the country he might manage a trip uptown. My God, do you think it’s possible for someone not to change at all?”

“Did he ask why there?”

“Yes. I told him I’d always wanted to see the Thurber murals. You got that wrong, though-never heard of him. Stop worrying, it’s all right.”

“And you?”

“I’m all right too,” she said, going over to the mirror to put on lipstick. “A little funny right now, but I’ll be fine. I’m even beginning to look forward to it.” She blotted her lips. “You needn’t fret. This is going to be easier than I thought.”

“A piece of cake.”

“Well, a piece of something. Right,” she said, packing her handbag. “I’m off. What do you think?” She flounced her hair. “Something off the shoulders? But not too gorgeous.”

“You’re beautiful,” he said seriously.

She stopped by the door and looked at him, her face soft. “Thanks,” she said. Then, determined to be light, she winked at him. “Next time try saying it with your clothes on. Shall I meet you back here? We’ve still got the morning to get through.”

“No, let’s go for a walk. I’ll meet you at the library. Over on Fifth. Out in front, by the lions. Patience and Fortitude.”

She looked at him blankly.

“That’s what they’re called-the lions.”

“The things you know,” she said.

When she was gone, the room was quiet, and he walked around nervously, at loose ends. Everything was different from the way he had imagined it back on the Hill. The air was close, smelling of her perfume. He went over to the suitcase and took out the envelope with Oppenheimer’s papers. He held it for a minute, staring at it as if the weight of what was inside would ground him, but now it seemed no more serious than a prop. It was a piece of the greatest secret of the war, and all he could think about was how she’d feel when she saw him, the first man she’d loved.

She took hours. He waited at the library, hiding from the sun under the wispy trees on the terrace, then pacing back toward the lions, afraid he would miss her. The day was hot, but not as humid as before, and occasional drafts of baked air would sweep down the avenue, blowing skirts. He stood for a long time watching the traffic, streams of buses and shiny cars and not a military vehicle in sight, shading his eyes against the glare. Everything seemed too bright and buoyant, as if the city had opened up to the sun and even furtive meetings would have to be drenched in light. He smoked, impatient, and then he saw her coming across the street and all the waiting disappeared. He knew as she stepped off the curb that it was one of those moments that becomes a photograph even as it’s happening, flashed into the memory to be taken out later, still sharp. She was wearing a white dress with padded shoulders, spectator pumps, a bag clutched under her arm. Her skirt moved with her as she walked, outlining her legs. Her hair, just grazing the back of her neck, swung as she looked back and forth, eager and expectant, her red lips already parted in a smile when she caught his eye. He felt he had never seen her before.

“How do I look?” she said, bright and pleased with herself.

“A woman only asks that when she already knows the answer.”

“Tell me anyway.”

“Like a million dollars. How do you feel?”

“Not quite that rich. These shoes,” she said, grimacing.