Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

Underground Tests

NOVEMBER 6, 1968, A DISMAL DAY in paradise. Dark and drizzling and steamy hot. After breakfast Sarah dressed in mourning. She wore a black hat and a black bikini and a long black widow’s veil.

“Nixon’s the one,” she said. “Let’s walk it off.”

Outside, there was fog and thunder. We unfurled an umbrella and strolled past bait shops and boutiques, along the waterfront, down to a deserted beach at Land’s End. The rain was steady. Sarah lifted the veil and spat and said, “Not that it matters. We needed a classy new villain.”

She lay down and made angels in the sand, then stiffened and folded her arms.

“Go ahead,” she said. “Bury me.”

“Deep?”

“Use your judgment.”

I dug a shallow grave and rolled her in and tamped down the wet sand. At the end, only the hat and veil were visible.

She nodded.

“A prayer might be appropriate. Talk about my free spirit, how much you adored me.”

I knelt down and uttered a blessing.

“Beautiful,” she said.

There was gloom at Land’s End, and the day smelled of salt and mildew and troubled times.

Sarah’s eyes were dark behind the veil.

“Our beloved, misgoverned Republic,” she said. She attempted a smile. “And me, William? You do care?”

“A lot. Don’t be silly.”

“Silly me.”

“That’s right.”

“And Bobbi?”

“I explained that. Just this thing.”

Her head shifted slightly in the sand.

“Heavenly bodies,” she said.

It was a day for sobriety. I propped up the umbrella and leaned back and studied the rain. Things were pasty-gray. The ocean was part of the land and the sky was part of the ocean. Far off, there was lightning.

“The thing that gets me,” Sarah said, “is the broad’s guile. I’d give anything to watch her work a singles bar: ‘Hi, there, my name’s Bobbi. Here’s a delicious little poem I wrote just for you.’ A huckster, William. And you fall for it.”

“I didn’t fall.”

Sarah grunted. “Fall, flip, what’s the difference? I mean, Christ, I can knock out my own little beddy-bye rhymes. The grass, the grass! Bobbi, baby, kiss my ass!”

“Talent,” I said.

“Talent. You bet.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?”

“I told you, we barely even… Nothing.”

The rain was vast and undramatic. America had misstated itself—Nixon was the one—and at Land’s End there was only Real Politic.

Sarah made a clucking sound.

“Nothing,” she said. “Like Mother Goose. Now you see her, now you don’t.”

“Stop it.”

“The competition, man, it’s too celestial.”

“No competition. I’m here.”

“Oh, yes.”

“I am.”

She laughed.

“Half here, half there,” she said. “A little of both. The Martian Travel trick.”

Then she cried.

There was definite slippage. Along the surface of the grave I could see bits of brown flesh where the rain had made fissures in the sand. Sarah cried quietly, inside herself, then closed her eyes and lay still. “You never look at me,” she said. “Not really. When you love somebody, you keep looking, you can’t help it. But you never do that. You never look at me or ask questions about how I feel or… Just things. You know? I’m a real person.”

“You are,” I said.

I looked at her, then looked away.

She was not, I realized, beautiful. Hard and pretty but not beautiful. I pulled the veil up and kissed her and told her it was just circumstance. A random encounter, I said. Nothing to hold on to. A martini, a voice without language: I couldn’t remember words .

Sarah cradled her legs and began rocking. For some time she just watched the weather.

“It’s foolish,” she finally said, “but I need promises. You have to promise me things.”

“Things?”

She shrugged. “Whatever seems possible. The future. We keep doing this evasive dance together, all kinds of intricate footwork, but just once I’d like to stop the waltz. Just once. Tell me there’s a future for us. You have to promise .” She removed her hat and veil. “Do you love me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“Promise?”

“I do. I promise.”

“Say it.”

“I love you,” I said.

“More.”

“I don’t know more.”

“Make it up, then. Tell me we’ll be happy. Tell me it’s perfect love, it’ll last forever.”

“It will.”

“Swear it, though.”

“I swear. Forever.”

“Forever,” she said, and nearly smiled. “I like that.”

The next evening Ollie Winkler hit Key West aboard a sleek thirty-eight-foot Bertram cabin cruiser. He was in the company of a slim, mustachioed Cuban without a name. Compadre, Ollie called him. The man did not speak English. He touched his cap and stepped back while Ollie gave us a tour of the boat. It was brand-new and expensive-looking.

“A real attack vessel,” Ollie said proudly. “ Fast , you know? All we need’s a torpedo or two.”

“And depth charges,” said Tina.

“You got it, kid. Charges for the depths.” Ollie beamed as he showed us the galley and the teak decks and the two big Evinrude engines. He was wearing Bermuda shorts and a sequined T-shirt that said MOON IN MIAMI. “No joke,” he said, “these babies cost a pretty penny. Had to shop around almost a week.”

“But?” Sarah said.

“Yeah, but.”

“A steal, I’ll bet.”

Ollie’s smile was modest. “You know me. Mr. Thrift.”

“Problems?”

“Zero problems. Compadre and me, we drove a hard bargain. You like it?”

Sarah pecked his cheek.

“It’ll float,” she said.

Then it was all action.

We had a quick dinner, packed our suitcases, locked up the house, and headed down to the boat. We spent the night on board. It was a reunion of sorts, and there was champagne and comradeship, but there was also the certainty that we had come up against departure. I slept badly. Late in the night I woke up and took a pee over the bow and then stood there for a long time. Coward, I thought. I watched the water and stars. I thought about the things I valued. I valued the love of my father and mother. I valued peace. I valued safety. I did not want to kill, or die, yet I did not want to do this thing we would now be doing. I had no zeal. For me, it was just a ride, and there were no convictions beyond sadness.

At dawn Tina Roebuck served omelets and orange juice.

“I won’t make speeches,” Sarah said. “Anyone wants out, now’s the time.”

Ollie reached for the jam.

“Love it!” he said.

“William?”

“I heard.”

“What I mean is—” She looked at Tina. “Go on, tell him what I mean.”

“Business,” Tina said, smiling at me. “Get with the program, she means. We’re tired of jump-starting your conscience.”

Ollie laughed and said, “Love it!”

It was a smooth seven-hour crossing.

Too smooth, I thought: a weekend boating party. The young Cuban manned the helm, and there was a polished sky and fair winds and the Gulf Stream running green to blue. A radio boomed out calypso. When the Keys sank away, I took off my shirt and pondered ticklish points of international protocol. It occurred to me that our passage held historical hazard—the Monroe Doctrine and piracy on the high seas. Also, in these same warm waters, the world had once squared off in preparation for expiry, causing prayer and the contemplation of final causes. What, I wondered, had happened to memory? Here , I thought. Idle musings, perhaps, but I couldn’t shake the sense that there was a pursuit in progress. The fugitive jitters, obviously. I imagined a helicopter high off our stern. A warning shot, and demands would be issued, and we would go eyeball to eyeball, and then it would happen as it nearly happened and finally must.