Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

In the morning, after some delays, we opened up substantial bank accounts at First National.

“We’re even now,” I told Sarah.

She nodded soberly.

“Even,” I said. “No debts either way.”

Ned Rafferty drove us out to the airport.

“British Columbia,” somebody said, and we all said, “Can’t wait, same time next year,” but not one of us was feeling wealthy.

In the terminal there was more hugging.

Ollie went first. He shouldered his duffel—a waddling, funny-looking guy in his cowboy hat and fancy boots. After a moment, Tina pecked my cheek and tagged along after him.

They boarded a Frontier Airlines flight for Denver.

Ned and Sarah and I waved at the windows, then Rafferty said, “Where to? Portland? Samoa?”

I said I was headed the opposite way. So did Sarah. Rafferty gave us a lift back into town, but this time there was little emotion.

“My problem,” Rafferty said, “is I can’t cry.”

We shook hands and then it was down to Sarah and me.

“There’s risk in this,” I told her.

“Accepted.”

“Thing is, I do love her.”

“You did,” Sarah said. “Perhaps.”

“So.”

“So let’s find out,” she said. “The uranium, that was a gamble, too”

Wrong, but I nodded. The uranium had to be there. That was science, this was something else.

“Ready?”

We were on the corner of Elm and Moore. Across the street was a parked tractor, and beyond that was the capitol dome, and far off were those mountains we’d plundered.

“Ready?”

“Ready,” I said.

Sarah slipped her hand into my back pocket, took out my wallet, and put it in her purse for safekeeping.

“Let’s at least keep the risks to a minimum,” she said. “How do we get to Bonn?”

First, though, I bought myself a motel. The night clerk took it pretty well. So well, in fact, he almost ruined the pleasure; it was a relief when he got a bit testy near the end.

A night later we were over the Atlantic.

“So let’s have the data,” Sarah said.

“Bobbi Haymore. Married a guy named Scholheimer. Bobbi Scholheimer.”

“Bobbi?”

“She can’t help it.”

“I suppose not.” Sarah levered back her seat.

“She can’t .”

“I know that. Unfortunate, though. I’m sure she’s a doll.”

“You want to hear it?”

“Everything.”

We were alone in first class. Two of the flight attendants were already sleeping, and the third had gone back to help in coach. The jet seemed to fly itself.

“Well,” I said, “it was like getting shot by a stun gun. Just happened. The smile, maybe, I don’t know. Something clicked—the passion thing. There it was. When I saw her the first time, it was like I’d known her all my life, or before I was born. One look, you know? I’m sorry.” Sarah listened with her eyes closed. I could see movement beneath the lids, darting motions; I knew it was hurting but I had to get it said. I described the night flight and the bad dreams and the martinis and poems and hand-holding. “Couldn’t forget her,” I said. “All in my head, I guess. I’d keep seeing her face, hearing that voice, and sometimes—I am sorry—but sometimes I’d make up these stories about how we’d run away together. Pictures. Little glimpses.”

Sarah laughed. “And me?”

“You were there, too.”

“Steady Sarah. Go on, you’re breaking my heart.”

The jet made a slight adjustment to starboard.

I told her about the airport stakeouts—just a game at first, but then a desperate game, something to live for and hope for—an obsession, I admitted—and then I talked about the chain of events, how the trail led to Manhattan, then the phone calls and the navigator and finally Scholheimer.

“Hot pursuit,” Sarah murmured.

“I guess so.”

“And then?”

I shrugged. “And then nothing. Called her up. Told her—you know—told her I loved her. Big confession. Big hopes. All those stories and pretty pictures… Anyway, she was nice about it. A couple of times I thought, God, it’ll work , I could hear this—I don’t know—this willingness in her voice. So after a while I asked if we could have dinner or something, or run off to Hudson Bay, and then she laughed, but it was a nice laugh, like wistful, and she told me, No, she couldn’t, because she was going to Bonn, and there was this married guy she was going with. ‘The guy’s married to me,’ she said. Just like that. But sort of sad, too. ‘The guy’s married to me .’ That’s all I remember. Except I wanted to ask about that grass she gave me. Grass—what’s the grass mean? This time I’m asking.”

“She sounds swell,” Sarah said.

“Yes, but I love her.”

Sarah was quiet. She covered herself with a blanket and watched the flashing green light at the edge of a wing.

“Grass,” she finally said, and sighed. “If I’d only known it was so easy. Grass galore. Poems, too. Would’ve pinned them to your ears. ‘What is love? ’tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter.’ That turn you on, William?”

“Let’s just wait. See what transpires.”

“I’ll eat her alive,” said Sarah.

In Paris, the choice was either a train that afternoon or a plane the next morning, so we took the train. Sarah said it was best to keep up the momentum. She didn’t want things fizzling out in some quaint hotel room. For the first hour or so we sat up watching the suburbs and grapes go by, then Sarah began making up the berth.

“It isn’t just that I love you,” she said. “I mean, we’ve committed crime together. Doesn’t that count for anything? Aren’t we thick as thieves, you and I?” She pulled the shades and undressed and got into bed. There was a red bow in her hair, a cigarette in her mouth. She looked lean and unladylike and smart. “William,” she said slowly, “the girl won’t even recognize you. Things have changed. You’ve changed. The uranium, for God’s sake. What’s she to make of it? One look, she’ll see you’ve lost that crazy edge of yours. Mr. Normal. Ban the bomb to boom the bomb. Denim to sharkskin, plowshares to swords. How does dear Bobbi-cakes cope with all that?”

“I’ll explain.”

Sarah sniffed and kissed her kneecaps. “Rancher Roe?” she said. “You’ll explain how we conned that poor old fairy? Take a look at yourself. Not a moral fiber to be found.”

“I’m sweet, though.”

“Nixon was sweet. Oppenheimer was sweeter. Einstein—sweetest old geezer who ever lived.”

“Yes, but Einstein warned us.”

“That’s how sweet he was! Invents the end of the world, then sounds the alarm. Isn’t that how relativity works? Szilard was a sweetie, Fermi was a pussycat. Just like you and me, William. We’re all such charmers.”

“If you’re feeling guilty—”

“Guilt?” she said. “Forget it, man. Guilt went out with culottes. It’s a new world.”

Sarah crushed out her cigarette and winced and stroked a thick red blister at her lip. It was a blemish that had been recurring for years now, but here, in the flickering light, it seemed to have its own organic mandate. I wanted to reach out and brush it away.

“Face it,” she said, “we’re established . Donated our scruples to the highest bidder. Buckled, snapped, sold out. Sweet Bobbi will see the change.”

“Enough,” I said.

“Am I a nag?”

“A little.” I watched her massage the blister. It was the color of her nipples, almost exactly, and it did the same thing for me. I locked the door and took off my clothes and squeezed in beside her.

“You love her, William? Really?”