Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

In the absence of hope, what can we hope for?

Does love last forever?

Are there any absolutes?

I want to know what the hole knows. The hole is where faith should be. The hole is what we have when imagination fails.

“Hey,” Melinda says.

Something moves inside me.

“Hey—”

She makes a languid, woozy motion with her arm. After a moment she sits up in the hammock, rubs her nose, turns her head slightly to one side, and looks at me without recognition.

I feel unsteady.

There’s a sudden compression when she says, “Daddy?” Enormous pressure, it’s too much for me. I place the firing device at my feet and get down on my hands and knees and practice deep breathing. The hole, it seems, is in my heart.

“Daddy?” Melinda says.

“Here, angel.”

“Where? How’d I get down in this… God, it’s dark. Where’s Mommy?”

“Mommy’s fine.”

“Yeah, but—” She stops and touches her flannel nightgown. Her eyes wander. She looks at the granite walls, then up at the Christmas lights, then down at me, then at the firing device. There isn’t enough light to make out her expression, but I can easily imagine it. “Man oh man,” she says, “what’s going on? ”

It isn’t a question, though. She knows.

Her eyes, if I could see them, would be blue and full of wisdom. Drawing conclusions, perhaps. Maybe a little frightened.

I’m still on my hands and knees. The squeeze is on.

No dignity in it, but I don’t trust myself to stand.

Melinda stares at me.

“Daddy,” she says, “what’s happening?”

I keep smiling. I want to go to her but I can’t manage it; I make a queer crabbing motion, knees and knuckles. It’s a balance problem. I’m embarrassed when I feel myself slipping—I can’t get traction.

The hole cackles.

Dynamite!

Melinda seems startled. I’m smiling at her—it’s all love—but she recoils and hugs herself and says, “What?”

“Nothing, baby.”

“I heard you.”

“Nothing.”

“That word ,” she says, “I heard it. You said it, I heard you! I can’t believe this.”

She’s wide awake now.

Quickly, she gets out of the hammock and takes a step toward me and stops and glances at Bobbi and then steps backward. All I can do is smile. She takes another step backward.

There’s silence while she makes the connections.

“Get up,” she says sternly.

“In a second.”

“Daddy.”

“One second, princess.”

She puts a thumb against the edge of her mouth.

“No,” she says, “I don’t want a second. I want out . This hole, God, it smells like… Let me out!”

“Melinda—”

“Out!” she shouts.

I can see her eyes now. She glares at me, then spins around and moves to a wall and hits it with her fist. “Now,” she screams, “I want out! ” The Christmas lights give her face a splotchy blue and red tint. She kicks the wall. “Now!” she screams. Her eyes keep roving—quick, jerky movements of the head, up and down.

When she spots the dynamite, I pretend it’s not what it is. It’s not evil, I think. Not murder, not sorrow.

“Oh, wow,” she grunts.

With her left hand, gingerly, she reaches out and nudges one of the copper blasting caps.

Reality impinges.

“Baby, don’t,” I say.

It’s a discovery for both of us. Melinda wipes her hand and turns and looks at me. I can’t explain it. Just the sadness of discovery, the dynamite and the wiring and the blasting caps, and when she looks at me—not accusing, only knowing—there is nothing that can be said or done. She bites down on her lip. She wants to cry, I know. Her tongue makes a light clicking noise against her teeth.

I’m helpless. I’m aware of the night’s pure harmonics, but I can’t make myself move.

I watch her trace the wires back to the firing device. Stooping, she inspects the plastic safety catch; she clutches her nightgown at the throat. Not murder, I remind myself. There is no evil in it, no rancor or shame, and we are all innocent and unsullied and sane. Even so, I suck in my breath when she finds the yellow button.

“God,” she says.

And she knows.

Now, at this instant, we share the knowledge that there is no mercy between fathers and daughters. We will kill for our children. Our children will kill for us. We will kill for families. And above all we will kill for love, as men have always killed. Crimes of passion. As terrorists kill. As soldiers kill for love of honor and love of country. Just love. And when there is no love, there is nothing worth dying for, only nothing, and Melinda knows this.

She picks up the firing device.

“I don’t care what,” she says, “I’m not afraid of you. I’m just not.”

“I know that.”

“I’m not .”

“Fine, then,” I tell her. “But be careful, okay? Be extra careful.”

“Don’t move, Daddy.”

“I won’t.”

“Stay right there,” she says. “You better not even move, because… You better not.”

“Careful, baby. Extra super careful.”

“I mean it. You better not .”

She carries the firing device to the far side of the hole, near Bobbi’s hammock. I do the calculations. Five or six paces between us, maybe four seconds. Hard to be sure. Would my legs work? What about the shock? All the imponderables.

“Sweetheart,” I say, very softly, “I wish you’d—”

“Don’t move.”

“No, I’m not moving.”

“If you do, though, I might—you know—I might . Just stay there. Just be nice, don’t scare me.”

A gallant little girl. And smart. She keeps her eyes on me. We both know. She reaches out and shakes Bobbi’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” she says. “How come Mommy won’t wake up?”

Again, I smile. “Just can’t, I guess. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe Mommy forgot how.”

“Forgot?” Melinda says. She makes a motion with her shoulders. “That’s stupid. Not even funny. It’s almost… How’d I get down here in the first place? Just dumped me in, I suppose.”

“I carried you, baby. Both of you.”

“You could’ve dropped me, though.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but I mean—” Suddenly, almost falling, she sits down and clamps her arms around the firing device. “I don’t mean that!” she yells. But she doesn’t cry; she doesn’t dare. She measures the distance between us. One hand flutters up to her ear, as if to brush away an irritation, then she flicks her thumb against the safety catch. “I mean this thing. I mean, why? I always thought you sort of loved me.”

“I do,” I say. “I do love you.”

“Okay, but I mean, how come you almost tried to blow me up? You did, didn’t you?”

“Never.”

“You did! ”

“No way. Never. Careful, now.”

For a moment she’s on the verge of crying. She puts a finger near the button.

“Scared?” she asks.

“You bet I am.”

“Don’t move, then. Better be real scared.”

“I am,” I say. “I’m scared.”

She runs a hand across her forehead. I know what she’s going through, I’ve been there myself.

“Don’t think I’m chicken,” Melinda says, “because I’m not. And if something bad happened, I bet you’d be so goddamn sorry you couldn’t believe it.”

She makes a small, incongruous fist and holds it over the firing device and screams, “Goddamn!”

There is nothing I can do.

“Goddamn!” she cries, and the hole laughs and says, No survivors! and Melinda yells, “Stop it!”