The bell hanging on the front door tinkled just then, a rube-looking fellow in a too-small hat wandered in. He peered around as if he did not know where he was. I knew how he felt.
Casual as you please, I picked up my sandwich. “Mother,” I said, “would you mind taking this one please?”
14.
Arriving at work the next day, Charlie spied Santangelo near the entryway. He jogged over, calling out, “Hey, Steel Wool.”
“Charlie, hey.” Santangelo swung the door wide. “How’s life in the basement?”
Charlie fell into step beside him. “I never thought I would be nostalgic for arcs. What are you third-floor guys up to these days?”
“Oh, there’s no one up there anymore.”
“They canned all of you? Who’s doing the nation’s math?”
“Nobody got canned. We’re all reassigned. What about you?”
“Soldering.” He stopped, lowering his head. “What for, I have no idea—and I’m not very good at it.” With effort, he raised his face again. “Where’d they reassign you?”
“The Manhattan Engineering District. With the group working beneath Stagg Field.”
“The football stadium?”
“Sports are on hiatus for the duration.” Santangelo leaned closer. “You have no idea, Fish. We lined a squash court with graphite, and inside it they are breaking the laws of nature.”
“Are they?” Charlie snickered. “And what’s your job?”
He laughed. “I man the crank.”
Charlie laughed, too, though not knowing why. Perhaps Santangelo’s excitement was contagious. “What’s the crank do?”
“Raises and lowers the control rod, the one that makes the reaction go critical.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s downright comical.” Steel Wool raised his arms, conjuring an imaginary squash court. “Bigwigs stand up in the balcony, you know? They wave like emperors, I loosen the rope, the rod drops, and the Geiger counters go insane. Chain reaction, bingo. Then they lift a finger, I tighten the rope. The rod rises and the reaction stops.” He glanced up and down the empty hallway. “It’s incredible. They actually control the pile.”
“What’s a pile?”
A sudden look of panic crossed Santangelo’s face. “I shouldn’t be talking to you, Charlie. I thought you knew more.”
“What are they controlling, Steel Wool?”
“Can’t say,” he answered, moving away down the corridor. “God. Forget all that crap, okay? It’s nothing. Just . . . just fancy math.”
“What is it, though?”
“Forget it, all right? Forget I said anything.” And he bolted up the stairs.
Charlie stood alone, listening as Santangelo’s shoes ran flight after flight. What was he supposed to forget? What did any of this talk mean? At last he turned, making his way down to the dungeon. It smelled of stale air.
As Charlie hung up his coat, Beasley went to his station and switched on the iron. “Next lesson: how to sweat.” He tapped the desk with a forefinger. “Pay attention.”
Before Charlie had settled in, Beasley arranged two plates. In one smooth motion, he melted soldering material into the gap between the plates. The hot metal seeped into the seam, cooling like a metallic glue.
“Conductive, solid, waterproof.” Beasley stood. “Try sweating your failures together first, so you don’t ruin something of value.” He ambled away. “Not that anything you make possesses any value.”
Charlie spent the day sweating. There were gaps, spills, mistakes that did ruin components. By day’s end, though, he had run one bond successfully for the length of two plates. It was the fastest he had learned any new technique. He brought the completed assembly across the lab for inspection. “How’s this?”
Beasley barely gave Charlie’s work more than one eye, before tossing it aside.
“What?” Charlie asked. “How is it?”
“Sloppy, incomplete, and ugly.” Beasley continued soldering. “I am going to talk to Simmons about you tomorrow. As far as I am concerned, you are officially CTD.”
“CTD? What’s that stand for?”
He pointed his index finger at the floor and made a swirling motion. “Circling the drain.”
15.
He ate nearly the whole chicken. I’d been too little to remember when Frank went through his growth spurt. But I could not recall ever seeing a human being tuck into a meal like Charlie did that night. My mother gave all three of us decent portions: chicken, rice in gravy, warmed carrots. Charlie was finished before I’d taken three bites.
He put his fork down, then noticed how much was left on our plates. “That is mortifying,” he said. “I’m sorry, today I had to skip lunch—”
“Are you kidding?” My mother laughed. “Nobody around here ever says anything nice about my cooking. You just paid me the perfect compliment.”
It wasn’t true. Roast chicken was her signature dish, with salt and onions and pale crescent moons of celery, winning cheers from our family every time. But I was smart enough not to contradict her.
“Here,” she said, taking his plate. “Let’s load you up right this time.”
She shuffled off to the kitchen, Charlie calling after her, “I haven’t had home-cooked food in a solid year.”
My mother returned with a plate piled high. “I can’t imagine the cafeteria meals. The taste. The dirt.” She feigned a melodramatic voice. “You got here just in the nick of time.”
We all chuckled. I couldn’t remember the last time my mother said something that made someone laugh. Charlie’s second helping went down slower, but she persuaded him to have thirds. After dinner, she made sweeping motions with her hands.
“Shoo,” she said. “I’ll take care of the dishes. Brenda, please show this starving wolf to the basement. And, Charlie, make yourself at home down there.”
“I really appreciate dinner, ma’am, and the chance to practice some more.”
“Don’t you go all ma’aming on me,” my mother said. “Just get busy.”
I swung the narrow door open, switched on the light, and started down—calling back to him, “Watch your step.”
In fact, the stairs were crooked as a cowboy’s teeth, but they’d always been that way, I’d just never paid attention to it before. I felt a flinch of embarrassment, until I heard Charlie exclaim from above me.
“Look at this place. It’s immaculate.” He’d spied the worktable.
“Daddy likes things tidy.”
He stood beside the plank bench that served as a seat. The tabletop was clear and clean. Soldering tools hung on a particle board against white-painted outlines, so anyone could see where each one belonged. Spools of wire dangled in easy reach.
“It’s as organized as an operating room,” Charlie said. “Where does he keep his components?”
Not knowing what a component was, I shrugged. “Maybe in there?”