“He’s on the line now,” the secretary called.
Simmons pounced on the phone and spoke without a greeting. “We’re ready.”
He listened, his trademark smile returning. “Of course I’m sure. It’s seamless, stable, and quick to make.”
Despite the smile, though, Charlie saw something in his uncle’s demeanor, the seriousness of it, that made him realize this conversation barely involved him. It was about something else, and he was a small part.
Simmons paused again, nodding, grinning wider than ever. “In fact, we have exactly the right guy for the job. Dutiful, humble, obedient. You could start detonator production immediately.”
Suddenly Charlie was seized by a sense of dread. Where did detonator production take place? Had he succeeded his way out of Beasley’s clutches, without thinking far enough ahead? Now that Brenda was allowing him to see her real feelings, the last thing on earth he wanted was a promotion to somewhere else.
Simmons set the soldered plate on his desk. “I could get him to you in a week.”
Charlie began to sweat inside his shirt. What had he done?
Simmons hung up without a good-bye. He grinned up at Charlie. “I knew I was taking a risk with you, but here’s a tangible result. You followed orders and you delivered.”
Charlie swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”
Simmons sat back in his chair, hands clasped behind his head. “Congratulations, Charlie Fish, and pack your bags. You are on your way to New Mexico.”
17.
They took him from me.
Just when I was beginning to understand what the presence of Charlie Fish could do to my life, they removed him from it. With a whopping three days to pack and make arrangements. He was sweet enough to spend several hours each morning visiting with me at the store, but whenever I played for him I could see he was distracted by all the chores he had to complete. As soon as I finished, he’d hurry off to tend to some detail or other. They did not allow him time to visit his family, instead promising an extended leave at Christmas. Which I doubted he would actually receive. They did not give him a mailing address either. Charlie said he’d be told when he arrived. It only increased my vulnerability that I had to wait to get a letter from him before we could be in contact.
“Brenda?” my mother called up the stairs. “Hurry up. He’ll be here any minute.”
I stood from the bed and crossed into my parents’ bedroom, at the front of the house, to examine myself in the full-length mirror. I wore a favorite dress, navy blue with white piping, trim but not too fancy, and a baby blue hat pinned snug into my hair. An overcoat would hide my dress from Charlie, but I would know about it, and perhaps he might sense the care I had taken for him.
Downstairs my mother was busy digging in the fridge and packing the picnic basket, quick as if she had four hands.
“You’re sending Charlie off with the family basket?”
My mother did not so much as glance at me. “And what of it?”
“Didn’t Daddy give you that for an anniversary present? Won’t he be upset when it’s gone?”
She stopped stock-still in the middle of the kitchen. “You worry about all the wrong things. Here—” She handed me two glass jars. “Fill these with water, would you?”
“It’s a fair question.”
“Brenda, please. It’s not like we’re picnicking every Sunday these days. Charlie can return the basket once the war is over.”
“And if it lasts another five years—”
“Then a picnic basket is the last thing we’ll be fretting about.” She snapped her fingers twice. From the sink I saw her pour an entire percolator of coffee into a canteen tin, which she capped tightly and tucked into a corner of the basket. After filling the first water jar, I packed it too. The basket was stuffed, and I found myself counting.
“Eleven sandwiches? Mother, it’s not like he’s crossing the Sahara Desert.”
She spoke while lighting a cigarette. “Little girl, you have no idea what’s ahead of him. Besides, with no family to see him off, an extra sandwich or two does no harm.”
“Or ten.” I snorted. “Maybe you want to be the one he’s courting.”
She gave me a look then, a slow burn. “I don’t know where to begin to answer a wisecrack like that.” She exhaled smoke and left the room.
I was tucking the second filled jar away when the knock came at the front door.
“I’ll be right back down,” my mother said, hurrying up the stairs.
“You couldn’t answer the door first?” I hollered after her.
There was no reply, and I realized what she was up to. My mother wanted me to greet Charlie. Today I’d like to give her a dozen roses for trying to teach a self-absorbed girl. But right then I was only annoyed, and the second knock didn’t help.
“Come the heck in,” I yelled, trotting over to swing the door wide.
“Hi, Brenda,” he said, making a little bow. “Hey, nice hat.”
“Why thank you, Charlie.” I patted it as though to check if the pins had come loose, wondered where I had learned such an old lady gesture, stepped backward out of his way, and almost tripped on the rug. I caught myself though, and just as quickly suppressed any sign of embarrassment. “Come on in. My mother is just finishing making you a feed wagon.”
Charlie wore his Christmas overcoat with a loose suit under it. He dragged two duffel bags in behind him. It struck me as a little pathetic, that everything he owned could fit in two dull green canvas bags. The war diminished everyone.
“A feed wagon?” He removed his hat. “What’s that?”
“Nothing,” my mother said, skipping down the stairs. “Brenda said officially nothing. Nice to see you, Charlie.”
“Thanks, Mrs. Dubie. Super dress, too, Brenda.”
“It’s an old one actually,” I demurred.
My mother put her hand on my arm. “Thank you, Charlie, I’m glad you like it.” Then that hand gave me a nudge.
I sighed, rolling my eyes. “Thank you, Charlie—”
“And you’re glad I like it?” He grinned and gave me the quickest little wink.
What a perfect way to appease my mother without taking her side against me. “Something like that, yes.”
There was a honking from the street, and we peered out as one. “Already?” My mother checked her watch. “I called for a cab at eleven.”
“I wouldn’t mind being early,” Charlie said. “So I can buy a snack at the station.”
I laughed. “My mother thought of that. Though you may need a wheelbarrow.”
“Go,” she said to him. “And, Brenda, you fetch the basket.”
In the kitchen, an idea occurred to me. I could write Charlie a note, some simple thing for him to find late in his trip, when he’d eaten down into the stack of sandwiches. I grabbed paper and sat at the table, but my brain went blank. What could I say that wasn’t too corny, didn’t give my dignity away, stoked his desire, preserved my virtue, and brought him safely home?
Maybe if I’d thought of it sooner, if I’d had an hour to make up something perfect, I might have done something that bold. Today I wish I had confessed everything, made promises for the whole future, because I was heartsore and he wasn’t even gone yet. But I knew myself too little to be so frank, to have such nerve. Instead I tapped the pencil eraser against my teeth, hoping for inspiration, until my mother barged into the room.