He pointed to Charlie. “Our team has a specialist.”
Bronsky turned. “May I please see?”
Charlie handed him the assembly. As the man examined his work, tilting it this way and that, he could not keep his tongue. “I got too excited, sir, and damaged the firing arm. But it’s only my first one.”
Bronsky raised his eyes to examine Charlie too. “What your name is?”
“Listen,” the site boss said. “We’re sorry, sir. This was only a prank after a long week. I apologize if we wasted any munitions.”
“Please to answer,” the man insisted. “What your name is?”
Charlie swallowed. “Fish, sir, Charles Fish.”
“Fishk. Well done.” He cleared his throat. “Rest of crew will please to police site.”
With the device still in his hand, he minced back through the dirt and climbed into the truck. After the driver turned around, they swayed up to the trail with the yellow roof light still slowly spinning. No one spoke till the truck was out of sight.
“Who was that?” Charlie asked.
“Igor Bronsky,” the site boss replied. “My director’s boss’s boss. And exactly what I was warning you about.”
“You warned me?” Charlie said. “When?”
“Ninety-four,” Monroe interrupted, bumbling up the ridge. His sunburned head radiant, he waved the longest of his measuring sticks like a miniature flag. “Can you believe it?” he cackled.
Arms high, Monroe faced down the hill and shouted to the crew. “We done blasted Hitler ninety-four feet in the air.”
Dear Brenda,
I had the most amazing day. Your Charlie may be in trouble, but it might turn out to be a good kind of trouble.
He wiped a bit of dirt off the page, frustrated because he had already scrubbed his hands. A shower would really do the job, but that was still a full day away. Charlie took in his surroundings: the barracks a whirlwind of activity, boys washing themselves, or folding laundry, or mock-sparring. Saturday night and the pressure of the week was about to release.
For him that meant square dancing at Fuller Lodge: a string band, a caller, older folks ready to teach the steps to beginners like Charlie. He liked how wholesome it felt.
Some tech workers were already outside, meanwhile, deep into their beers. Others sat on the floor, a bunk between them, playing two-bit poker and passing around a bottle. One checked his hair in a locker mirror, while another splashed on cologne, so everyone knew they had dates.
All week we work for as long as there is daylight, with only Sundays off, so nights like this have extra meaning. I suppose it might be like the prom, back in high school. I went stag and it was not much fun. But I bet a pretty girl like you had guys begging for a dance. I bet you wore a smashing dress, too, your hair done up with that French braid I can’t forget.
If you had been my prom date, I would have danced every song with you. But all I would have been thinking about all night was kissing you. That, and maybe—
The lights went out. A groan came from up and down the barracks so immediately, it seemed rehearsed. Power failures were a fact of life on The Hill, the slender wires installed for a boys’ school no match for the demands of thousands of people and dozens of labs. But blackouts always seemed to come at the least convenient times. The barracks master lit a lantern by the door, its dim light casting long shadows. Charlie brought his face close to the page. He could barely make out his handwriting, and he hadn’t gotten to the detonation yet. Much less how he missed her.
“Enough, Charlie.” Giles strolled over with a beer. “Finish your love letter tomorrow.”
“I wanted to tell her about today while it was fresh in my mind.”
“You can’t mail it till Monday anyway.” Giles took a long drink. “Have a beer on your way to the dance. The guys want to celebrate your first detonation.”
“Honest?”
“Well.” Taking a swig, he ambled away. “I do, anyway.”
On The Hill a beer cost pennies, and no matter what other shortages occurred, the supply remained plentiful. As Charlie approached the bonfire, Giles handed him a cup of beer and made space for him in the circle. Most of the fellows were concentrating on a drinking game, drumming on their laps and taking turns making fast hand signals. An error meant someone had to chug.
“You’re not playing?” Charlie asked Giles.
“Monochopsis,” Giles said. “Know what I mean?”
Charlie sipped his beer. “No idea at all.”
“The persistent feeling of being out of place.”
“Oh, I know that well. The only time I don’t feel it is in choir practice.”
“You sing?” Monroe staggered up. “Warble us a lick.”
“Not right now.”
“Come on, choirboy.” He swigged from a whiskey bottle. “Do it before I up and fall over.” He held the bottle forward. “I’ll give you some courage.”
“Thanks anyway.” Charlie bowed back a few steps. “I’m off to the dance now.”
“Monroe, the thing I want to know,” Giles said, grabbing the bottle for himself, “is why a couple of drinks turns your vocabulary into a cornpone cartoon.”
“Kentucky luck.” Monroe smiled. “Booze brings up my blood, is all.”
Giles nudged Charlie. “Be good.” And he tilted the bottle into his mouth.
“Always,” Charlie said, backing away from the bonfire. He waited till he was fully in the dark before pouring out the rest of his beer.
The walk to Fuller Lodge was pleasant with the power out. The residential side of The Hill lay under a canopy of stars so plentiful, compared to anywhere else he had lived, it could have been a different sky.
He marveled that some people were expert in the heavens, knew the stars’ names and brightness and locations. Maybe he would try astronomy, once the war was over.
That again. Once that unimaginable time should come. Meanwhile he lived on a parapet of science as isolated as any feudal castle, the surrounding canyons more deep and protective than any moat.
Humming to himself, Charlie thought about the fellows back by the fire. They were all young, the average age on The Hill being twenty-seven. Even Oppenheimer, boss of the entire Project Y enterprise, was only thirty-nine. In part, that was why square dances suited Charlie so well: all kinds of young people, everyone far from home.
Also he enjoyed the freedom from worries about romantic entanglements. In a square dance you did not have one partner so much as four, moving through the steps as the caller named them: simple ones like the “Allemande Left” and “Promenade,” which were like taking a playful walk; complicated steps like “Weave the Ring” and “Box the Gnat,” where Charlie had to pay attention to left foot, right foot, left hand, right hand, and the sixteen ways he could confuse them; and moves that defied description but gave him keen pleasure, like “Ocean Wave” or the classic “Do-Si-Do.”
He’d arrived not knowing one dance step, clinging to the walls like a moth for months, until an older woman spotted him.
“I’ve got a girl at home,” Charlie protested.
“I’m twice your age,” the woman laughed, pulling on his arm. “Besides, square dancing isn’t about sweet talk, it’s about losing the overwork blues.”