Bronsky shrugged. “Many things happen on Hill that are not done before. What is second question?”
“You know how long I’ve been working on this ten-piece design. Why build and perfect it when you actually need something that can detonate fourteen more?”
“Goal is not device. Goal is knowledge.” He waved his hand over the parts strewn across the table. “This knowledge, we will use many, many of times.”
Charlie scanned the table’s debris. “We will?”
Bronsky’s face went blank. “Or, perhaps, just once.”
23.
By Greta’s measure, I was back-dooring. That is, I was not telling Charlie. In fact, I was not telling anyone. It was my own private glory. My own private torment.
Chris Beatty followed me home that night. It was my idea, the invitation an impulse I followed without pausing to consider the consequences. The ruse was simple too. I asked the gals if they would mind dropping me first, then waited outside till he came marching down the sidewalk. I felt like I’d pulled off a little coup.
Chris arrived quickly, almost at a trot despite his arm in a sling, which struck me as maybe how he did everything. But he pulled up short. “Is this all right?”
“Twice around the block,” I said. “And I’ll still be in before curfew.”
“Fair enough,” he answered, with a smile to melt a girl’s heart. Or at least her resistance. I imagined you could fill a school bus with the ladies who had thrown themselves at this man. Yet here he was, with me. He chose me.
“Come on.” Chris tilted his head up the street. “Princess.”
The charmer. I stepped up on the side of his good arm, and we set off. But his pace was so jerky and quick, I had to grab his elbow to slow him down. Which is how we ended up strolling arm in arm.
He was taller than Charlie. He smelled terrific, which believe it or not was the first time I’d admired a fella’s scent. And he jabbered a mile a minute.
“. . . Then there was the day in high school when you won that basketball game with foul shots—”
“My mother hated me playing that sport. She was afraid I’d break a finger and wreck my organ career.”
“I was home from college for the weekend,” he continued, almost as if I hadn’t spoken, “and wandered over to school just in case. I couldn’t just knock on your parents’ door, hi, I’m the total stranger who pined for your daughter—”
“You pined?”
“—and then that big girl fouled you, it was such a blatant shove, the poor sport, though I also understand how competition is useful, and pushes us to do our best, and maybe she got carried away, but anyway bloop bloop you dropped those two foul shots as easy as unwrapping a lollipop, and the timer rang game over and you’d won.”
He bounced from topic to topic like skipping a stone on the lake: the foul, college, lollipops. Which should I respond to? “Would you believe I had never made two foul shots in a row before?”
“Nope.” Chris shook his head as if I’d uttered blasphemy. “In my mind, Brenda, you always make both shots. Because every time I’ve seen you try, you’ve done it. That makes me want to show off for you sometime, too: land a plane under some difficulty, one engine out or something. To wow you like you wowed me that day.”
I decided it was easiest not to answer. Let him put me on a pedestal. We’d already finished our first lap, and I felt like we could have marched thirty times around.
“But you,” he said at last. “Tell me about yourself, your brother, your dad serving, too, from what I heard. How is it all going?”
“Oh, Chris. It has not been easy.”
I started to explain, but it was a mess. I wanted his sympathy, I wanted to impress him, I wanted to sound humble, I wanted to be honest, I wanted to conceal the existence of Charlie Fish. Chris took it all in, nodding along. When I finished, he just stopped nodding. Not one word in reply. That’s how badly I did.
Yet when we rounded the last corner, he surprised me. “One more lap? Please?”
I turned his wrist to see the time. Ten minutes till. “If we don’t dawdle.”
He picked up the pace. “Can I tell you about flight training? It’s pretty amazing.”
“Please,” I said.
Chris began chattering again, top speed about entrance exams and exercise and finding out he had perfect vision. I started to tell about having perfect pitch, but he was explaining his first takeoff, listing the dangers with such enthusiasm, I let him carry on, and we strolled into the wild blue yonder.
Yes, I promised to see him the next night. I was able to get away with it because Greta was occupied with her guy. We had one phone call the morning after the dance. Turned out Brian was on leave before shipping out to San Francisco, and from there, west and west till he reached the little islands that never surrendered. Time was short, hearts were beating, and her thrill was strong enough that only at the end did she ask about Chris. “Did he stay that obnoxious, or did he calm down?”
“He was a perfect gentleman.”
“I’m so glad. With ones that cute, you never know.”
“Cute is right.”
“Conceited too.”
I hesitated. “Is it conceited if it’s all true?”
“No,” she laughed. “Then it’s just bragging.”
I was standing in the kitchen and my mother in the living room, but I could feel her listening. “Terrible dancer, anyhow.”
“You’re a pal for taking him away. That dance with Brian was something special.”
We rang off, she had to get dressed for a dinner date with her new beau, and I was glad. Her heart could run wild and there would be no room to think about me. Which meant I didn’t have to spill about what I was doing.
And what was I doing? I told my mother it was dinner with Greta. Then I pinned on my hat and met Chris four blocks away. He was pacing on the street corner, and I hung back a second to look at him. “Handsome” was the wrong word. “Pretty” was more accurate. Pretty like a busy baroque melody. Pretty like a young horse. When he saw me, he threw down his cigarette and opened his arms wide.
“There she is, my future wife.”
I made a face. “How about we try a first date, and take it from there?”
Chris kissed my hand royalty-style. “Resistance is futile, princess.”
It took all of my moxie to stay self-possessed. “Buy me a steak and we’ll see.”
The restaurant was around the corner from our house, yet I’d never been. Candlelight, small tables. As the maître d’ led us, women followed Chris with their eyes.
When my steak came, he pulled the plate over on his side.
“What’s the big idea?” I asked.
“Patience, princess.” He cut a small piece, stabbed it with his fork and held it toward me.
“What?” I said.
“Please,” he answered, all smiles. “Indulge me.”
I took that bite off the fork. Quick as a pickpocket he cut another piece for me.
“Again?”
“Indulge me, princess.”
So, while his plate of fish went cold, Chris fed me the entire steak. It was the ultimate pampering: slow, luxurious, and I must confess, it became sexual. I had never experienced a man’s keen attention to my senses. Yet here was another bite, his eyes bright. I felt arousal down to my toes. To this day, I wonder what would have happened if he’d attempted a seduction.