“Which is how?”
He shook his head. “That’s the treason part. Tell me about your job.”
“Well, hang on tight, because it’s a lot.”
And I deluged him: The reverend asks me to play hymns so basic, I’m ecstatic if I get to use a minor third chord in the tonic-dominant pattern. He preaches at the top of his lungs, though his sermons are not especially powerful. Yet the congregation loves him, they answer his bombast with gentleness. On the way out of worship the white parishioners press his hands or shake them, while the local Spanish people hold back, waiting their turn, and instead of handshakes they give him hugs, people making the sign of the cross. Last in line, always, is Mrs. Sanchez—who cleans the church and who I met on my first day. She hugs the minister with both arms, and I find it reassuring. The organ has potential, I continued, but badly needs repair. Without knowing how, I manage to annoy the minister’s wife several times a day. The best thing by far has been the choir, because it mixes all the different kinds of people who live in Santa Fe, young and old, white and brown, and for some reason the people’s voices here are wonderfully clear, unmannered, and mercifully on pitch. A shortage of basses, with the war on, but most choir members attend every rehearsal, and come on Sunday ready to sing their hearts out.
Charlie nodded all the while. When I’d finished ranting, though, I remembered how quiet Chris could be after I’d spoken—until he started talking about himself again. “Am I a terrible complainer?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “I was thinking, it’s a long way from ‘the Hammond spinet has ninety-two tone wheels.’”
“Hey, mister, I loved selling organs. And it’s ninety-one.”
“But you should hear yourself.” Charlie continued walking, gazing at the ground. “Your life is full now.”
“It has to be. I’m making my own way.”
“But you’re not doing it with the hard part of yourself, Brenda. You’re doing it with the lovely person that music makes you become.”
“Go on.” I gave his arm a poke. “Buy me lunch?”
He smiled again, ducking his head toward me. “I happen to be starving.”
I took him to La Fonda, figuring he’d been there before. But he followed me to the table wide-eyed. We ordered food, and in an awkward quiet we waited for it to arrive.
“So this is the place I’ve been hearing about,” he said. “Some of my crew comes here every Saturday night. Here and the tattoo shop.”
“You haven’t gotten one, I hope?”
“Never.” Charlie wrinkled his nose. “It’s a stain you can’t wash out.”
“Why do so many boys do it, then?”
He shrugged. Then fiddled with his glass, leaning closer, and again I thought he might kiss me. Instead he started talking. “Imagine I’m making a manual for an organ, Brenda. But instead of sixty-one keys, I keep making fifty-eight, and then I can’t finish.”
“Sounds like a lousy instrument.” I sipped my water. “You won’t be able to play all kinds of songs on it.”
“Exactly. Like those keys, my job is very small. But until I complete my part, the whole project is stalled.”
“You can’t stall things in a war, Charlie.” I could feel my heat rising. “Time costs lives. There are millions of boys fighting in Europe, the Pacific. Lizzie’s husband will be part of the invasion of Japan—they say it will involve five million American soldiers—”
“With casualties of up to one million, I know.”
“If you’re working on something to help them win, you have to finish. You need to make all sixty-one keys.”
“That’s the trouble,” he said. “I can’t.”
He looked downtrodden as a hobo. The responsibility weighed him down, I could see that in his slumped shoulders. But I didn’t know how to help. I summoned some gumption. “I know what you do,” I declared.
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve been following your success, in the newspapers.” I was all but preening.
“I don’t think so.”
“Oh yes. The Nagara.” I nodded, full of myself. “Shinyo, Tamatsu, Yoshino.”
“I don’t understand those words.”
“The subs, Charlie.” I grinned. “I’ve kept track. I’m an encyclopedia on the topic.”
“Who told you I am working on submarines? It’s ridiculous.”
“I memorized it all for you,” I said. “The Taiyo, an aircraft carrier.”
He laughed a little. “Brenda, we are in the middle of a desert.”
I could feel my dander rising. “Don’t make fun of me.”
“I’m not. But submarines?” He smiled, and it felt condescending. “Really?”
At that, I snapped back. “You know why you can’t finish your little part?”
“You have a theory?”
“You make it look like good manners,” I said. “And humility, but that’s not it.”
“What are you talking about?” His smile was gone now.
“You complained about the math, you whined about the soldering. Now it’s about finishing whatever it is you have to finish. Why don’t you have a spine for once?”
“If you had any idea—”
“But can you tell me? Oh no, that would be treason.” My mother would have chastised me, but I found pleasure in using my brattiest voice.
“It’s not as simple as—”
“Yes it is, Charlie. Whatever your little task is, I’m sure you can do it or they wouldn’t have chosen you. You’re afraid, that’s all. Afraid and weak.”
“Brenda.” He looked crestfallen. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I came all this way to be with you, Charlie. I upended my whole life to give us a chance. But honestly . . .”
“Yes?” He sat straight in his chair. “Please, be honest.”
“All right.” I pushed my utensils aside, it felt like rolling up my sleeves. “The real reason you can’t build this mystery thing is that you don’t know how to be courageous.”
His mouth hung slightly open. I could have stopped then, but no.
“Be a man, Charlie Fish. Be a soldier. We’re surrounded by them now, just pick one and imitate him. If you can help end the war and you hesitate? You’re not a man.”
Charlie looked at me head-on. His reply surprised me, because it showed how he maybe knew me better than I knew myself. “Seems like you have developed a lot of expertise on what a man is.”
“Yes,” I said, confident as ever, and unconcerned about what pain I might inflict. I was an idiot with a machine gun. “That’s because I met one.”
Charlie fell back, curled over like I’d punched him in the gut. “You did?”
“Of course. I’ve been surrounded by men,” I backpedaled. “Real men.”
“One. You said you met one.”
“Yes,” I blurted. “A pilot. Home to recover after getting shot down.”
“Where is he now?”