“All right, then. Spill.”
She sat on the edge of the bed. “I’m not supposed to tell.”
“My job, my housing, and my future depend on these people, and they have a huge secret. And supposedly you are my friend.”
Lizzie was wearing an old shirt of her husband’s, a long flannel one, and she wrapped it tighter before answering. “Promise you won’t discuss this with anyone?”
I gave her a look that said whole paragraphs.
She shrugged. “They had a son. Dean. We never met, but word is that he was quite the looker. Anyway.” She sighed again. I wanted to urge her to hurry, but I bit my tongue. “Anyway, he died on D-Day. Third wave on Omaha Beach. Reverend Morris took it very hard—they both have, but him especially. And because it has made him question his faith, he’s tried to keep it a secret from his congregation. From everyone, actually.”
“Then how do you know about it?”
“I was at the breakfast table when the telegram came. Mrs. Sanchez was there, too, to pick up her paycheck. They swore me to secrecy.”
I went to the window and Mrs. Morris was hanging laundry again. She worked with an intensity, a tension, that now made sense. “I guess that explains all the hugs at the end of worship each week.”
“This is a small town,” Lizzie said, rising to stand beside me. “Everyone knows.”
“Except me.”
“After Dean died, Mrs. Morris started crying whenever she played the organ. The congregation could hear. Also she kept playing tons of wrong notes. The reverend told her to give it time, but she resigned.”
“And they hired Brenda from Chicago.”
“You were the first person to answer the ad.”
I watched Mrs. Morris clothespin one of her husband’s shirts to the line. What an agony she must have been carrying. “Why haven’t I seen any photos of Dean in the house?”
“The reverend took them all down,” Lizzie explained. “They’re in a tug of war. She wants to build a shrine to their son. He wants to pretend the whole thing didn’t happen. Once last fall, maybe six months after D-Day, I overheard him telling a visitor that Dean was off fighting in France.”
“Why did they argue over her washing his clothes?”
“I don’t know.” Lizzie gnawed on a thumbnail. “Maybe if you put his things away all cleaned and folded, it means he’s really gone.”
“No wonder she resents me. I’m a constant reminder of her sadness.”
“Maybe. But also she’s a musician too. Imagine how you would feel if you weren’t allowed to play anymore.”
I leaned my head on the window frame, studying the woman below. “Maybe the purpose of war is not to kill soldiers on the battlefield, but to break hearts at home. Breaker of the most hearts wins.”
Lizzie went back to the dresser, opening the top drawer, her fingers moving through the socks like she was looking for something. “All I know is I want my husband home, and a chance to have a future with him. That’s my definition of victory.”
“I need to be nicer to her.”
“No harm in it, kid. But it won’t make much difference.”
“Why not?”
She closed the drawer without taking anything out. “Cause it won’t bring Dean back.”
40.
Monroe settled himself between Charlie and Giles at the crowded breakfast table. “I got it, fellas. The thing to do.” He raised one finger. “We should all resign.”
Charlie lowered his coffee cup. “What are you talking about?”
Monroe leaned closer, his bald pate shining from the overhead lights. “Pull a Rotblat, and quit this place. No us? No Project Y. No flattening of Japan.”
Charlie shrugged. “I think the milk would still be sour.”
“I’m dead serious,” Monroe insisted. “Simple as opening a can of beans.”
Giles shook his head. “Not simple, my friend. I wish it were.”
“Name me one reason it wouldn’t work.”
Giles raised his head, scanning the crowded mess tent, soldiers at the entry while technicians and scientists poured in and out, or threaded through the lines looking for an open seat. “Brilliance adores momentum,” he replied. “Do you see anyone here on the verge of quitting?”
Monroe panned the throng. “Not a dang one.”
“Well,” Charlie said. “I’d love to not have to build my part of the Gadget.”
“But you will,” Giles answered. “Won’t you?”
Charlie stared at his plate. “Don’t depress me.”
“It’s all right.” Giles gave a wan smile. “‘Conscience makes cowards of us all.’”
“Lemme guess,” Monroe said. “Shakespeare.”
“Well, look at you,” Giles marveled. “Macbeth.”
“Red alert.” Monroe pointed with his fork. “Competition’s here.”
Charlie glanced over his shoulder, spotting two men at the mess hall entrance: Bronsky and his star pupil, David Horn—brought to build the detonator assembly that the one person working on the task seemingly could not complete.
“Ain’t got one-tenth your smarts, Mister Charlie,” Monroe said, before shoveling a heap of scrambled eggs into his mouth, some of which spilled back on the plate.
“Must you always be such a perfidious mess?” Giles complained.
“Do you always got to talk like some kind of snob?” Monroe snorted. “Where I come from, a person says, ‘You dang fool slob.’”
“Well then, you dang fool slob,” Giles said. “Whatever makes you stop talking with your mouth full. Charlie, I think they’re looking for you.”
Charlie snuck a look, and both men were indeed scanning the crowded hall. Their stillness stood out amid the bustle. Horn was short, with thinning hair though he wasn’t yet twenty-five, a crease between his eyes like you’d see on an old man, probably from thinking hard all the time. Charlie ducked low. “Do you think he solved it?”
“Doubtful,” Monroe said. “But if he did, you’re off the hook. Won’t be Charlie Fish blowing the world to kingdom come.”
Giles shook his head. “We haven’t even built a Gadget yet, yet you keep saying it’s murdering half the planet.”
“You tell me, now that them Nazis are done for, one decent reason this project keeps going.”
“Because the Soviets are probably racing to build a bomb too.”
“For a war that’s ended? To kill guys what are already dead?”
“For the world that will exist when this war is over. And they’ve spotted you.” Giles gestured with his chin.
Charlie peeked, and both men were working their way through the maze of chairs. He stood. “Would you guys please take care of my tray?”
“All clears, Mister Charlie,” Monroe said. “This goes right, you’re gonna lose ten thousand pounds.”
As soon as Bronsky saw Charlie stand, he changed direction, back toward the entry, with Horn in tow. Charlie understood: this was not a conversation to be had in public. As he followed them outside, a bead of sweat ran down his ribs.