Even at that distance the temperature was hard to withstand, but the heat passed as it rose, a fireball billowing into the air, raging on itself. It ran through the colors of the rainbow, deep purples closer to the earth, bright oranges and yellows at the height of the climbing cloud. The pillar of power rose almost sexually before widening in every direction, a boiling head with broadening shoulders, and was that a flash of lightning inside the explosive cloud?
The scene took place entirely in silence, as if projected on a screen. Fully half a minute passed before the sound reached the bunker, a blast, then a roar that shook the earth. It growled, and endured, and carried so much dust and stones and sand that it scoured the observation windows. Instantly they became as opaque as sea glass.
The MP bent his head against the force of it. “Holy fuck.”
Then the air rushed back toward the test site, pulling like an ocean’s undertow, as an inferno ravenous for oxygen sucked everything toward itself. It surprised the men, some of whom glanced backward, perplexed, as if expecting to see another explosion in that direction. Meanwhile the burning shaft flowered upward into a toadstool shape, roiling orange like lava, climbing miles into the sky.
“We did it,” Giles cried, shaking Charlie by both arms. “It worked.”
Shouting huzzahs, the technicians threw down their goggles and rushed outside, watching as the furious cloud rose and spread. The men hooted and danced as though they were drunk, patting one another on the back, shaking hands. One raised his fist and shouted, “Take that, Mr. Emperor.”
The MP’s face was ashen. “Holy holy fuck.”
“Cheer up, chum,” Mather answered, skipping past. “The war will soon be over.”
“This is what you people have been building all this time?”
Giles was squatting by his measuring sticks, and he called out. “Seven. The dust cloud rose seven miles.”
But the others ignored him, their revelry careening outward, while pink in the east hinted at a day soon to begin. The plume reached its peak, then opened across the sky. Gradually the men calmed enough to clamber into trucks and jeeps, caravanning back to the command center, swerving and honking all the way.
They forgot one of their kind. In time he would have to march the whole five miles. When he arrived midmorning, sunburned and parched, the guards would speculate that he must have been caught in some unprotected place at the time of the blast. But that was hours later. Until well past dawn, he remained forgotten, squatting in a corner of the observation bunker, whispering one thing over and over: “Brenda. Brenda.”
Charlie huddled in the dirt, his clothes soaked with sweat, his goggles still in place. Try as he might, he could not make his hands stop shaking.
41.
Dear Brenda:
I have written and thrown away eighty pages to you. The world is immense and terrifying. I cannot come on Saturday this week, because The Hill has been closed for security and celebration purposes. I am not celebrating. I am not secure. I will take the Sunday bus, arriving at 10 a.m.
I need you.
Charlie
That was his letter, the entirety of it, which arrived on Friday afternoon. Seven sentences, and it changed everything for me. I had always known that Charlie was sensitive, and that the world might take advantage of him. But that letter revealed the depth of his vulnerability, in a way I had not admitted to myself before.
All I wanted was to hold him close, listen to whatever was causing him pain, and provide what comfort I could. All the times I’d counted days or hours till I would see him suddenly felt trivial. He’d said “I need you.”
But 10:00 a.m. on a Sunday? That was the worst possible time. I played the 8:30 worship, then hurried over to East Palace Avenue, knowing I would have to hustle straight back for the service at eleven. The bus must have arrived early, too, because it was long gone and there was Charlie, standing alone on the sidewalk, peering from side to side, his hands moving like he was strumming an imaginary guitar.
“Brenda,” he cried out. “Oh, Brenda.”
We threw our arms around each other, and I felt him go still. “Let me look at you,” I said, pulling back. “Are you all right?”
But as soon as we parted, I saw the tremor return to his hands. I drew him close again, and the calm returned to his body.
One November when I was a girl, as my mother opened the fireplace flue, a small brown bird flew into the house. She screamed, chasing it around, while the bird zoomed in and out of the living room, and around the overhead light in the kitchen. Somehow I knew to wait. Soon enough, the bird landed on the curtains. It stayed there long enough for me to cover it with a wastebasket, and then I reached inside. At first it fluttered and flailed against my hand, but then it calmed, and I held it gently, and removed the basket. The bird turned its head from side to side, not struggling, not fighting, while I carried it to the front door, and set it on the stoop. When I let go, it did not move for a few seconds. Then it rose, zipping away into the trees.
Now it was Charlie, settling in the same way, calm as long as I held on. “What happened to you?” I asked.
He shook his head. “I’m not allowed to tell.”
“All right,” I said. “All right.” I squeezed him close, arms around his back so I could feel the rise and fall of his lungs. “You don’t have to. I can see for myself anyhow.”
Charlie nodded. “The future will be even worse.”
“We are going to talk about it later,” I said, “as much as you can. But first I have to work. I don’t want you waiting somewhere, or wandering around. You stay with me.”
“Please,” he said.
“We need to go.” I took his hand and led him across town to the church. We went straight to the side door, where Mrs. Morris was waiting, making sure I saw her check her watch.
“I was wondering where you’d run off to,” she said. “You should be playing now.”
“Mrs. Morris, this is my sweetheart, Charlie Fish. He’s had an upsetting incident, and he’ll be joining us at worship today.”
“Your sweetheart?” My landlady gave Charlie the once-over like an interrogator shining a spotlight on a spy, but he only ducked his head to one side. “How do you do?” She held out a hand. “Welcome.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” His voice was quiet, as if he had no spare breath. He let go of my hand only long enough to shake with her.
“Charlie, you come right with me.” I breezed past Mrs. Morris, leading him to the front pew. “I will sit with you when I can. Otherwise I’ll be right there.” I pointed at the organ console, which somehow felt about half a mile away.
Charlie sat, but when I let go of his hand he seized me for a moment more. I peeled him off and went to my place. It did not feel like he was clinging. More like what his letter said. Needing me.
The service passed in a blur, though it was a pleasant relief to have the reverend speak at a normal volume. I played the hymns, I conducted the choir. Every time I glanced Charlie’s way, his hands shook like he was in an earthquake. When I was able to sit beside him, he relaxed the moment we touched. What was I being asked to do?
After church we took a stroll, because that is how we started every visit, getting reacquainted. Usually we chatted, but that day we were quiet.