The Nuclear Age (42 page)

In the absence of hope, what can we hope for?

Does love last forever?

Are there any absolutes?

I want to know what the hole knows. The hole is where faith should be. The hole is what we have when imagination fails.

“Hey,” Melinda says.

Something moves inside me.

“Hey—”

She makes a languid, woozy motion with her arm. After a moment she sits up in the hammock, rubs her nose, turns her head slightly to one side, and looks at me without recognition.

I feel unsteady.

There’s a sudden compression when she says, “Daddy?” Enormous pressure, it’s too much for me. I place the firing device at my feet and get down on my hands and knees and practice deep breathing. The hole, it seems, is in my heart.

“Daddy?” Melinda says.

“Here, angel.”

“Where? How’d I get down in this … God, it’s dark. Where’s Mommy?”

“Mommy’s fine.”

“Yeah, but—” She stops and touches her flannel nightgown. Her eyes wander. She looks at the granite walls, then up at the Christmas lights, then down at me, then at the firing device. There isn’t enough light to make out her expression, but I can easily imagine it. “Man oh man,” she says, “what’s going
on?
”

It isn’t a question, though. She knows.

Her eyes, if I could see them, would be blue and full of wisdom. Drawing conclusions, perhaps. Maybe a little frightened.

I’m still on my hands and knees. The squeeze is on.

No dignity in it, but I don’t trust myself to stand.

Melinda stares at me.

“Daddy,” she says, “what’s happening?”

I keep smiling. I want to go to her but I can’t manage it; I make a queer crabbing motion, knees and knuckles. It’s a balance problem. I’m embarrassed when I feel myself slipping—I can’t get traction.

The hole cackles.

Dynamite!

Melinda seems startled. I’m smiling at her—it’s all love—but she recoils and hugs herself and says, “What?”

“Nothing, baby.”

“I
heard
you.”

“Nothing.”

“That
word
,” she says, “I
heard
it. You
said
it, I
heard
you! I can’t
believe
this.”

She’s wide awake now.

Quickly, she gets out of the hammock and takes a step toward me and stops and glances at Bobbi and then steps backward. All I can do is smile. She takes another step backward.

There’s silence while she makes the connections.

“Get up,” she says sternly.

“In a second.”

“Daddy.”

“One second, princess.”

She puts a thumb against the edge of her mouth.

“No,” she says, “I don’t
want
a second. I want
out
. This hole, God, it smells like … Let me out!”

“Melinda—”

“Out!” she shouts.

I can see her eyes now. She glares at me, then spins around and moves to a wall and hits it with her fist. “Now,” she screams, “I want
out!
” The Christmas lights give her face a splotchy blue and red tint. She kicks the wall. “Now!” she screams. Her eyes keep roving—quick, jerky movements of the head, up and down.

When she spots the dynamite, I pretend it’s not what it is. It’s not evil, I think. Not murder, not sorrow.

“Oh, wow,” she grunts.

With her left hand, gingerly, she reaches out and nudges one of the copper blasting caps.

Reality impinges.

“Baby, don’t,” I say.

It’s a discovery for both of us. Melinda wipes her hand and turns and looks at me. I can’t explain it. Just the sadness of discovery, the dynamite and the wiring and the blasting caps, and when
she looks at me—not accusing, only knowing—there is nothing that can be said or done. She bites down on her lip. She wants to cry, I know. Her tongue makes a light clicking noise against her teeth.

I’m helpless. I’m aware of the night’s pure harmonics, but I can’t make myself move.

I watch her trace the wires back to the firing device. Stooping, she inspects the plastic safety catch; she clutches her nightgown at the throat. Not murder, I remind myself. There is no evil in it, no rancor or shame, and we are all innocent and unsullied and sane. Even so, I suck in my breath when she finds the yellow button.

“God,” she says.

And she knows.

Now, at this instant, we share the knowledge that there is no mercy between fathers and daughters. We will kill for our children. Our children will kill for us. We will kill for families. And above all we will kill for love, as men have always killed. Crimes of passion. As terrorists kill. As soldiers kill for love of honor and love of country. Just love. And when there is no love, there is nothing worth dying for, only nothing, and Melinda knows this.

She picks up the firing device.

“I don’t care what,” she says, “I’m not afraid of you. I’m just not.”

“I know that.”

“I’m
not
.”

“Fine, then,” I tell her. “But be careful, okay? Be extra careful.”

“Don’t move, Daddy.”

“I won’t.”

“Stay right there,” she says. “You better not even move, because … You better not.”

“Careful, baby. Extra super careful.”

“I mean it. You better
not
.”

She carries the firing device to the far side of the hole, near Bobbi’s hammock. I do the calculations. Five or six paces between
us, maybe four seconds. Hard to be sure. Would my legs work? What about the shock? All the imponderables.

“Sweetheart,” I say, very softly, “I wish you’d—”

“Don’t move.”

“No, I’m not moving.”

“If you do, though, I might—you know—I
might
. Just stay there. Just be nice, don’t scare me.”

A gallant little girl. And smart. She keeps her eyes on me. We both know. She reaches out and shakes Bobbi’s arm.

“What’s wrong?” she says. “How come Mommy won’t wake up?”

Again, I smile. “Just can’t, I guess. Maybe—I don’t know—maybe Mommy forgot how.”

“Forgot?” Melinda says. She makes a motion with her shoulders. “That’s stupid. Not even funny. It’s almost … How’d I get down here in the first place? Just dumped me in, I suppose.”

“I carried you, baby. Both of you.”

“You could’ve dropped me, though.”

“I didn’t.”

“Yeah, but I mean—” Suddenly, almost falling, she sits down and clamps her arms around the firing device. “I don’t
mean
that!” she yells. But she doesn’t cry; she doesn’t dare. She measures the distance between us. One hand flutters up to her ear, as if to brush away an irritation, then she flicks her thumb against the safety catch. “I mean
this
thing. I mean,
why?
I always thought you sort of loved me.”

“I do,” I say. “I do love you.”

“Okay, but I mean, how come you almost tried to blow me up? You did, didn’t you?”

“Never.”

“You
did!
”

“No way. Never. Careful, now.”

For a moment she’s on the verge of crying. She puts a finger near the button.

“Scared?” she asks.

“You bet I am.”

“Don’t move, then. Better be real scared.”

“I am,” I say. “I’m scared.”

She runs a hand across her forehead. I know what she’s going through, I’ve been there myself.

“Don’t think I’m chicken,” Melinda says, “because I’m not. And if something bad happened, I bet you’d be so goddamn sorry you couldn’t believe it.”

She makes a small, incongruous fist and holds it over the firing device and screams, “Goddamn!”

There is nothing I can do.

“Goddamn!” she cries, and the hole laughs and says,
No survivors!
and Melinda yells, “Stop it!”

We sit facing each other from opposite sides of the hole. She’s crying now; I can see her shoulders shaking. “Daddy, please!” she says. “Let’s get
out
of here!” And if I could, I would do it. I would take her in my arms and be calm and gentle and find safety by saving. God, yes, I would. “A joke,” I’d say, “just a big silly joke,” then I’d carry her up the ladder, and Bobbi, too, both of them, one in each arm, and I’d laugh and say, “What a joke.” I’d be a hero. I’d do magic. I’d lead them into the house and brew up some hot chocolate and talk about the different kinds of spin you can put on a Ping-Pong ball. And the world would be stable. The balance of power would hold. A believer, a man of whole cloth, I would believe what cannot be believed. The power of love, the continuing creation—it cannot be believed—and I would therefore believe. If you’re sane, the world cannot end, the dead do not die, the bombs are not real.

Am I crazy?

I am not.

To live is to lose everything, which is crazy, but I choose it anyway, which is sane. It’s the force of passion. It’s what we have.

When I get to my feet, Melinda whimpers and says, “Stay
away
from me.” But I’m willing to risk it. I’m a believer. The first step is absolute. “Daddy,” she says, “you better not!” But I have to. I cross the hole and kneel down and lift the firing device from her lap and hold her tight while she cries. I touch her skin. It’s
only love, I know, but it’s a kind of miracle.

In the dark, Sarah’s smile seems hopeful.

“Another universe,” she says. “A nice little miracle, that’s all I want. You, William. I’ll never stop wanting.”

But it isn’t real.

Not Sarah, not the Bomb. Nuclear war: just a fault line in the imagination. If you’re sane, you accept this. It’s easy. Sarah winks at me, still flirting, and I nod and embrace my daughter.

At daylight we climb the ladder.

And that, too, is easy.

I hustle Melinda into the house, turn on the shower, test the temperature, and tell her to hop in.

She looks at me through the steam.

She nearly smiles, but doesn’t.

“I’m a grown-up
girl
,” she says. “You can’t just stand there and
watch
.”

“No, I guess I can’t.”

“God. What a father.”

“Right,” I say.

I close the bathroom door, listen for a moment, then return to the hole. It’s a fine summer morning. I take Bobbi from the hammock, holding her as if we’re dancing, and when she opens her eyes, the hole seems to laugh and whisper,
One more clown in the screwy cavalcade. Hickory dickory hope
.

It doesn’t matter.

I’m a realist. Nothing’s real.

Bobbi goes first, up the ladder, I follow behind with the firing device. I turn off the Christmas lights. The sky at this hour is purple going to blue. The mountains are firm and silent. There are morning birds in the trees, and the grass is a pale dusty green, and I love my wife. She leans against me. For some time we stand together in the backyard, and later I lead her into the house and make coffee and sit with her at the kitchen table. There is little to say. I ask how much space she needs; I ask if we could stay together a while longer. Bobbi touches my hand. Her eyes, I notice, don’t quite focus. Her voice, when she says anything’s possible, comes from elsewhere. She’s thinking of other worlds. But she does
smile. She lets me love. In her heart, I suppose, there’s a lyric forming, but even that doesn’t matter.

I have a last piece of business.

Outside, I pick up the firing device and take shelter behind the tool shed. Nuclear war, it’s a hoax. A belly laugh in the epic comedy. I flip up the safety catch, crouch low, look at the sky, and put my finger against the yellow button.

I know the ending.

One day it will happen.

One day we will see flashes, all of us.

One day my daughter will die. One day, I know, my wife will leave me. It will be autumn, perhaps, and the trees will be in color, and she will kiss me in my sleep and tuck a poem in my pocket, and the world will surely end.

I know this, but I believe otherwise.

Because there is also this day, which will be hot and bright. We will spend the afternoon in bed. I’ll install the air-conditioner and we’ll undress and lie on the cotton sheets and talk quietly and feel the coolness. The day will pass. And when night comes I will sleep the dense narcotic sleep of my species. I will dream the dreams that suppose awakening. I will trust the seasons. I will keep Bobbi in my arms for as long as she will stay. I will obey my vows. I will stop smoking. I will have hobbies. I will firm up my golf game and invest wisely and adhere to the conventions of decency and good grace. I will find forgetfulness. Happily, without hesitation, I will take my place in the procession from church to grave, believing what cannot be believed, that all things are renewable, that the human spirit is undefeated and infinite, always. I will be a patient husband. I will endure. I will live my life in the conviction that when it finally happens—when we hear that midnight whine, when Kansas burns, when what is done is undone, when fail-safe fails, when deterrence no longer deters, when the jig is at last up—yes, even then I will hold to a steadfast orthodoxy, confident to the end that
E
will somehow not quite equal
mc
²
, that it’s a cunning metaphor, that the terminal equation will somehow not quite balance.