"Let's talk in the pool, Mr. Lander," she said, wading to a depth where the water lapped just below her breasts.
"What am I supposed to do, shoot off in my pants and spill the whole business right here?"
She watched him steadily, multicolored pinpoints of light dancing in her eyes. Suddenly he placed his mangled hand on her arm, staring into her face, watching for the flinch. A gentle smile was the only reaction he saw. The reaction he did not see was beneath the surface of the water. Her left hand slowly turned over, fingers hooked, ready to strike if necessary.
"May I call you Michael? I am Dahlia Iyad. This is a good place to talk."
"Was everything in my wallet satisfactory to you?"
"You should be pleased that I searched it. I don't think you would deal with a fool."
"How much do you know about me?"
"I know what you do for a living. I know you were a prisoner of war. You live alone, you read very late at night, and you smoke a rather inferior grade of marijuana. I know that your telephone is not tapped, at least not from the telephone terminal in your basement or the one on the pole outside your home. I don't know for certain what you want."
Sooner or later he would have to say it. Aside from his distrust of this woman, it was difficult to say the thing, as hard as opening up for a shrink. All right.
"I want to detonate 1,200 pounds of plastic explosive in the Super Bowl."
She looked at him as though he had painfully admitted a sexual aberration that she particularly enjoyed. Calm and kindly compassion, suppressed excitement. Welcome home.
"You have no plastic, do you, Michael?"
"No." He looked away as he asked the question. "Can you get it?"
"That's a lot. It depends."
Water flew off his head as he snapped back to face her. "I don't want to hear that. That is not what I want to hear. Talk straight."
"If I am convinced you can do it, if I can satisfy my commander that you can do it and will do it, then yes, I can get the plastic. I'll get it."
"That's all right. That's fair."
"I want to see everything. I want to go home with you."
"Why not?"
They did not go directly to Lander's house. He was scheduled for a night-sign flight and he took Dahlia with him. It was not common practice to take passengers on night-sign flights, since most of the seats were removed from the gondola to make room for the onboard computer that controlled the 8,000 lights along the sides of the blimp. But with crowding there was room. Farley, the copilot; had inconvenienced everyone on two previous occasions by bringing his Florida girlfriend and was in no position to grumble at giving up his seat to this young woman. He and the computer operator licked their lips over Dahlia and entertained themselves with lewd pantomimes at the rear of the gondola when she and Lander were not looking.
Manhattan blazed in the night like a great diamond ship as they passed over at 2,500 feet. They dropped toward the brilliant wreath of Shea Stadium where the Mets were playing a night game, and the sides of the dirigible became huge flashing billboards, letters moving down its sides. "Don't forget, hire the Vet," was the first message. "Winston tastes God---" this message was interrupted while the technician cursed and fumbled with the perforated tape.
Afterward, Dahlia and Lander watched while the ground crew at Lakehurst secured the floodlit blimp for the night. They paid special attention to the gondola, as the men in coveralls removed the computer and reinstalled the seats.
Lander pointed out the sturdy handrail that runs around the base of the cabin. He led her to the rear of the gondola to watch while the turbojet generator that powers the lights was detached. The generator is a sleek, heavy unit shaped like a largemouth bass, and it has a strong, three-point attachment that would be very useful.
Farley approached them with his clipboard. "Hey, you people aren't going to stay
here
all night."
Dahlia smiled at him vacuously. "It's all so exciting."
"Yeah." Farley chuckled and left them with a wink.
Dahlia's face was flushed and her eyes were bright as they drove home from the airfield.
She made it clear from the first that, inside his house, she expected no performance of any kind from Larder. And she was careful not to show any distaste for him either. Her body was there, she had brought it because it was convenient to do so, her attitude seemed to say. She was physically deferential to Larder in a way so subtle that it does not have a name in English. And she was very, very gentle.
In matters of business it was quite different. Larder quickly found that he could not browbeat her with his superior technical knowledge. He had to explain his plan in minute detail, defining terms as he went along. When she disagreed with him it was usually on methods for handling people, and he found her to be a shrewd judge of people and greatly experienced in the behavior of frightened men under pressure. Even when she was adamant in disagreement she never emphasized a point with a body movement or a facial expression that reflected anything other than concentration.
As the technical problems were resolved, at least in theory, Dahlia could see that the greatest danger to the project was Larder's instability. He was a splendid machine with a homicidal child at the controls. Her role became increasingly supportive. In this area, she could not always calculate and she was forced to feel.
As the days passed, he began to tell her things about himself---safe things that did not pain him. Sometimes in the evenings, a little drunk, he carped endlessly about the injustices of the Navy until she finally went to her room after midnight, leaving him cursing at the television. And then one night, as she sat on the side of his bed, he brought her a story like a gift. He told her about the first time he ever saw a dirigible.
He was a child of eight with impetigo on his knees, and he was standing on the bare clay playground of a country school when he looked up and saw the airship. Silver, wearing for a reach across the wind, it floated over the schoolyard, scattering in the air behind it tiny objects that floated down---Baby Ruth candy bars on small parachutes. Running after the airship, Michael could stay in its shadow the length of the schoolyard, the other children running with him, scrambling for the candy bars. Then they reached the plowed field at the edge of the schoolyard and the shadow moved away, rippling over the rows. Larder in his short pants fell in the field and tore the scabs off his knees. He got to his feet again and watched the dirigible out of sight, rivulets of blood on his shins, a candy bar and parachute clutched in his hand.
While he was lost in the story, Dahlia stretched out beside him on the bed, listening. And he came to her from the playground, with wonder and the light of that old day still in his face.
After that he became shameless. She had heard his terrible wish and had accepted it as her own. She had received him with her body. Not with withering expectations, but with abundant grace. She saw no ugliness in him. Now he felt that he could tell her
anything,
and he poured it out---the things that he could never tell before, even to Margaret. Especially to Margaret.
Dahlia listened with compassion and concerned interest. She never showed a trace of distaste or apprehension, though she learned to be wary of him when he was talking about certain things, for he could become angry at her suddenly for injuries that others had done to him. Dahlia needed to know Lander, and she learned him very well, better than anyone else would ever know him---including the blue-ribbon commission that investigated his final act. The investigators had to rely on their piles of documents and photographs, their witnesses stiff upon the chair. Dahlia had it from the monster's mouth.
It is true that she learned Lander in order to use him, but who will ever listen for free? She might have done a great deal for him if her object had not been murder.
His utter frankness and her own inferences provided her with many windows on his past. Through them, she watched her weapon forged...
__________
Willett-Lorance Consolidated School, a rural school between Willett and Lorance, South Carolina, February 2, 1941:
"Michael, Michael Lander, come up here and read your paper. I want you to pay strict attention, Buddy Ives. And you too, Junior Atkins. You two have been fiddling while Rome burns. At six-weeks tests, this class will be divided into the sheep and the goats."
Michael has to be called twice more. He is surprisingly small walking up the aisle. Willett-Lorance has no accelerated program for exceptional children. Instead, Michael has been "skipped" ahead. He is eight years old and in the fourth grade.
Buddy Ives and Junior Atkins, both 12, have spent the previous recess dipping a second-grader's head in the toilet. Now they pay strict attention. To Michael. Not to his paper.
Michael knows he must pay. Standing before the class in his baggy short pants, the only pair in the room, reading in a voice barely audible, he knows he will have to pay. He hopes it will happen on the playground. He would rather be beaten than dipped.
Michael's father is a minister and his mother is a power in the PTA. He is not a cute, appealing child. He thinks there is something terribly wrong with him. For as long as he can remember he has been filled with horrible feelings that he does not understand. He cannot yet identify rage and self-loathing. He has a constant picture of himself as a prissy little boy in short pants, and he hates it. Sometimes he watches the other eight-year-olds playing cowboys in the shrubbery. On a few occasions he has tried to play, yelling "bang bang" and pointing his finger. He feels silly doing it. The others can tell he is not really a cowboy, does not believe in the game.
He wanders over to his classmates, the 11-and 12-year-olds. They are choosing sides to play football. He stands in the group and waits. It is not too bad to be chosen last, as long as you are chosen. He is alone between the two sides. He is not chosen. He notes which team chose last and walks over to the other team. He can see himself coming toward them. He can see his knobby knees beneath the short pants, knows they are talking about him in the huddle. They turn their backs to him. He cannot beg to play. He walks away, his face burning. There is no place on the red clay playground where he can get out of sight.
As a Southerner, Michael is deeply imprinted with the Code. A man fights when called on. A man is tough, straightforward, honorable, and strong. He can play football, he loves to hunt, and he allows no nasty talk around the ladies, although he discusses them in lewd terms among his fellows.
When you are a child, the Code without the equipment will kill you.
Michael has learned not to fight 12-year-olds if he can help it. He is told that he is a coward. He believes it. He is articulate and has not yet learned to conceal it. He is told that he is a sissy. He believes that this must be true.
He has finished reading his paper before the class now. He knows how Junior Atkins' breath will smell in his face. The teacher tells Michael he is a "good classroom citizen." She does not understand why he turns his face away from her.
__________
September 10, 1947, the football field behind Willett-Lorance Consolidated:
Michael Lander is going out for football. He is in the tenth grade and he is going out without his parents' knowledge. He feels that he has to do it. He wants the good feeling his classmates have about the sport. He is curious about himself. The uniform makes him wonderfully anonymous. He cannot see himself when he has it on. The tenth grade is late for a boy to begin playing football, and he has much to learn. To his surprise the others are tolerant of him. After a few days of forearms and cleats, they have discovered that, though he is naive about the game, he will hit and he wants to learn from them. It is a good time for him. It lasts a week. His parents learn that he is going out for football. They hate the coach, a godless man who, it is rumored, keeps alcohol in his home. The Reverend Lander is on the school board now. The Landers drive up to the practice field in their Kaiser. Michael does not see them until he hears his name being called. His mother is approaching the sideline, walking stiff-ankled through the grass. The Reverend Lander waits in the car.
"Take off that monkey suit."
Michael pretends not to hear. He is playing linebacker with the scrubs in scrimmage. He assumes his stance. Each blade of grass is distinct in his eyes. The tackle in front of him has a red scratch on his calf.
His mother is walking the sideline now. Now she is crossing it. She is coming. Two hundred pounds of pondered rage. "I said take off that monkey suit and get in that car."
Michael might have saved himself in that moment. He might have yelled into his mother's face. The coach might have saved him, had he been quicker, less afraid for his job. Michael cannot let the others see any more. He cannot be with them after this. They are looking at each other now with expressions he cannot stand. He trots toward the prefabricated building they use for a dressing room. There are snickers behind him.
The coach has to speak to the boys twice to resume the practice. "We don't need no mama's boys no way," he says.