The Longest Night (5 page)

“Oh, God,” said Kath Enzinger quietly.

“Minnie, dear,” cried Patty, “it's all right. It's nothing. He just has an opinion.”

“And don't you ladies worry for a bit,” Mitch said. For once, Jeannie felt grateful to him. “I can tell you everything is fine at the reactor. I oversee everything that happens personally on the day shift, I read every line in the logbook. Just because people are over the moon about the atomic plane doesn't mean things are
bad
at the CR-1.”

“Okay,” Brownie said, nodding, her eyes annoyingly large with worry.

“Well,” said Jeannie, “seeing as it's a gorgeous summer night, why don't we enjoy ourselves?” She went to the bar for another bottle of wine. “And let's talk about something lighter, shall we? Remembering,” she fluttered her eyelashes at Slocum, “that we're in mixed company?”

“I'm sorry. I bored the ladies,” Slocum said, grinning broadly as if he thought he were cute.

“I'm impressed that Mr. Harbaugh feels so fervently,” said Nat Collier from her end of the table. She had not spoken yet so everyone turned, and their eyes made her instantly blush and shrink back in her chair, as if she hadn't expected that people would actually hear her. Forced to say something more she stammered, “I mean, he sounded like he was speaking before
Congress,
defending the little old CR-1!”

“The little old CR-1?” Patty laughed, her eyes flashing
Can you believe that!
Jeannie's way. Jeannie stiffened. Did Nat think this was funny, downplaying the reactor where these men worked? Even if the
little old CR-1
were not some elite destination tour, it was completely out of line for a newly arrived wife to mock it. And what did Nat Collier know, anyway? Her husband was a peon.

“Of course, I've never even been there,” Nat said, as if reading Jeannie's thoughts. “I'm just going off how Paul describes it.”

Paul squirmed at his opposite end of the table. Nat, seeming to realize she'd said too much, lowered her eyes.

“Should we keep passing around those potatoes?” Jeannie managed. “And we have this meatloaf that Nat
so
kindly brought, but no one's even taken a slice of it yet.” She held it aloft; one whole olive had slid greasily to the side of the loaf, where it jutted like a wayward nipple.

“I'll take more potatoes,” said Franks cheerfully.

Jeannie could still hear Deke outside, and she thought that, as the hostess, she should take him something. Why wouldn't he just drink a glass of water? When conversation normalized and the party seemed back on track she slipped from the table—smiling around in case anyone noticed, but all she got was a blank stare from Webb—and out the back door.

Deke's back was to her; he stared across the yard, clutching his handkerchief and watching the sunset as if overcome by sentimentality.
The man's dying,
she remembered Mitch saying.
Combustion Engineering just keeps him on so he won't raise a stink; it was pipe work he did for them years ago that caused it. With all his bills, he's going to die a pauper.

“Deke, may I get you something?” she asked.

He turned quickly. She averted her eyes from the gore of his handkerchief, which he'd retched into a grotesque paisley. He shook his head until his face finally relaxed and he was able to smile wetly at her. “It's a glorious night,” he said. “I'm sorry if I got a little hot in there.”

“Please, don't waste another thought on it.”

“This has been a wonderful party. You sure know how to throw 'em.”

“Thank you,” she said, genuinely touched. “I'm delighted you and Minnie could come.”

“Well, I'm just glad Mitch felt up to it.”

She cocked her head.

“You know,” Deke said, “that there weren't any hard feelings.”

“Hard feelings? Of course not.” She felt a familiar sinking dread coupled with an almost morbid curiosity: What had Mitch gotten himself into this time?
Please don't let it be one of the other operators' wives. At least make it some townie none of us know.
Her fingers twitched against her apron.

“I'm sorry to even bring it up. I imagine you'd want to forget about it, at least during your dinner party.”

“Really, it's all right.” She reached into her gold case for a cigarette and handed him one by the tip. “They're Virginia Slims,” she added, flicking her lighter.

“I'm not picky,” he grinned, and let her light it. Then he inhaled, wincing in three separate, wheezy stages—it didn't look enjoyable at all—and finally exhaling with palpable relief. “It's always hard to be passed over for promotion,” he said. “But you know they'll give him another look a year from now.”

Jeannie nodded as the whooshing sound of her own panicky blood filled her ears. So it wasn't a woman; it was worse. Deke looked at her curiously. She stammered, “Yes, next year, that's what I've been telling myself.”

“I think he was close, but the reactor hasn't been shipshape. It's not entirely his fault, but that sort of reputation rubs off on you. And then the last workplace-drinking citation did him in.”

In her mind's eye, Jeannie saw herself placing a lily-white hand to her bosom and gasping,
“Workplace drinking?”
But she wasn't twenty anymore. She took a drag on her cigarette, trying to keep her fingers from shaking. “He said the reactor was just fine,” she said. “Just now, at the table, he said he looks over every report himself.”

“He does,” Deke said.

“So—”

“Listen, Jeannie. A few drinking citations aren't insurmountable—”

“A
few
?” she blurted before she could stop herself.

For a moment Deke looked surprised. “We all love a drink,” he said, “but we can't partake while we're at the reactor, right?” He shrugged and tried to smile. His teeth showed like a mouthful of corn but his eyes were handsome, hazel, and it dawned on her that he had once been healthy and young. “If it happens again, though,” he said, more seriously, “Mitch could face a reduction in rank, or lose his security clearance.”

Jeannie's face burned. She could handle talk of a not-shipshape reactor, whatever that meant; she could even tolerate the workplace drinking. There was something kind of manly and Wild West, if a bit stupid, about that. But to think of Mitch losing his security clearance or being pushed back a rank—no. That was too much.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “This really isn't the time to talk about it. Anyhow, it doesn't reflect on you. Everybody knows that.”

She took a deep breath and exhaled as slowly as she could, to calm herself. How could it not reflect on her? But she was the hostess; she still had this party to finish. She could castrate her husband later. “Thank you,” she said. “That's a consolation.” She tapped her cigarette into the celluloid ashtray she kept on the porch. “Well, I'd better not let things get out of hand in there,” she said, and she could tell the smile she threw over her shoulder just about made Deke Harbaugh's day. She clicked back into the house, wringing her apron once, hard, in her hands.

Back inside, serving bowls were being scraped clean and conversation was puttering along here and there in the more successful pockets of the table. Patty Kinney and Minnie Harbaugh laughed and patted each other's arms. Franks and Kinney were pouring another. Brownie sang some kind of jingle to a completely unresponsive Kath Enzinger; Webb, slack-mouthed, examined the ceiling; Paul Collier was attempting to ignite the lace tablecloth with his gaze. Jeannie didn't dare glance at her husband and Nat until she had steeled herself first.

She slid into her seat. Her appetite had left her entirely, and what remained on her plate looked awful. The pretzels from the Jell-O salad had swollen to twice their original size; the tomato aspic looked like a botched medical procedure.

“How is Mr. Harbaugh?” Patty asked.

“He's fine,” Jeannie assured her. “He'll be back in a moment.”

There was a glass-meets-carpet
thunk
from the far end of the table, and a “Sorry,” from Webb, who disappeared below. “It was almost empty anyway,” his muffled, disembodied voice said.

“Webb is drunk,” Patty whispered.

“I know,” Jeannie said. Why hadn't Mitch been keeping on top of him? Why was Webb even there? She didn't like unattached men at her parties. Look at Slocum, starting the whole thing about the atomic plane and nearly ruining everything.

Her eyes went to Mitch, who was grinning at Nat with sloshy interest. Jeannie wanted to hurt him, somehow, right under the table. A sharp kick in the shin, a safety pin sunk in the thigh.

“I'm going to set up the desserts,” she announced. She pushed back her chair and strode for the kitchen where she poured herself a vodka, tipped back the tumbler, and gulped the liquid burn
one, two, three,
then wedged a cigarette between her lips and turned her furious sights on the desserts in the corner. An angel food cake sat, vacant white; she snatched a small can of blueberry pie filling, ground it open with the can opener, and slopped it into the center. A few tiny drops of blue liquid spattered onto the countertop and the bosom of her dress, but she didn't stop: went for the next can and attacked it with the opener, pulling back only when she felt the ragged edge of the lid slice into her finger.

“Oh, god
damn
it,” she cried. Blood oozed to the surface, breached the slit, and dribbled down her hand. She held her finger shakily under the faucet, rinsed it; peered close to examine the cut, moved its two halves like the mouth of a fish, and cursed again, shaking off the water droplets. It was disgusting to have a slit in your skin! It hurt and throbbed and the sensation of the skin pulling open and smooshing invisibly shut gave her the heebie-jeebies. After wrapping her finger in paper towels like a big white club she poured herself a little more vodka, jammed her cigarette back into her mouth, and returned to the angel food cake, working the can carefully open and slopping the gelatinous cylinder of deer-pellets-in-goo atop its liquidy, dispersing predecessor. Ash fell from her cigarette into the filling and she tried to scoop it out with her left index finger, then gave up and swirled it to blend in. She pulled another paper towel off the roll, wadded it, and dabbed at the drops of blue on her dress; they lightened but did not disappear.

“Are you all right?” a voice asked, and she jumped to see Nat Collier coming toward her, brow furrowed. “You've hurt yourself.”

“Oh, yes, fine. Kitchen mishap. Even the best of us,” Jeannie giggled with an exaggerated shrug, and Nat peered at her a moment and then nodded.

“I was just going to peek in on the kids,” she said, pointing toward the back of the house.

“I'm sure they're doing well. Did you hear them singing a little while ago? Precious.”

“You're right, I probably shouldn't distract them if they're doing fine. May I cut that pie for you?”

Jeannie hesitated, then stepped back and pushed an uncut key lime pie across the countertop. Nat set to work, diligently and ineptly.

“Start with quarters,” Jeannie coached, unable to stop herself. “If you just cut a bunch of little slices they'll be uneven—well, it's all right. It'll be fine.”

“I don't have your skill in the kitchen,” Nat apologized. Jeannie granted her this with a respectable silence. “Thank you for inviting us tonight,” she went on. “You're a wonderful hostess.”

“I think I'll need to sleep for about three days after this.” Jeannie smiled to show that she was being self-deprecating, that of course she'd be up with the birds tomorrow, dusting the Hummel figurines and polishing the doorknobs. She sipped her vodka. “How's your husband liking his new job?”
At the little old CR-1
.

“Oh, fine.”

“I think you both could be very happy in Idaho Falls.”

“I hope so! We're meeting more people now.”

“The key to happiness is friends. Women friends,” Jeannie said, pointing her cigarette at Nat. Her cut finger throbbed as if it had grown its own small heart. “Women you can count on when the chips are down.”

“Yes,” said Nat, with emphasis. “That's so true. I haven't had good girlfriends since high school, and I miss it so much. There are just things only a girlfriend can understand, you know?”

“I'm going to hold a party just for you,” Jeannie said. She felt herself sway a little and put one hand on the countertop. “Right here at the house. You'll be the guest of honor. It'll be like your debutante ball.”

“Oh my goodness, thanks,” Nat said, looking nervous.

“You can borrow one of my dresses. I have a green one that would be just perfection on your figure. Of course, I might need to have the waist taken in. We can't all have a twenty-two-inch waist like you, can we?”

Nat glanced down at her waist as if it might have changed dimensions without her noticing. “I certainly don't have a waist that small!” she said.

“You could get your hair done.”

“That would be fun! I never have.”

“Really?” Jeannie feigned incredulity. “You've never had your hair professionally done?”

“Not for an occasion, no. I mean, I've had a
haircut
before. How are these slices?” She gestured to the pie.

“Oh, fine.” Jeannie couldn't bring herself to look. She leaned a little closer to Nat. “Since we're talking just girls here, may I ask you a question? Something a little bit delicate?”

Nat nodded, eyes wide.

“This evening right before dinner, did you happen to see my husband switching the name cards on the dining room table?”

Nat froze. Jeannie could see a fib gearing up across her face, struggling to materialize. “I…ah…I wasn't really looking.”