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anonymous route. The postmark was August twenty-eighth, so it had probably been waiting here for
her when she got back from Reno. She’d had nearly two months to brood over the contents. Had she
sounded sad and depressed when I’d talked to her on the night of September sixth? Well, no wonder,
given the photographs her ex had so thoughtfully sent her.
We’re all in danger, she’d said the last time I spoke to her on the phone. Johnny’s right about that.
The pictures were of Japanese men, women, and children. Victims of the atomic bomb-blasts at
Hiroshima, Nagasaki, or both. Some were blind. Many were bald. Most were suffering from radiation
burns. A few, like the faceless woman, had been charbroiled. One picture showed a quartet of black
statues in cringing postures. Four people had been standing in front of a wall when the bomb went off.
The people had been vaporized, and most of the wall had been vaporized, too. The only parts that
remained were the parts that had been shielded by those standing in front of it. The shapes were black
because they were coated in charred flesh.
On the back of each picture, he had written the same message in his clear, neat hand: Coming soon to
America. Statistical analysis does not lie.
“Nice, aren’t they?”
Her voice was flat and lifeless. She was standing in the doorway, bundled into the towel. Her hair
fell to her bare shoulders in damp ringlets.
“How much did you have to drink, Sadie?”
“Only a couple of shots when the pills wouldn’t work. I think I tried to tell you that when you were
shaking and slapping me.”
“If you expect me to apologize, you’ll wait a long time. Barbiturates and booze are a bad
combination.”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “I’ve been slapped before.”
That made me think of Marina, and I winced. It wasn’t the same, but slapping is slapping. And I
had been angry as well as scared.
She went to the chair in the corner, sat down, and pulled the towel tighter around her. She looked
like a sulky child. “My friend Roger Beaton called. Did I tell you that?”
“Yes.”
“My good friend Roger.” Her eyes dared me to make something of it. I didn’t. Ultimately, it was
her life. I just wanted to make sure she had a life.
“All right, your good friend Roger.”
“He told me to be sure and watch the Irish asshole’s speech tonight. That’s what he called him.
Then he asked me how far Jodie was from Dallas. When I told him he said, ‘That should be far
enough, depending on which way the wind’s blowing.’ He’s getting out of Washington himself, lots of
people are, but I don’t think it will do them any good. You can’t outrun a nuclear war.” She began to
cry then, harsh and wrenching sobs that shook her whole body. “Those idiots are going to destroy a
beautiful world! They’re going to kill children! I hate them! I hate them all! Kennedy, Khrushchev, Castro, I
hope they all rot in hell!”
She covered her face with her hands. I knelt like some old-fashioned gentleman preparing to
propose and embraced her. She put her arms around my neck and clung to me in what was almost a
drowner’s grip. Her body was still cold from the shower, but the cheek she laid against my arm was
feverish.
In that moment I hated them all, too, John Clayton most of all for planting this seed in a young
woman who was insecure and psychologically vulnerable. He had planted it, watered it, weeded it, and
watched it grow.
And was Sadie the only one in terror tonight, the only one who had turned to the pills and the
booze? How hard and fast were they drinking in the Ivy Room right now? I’d made the stupid