Oh Pure and Radiant Heart by Lydia Millet (shoe dog free ebook .txt) 📕

the silence sit until he ground out the cigarette under the toe of his shoe and a tired calm settled on both of them. He sighed and hunched over, his chin tucked in toward his breastbone, arms straight, fingers curled around the rim of the fountain, rocking forward and lifting himself slightly on the heels of his hands. Again she thought of a bird: his eyes were always so large in the bony face. She recalled a passage Mr. Hofstadt had read to her: The ocular caverns of a bird can occupy most of the space in its skull.

—So you’re starting to know this is real, she said finally.

—It’s wearing me down.

The night was tranquil. There was no breeze, only the burble of the water in the fountain and behind it the soft regular chirp of the invisible crickets. She felt tender toward the garden, how it seemed to want so little. The wind chime hung steady in the air and she thought: at such a moment I myself could believe this is all an unreal life. I myself could believe what he said.

If he told me all the world was a river of unconsciousness, that all of us here are nothing more or less than the dream of the universe, I could almost believe it.

Escape is the most common impulse, thought Oppenheimer as they went inside to the warmth and left the night outside them. He stubbed out a cigarette in the usual place and then stepped over the piles of newspapers Leo always left on the floor along the hallway. Governments offer solutions that assume only the worst about human nature: they fight back in anger, a flying outward, a panic of blame, as if the problems are always outside the subject. Sometimes crimes are perpetrated by others, yes, he thought, but more often crimes are perpetrated at home. Only those who live at home cannot see them. The crimes have become part of the wallpaper, a pattern no longer noticed.

Not knowing better, observers may even find them attractive.

The crimes of others bring terror but our own are almost quaint, he thought. To discuss them is in bad taste: it smacks of desperation. It smacks of needing someone to blame, of a whining attachment to the right to complain.

It is so out of style that its substance is irrelevant.

—Not just any war, but the last war. Remember the last time they said that? How hopeful it was? The War to End All Wars? But this is the real McCoy.

Ben walked around to the back of the truck and began to unload gear from the bed. He would need it in the morning, for work here before he went back to Lynn’s. Trowels, pruning shears, hoe. Szilard followed him, shaking his head, huffing as he began to pace.

—Did you hear what I said? We’re here for the last war. Because we started it. We’re needed.

—You think quite highly of yourself, don’t you, said Ben.

—You think this is arbitrary? You think we’re here because we chose to be?

—I think you’re here because my wife and I are the only fools that would have you, said Ben.

—It’s going critical, said Szilard. —It’ll reach critical mass.

—What, said Ben.

—For the first time since ’45 they’re planning to use nuclear weapons in war. They want to throw out deterrent strategy. Mutually Assured Destruction. It was a so-called gentlemen’s agreement. It worked during the Cold War, as well as could be expected. But when that was over all bets were off. You can never trust a gentleman. Believe me.

—What are you talking about.

—They want to be able to use nuclear arms like any other weapons. Just another tool in the toolbox. They’re chomping at the bit. Did you even know that? Do you even notice the government? You people have so many games to play you have no time for what’s real. It’s coming to a head. Next thing you know they’ll be building mini-nukes and lobbing them across battlefields. Battlefields like cities and farms. They’ve even mentioned the neutron bomb. The neutron bomb is being planned for battlefield employment. Do you know what a neutron bomb is? It’s an enhanced radiation warhead. Designed to kill the maximum number of people but keep buildings safe. How’s that for materialism? They’ve already decided. The clock is ticking.

—Who are they, Leo? You’re a conspiracy theorist, aren’t you. Add that to your resume. Schizoid delusions, conspiracy theories.

—The public either buys it wholesale or just isn’t watching, you tell me. When I see what you people have done to democracy it disgusts me.

—You can fix it all though, can’t you Leo. But not the dent in my truck.

He ran his hand over it again.

—I predicted it, of course, all of this. I always do. But I had hoped my predictions were wrong.

—Perish the thought, Leo. You’re never wrong.

—Afghanistan maybe wasn’t quite the right target for them. People too poor, country already a garbage heap. Neither was Iraq. They used uranium-tipped shells over there during the first Persian Gulf War, remember? In a few years we’ll find out what they did the second time. Last time they left hundreds of tons of DU in the desert when they left. Depleted uranium. Hundreds of tons. You people don’t bother to know the basic facts about what your government does to other countries. You really couldn’t care less, could you?

—Stop haranguing me, Leo. I’m not your whipping boy.

He turned to go inside and Szilard followed him up the driveway toward the door, badgering.

—I’m telling you, they’ve started. I don’t know who the ultimate enemy’s going to be. I can’t tell yet. It doesn’t matter right now. What matters is they want it. They want it.

—Nuclear war? Get real. No one wants it. Come on.

He opened the door to the kitchen, now empty. But once inside Szilard would still not leave him alone.

—Look at the evidence! Read the posture papers! I can give you the documents. Any exchange could mean escalation. You know