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

who survived the bombing of Nagasaki said later: “I walked around my ruined house looking for my daughter. After two days I found her at last. I dug the gutter and found her pants that had partly escaped the fire. So I picked up her bones in a small burnt bucket.

“After my wife’s death I carried some dead trees into the hollow of the emergency crematory, put on some petroleum and cremated her by myself. I picked up her bones in the evening.”

—I have some introductions to make! cried Larry. —Today is the birthday of our new friend Robert, my new friend Robert that I want to be your new friend too!

—Happy Birthday, Robert! echoed the crowd.

Larry consulted a wrinkled piece of paper.

—And his full name is Dr. Julius Robert Oppenheimer, Father of the A-Bomb, Director of the Manhattan Project—

—Whoo-hoo!

—Born in 1904 and risen from the dead!

—Go Robert!

—The Dead?

—What I want to say is this. Seriously. Robert came to me without, like, advertising who he was, right? He didn’t claim to be anyone. He didn’t claim to be, like, who he is. I did some research and found out. This was totally by chance, I mean it. I just got curious one day after I met him—he actually wasn’t even here, he had already left—and I did my homework. Otherwise I never would have known. Which to me is proof he’s not a scammer. Right?

—Go for it Larry!

—So I found out who he was from the history books. And when he called me up I go, Are you the Robert Oppenheimer? Are you the famous scientist who invented the nuclear bomb and died in the ’60s? And he goes—this is all he said—I am Oppenheimer.

—Oppie!

An arm pumped somewhere nearby and Ann thought she noticed a slight shift in the crowd, a movement from festive jeer toward idle speculation.

—And you know what? I believe it. This guy is Robert Oppenheimer. I like to call him Oppie.

—Go Oppie! …

—Can you believe this? asked Ben audibly, coming up with a glass of beer in hand. —He’s sincere. He actually wrote a speech. Where is he getting this stuff?

—And what I wanna say to all of you, my good friends and those of you I’ve just known a little while —

—And my friends from Yoga Zone! put in Tamika. —I’m so glad you guys came!

—… all of you guys, check the pictures, look at the books over there on the sideboard. These guys are the real McCoys. I’m not kidding. They’re not ringers. These guys are authentic. It’s something you feel in your gut when you talk to these guys. There’s nothing like authenticity, you know?

—It’s so real, said a woman next to Ben, nodding pensively.

—So I talked to Oppie about how he got here. All he knows is he left 1945 and showed up a couple of months ago. And all I know is: today is this guy’s birthday!

Faint cheers in the crowd and people drank and smiled. Ann wondered if it was an elaborate joke. Her own belief did not surprise her but Larry’s public belief was absurd, Larry’s belief and his gullible friends.

—And this has meaning, you know? This is historic. He’s come here to tell us something, right?

He turned around on the coffee table, nodding at the assembled crowd, and held his arms out to Oppenheimer, who smiled a close-mouthed smile and looked down at his clasped hands, standing with his head bent solemnly as though attending a funeral. Someone sucked audibly on a large bong, bubbling the water, and it passed in front of Ann’s face, hand to hand.

—Where’s my chocolate chip cookie, man? urged a thin man in camouflage pants with a stringy pigtail.

—I think these guys are here for a reason. And I wanted to give you guys the chance to meet them and decide for yourself.

—I choose to believe! cried Tamika to a chorus of applause, and Ben, incredulous, shaking his head, turned and made for the bathroom, through the crowd, abandoning his empty beer glass on a tabletop as he went. Ann followed him partway, pushing past shoulders and greasy ponytails until she got to Fermi, leaning over to say into his ear, over the hubbub, —Are you OK?

Fermi gazed down into his glass, blinking rapidly. She was afraid he would cry.

—From this day forward I’m a soldier in the army of Oppie! cried Larry, as the clapping petered out. —Plus a token of my esteem.

Someone hefted the crate of expensive whiskey, stamped with the maker’s mark on the side. To a new swell of applause Oppenheimer looked at the crate, smiled his thanks and took a glass of champagne offered to him by a bystander. He raised the glass to Larry.

—Speech! Speech! Speech! goaded the crowd.

—Eyes of the world! said the man in camouflage, swaying until he almost stumbled. There was beer froth on his handlebar mustache. — Thighs of a squirrel!

A three-tiered cake came in from the kitchen, floating between the heads and shoulders, aflame with numberless candles. For the first time Ann noticed there were caterers in the room, small Japanese women meekly working the crowd with trays and glasses. She felt her cheeks flush with a rising shame, whether for herself or Oppenheimer she didn’t know. She could not bear to hear him make a speech: she was afraid for him. Stiff, bombastic, poor old stuffed shirt, she thought, and without wanting to think it, poor dear. She couldn’t watch him humiliate himself.

She decided to escape and made for the bathroom.

Ben watched Oppenheimer step onto the coffee table to loud whistles and claps, half-pulled by Larry, half-pushed by Tamika.

—I haven’t prepared any remarks, he said nervously.

The noise died down.

—Don’t worry about it, man, said Larry. —Just be yourself, you know?

—I want to thank you for your generosity, Larry, said Oppenheimer, and cleared his throat. —If someone could hand me an ashtray?

He had lit a cigarette and the ash was already long.

—We are grateful for your good faith, he began. —I can’t