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

him. His expression was disinterested and his head moved in slight, bobbing nods, chickenlike, between cigarette puffs.

Near Ben, a tray of appetizers passed and was grabbed at by a tall, clean-cut Gomer with a braying laugh who looked to be straight out of college.

This is Ted, said Szilard. —He’s going to be suing the Department of Defense for me. Suit gets filed tomorrow.

Pleased to meetcha! said Ted, and grabbed eagerly for Ben’s hand.

I’m Larry, said Larry, skirting the table and clapping Ted on the shoulder. The guy who pays the bills around here. Sometimes anyway!

They brayed together, ha ha ha. Ben thought families that bray together and sipped his wine to hide his face. He was humiliated by the pun.

—So what’s the outlook, hombre? Are we gonna beat the pants off the Feds?

—Ha-ha-ha.

—Larry! called the Belgian food activist from across the table in what sounded to Ben like a caricature of a French accent. That was typical of French accents: they always sounded like caricatures of French accents. —How we know where the vegetables here on the menu is come from? Maybe they modified! Everything in this country GM or GE!

—Get the chef for us, would you please? said Larry to a flustered passing waitress.

—I think we have a decent chance! said Ted, trying to get Larry’s attention. —The problem is this whole War on Terrorism thing.

—But the records he wants are from World War Two! What, that’s going to be classified still? interjected Ben.

—Just in general, they don’t have to get to things like this right now, it’s low priority, said Ted. —They got paperwork backlogs with FOIA requests already. And now the terrorist wars and all that.

—The wars are why we’re doing this, Ted, said Szilard.

—Course Leo. I get it. Other thing is, they may not actually have the records anymore. Can’t produce what they don’t have. Even if they do, it’s been twenty-one working days since he put in the request, they don’t return his phone calls, but that doesn’t mean they can’t give him a No Records response or claim national security.

—They can claim national security even if all they’re doing is looking in some naked chick’s window, said Larry.

—Ha-ha-ha, brayed Ted.

—They have the records, said Szilard firmly, paying no attention. —Are you kidding? The Manhattan Project’s historic.

—Do you have to take this antagonistic approach? asked Ben. —They have nothing to gain by guarding your precious fingerprints, do they?

—What a stupid question, said Szilard. —It’s the Army.

—Leo? Don’t be an asshole.

—Larry! Larry! yelled the Belgian food activist past the back of a sous-chef, who stood at the table talking to him. —It is terrible! I can’t eat here! There is nothing for me! This so-called food is agribusiness byproduct!

—He ran out of the whole grains he brought with him, said Szilard.

Ann came out of the bathroom finally. She had washed her face and looked fresh, but her eyes were still tired. She stood next to Ben, leaned against his shoulder and fluttered a hand over to take a sip from his glass.

—Everybody! said Szilard, clapping his hands. —I’ve got press releases that have to go out in the morning about the lawsuit! Who’s going to get on the phone and do media with me?

Hands raised around the table. Even over the babble of conversation Szilard was being heard. It struck Ben as surprising: they were listening to him. Szilard was actually being taken seriously.

—What’s the count? One, two, three—eight of you. Great. OK, phone banking starting at nine a.m., said Szilard. Copies of the press release will be in Larry’s room along with a list of newspapers to call. There’s a package of information for each of you, with a script for you to read from. I’ll divide up the call list between the eight of you plus me. We’re going national with this one so everyone’s going to be making about forty, fifty calls.

—You’ve got to be kidding, said Ben under his breath. —You think newspapers are going to cover some wacko suit against the Army?

—We’ll see, won’t we, said Szilard smugly.

Ben noticed one of Szilard’s shirt buttons was undone, just over the belt. It gave a view of poking flab.

He kept it to himself, gratified.

—Ann, said Oppenheimer, taking her arm gently as he came in from the front, the smell of nicotine wafting from his mouth as he spoke, —Can I talk to you briefly?

—Of course, said Ann, and as they moved away Ben saw their heads go together in confidence, and wondered what it was Oppenheimer had to say to his wife that he could not say in front of him.

—What can I eat? asked the Belgian food activist angrily, in Larry’s general direction. —What do they have for those people who do not wish to eat a grotesque mutation?

—I wish he would shut up, said Frank the rugby player.

—I will tell you! One single chili!

On the back patio there was an artificial waterfall on a rock wall and house-shaped birdfeeders hanging from aspens and mesquites. Candles in paper bags glowed on the ledges of low adobe walls.

—I just want you to know, said Oppenheimer to Ann as they walked out onto the stones, —that much as I appreciate everything Larry has done for us, I—

He hesitated, and she looked up at him.

—I consider you my dear friend.

She stood without moving. Her eyes were filling. She was embarrassed.

—Thank you, she said finally, and kept staring down at the ground at their two pairs of feet on the flagstones, his in leather shoes, hers in sandals. She thought how exposed her toes were, yielding and tender. Toes were naked things.

—I mean it, he said quietly. —I’m grateful to Larry. He’s been exceptionally generous.

—I know, she said, shaking her head.

—But from you I had something more important. I still do.

—Thanks, she said again, trying to hold the shake in her voice.

—You were kind to me when I had nothing. I won’t forget it.

—I’m just—, she said, and stopped. —I’m afraid of being left out.

—You can