“As long as it’s hot.”
They turned right onto Route 4 and climbed higher into the mountains, the mist burning away from dense green forests of pine and aspen. The heater blasted at their feet, a cocoon of warmth, and tiny streams of condensation streaked off the hood of the car.
“You brought coupons?” she asked.
“Isn’t that what I’m here for?”
“It’ll do for a start.”
“How far is this place, anyway, or are we just going to a hotel?”
“Miles and miles. It’ll take the morning, so just sit back and relax. Oh, but wait till you see it. It’s marvelous- nothing like it anywhere.”
He watched her drive, remembering the trip back from Tesuque, when he first thought it would be possible. They kept climbing, the sun rising with them, so that when they finally reached the high ridge the land was flooded with light. Aside from one rusty pickup truck with goats in the back, headed toward Santa Fe, theirs was the only car on the road. Connolly rolled down the window, breathing in a rush of fresh air, and looked out across an immense valley of grass. A handful of cattle were grazing, clotting the rippling fields like miniatures in a diorama, the grass arranged in folds of green velvet. A series of peaks surrounded the bowl. It was a world away from the Rio Grande Valley, with its low, twisted conifers and dry riverbeds.
“That’s the Valle Grande,” she said, nodding to the right. “Except it isn’t. It’s really a caldera-you know, the top of a volcano. It stretches for miles back there, beyond those hills. It just kept bubbling and falling in until you had this great lake of lava. And now this. It’s wonderful riding. Oppie likes to come here-you can really let the horses out. Down the other side you’re always running into arroyos, but up here, well—”
She trailed off, letting him watch the view.
“You spend much time with Oppenheimer?”
“A little. Not lately. Last year it was easier, things weren’t quite so tense.”
“Like him?”
She considered. “Yes. Oh, it can be a bit much, all that man-of-destiny business, but I suppose he is, really.”
“He’s difficult to read.”
“Everyone’s difficult.”
“Are you?”
She laughed. “Ask anybody.”
They were in the high mountains now, the trees close, with patches of alpine wildflowers dotting the clearings by the road. She was driving fast, putting distance between them and the Hill as if they were racing horses across the caldera. The car throbbed a little as they climbed, then galloped across the open stretches.
“Do you still have to go away?” she said.
“No. They made a mistake. I’m back to square one.”
She took her eyes off the road for a second to look over at him. “Is that such a bad place to be?”
“Not at the moment,” he said, smiling. “Trouble is, you can’t stay there.”
“No,” she said. “But maybe for a little while.”
She put her hand on his thigh, nothing more than a comforting pat, but it jumped at the touch, an involuntary spasm. The reaction made her laugh. “My,” she said, withdrawing her hand.
Connolly felt teased, embarrassed to be so sensitive to her. “You can put it back if you like.”
“Mmm. Maybe later,” she said. “You’ll need your strength for the hike. Where’d you get the boots, by the way?”
“Borrowed.” He was going to tell her about Bruner’s closet, the disconcerting moment when the boots fit, as if he had learned something new about him, but Karl had been left behind at Los Alamos. There wasn’t room for anyone else in the car.
“How do you manage this?” he said. “Being away. With your neighbors, I mean.”
“Eileen? Oh, she doesn’t think anything of it. I’m always going off. It’s my project, you see. That’s the great thing about the Hill-everyone’s trained not to ask. So they don’t.”
“What does she think you’re doing?”
“What I am doing-studying Indians. Whatever that means. Actually, I don’t think she cares, really. She just swans around in blissful ignorance.”
“Listening at walls.”
She giggled. “Well, that’s something different, isn’t it?”
“What about your husband?”
“I left him a note,” she said quickly, not wanting to talk about it. “In case he’s back early.” Then, as if shifting into second, “God, it’s good to get away, isn’t it? Look at this morning.”
So he let it go, glancing out the window at the shafts of light through the trees, thinking about Los Alamos. Everything was secure, so nothing was noticed. Then Los Alamos faded away too, left behind in a rush of miles and the bright, sharp air. They were heading west, where the day, even the landscape, was new.
They drove for a long time without talking, as comfortable with the silence as an old couple, and then he sensed the gradual beginning of the descent. The dips seemed longer now, the road twisting to skirt the uneven hills. The speed they’d kept on the high ridge began to seem faster, hurtling them toward curves so that Emma was forced to brake to check the pull of gravity down the other slope. They raced up the sides of hills, unable to see over the top, pausing carefully before the downward plunge. The views were closed in, a series of hollows and bends. It reminded him of mountain roads in the East, up and down waves of hills.
When they reached Jemez Springs, a cluster of buildings stretched a few blocks along the road, they had already slowed to thirty, so he was startled to hear the short whoop of a siren behind them. A police car, its roof light now shining in the morning sun, had slid out of its hiding place to follow them, motioning the car over to the side. “Oh God,” Emma said, pulling to the curb in front of a white clapboard hotel with the wide rocking-chair porch of an old Adirondack resort. The policeman, in full uniform, took his time getting out of the car. On this sleepy street in a notch of mountains, there was never a reason to hurry.
“Ma’am,” he said in a cowboy drawl, “we got a twenty-mile speed limit in this town. It’s clearly posted. Can I see your license?”
Connolly could see Emma about to rise to the bait, could already hear her sharp answer, but her shoulders shrank in resignation and wordlessly she handed the cop her wallet.
“Oh, another one of these,” he said, glancing at the anonymous project license. “Well, I reckon we can write a ticket to a number just as well as a name.” He pulled out his ticket pad. “You from up that ranch school, huh? Funny thing, all you people with no names. Enough to make a person wonder. But that’s wartime-that’s what they tell me, anyways. You ought to slow down, though. Live longer.” Connolly recognized the tone, the mix of folksiness and swagger, as familiar as a blue uniform.
“How much is it?” Emma said.
“Ten dollars.”
“You’re joking.”
He looked at her sharply. “Well, no, ma’am. We don’t consider putting our children at risk a laughing matter.” The road was deserted.
“But ten dollars,” she repeated, injustice rising in her voice.
He smiled. “Well, you can mail it in. Lots of folks like to do that. Be sure you do, though. We’ll yank that license sure as shooting, name or no name.” He handed her the ticket, bending down to peer into the car. “You ought to get your wife here to slow down. Buy her a new dress. Cost you less in the long run.”
“I’ll do that,” he said, automatically polite. He was struck by the smooth assumption of it. How easy it was to become someone else. The policeman would probably swear to it.
“Bloody thieves,” she said after the cop had left. Connolly smiled. “It’s what we call a speed trap. It’s how they make their living.”
She had begun driving out of town with exaggerated slowness, creeping along the street.
“That’s one word for it.”
“Anyway, now we’ve been arrested together. You said this would be an adventure.” He noticed that she was trembling, clutching the wheel to hold herself steady. “You all right?”
