—
THE SUN FELT HEAVY on her head, like a manhole cover. In another week Sergey would be returning home and she would go back to New York. She wanted him to display at least a small sign of regret about leaving her. She opened her eyes and gazed out the windshield. They were in another town, almost exactly like the one before, only emptier: a single street with a browned church steeple, vacant storefronts with orange Nehi and Coke advertisements dangling in dust-streaked windows. She too was thinking about the McKee men. It was improbable that any of them had seen her with Sergey. Though it didn’t matter now. Her mood of irritation, with herself and with Sergey, had started taking on a distinctly McKee-like flavor. The “heist” that she and Sergey had contrived, to get their hands on those manuals, do the conversions of the plans, and demonstrate that the mill in Magnitogorsk could be effectively constructed with cheaper materials, had come off almost flawlessly. They had “defanged” McKee’s arguments, in Fyodor’s words. “I hope you’re happy with yourself” was what Knur Anderson had said to Florence afterward. Clement had only shaken his head. Deducing that she’d been the one who’d helped the Russians, the American engineers looked at her as though she was either immeasurably conniving or unfathomably dumb. Her conviction that she’d only leveled an unjust playing field dulled the distress she felt at knowing they were talking about her behind her back as a turncoat. Harder to ignore were the smirking looks. It rankled her that the McKee men assumed she was sleeping with one of the Russians, and galled her all the more that they’d guessed right. She’d been feeling a kind of moral asphyxia in Cleveland for weeks now. She wanted Sergey to redeem her despair, redeem the sacrifice she’d made on his behalf—but how? Love was a thing you couldn’t get a receipt for, if this could even be called love. And the things they’d said to each other in the dark—well, those were part of the game too. “Could you imagine us, together—if you didn’t live over there and I didn’t live here?” “Yes, why not?” “Oh, but then you wouldn’t be who you are. You’d be somebody else, and I would, too.” It was astonishing how this nonsense could arouse them. Lately, she’d even wept afterward, and let him console her with kisses, all of these dramatics somehow necessary to give meaning to what was otherwise just a lot of dirty business.
For most of the summer, they hadn’t spoken about what they were doing. But her body, it turned out, needed no help in understanding the signs of its hungers. She might be falling asleep in her room, but the quietest sound of Sergey’s finger scratching at her screen door late at night could rouse her to full wakefulness. Just the sight of him in her porch light could revive her body to that weightless yearning it had spent all day suppressing. He never rushed her. They could kiss until her chin was raw and her lips were numb, until she was utterly immobilized by desire. She understood now what people, including her mother, meant when they spoke of girls getting themselves “caught.” There seemed to be no ways but dangerous ways to be in love, no ways to satisfy your heart without deforming your mind.
The road had narrowed and they had to drive slower. A sputtering knock could be heard in the engine with every few revolutions of the wheels. On the right another churchyard appeared, this one with sagging willow trees. Behind its neatly whitewashed fence several picnic tables were set out in a long snake. Florence pointed to the sign: “Come unto me, all ye that labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.”
“They must be running a soup kitchen out of there.”
“The missus who rents to us makes soup for her church, too. A kind woman.”
“God bless America. Soup kitchens as far as the eye can see.”
“Why are you being nasty?” he said. “Give me the map.” The road signs made no sense to him. He looked for something that might lead them back to the motorway.
“I’m not being nasty.” She spread the flapping map between them. “I’m only saying philanthropy in this country is a way for some people to alleviate their sins. Morgan, Rockefeller—all they’re doing is tossing a few pennies back to the people they’ve robbed.” She knew she was being a shrew, souring whatever pleasure was left in their time together.
“I was not talking about Rockefeller. I was talking about old ladies making soup,” he said impatiently. He took the map and studied its network of blue veins.
“This map won’t help you. It’s of Ohio, and we entered Indiana twenty minutes ago.”
“Why did you not tell me!”
“Didn’t you see the sign?”
Sergey shut his eyes.
“We’re fine,” she said, trying to sound reassuring. “We’re just along the side here. It’s like what Fyodor was saying: these are the same people protecting their interests with guns and…”
“Fyodor! Really? This is who you’ve been listening to?”
Her eyes were radiant with anger and embarrassment. “What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing. I am thinking it is better if you stop so much blah-blah-blah, and look at the map,” he said in a voice thick with irritation.
She averted her face and tried to swallow the knot of tears in her throat. The car’s engine was laboring louder as they mounted a slope. Sergey stepped down on the accelerator, but the Chevrolet only climbed stiffly while the rear wheels turned dirt and rocks with an alarming squeal. “What’s happening?” she said. Sergey strained his jaw and threw the car into high gear. It lunged distressingly. He clamped on the brake and turned off the ignition. Steam was rising from the engine. “Chyort!” he muttered. He climbed out and stood looking blindly under the hood. “You drive,” he ordered suddenly.
He put the car into neutral and Florence moved into the driver’s seat. She clamped her heel on the gas pedal while Sergey pushed from the back. The Chevy bucked forward, then died with another pounding sputter. On the edge of the field, crows were picking at the corn stubble. She felt weak and watered down from the heat. Doom was starting to settle over everything. She gazed around for some sign of human life but saw only the distant silhouette of a barn against the low clouds. Sergey cursed louder and kicked a tire. “Now we walk,” he announced. He grabbed his jacket and the water jug from the back seat. Only a few drops remained, and he let Florence swallow them. As she stepped out, she glimpsed the oily leak under the chassis, a trail of black drops as far as her eye could see.
“We’ve been leaking this whole time?” she yelled, limping after him. “How could you not notice?!”