as a wife should, but that very pity, that wifely impulse, made her susceptible to ideas like Einstein blowing up London and the Kimuras spying and Pete not being Pete at all, but someone else—perhaps Einstein in disguise? If she listened to Andrew long enough, she would believe that anything was possible, and yet everything wasn’t possible, and so there you were—at an impasse.
That day, she simply kept to herself except for two forays to the kitchen for tea. All Andrew said, looking up from his paper, was “Perhaps you will feel like cooking again tomorrow.”
And then he was gone completely. When she came down toward midday for a cup of tea, Stella was confined to the kitchen. Andrew’s empty coffee cup was sitting on the morning paper, and with it, he had secured a note. It read:
My dear,
You will be most surprised to learn that I have taken the train to Washington, D.C., on pressing business. For the last week, I have been torn as to my responsibilities as a navy captain. I understand what I must do here in Vallejo, but I have come to believe that my larger duty is to personally deliver my report to the Secretary of the Navy. It is urgent that the movements of certain persons be restricted. I have been unable to speak to Secretary Knox over the telephone, as I am not as well known to him as I have been to others in the past, and so I see with regret that I will have to return to my old haunts, and do what must be done. I am sure that, once I have spoken to Secretary Knox, the recommendations I intend to make will be speedily implemented. As for your own activities, my dear, it is my belief that they can make no further difference to our national security at this point.
She went upstairs, put on her clothes, and went out with a very happy Stella, though not before calling Pete, who didn’t answer.
The knowledge that Andrew was somewhere between their street and Washington, D.C., and speeding away from her was thrilling. She suspected that his sense of mission would only grow more pressing as he acted on it—every step would reinforce every thought; every thought would motivate another step.
The weather, neither bad nor good, seemed glorious. The intervals of sunlight were dazzling, the intervals of fog invigorating. Daffodils were up, though not blooming. Pruned stubs of rosebushes had developed tiny shoots. There was a fragrance in the air of sweet grasses. Stella trotted in front of her, jaunty and alert. They walked toward the center of town.
In the period of her confinement, the crowds on the streets and in the shops and cafés had doubled. At the Warrington, she could hardly get in the door, so busy was it. She had to pick up Stella and carry her in. The lobby was crowded; every phone booth held a caller. More people were lined up, their nickels in their hands, waiting. Behind the desk, Cassandra and her daughter (now sixteen) were checking in guests, and there was another clerk busy, too. The customers lined up five deep. As she passed them, looking for Mrs. Wareham, she heard Cassandra say to one young man, “Sir, we are putting men four to a room. Otherwise, we have nothing for you. We are that full.”
Then she saw Mrs. Wareham, sitting reliably in the parlor off the lobby. Mrs. Wareham was doing some embroidery, but stood up when she saw her. Margaret hugged her tightly.
“Margaret! Sit down right here.” Mrs. Wareham patted the chair next to hers and poured her a cup of tea from the pot on the table beside her, but her face was alive with curiosity. “What has become of you? And Andrew? I haven’t seen him in weeks.”
Margaret sipped the tea and told her friend about their strange interlude of spousal imprisonment—in spite of herself, she made it sound more eccentric than frightening—then about his departure for Washington. Mrs. Wareham clucked with such comforting disapproval that Margaret felt a bit of horror set in. Yes, he had imprisoned her—that was not too strong a word—and so she said, vehemently, “I don’t care about him! Good riddance! But where is Pete? And whatever happened to the Kimuras? The last I heard they’d been—He wouldn’t let me even use the—”
Mrs. Wareham pursed her lips and started shaking her head. She had seen nothing of Pete in weeks, and as for the