“I guess nothing’s wrong with ambition,” I said. “It’s just that I don’t have any, and greatness requires an awful lot of energy. I don’t really care about making a big bang in the world. I’m kind of lazy.”

He thought for a moment. “I hate to say good-bye, just when I’m getting to know you.”

I crossed the riverbed to the bank where he stood. I put my arms around him. I kissed his cheek. His body was rigid; he didn’t return the embrace. I had only succeeded in startling him.

THIRTY-NINE
TO THE DARK TOWER

It was a week of pomp and commotion. First, the nuclear soups and mashes arrived on the thunderous wings of helicopters. Grady supervised the offloading of the yellow steel receptacles stamped DANGER and the red super tough polymer drums stamped HANDLE WITH EXTREME CARE in four languages.

Everybody stood around, poised in a sprinter’s crouch, ready to take off at the first sign of a signature mushroom cloud. Even the Assos were charily energized in their assigned duty to keep the dogs from peeing on the containers. There was a general feeling that anything, even dog piss, could set off a chain reaction. Nobody trusted the buses either, so the more unstable emulsions and miscibles were transferred to the facility in Grady’s fleet of two jeeps. And slowly. It took a couple of days.

Twenty-four hours later, an airplane swept out of the sky, bearing the Star of David insignia. My father and I stood on the tarmac bidding our last good-bye, he eager to be gone, I hovering for the last time in his encumbering shadow.

The Colonel’s steely reserve, which had not abandoned him since my outburst of affection in the clearing, made us both self-conscious, he out of fear, I suppose, of bending a little, I out of fear of bending too much.

Fortunately we were saved from further abashment by the appearance of General Kalid Qazwini. He grabbed my father’s gonads with a warmth I’d never thought him capable of expressing.

“It is difficult,” he said, “to stifle the gratitude that fills my bowels. Thank you for the hand grenades.”

“Use them well, and respectfully,” the Colonel said.

“Trust me,” said the General. His eyes, always so angry, were bright with anticipation as visions of a record body count danced in his head.

“May God look down on you—”

“‘Look down on me…?’” the General said peevishly, the old anger flaring momentarily.

“It’s an expression,” the Colonel said, “a blessing. May God look down on you and give you peace.” Quickly he amended the invocation: peace, he realized, was the last thing Qazwini wanted. “…And give you heartsease.”

I thought my father was doing rather well. It’s not easy to bless a man while he’s gripping your balls.

“Until you return,” Kalid said, “all our voices will be silent in their grief.”