The Heat of the Sun

you?’
    ‘The same!’ I made my way down the steps, meeting her halfway.
    Fulsomely, she enfolded me in her clattering embrace. ‘But where’s your friend? I haven’t seen that naughty boy for years.’
    ‘Trouble’s resting,’ I said. ‘He’ll be down soon.’
    ‘I hope Grover put you boys in the same room. This is Wobblewood. Even if the floors don’t wobble.’
    ‘That won’t be necessary,’ I assured her.
    ‘Hah! The army’s rife with it, isn’t it? Quite a shock for the Kansas farm boys. Still, broadens their horizons – among other things.’ She clapped her hands.
‘Come on, everybody – one more time!’
    The rehearsal had reached a stormy point. Here was Antigone facing Creon’s wrath, pleading that her dead brother had to be buried; here was Ismene, desperate to share in her sister’s
wrong, proclaiming that the blame was hers too – and here was the real estate agent’s daughter, stepping on a corn on the garage proprietor’s foot, while Aunt Toolie’s
cleaner, in the part of Ismene, stumbled over her robes and fell against Antigone, forcing her to step down even harder. The garage proprietor bellowed like a wounded bull and the chorus shook with
mirth.
    Delicately, Uncle Grover suggested that perhaps they had rehearsed enough. I feared Aunt Toolie would be furious, but she dismissed the actors cheerily, only calling after them:
    ‘Curtain up, six o’clock sharp!’
    ‘Knock knock?’
    ‘Sharpless? I was dreaming.’
    The door was ajar. Trouble lay on his bed, face towards the ceiling. If, as I thought, he was suffering, I had to find out why. Sunlight, still bright on the summer’s day, angled through
the drawn curtains, giving the room a burnished glow.
    ‘I’m worried about you.’ Uncertainly, I sat beside him.
    ‘Oh? I thought we’d been having a fine old time.’
    ‘Like the old days. Sure,’ I said.
    We might have been speaking through a pane of glass.
    ‘Why Los Alamos?’ I asked him. ‘Why me?’
    ‘The senator needs you.’
    ‘There are a thousand propaganda men.’
    ‘Not just for that. They’ve always been fond of you, haven’t they – Kate and the senator? You help them. With me.’
    ‘If that’s my job,’ I said, ‘I’ve been an abject failure.’
    ‘You talk about me, I suppose, behind my back.’
    ‘Oh, Trouble! Wasn’t I always on your side? I’m your second.’
    ‘We’re not fighting Eddie Scranway now. Give me a cigarette.’
    My hand trembled as I lit it for him. Smoke wound up, blue-grey, from his small fingers, and he said abruptly, ‘They’re trying to kill me. They think they know things. And they
don’t, they can’t.’
    He stood abruptly. He paced the carpet.
    ‘What are you saying?’
    ‘Snipers on the road. Among other things.’
    ‘You’re Colonel Pinkerton. You’re the senator’s son. Who’d want to kill you? Tell the senator. If you don’t, I will.’
    ‘Poor Sharpless,’ said Trouble. ‘Ever the innocent.’
    ‘I hate you sometimes.’ I went to the window. With a jerk, I pulled back the curtains. I had to see the sea: I had to see the sun. The glare burned my eyes. ‘I’m your
second,’ I said. ‘And all you do is play games with me.’
    ‘You’ve always wanted too much.’
    ‘I wanted nothing.’
    ‘You expected nothing. That’s different.’
    ‘Boys!’ Aunt Toolie had appeared in the doorway. ‘Do close the door if you want an intimate moment.’
    How much she had heard, I had no idea.
    ‘But Benjy, how marvellous to see you! I declare, you haven’t changed! What’s your secret?’
    At once they were embracing.
    ‘He keeps a painting in the attic,’ I said.
    Trouble smirked. ‘Oh boy, you should see that painting! But I hear we’re off to the theatre tonight.’
    ‘Expect disaster. You boys lead the applause, all right? Whatever happens, applaud. Throw flowers. Oh Benjy, Benjy! Come, let me show you around Wobblewood West.’ And linking her arm
in his, Aunt Toolie hauled him from the room, adding, as they vanished, ‘You’ll never guess! Grover’s invited a hundred servicemen from the base down the coast. Simple soldier
boys! What they’ll make of Sophocles I dread to think. Disaster, disaster!’
    ‘Never mind – we’ll have a fun disaster,’ I heard Trouble say.
    I lay on Trouble’s bed, hearing the throb of my blood like the tide. After some time I stirred; reluctantly, I made my way downstairs. From the drawing room came talk in
a steady ebb and flow, and