“But what if they find us?” says Fat Man.
Little Boy asks what he means. Fat Man says he means Americans. He means what if they find out. “Bombs aren’t supposed to make people,” he whispers. The server sets a bowl of noodles in front of Fat Man and leaves without acknowledgment. The soldiers are calling her Charlene. They call her to their table; they want more. Fat Man continues, screening his mouth with his hand, “It’s like sex. Little bullet gets shot at a uranium egg. Egg bursts open and all hell breaks loose. Something big comes out of something so little. It sounds like a baby.”
Little Boy picks up the fish bit with his fingers and drops it down his gullet. “I do feel like a baby,” he says.
“Babies can’t speak at first. They can’t eat solid foods. And they don’t know what we know,” says Fat Man.
When he was born Little Boy remembered it all. He knew what the scientists said to him as they stroked his shell, thinking no one could hear them. He remembered what it was to live as potential. Now he doesn’t know. He only feels he used to. Here everything is strange. He can’t absorb it. Japan is another kind of absence.
“Where can we go?” says Fat Man.
One of the soldiers, one with thin bristles of black hair and a forehead etched with many lines though he is young, calls Charlene to his side of the table. She comes. He’s got a ten-dollar bill in his hand, ragged and half-torn down its middle, pale as new grass and leaf stems. He waves it underneath her nose as if scenting a bloodhound. The soldier presses the money to his cheek and smells it himself. He drags it down the side of his face, across his neck, over his collar bone, his uniform. He drags it over his left nipple, down his stomach, across his left hip, and down, to the center, between his legs. He hangs it from his open zipper, half exposed, half obscured. This looks like something he has practiced, a routine.
Charlene shakes her head slowly. She goes into the kitchen and does not come out until the soldiers have overturned the table and left. Little Boy leaves what he thinks the food was worth. No one here says what anything will cost.
Outside, after their meal, Fat Man begins to walk home, crunching fallen yellow leaves beneath his leather shoes; Little Boy stands still just beyond the closed door, bending in on himself and rubbing his knees forlornly, watching his brother’s back. This is the third time this has happened today. The last two times, Fat Man has gone on walking and Little Boy has scurried belatedly to catch up. This time the boy shows more resolve. There are twenty feet between them now and he is still rubbing his knees. Twenty-five feet, then thirty.
Fat Man turns around and asks him what’s wrong.
“My legs hurt,” whines Little Boy. “My feet still hurt. They’re still healing from the glass.”
“What do you want me to do about it?”
Little Boy reaches up with open arms as if the fat man were close enough to touch. “Carry me?”
Fat Man says he doesn’t want to carry Little Boy.
“This is what good little brothers do. They carry their big brothers when they hurt.”
Fat Man relents. He takes his little older brother on his back and carries him down the paved road, which becomes a dirt road shaded by trees. Little Boy clings to him around his neck, sometimes strangling him to the point where Fat Man makes a coughing sound that means “loosen up,” which Little Boy does, until his arms draw closed again. He breathes hot and loud on Fat Man’s neck and ear, his legs dangling and kicking at the air and sometimes Fat Man.
“What do you think we’re here for?” says Fat Man.
Little Boy doesn’t answer. He is listening to the air. Crickets sing in the trees.
They come to a farm. Night is falling. There is a man in a pigpen tending to the grunting things. They are like tumors of the landscape, soft and gray and pink. They move but not often. Fat Man and Little Boy watch them. Fat Man says, “I feel for the pigs.”
Little Boy says, “I feel for the one who cleans up after them.”
A woman comes out of the home and leans against the pen’s fence to speak to her husband. Her hair is a thick black strand. Her face is a slope; they cannot see her eyes. She’s younger than she looks.
Little Boy says, “We’ll spend the night on their land. Tomorrow they can feed us.”
It is raining very lightly. It feels good. Little Boy is awake, watching the fabric weigh down and cling to his little brother’s upturned back. They are sleeping or not sleeping across the road from the farm, under partial shelter of tall trees. They hid the cash case under piled leaves.
The woman comes out of the home and slides shut the door. She goes into the outhouse, which is beside the pigpen.
Little Boy creeps up to the outhouse. It’s a shanty thing built from spare timber and irregular nails. He steps up close so that his bare toes touch the outhouse wall, finds a gap with his hands, bends to press his eye against the peephole. She is squatting on a platform raised on a box that stands over the hole. Her robe hangs from a hook on the door. There is no roof on the outhouse. Moonlight on her body, moonlight on her thighs, moonlight on her ribs. On high, hard breasts. Muscles underneath her skin, muscles that he didn’t know existed. The pigs snort and snicker in their pen. He can hear her shit fall thickly. It runs down a chute at the bottom of the hole, out the back of the outhouse, and into the pigs’ trough.
Moonlight on her body as the pigs crowd the trough, eating her night soil. They belch and squeal. She grunts back at them and squeezes more. They eat it all. Moonlight on the pigs hunched over their meal. Moonlight on the meal.
He can smell her, a green smell, a smell in the pit of his stomach.
She wipes herself with her hand. Little Boy grips himself between his legs, squeezes the softness. Nothing happens there. As she wraps herself in her robe, he rushes back to his resting place beside his brother, running under cover of pig ruckus. She goes back to the house. As she slides open the door she looks across the road and seems to see the brothers through the dark. “You don’t see me,” whispers Little Boy. The woman goes inside.
When Fat Man wakes there are two policemen standing over them. A tall one, a short one. Fat Man shakes Little Boy’s arm.
The policemen wear the expression of hatred the dead soldiers wore for some days, the expression that the dead husband who slept with a potted tree wore for less than an hour.
Little Boy jumps to his feet. He is smeared all over with mud. Fat Man slept on his face: only his front is so dirty, his back side rinsed by the rainfall.
Little Boy says, “We haven’t done anything.”
The policemen’s skin is purple-blotched like the soldiers’ but it seems to be healing. They are very thin. The tall one has a beard and the short one has no beard. They may be brothers because they hold hands. They say nothing.
Fat Man tells Little Boy to ask them what they want.
“How am I supposed to do that?” says Little Boy.
The policemen look at the brothers.
“Are you brothers?” says Fat Man.
The policemen shake their heads. It isn’t clear whether they mean to say they are not brothers or mean to say they disapprove of these two who are.
“Is this about the money?” says Fat Man.
“Don’t talk about the money,” hisses Little Boy. He flicks his brother’s ear.
The policemen go on shaking their heads.
“We’re leaving soon,” says Fat Man. “We promise.”
The short policeman says, in Japanese, “We are watching you.” He says, “We know you are wrong.”
The policemen leave them, hand in hand. The tall one has a limp.
“I