Cold War Defrosted

The large steel door swung open slowly and two guards moved aside. Roy stepped over the large notch in the floor and into the underground parking garage. He took the elevator to the B2 level and swiped his card, waited for the beep, and stepped into the parking area. He walked over to his car, an old but well-kept 1932 Lincoln, and slid into the driver's seat, pushing his bag onto the passenger seat. He sat for a few minutes, rooting through the bag. He pulled out a slim stack of papers and rifled through them for a moment, reviewing his payment package. The company for which he worked was a hidden affiliate of the government's own weapons research facilities. Affiliate so that, should something go awry, the government could not be blamed. Everything was kept hush hush, and all employees took on an alias when then entered the facility; or, when they left it. Either way there were two identities every man had to contend with. Roy turned the key and the engine rumbled to life, and he inched the car forward, briefly testing its brakes. One could never be too careful, especially where he was going.

Roy begrudgingly nodded to the security guard as he approached the checkpoint. His job wasn't glamorous. In fact rather the opposite since he was sworn to secrecy, but the worst part was having to finally go back home to a routine life after a month in the laboratory– which he actually much preferred. The guard nodded and motioned to the control box, and the four steel rods descended into the ground. Roy's car rolled over the slight bump and he turned onto the gravel road. The facility was actually hidden inside of a mountain, the only trace of which was the very tiny entrance to the parking facility. From the air the whole thing was practically invisible. The Lincoln rumbled down the gravel road for several miles until a tiny light on his dashboard flashed. He pulled over, and retrieved a license plate from the bag.

Roy stepped out into the crisp mountain air. He breathed deep. It was the first time he'd tasted fresh air in over a month, and it felt fine. It was late November. The sun was diffused behind a screen of clouds, the dull light hardly casting shadows. He walked to the back of the car and knelt down, and set to work reattaching the license plate. They'd taken all of the precautions, including the very tedious and not likely useful ones that Roy had to contend with, such as a ban on license plates within forty miles of the facility. Cars were not allowed to drive at a rate less than twenty-five miles per hour or more than thirty; cars that stopped near the facility or sped towards it were promptly confronted by attack helicopters and humvees. In the interest of avoiding unnecessary loss, the facility did have its own fuel station. Roy tightened the screws on the license plate and quickly returned to the car, shutting the car door. He sighed. As bored as he was with life, and as unenthusiastic as he was about returning to his 'beloved wife', he understood that it was necessary to keep a good cover story. Truthfully, he didn't hate her. In fact he actually thought she was a rather understanding person, but what irked him the most is how much better off, happier even, she'd be if she'd just married some other bloke. God knows you must get lonely, dear. he thought, I'll be there soon enough.

It was a four hour drive from the facility to their home. When the red light on his dash finally stopped blinking, he sped up and reached the highway fairly quickly. He checked to make sure that there were no cars visible (for the entrance to that particular gravel road was actually somewhat hidden), and turned onto the concrete. He pressed the accelerator, climbing up past the speed limit in no time at all. The advantage of the red light– actually a radar detector– was that he could detect police car checkpoints and traffic stops. The car engine rumbled; the Lincoln had had its engine tuned up significantly, although Roy was not really much of a mechanic. To prevent and diffuse suicide among its staff, the facility had encouraged employees to submit applications for 'hobbies': the facility would pay for whatever 'hobby project' a researcher wanted to work on, provided of course that it did not involve facility assets, were not immediately visible to spouses, and did not cost too much. Roy however, was not low on the ladder of command there at the facility, and thus had managed to procure a slightly larger budget for his 'hobby'.

He pulled into the driveway of the single-story house. It was spacious and had a garage, actually a fairly nice home for a $50,000-a-year paycheque. Of course that was only a fraction of how much he actually earned, but the rest was stored in a bank somewhere in Europe. He shut the car door, swinging his bag onto his shoulder. Bristling at the cold winter air that slowly flowed into the garage, he closed the garage door and shuffled for his keys. Eventually he unlocked the door and stepped inside. Momentarily, Roy hesitated. "Honey," he finally announced as he closed the door, "I'm home."

The days ran together seamlessly. The only definitive sign of a beginning or end were the processes of waking up and falling asleep. These two processes that had once been taken for granted had become the product of much obsession over the month of October. The thought that waking up alone was just as difficult as falling asleep alone had grown in her mind, and this fueled many bitter thoughts about the hours Roy kept. She remembered overhearing her father joking with Roy one day about his work, and how leaving her alone for so long could become harmful. A girl with too much time on her hands was bound to start formulating opinions and demanding more control.

Eleanor had never been much interested in any type of media, but the noise the radio offered was generally better than eerie silence. She did enjoy the 4 o'clock show with the older gentleman. His voice was smooth and calming, and the first time she'd heard his voice she'd thought Roy was home. It was surreal, but she found comfort in it. Roy's calls were few and far between. She learned on his first month of work that sitting beside the phone was futile. It was best to stay busy, but in an empty and immaculate house, this was an impossible task.

The day had gone so slowly that she found herself standing at the end of the long narrow hall, from which their bedroom and Roy's office sprouted. At the end of the long corridor was a narrow slab of chocolate colored wall that displayed a large painting of a beautiful Californian sunset. The oranges and yellows blended together along the painting's clear horizon, gradually darkening into a violent red sky. She knew that art was completely subjective, but she couldn't understand why Roy agreed to showcase this piece. It terrified Eleanor.

The house remained incredibly still. There were no lights with the exception of the dim kitchen sink light, which was flickering a desperate cry for a new bulb. The living room and foyer appeared perfect, as if it were left just the way it had been a month prior. At the very end of the hall she stood, silent with a lit cigarette dangling between her thin fingers of her left hand. Her wedding band hung loose near her knuckle, and the obnoxiously large rock perched upon heavy white gold weighed it downward. She wore a simple burgundy a-line dress that hung just below her knees. She was barefoot ( something her mother considered "wild" and inappropriate ) since her heels left deep holes in the carpet and she would be the one to vacuum them out anyway.

It was obvious she knew he'd be returning today considering the calendar on the kitchen wall had all the previous days crossed off and the current date circled several times in red. She hated the waiting game. Boredom set in and the painting engulfed her as the sun began to set through the kitchen curtains, scattering an orange glare throughout the open house. She swore for a moment that she could smell the smoke of the burning West coast rolling from out of the frame, and that she could suddenly feel the heat nipping at her fingertips. A sound emerged from the driveway, startling Eleanor. She lifted her hand and looked at her cigarette, which had burned down so far in her "absence" that it had left two red welts on the inside of her index and middle finger. Looking downward towards her feet, she noticed where the ash had fallen and singed the carpet slightly.

With a sigh she pressed the cigarette butt into the ashtray on the kitchen counter and made her way through the living room. The front door opened just as she came around the corner, and Roy's voice filled her ears. She stood near the end of the couch, only feet from the door and took a moment to look him over. It was odd how hesitant she was suddenly feeling, as she'd been waiting on him to come home now for over a month. She pushed past the feeling and approached him with a sudden smile. "That you are," she nodded, taking his coat and his briefcase from him. Her baby blond hair was cut into a bob and curled under just at her shoulders, something she hoped Roy would notice. Her mother had insisted she cut it earlier that month because her long hair made her look like a child. It had been a tough decision considering she'd worn the same style since college. She wasn't yet comfortable with the new style, but she did agree it was a modern update.

"I hope your drive was pleasant," she said awkwardly as she hung up his coat near the door. Small talk? It felt weird in her mouth. She wasn't exactly sure where to begin. She never was. He couldn't discuss most of his work with her, and she really didn't have much to tell him either. Eleanor couldn't imagine him having any interest in her mother's drama or the blue bonnets she'd planted in the backyard. She turned and leaned back against the door, afraid that he might leave just as fast as he'd arrived. "Can I get you a drink? I made dinner earlier: roast and red potatoes. I can throw it on the range if you're hungry," she said softly as she neared the couch once more and leaned against the end of it. The moment was going nothing like she had thought. She wasn't sure if she was supposed to throw her arms around him or introduce herself. The sad truth was that he'd spent more time at work than with her during their first year of marriage. She didn't quite have him figured out.