The Longest Night (45 page)

Paul backed the car down the driveway. Its tires bumped over the snowy gutter, grinding onto the salt-flecked road. Nat watched the girls in her side mirror, their fingers hooked against the edges of the windows, Sam's tousled dark hair and Liddie's short, shiny pigtails.

For an instant, as they passed the last downtown block toward the highway, Nat thought she saw a familiar silhouette by the barbershop: Stetson hat and canvas work jacket and boots. She managed to keep herself from spinning in the seat—moved just her eyes; but it wasn't him, of course. This man turned to look up as they drove past and his face was older, grizzled, not as kind. For all she knew he might be Esrom's uncle, some juniper-tough branch on the family tree. She'd think back to this moment days later, at Sharon Webb's house. It was only a reflex but it was still something: a pulse, a scrawled graffiti on the cellular level. She'd remember what Mrs. Webb had said:
I wanted to keep that moment when I wasn't sure it was really him
.

Her eyes darted to Paul; he was focused on the drive before them, his immediate task, his endless and careful responsibility. When they left a place, he kept his eyes straight ahead, but she would always be the one who looked back.

W
hile
The Longest Night
is a work of fiction, an explosion at a small nuclear reactor called the SL-1 in Idaho Falls, Idaho, did kill three young operators on January 3, 1961. The explosion occurred after a control rod was lifted too high, causing the reactor to go “supercritical” in a fraction of a second. But the tragedy at the SL-1 has been allowed to fall away from our cultural memory, with Three Mile Island looming much larger in the American consciousness, because Three Mile Island's meltdown took place more recently, in a more populated area, and perhaps among a more skeptical society. It looms
so
large in our minds, in fact, that many of my peers were surprised to learn that, thankfully, no lives were lost at Three Mile Island in March of 1979.

In an effort to give a sense of what I considered the more fascinating aspects of early American nuclear history, I have conflated some historical events; for example, Camp Century in Greenland was actually completed a few months after I sent Paul there in the novel.

Anyone interested in learning more about the SL-1 accident and the National Reactor Testing Station in the 1950s and '60s should consider reading Todd Tucker's fabulous
Atomic America
and William McKeown's
Idaho Falls
. While the events at the SL-1 have always been open to more interpretations than is typical, given that all three participants were, sadly, killed at the scene, Tucker's and McKeown's books are—unlike my own novel—nonfiction accounts.

For Dave Johanson

T
his book would never have seen the light of day without the efforts of my amazing agent, Sylvie Greenberg, who championed it from the start. Her instincts are pure gold, she somehow manages the impossible, and she's made this whole process more fun than I dared hope it would be. Thanks also to Jordan Carr for his early read of this manuscript.

It's been a pleasure and an honor to work with the lovely, talented Andrea Walker at Penguin Random House. Thanks to everyone there and to everyone at Fletcher & Company literary agency.

Gratitude to Aaron Gwyn, David R. Gillham, David Abrams, Siobhan Fallon, Celeste Ng, Nina McConigley, Molly Antopol, Frederick Reiken, Peter Molin, Vincent La Scala, Michelle Daniel, and Kaela Myers.

I owe a debt to my friends from the MFA program at the University of Minnesota for their encouragement, and for the example of their talent and hard work. Rob McGinley-Myers, you're the best first reader I could have asked for. Also Kate Hopper, Suzanne Rivecca, Alex Lemon, Richard Hermes, Kevin Fenton, Amanda Fields, Bryan Bradford; and to Valerie Miner and Julie Schumacher, my advisers.

Terri Barett, Britta Hansen (and Eric and Kenny), Dave and Anne Johanson, Alfred Faro (and Alexis!), Sarah Williams, Gail Buteau, Paul Wyman (my main character's namesake), and all of the Williamses, Faros, Moneys, Baretts, and Johansons for their warmth and love. You can't know my gratitude!

Erin Wilcox and Lisa Crawford, you were my first writing teachers and the people with whom I shared my most meaningful love of books, imagination, and adventure. I could never deserve friends like you (and your wonderful families). Huge thanks to Erin for—thirty years later—working with me on my first manuscript as part of Wilcox Editing Services.

Big thanks to “the Alaskans,” including (again) Erin Wilcox, Leslie Hsu Oh, Signe Jorgenson, and Shehla Anjum, for reading some of these chapters in an earlier form, and for all the evening Skype sessions.

Julie Shadford Odato, if everyone loved books as much as you do, writers wouldn't have a thing to worry about.

I've been lucky enough to have some wonderful literature teachers, especially Hilary Zunin and Justin Aaron. I've also been fortunate to have students who taught me more than I taught them: Pete Meidlinger, Andy Uzendoski, Matt Bruce, Jaz Roemer, Shawn Swanson, and the Steel Workers one and all.

They say a good man is hard to find, but I worked with three of them: Mark Schultz, Mike McMahon, and Adam Warthesen.

Thanks to the folks at the Bad Ass Café in Rancho Penasquitos, where I wrote nearly all the revisions for this novel—especially Danny, Nicole, and Savannah. Thanks to Becky Cardoso, Nancy Bergman, and my PQ book club.

From my early Navy days, when I was a stranger in a strange land: Meg Riley Hutchinson, Jane Hill-Gibson, Rachel Duncan, Tricia and Martin Walsh, and Nereyda Gonzalez.

To the military spouses out there: Thanks for holding it all together.

Dave Johanson, when you wrote out Ginsberg's “Song” by hand and taped it to my car's windshield in the high school parking lot I knew better than to let you get away. Nora, Soren, and Susanna, thanks for making life fun. I love you guys more than anything.

Last of all, I wouldn't be nothin' without my truly selfless, funny, and loving parents, Bob and Elaine Williams, and my brother, Nick Williams. Mom, thanks for telling me it was okay to stay inside and write when the other kids were playing outside. You always got me. Nick, if you ever get put in time-out again, I will still sneak you chocolate.

Mom and Dad, you mean the world to me and I hope you know it.

A native of northern California, where her parents were public schoolteachers,
A
NDRIA
W
ILLIAMS
attended UC-Berkeley (BA in English) and the University of Minnesota (MFA in creative writing). She and her husband, an active-duty naval officer, have three young children. They have been stationed in Virginia, Illinois, and California, and are currently in Colorado.
The Longest Night
is her first novel.

andriawilliams.com

@Andria816