Commie Pinko

Behind the bar, Dad and I got down to business. He mixed the cocktails, while I put on the finishing touches: a maraschino cherry for a Manhattan, a green olive for a martini, and a pickled onion for a Gibson. Old-fashions were trickiest, with an orange slice, a lemon twist, and a maraschino cherry stuck on a plastic sword. When Dad had served all the guests, he made my usual, a Shirley Temple. He called it a Double Shirley because after I added a cherry, he plopped in a second. The party got louder, smokier, and happier. The guests were professors Dad taught with and their wives; the members of the Faculty Wives Association Mom knew and their husbands; and the physicists Dad had worked with at the Lawrence Livermore Lab during the war. There was only one lady professor, a poet, who wore big gypsy jewelry. They all loved to argue and talk loudly over each other, but they never seemed to get mad. If they disagreed, they talked faster or made a joke, or jabbed the air and slurred their words because they had too many martinis. Then they lit more cigarettes and had more drinks and debated and laughed some more. Finally, the subject that I had been listening for all evening caused my ears to perk up. “Spreading Communist propaganda in your courses now, are you Leo?” joked Dr. Tucker. Dad took a long drag on his cigarette and blew out the smoke. In his light German accent, he claimed, “It’s nothing worth mentioning.” “Oh no? The Chronicle thought it was,” said Dr. Aldridge. “What exactly happened?” Dad shook his head. “How do you call it? A tempest in a teapot.” I could tell he didn’t want to talk about it, especially with Dr. Aldridge, who often disagreed with him. Mrs. Tucker grasped Dad’s wrist and gazed into his eyes. She was young and pretty with thick eyeliner and tight, black beatnik clothes like Alice’s. She gushed her words like an actress in a play. “I’d adore hearing the story straight from the horse’s mouth, Leo.” “Very well. The topic of national security came up in class, and a heated discussion ensued. The next day, I added an extra credit question at the bottom of a quiz. Exactly how did I word it?” Dad lifted his eyes to the ceiling for a moment. “What are the dangers to a democracy of a national police organization, like the FBI, which operates secretly and is unresponsive to public criticism?” Dr. Deerling whistled. “How many extra credit points, Kronie?” Dad batted smoke away with an irritated flutter of his hand. “Points? None whatsoever. Extra credit in the sense that it gave the students something more to think about.” “Hurrah,” said the lady poet, waving a shrimp on a toothpick like a pennant. “Jolly good fun!” Dr. Tucker rubbed his hands together. “What sort of response did you get?” “Most of the students were merely amused. A few offered sarcastic quips. Only a half dozen answered the question seriously.” Dr. Aldridge pursed his wide mouth into his bulldog scowl. “Aren’t we supposed to be teaching physics?” “Of course, Wally, but if a different topic arises in class discussion, I address it,” replied Dad. “If students can’t have an exchange of ideas at university, where can they?” “Not at a cocktail party,” Mrs. Tucker said drily. “They’re too young.” “Then the stool pigeon was one of your own students!” Dr. Tucker noted. Dad’s bushy brows collided. “I know just the one.” Dr. Tucker shook his head in disgust. “Informing on his professor like a character out of Orwell’s Nineteen Eight-Four.” “How futuristic,” Mrs. Tucker commented blithely, fluttering her eyelashes. “I’m afraid it’s very much the present, Adele,” said the lady poet. “Do you know I have writer friends in Hollywood who can’t get work? They’re blacklisted!” “Reckless behavior on your part, Leo,” chided Dr. Aldridge. “You can expect the Americanism Educational League to pounce on this.” Dr. Tucker broke the tense silence with a slap on Dad’s back. “By Jove, you’ve done it now, you gimpy old Nazi.” I popped my head under the crook of my father’s elbow to confront Dr. Tucker. “My dad is not a Nazi! He’s a citizen of the United States of America!” “There, you see, Tuck? I’m perfectly safe. I’ve got my Donna to defend me. I’d like to see J. Edgar Hoover get past my good girl.” Dr. Aldridge puffed out his barrel chest. “All right, you fellows can laugh at Hoover if you’d like, but he’s right, you know. If the commies are going to take us down, it won’t be the Soviets. Our American institution will crumble from within.” Dr. Tucker shook his fist in Dad’s face. “Oh, that’s your game, is it, Kronie? Crumbling our American institution from within!” His face was so long and stern it took me a moment to realize he was still kidding around. “Who ever heard of a communist Nazi?” asked the lady poet. Grownup talk made my head swim. Now I was more confused than ever. I looked up into my father’s face, splotchy and flushed. “Is a communist worse than a Nazi, Daddy?” The party guests roared with laughter, and I felt hot with embarrassment. Grownups laughed when I least expected it. Dr. Teller, who had been listening hard but not saying a word, held a weenie suspended on a toothpick for so long that cocktail sauce dripped onto his white shirt. I wondered how such a careless eater could be the father of the hydrogen bomb.