Secret City

by Julia Watts

  “I guess I never thought of those things as lies,” I said. “Just stories. And I don’t know…somehow a story and a lie aren’t the same thing to me.”

  “That’s because you’re of a literary bent,” Iris said. “Warren isn’t.” Baby Sharon started dragging her in the other direction across the yard.

  I stood up. “Why don’t I let Sharon drag me for a few minutes? You’re gonna break your back if you keep leaning over like that.”

  “Thanks.” Iris held Baby Sharon’s hands until I could take them, then sat on the front steps and lit a cigarette. “Of course, the biggest thing Warren and I argue about in raising Sharon is what to tell her about God. To Warren, God is the biggest lie of all. He outstrips even Santa Claus and the Easter Bunny.” I must have looked as shocked as I felt because she quickly added, “Oh, I’ve offended you. I’m sorry.”

  I tried to wipe the shock off my face. “I’m not offended, just surprised. The way I’ve been raised, people just know there’s God the same way they know there’s air to breathe and water to drink.” Sharon pulled me forward, and I took silly-looking tiny steps to match her pace.

  Iris let out a breath of smoke. “That must be nice. Comforting. See, I don’t believe in God either, but unlike Warren, I don’t think we should teach Sharon that atheism is the only way. I think she should have choices.”

  Iris had said I don’t believe in God out loud. Not only had she said it, but she’d said it where anybody could hear it—said it as though it was a casual, everyday statement like I don’t like lima beans. “I like your way better,” I finally managed to say. “A person should have choices and should be able to ask questions. See, back where I’m from, you didn’t get to ask questions about anything in the Bible. You just shut up and do what you’re told. I have so many questions, but I’m afraid to ask them. I think about things like what’s going on in Germany, and I think if there is a God, how could he let something go on like that?”

  “Exactly.” Iris ground out her cigarette.

  “But then,” I said, letting Sharon drag me the other way, “if something makes me feel good, I want to believe it came from God. That verse ‘God is love’ always kind of made sense to me because how else do you explain how I feel about my family…”

  “Or about Aaron?” Iris said, smiling.

  But that hadn’t been what I was going to say. I was going to say “about you and Sharon,” but maybe I would’ve stopped myself even if she hadn’t. “I don’t really know how I feel about Aaron yet.”

  Iris stood. “Well, I think love is all chemistry and instincts. People are just animals with overdeveloped brains and the ability to walk upright. Isn’t that right, Sharon?”

  I let go of Sharon’s hands and said, “Walk to Mama.”

  She made two shaky steps on her own before she sat down hard on her diapered behind. Iris and I both applauded and hugged Sharon and kissed her. She grinned all over herself, like she knew she had done something big.

  * * *

  Since I talked to Iris today, I’ve been feeling like I’m moving toward something, but I’m not sure what it is. Some different way of thinking or feeling about life, I guess. But it’s all so new to me that I feel as shaky and unbalanced as Baby Sharon taking her first steps with no help from above.

  April 7, 1945

  Virgie saw some movie where a couple had a picnic on the grass, and she thought it was the most romantic thing. Yesterday during lunchtime at school, she went on and on about this movie picnic and the beautiful woven picnic basket and the roasted chicken and the long loaf of bread and the grapes the couple had fed to each other. “That’s what you and Aaron ort to do,” Virgie said. “You’uns can have a romantic picnic tomorrow. I’ll come, too.”

  I laughed. “How’s it gonna be romantic if you come, too?”

  Her brow crinkled a little. “You don’t want me to come?”

  “Of course I want you to come.” And I did, too. I couldn’t stand the thought of a picnic alone with Aaron, where the only sound would be us chewing our food.

  “Good. ’Cause Aaron wouldn’t know nothing about putting a picnic together. And I figure with food scarce, you and me both ort to bring whatever our mamas say it’s all right to bring.”

  Mama gave me permission to take enough bread and cheese for three sandwiches. I wrapped the cheese sandwiches in wax paper and cut a red apple into lots of thin slices, so it would seem like each of us was getting more than we really were. When I met Virgie and Aaron in our designated spot in the woods, Aaron was spreading a crazy quilt on the ground.

  “Hey,” Virgie said, “whatcha bring?”

  “Cheese sandwiches and apple slices,” I said, squatting down to set them on the blanket.

  “I brought us a boiled egg apiece,” Virgie said, holding up a small paper sack.

  But my eye was on what was in Virgie’s other hand—a mason jar full of clear liquid. “What’s that?” I said. “Moonshine?”

  Virgie laughed. “Naw. It’s my special war ration lemonade, ain’t that right, Aaron?”

  Aaron shook his head with a little grin.

  “What’s in war ration lemonade?” I asked as we sat down on the blanket.

  “Well, it’s like regular lemonade,” Virgie said, “except that sugar’s rationed so we ain’t got no sugar in it. And fruit’s scarce, so there ain’t no lemon in it.” She grinned wide. “But there’s one lemonade ingredient we’ve still got plenty of.”

  “Water?” I laughed.

  “And if you close your eyes when you drink it and think real hard about lemons and sugar, you can almost taste them.”

  We ate our boiled eggs first, then our cheese sandwiches, then our apple slices extra slowly to make the sweetness last. And we washed it all down with Virgie’s colorless, odorless, tasteless lemonade.

  Once we’d finished eating, Virgie hopped up and announced she thought she’d go for a little walk to give Aaron and me some time alone. It was all I could do not to beg her to stay.

  So there on the blanket Aaron and I sat. The breeze rustled the leaves on the trees. The birds chirped. The squirrels chattered. Aaron was silent.

  Desperate for something to say, I looked at the sunlight shining through the trees and said, “It’s pretty out here.”

  After too much time had passed, Aaron said, “You. Uh…you’re pretty, too.”

  My face was as hot as a coal stove. I managed to say “Thank you,” but it was embarrassing, having to accept a compliment I flat-out knew wasn’t true. I’m not plug ugly, but I’m as plain as they come, not a bit pretty, and that’s fine with me. I didn’t feel like I had much choice but to say thank you, though. What was I supposed to do—start an argument?

  After another stretch of silence, I became aware that Aaron’s hand was creeping close to mine. He was moving it just a little at a time, like he was sneaking up on a shy animal. Finally, once his hand got about an inch away from mine, he grabbed it real fast and held it.

  I think he was scared that I’d pull away, but I didn’t. I just sat there, feeling how big and rough his hand was and feeling like I should be feeling something else—something like what’s in books. A stirring—that’s what the books always called it. But I remained as unstirred as Virgie’s war ration lemonade.

  Actually, holding hands with Aaron was a lot like drinking Virgie’s war ration lemonade. It was neither good nor bad. It was just something that happened because we were in a certain place in a certain time.

  April 12, 1945

  Opal is saying, “I can’t believe you’re writing at a time like this.” But honestly, it’s the only thing I can think of to do. Mama and the girls are all crying and hugging each other, and Daddy went out to talk to some fellows and—I’m betting—to have a nip to drink if he can find it. And I guess what I’m doing is setting this terrible day down for posterity, like Samuel Pepys did with the fire in London.

  This evening right after supper everybody was listening to Tom Mix on the radio. Well, ev
erybody except me…I was doing my math homework. I don’t find math to be the most interesting of subjects, but it’s still a lot more interesting than Tom Mix. At least math problems are different from each other. Every episode of Tom Mix is about the same. But then an announcer’s voice broke in and said, “We interrupt this program with a special news bulletin.”

  President Roosevelt is dead.

  It feels so strange to write those words and to see them, but it’s true. He died of a cerebral hemorrhage at the place nicknamed “the little White House” in Warm Springs, Georgia. The announcer said that even if a doctor had been there, he wouldn’t have been able to do anything.

  The first feeling that hit me was sadness—the same kind of sadness I’d feel if a member of my family died. Because FDR did feel like a member of the family. With his Fireside Chats and his reminders that we all had to pull together, he was sort of like a wise uncle or, at the very least, a beloved teacher.

  And then I thought of Eleanor, a war widow now like so many thousands of others. The agony of being Commander-in-Chief of the war took its toll on FDR just as surely as bullets took their toll on so many of our soldiers.

  And there’s the fear. I know the man who said “We have nothing to fear but fear itself” wouldn’t want his people to be afraid. But how can we not be afraid about what’s going to happen with the war and with the world? How can we not worry just a little bit that President Truman, however smart and competent he is, might not be able to fill FDR’s shoes? How strange it feels to say “President Truman” when it’s been “President Roosevelt” ever since I was old enough to know there was such a thing as a president of the United States.

  Mama is crying with my sisters saying, “Oh, girls, how can things go on like they did before?”

  It’s the only question right now I feel like I might know the answer to: They can’t.

  April 15, 1945

  “You’ve got to go to church with Aaron and me this Sunday,” Virgie said. “Daddy’s had him a revelation, and you need to hear him prophesy.”

  I’ve noticed that Virgie and Aaron always say “go to church” like their church isn’t right there in their apartment. For them, going to church just means walking from the bedroom to the living room. It wasn’t as easy for me to get there, but I made the effort. I was curious. I had never heard anybody prophesy before.

  The word must’ve gotten around about Mr.West’s revelation because the Wests’ living room was packed with men in overalls and women in homemade dresses. Or maybe the crowd wasn’t because of the revelation but because everybody was reeling from the President’s death and wanted some religion for comfort.

  But if comfort was what people wanted from Mr. West’s sermon, they were out of luck.

  Mr. West’s face was flushed and sweaty, and his eyes were wide and wild. Virgie had told me that sometimes when her daddy was being delivered visions and prophesies, he would go days without sleeping or eating. Now, she had said, was one of those times, and to look at him, it wasn’t hard to believe. His hands were shaking as he held up the Wests’ huge family Bible, and he looked like a man who needed to be fed some biscuits and gravy and then put to bed for about three days. “My girl Virgie’s gonna read us the scripture this morning,” he said.

  Virgie walked up and took the Bible from his hands. Even though Mr. West was of the opinion that females weren’t fit to preach, he always asked Virgie to do the reading at his services because he said reading out loud made him nervous.

  “This here’s from Chapter Eight of the Book of Revelation,” Virgie said.

  This here is what Virgie read (I just copied it out of our family Bible):

  7 The first angel sounded, and there followed hail and fire mixed with blood, and they were cast upon the earth; and the third part of the trees was burnt up, and all green grass was burnt up.

  8 And the second angel sounded, and, as it were, a great mountain burning with fire was cast into the sea; and the third part of the sea became blood.

  9 And the third part of the creatures which were in the sea, and had life, died; and the third part of the ships were destroyed.

  10 And the third angel sounded, and there fell a great star from heaven, burning as though it were a lamp, and it fell upon the third part of the rivers, and upon the fountains of water.

  11 And the name of the star is called Wormwood; and the third part of the waters became wormwood; and many men died in the waters because they were made bitter.

  After Virgie read this part, her daddy said, “That’s enough, honey. Thank you.”

  She sat back down next to Aaron and me and whispered, “I hope Daddy tells us what that means. None of it made a lick of sense to me.”

  “There will be no singing today,” Mr. West announced. “We ain’t got time for singing. There will be no passing of the collection plate because money’s no good where we’re going. Brothers and sisters, for seven days and seven nights, I ain’t slept a wink. I ain’t eat a bite except for a few spoonfuls a day Sister West fed to me like a baby. But it don’t matter. I won’t need my body where I’m going.”

  “Amen!” a young man in overalls hollered.

  “Amen is right,” Mr. West said. “When you say a prayer, ‘amen’ is what you say when you get to the end. And brothers and sisters, we are getting to the end. The End of Times where every soul will be judged and found worthy or wanting.”

  Mr. West rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I have seen it all. It has been revealed to me. The great beast has risen from the earth, and his mark is the swastika. And his land and the other lands that have risen up with him is the land of Babylon, the painted harlot who lures men to their doom.”

  I looked around at the other people in the room. Mr. West had their attention, that was for sure. But people’s expressions were hard to read.

  “But we—America—we are Jerusalem the holy, and we will smite the wicked and the unrighteous. We will rain down fire on their islands and mountains, on their cities and villages, and they shall be cast off this earth! But the righteous of Jerusalem will rise tall and strong to sit at the throne of God.”

  Brother West kept at kept at it like that for a long time until he finally said amen, staggered backwards, and fell down, dead asleep. Mrs. West ran to his side and hollered, “Could some of you boys help me get him to the bed?”

  That was the end of the service.

  Virgie asked me to stay for Sunday dinner, but I couldn’t. I didn’t understand how a person could sit for two hours listening to somebody talking about the end of the world and still have an appetite for fried chicken. But I guess Virgie and Aaron are used to that kind of thing.

  I took the long way home from Virgie and Aaron’s, and I spent the afternoon trying to concentrate on my studies. But I found myself opening up the family Bible and reading through the Book of Revelation and trying to make some sense of it. The words were scary and beautiful, but I kept having the blasphemous thought that they sounded like something a crazy person would say. And then I thought of Mr. West’s wild eyes and sleeplessness and wondered if he might be a crazy person himself. But I felt bad for thinking it because I knew he was a good man who meant well.

  When I finally decided I needed to stop brooding and be with my family, everybody was gathered around the radio listening to Edward R. Murrow talking about Buchenwald, the Nazi camp he visited after Americans liberated it. What he said he saw was at least as bad as anything in the Book of Revelation: starving little boys with death in their eyes and numbers tattooed on their arms; men too weak to clap their hands in welcome for Mr. Murrow; a doctor who said that people at Buchenwald had died at a rate of 900 a day; and the corpses to prove it, naked, bony, and stacked up like kindling.

  Even though I was just hearing all this on the radio, the picture burned in my mind as sharp as photographs. I had to run outside for air. The image of those starved, stacked bodies filled my head, and bile filled my throat. I fell to my knees and vomited in the mud.

 
; April 21, 1945

  Except for my schoolwork, I haven’t written a word all week, and I’ve barely eaten or slept. You’d think I was Mr. West getting ready to prophesy, but really, it’s because I’ve been so nervous and excited about the Society of American Clubwomen luncheon.

  I told Iris I’d walk over to her house this morning, and we could leave for Knoxville from there, but she insisted on picking me up at my house. She wanted to talk to my mama, she said, so she wouldn’t worry about her daughter being taken off to the big, bad city. Sitting at the kitchen table, waiting for Iris to knock on the door, I saw the house as she would see it: thin sheets of plywood tacked together to make a flimsy shack. I was aware, too, how worn out Mama’s housedress looked and how few belongings we had to personalize the place. I hoped Mama would just talk to Iris at the door, that she wouldn’t let her in.

  When Iris knocked, I jumped like I hadn’t been expecting it.

  After Mama opened the door, she said, “You must be Mrs. Stevens. Ruby talks about you like you hung the moon. Come on in.”

  I felt heat rise to my cheeks.

  Iris looked pretty. She had on a light green spring suit with a matching hat that perched on top of her curls. Her pink lipstick was a little smeared, but that was just Iris.

  Mama shrugged. “It ain’t much to look at.”

  Iris smiled. “What house in this town is? We live where Roane-Anderson tells us to live. There’s not much room to be house-proud in Oak Ridge.”

  “Ain’t that the truth?” Mama said, and I could tell that Iris had won her over.

  “Are you ready for your big day, Ruby?” Iris held out a white-gloved hand, and I stood up, walked to her, and took it. My hands were so sweaty I was probably soaking her glove. “Now, Mrs. Pickett, if it’s all right with you, I may run a few errands after the luncheon is over, but I should have Ruby back to you no later than six this evening.”