Secret City

by Julia Watts

  “That’ll be fine,” Mama said, “as long as she’s no trouble to you.”

  “Oh, Ruby is never any trouble,” Iris said. “Ruby is a treasure.”

  Once we were in the car, Iris turned to me and said, “Nervous?”

  “As a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”

  She smiled. “It’ll be fine. Anyone who meets you is going to like you instantly. And it’ll do us both good to get out of this place for a day.”

  We rode away from our little settlement of shacks, past the business area and the nicer houses, and up to the gatehouse at the edge of the city. Iris rolled down the window for the soldier who came to meet us.

  “Leaving the reservation this morning, ma’am?” he asked. He didn’t look like he was much older than me. He was so baby-faced I bet he didn’t need to shave every day, even though he probably did anyway.

  “Yes, sir,” Iris said. If she thought it was funny to call such a young boy “sir,” she didn’t show it. “Just for a few hours. We’re going to a luncheon in Knoxville.”

  “Let me see your badges, please.”

  We took off our badges, and he stared at them for a minute. “Now, Mrs. Stevens,” he said, “you wouldn’t have any of your husband’s paperwork in the car with you—nothing of a confidential nature?”

  “No, sir.”

  “No copies of the Oak Ridge Journal? Those are supposed to stay on site.”

  “No, sir. Feel free to have a look around my car if you like.”

  He handed back our badges. “That won’t be necessary, ma’am. Drive safely.”

  As soon as the gate opened, Iris lit a cigarette. “Being questioned always makes me nervous.” She smiled. “Even when I’m being questioned by a twelve-year-old playing soldier.”

  Our case of nerves seemed to fade once we were on the open road. Iris turned on the radio and hummed along with the Andrews Sisters. “God, I love to drive like this,” she said. “Sometimes when I get behind the wheel on a pretty day with the radio playing, I feel like I don’t want to stop—that I just want to keep on following the road to wherever it takes me. Don’t worry, though. I’m not kidnapping you or anything.”

  “I’m not worried.” But a little thrill shot through me. What if Iris really did just keep on driving? Where would we go? What adventures would we have? But even as I thought it, I knew it was silly. Neither of us could just drive away from our families who loved us.

  Oak Ridge called itself a city, but it wasn’t that big, and all its buildings had been slapped up over a short period of time, like a city a little kid would build out of blocks. Knoxville was a city with both size and history, and as Iris drove us down Gay Street, my stomach tied itself into strange knots of joy and fear.

  “Have you ever been to the Tennessee Theatre?” Iris said as we passed the golden movie palace’s lighted marquee.

  “Uh-uh.”

  “Maybe we can make a matinee once the luncheon’s over. It’s beautiful in there, like a Faberge egg. Oh, the hotel’s up here. See?”

  The Wemberley was an elegant yellow brick building with carved stone lions’ faces in the molding. “Lord, this is too fancy for me,” I said, feeling sick. “I don’t think I can do this.”

  Iris pulled the car into a parking space. “Don’t be silly, Ruby,” she said in the same firm voice she used to tell Baby Sharon to stop climbing the bookcase. “This is an opportunity for you, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to let you miss it just because you’re scared.”

  “But the ladies in there all have money and breeding and education, and here I am, wearing my only store-bought dress.”

  Iris looked straight at me. “And since that dress is Eleanor blue, I feel compelled to quote our dear former First Lady: ‘No one can make you feel inferior without your consent.’”

  There was no arguing with Eleanor, so I took a deep breath and got out of the car.

  Grand is the only word I can think of to describe the lobby of the Wemberley Hotel. I had never seen a crystal chandelier except in the movies, and the one hanging over our heads was even more beautiful than in the movies because it was in full color. My eyes wandered from the chandelier to the bustling hotel workers in their gold-braided black uniforms and then down to the thick crimson carpet at my feet.

  I don’t know how long I stood there gaping before Iris said, “Isn’t the luncheon in the Dogwood Room? We’d better go find it.” She took my hand and led me away from the spot on the carpet where I’d been frozen. One woman in a fur stole stared at us, probably thinking Iris was my keeper instead of my friend.

  All the tables in the Dogwood Room were covered with white tablecloths. In the center of each tablecloth was a bowl of daisies. A few ladies already sat at the table, but most of them were mingling, chattering and tittering amongst themselves. The younger ladies wore floral print dresses or light suits with little straw hats and white gloves. The older ladies, who tended to be a little broader across the beam, wore more somber colors but still with the obligatory white gloves. I’ve never understood why ladies feel the need to wear those silly white gloves when they go out. Are they afraid the sight of their naked fingers will drive men wild? Or do they just want to look like Mickey Mouse?

  “We should look for your place card,” Iris said, leading me to the tables and saving me from standing and staring once again. To my horror, Iris found my place card at what could only be called “the head table.” It was right next to the podium where, I guessed, I’d have to accept my award. I pictured myself getting up from the table, knocking over my chair, and somehow pulling the tablecloth and sending all the plates and cups and silverware clattering to the floor.

  “Would you like to sit, or would you like to mingle?” Iris asked.

  I was so terrified it seemed like having to choose between being shot or hanged. “Um, sit, I guess.”

  We hadn’t been sitting for a minute when a big woman with poodle-dog curls and little half-glasses came barreling over to us. She had on a gray suit with a jacket that seemed about ready to pop its buttons under the strain of holding back her enormous bosom. Something about her put me in mind of one of those tanks you see in newsreels.

  “Ruby Pickett!” she gasped, clasping her hands together. You would’ve thought she was meeting Rita Hayworth.

  “Yes, ma’am.” My nerves made my voice small and squeaky.

  “Ruby, I’m Mrs. Louella Dobson, the President of the East Tennessee chapter of the Society of American Clubwomen. Your essay was positively an inspiration to us, and we’re delighted you could join us today.”

  “Thank you,” I squeaked.

  “And you must be Ruby’s mother. I’m sure you’re so proud.”

  In order to be my mother, Iris would’ve had to give birth to me at the age of eight. But if she was offended, she didn’t show it. She beamed right back at Mrs. Dobson and said, “I am proud of Ruby, but I’m not her mother. I’m her friend, Iris Stevens.”

  “Well, we’re glad you could join us, Mrs. Stevens. And now, if you’ll excuse me, I must ask the hotel manager if he can do something about making the lighting in this room more of a glow and less of a glare.” She marched off on her mission.

  “She’s a formidable specimen, isn’t she?” Iris whispered. “I bet she’s got a terrified little milquetoast of a husband at home—the kind with two words in his vocabulary: yes and dear.”

  Soon a bell was rung announcing the beginning of luncheon. Mrs. Dobson and a thin reed of a lady named Mrs. Crabtree sat across from Iris and me. Once everyone had found her place at a table, Mrs. Dobson stood and said, “And now Mrs. Betty Richards, wife of Reverend Harold Richards, will lead us in prayer.”

  Mrs. Richards, a soft-featured lady with pure white hair, stood and commanded, “Let us pray.”

  And boy, did Mrs. Richards pray! She prayed for the soul of President Roosevelt, for Eleanor in her time of grief, for President Truman in his new position as Commander-in-Chief. She prayed for our boys overseas a
nd for a swift and victorious end to the war. Then she started praying for the poor and the sick and for some specific people by name. I opened my eyes and looked across the table at Mrs. Dobson and Mrs. Crabtree, their heads bowed and their eyes closed. Then I turned to Iris, who looked right back at me and winked, and I felt the excitement that comes with sharing a secret.

  When a colored waiter set bowls of soup in front of us, I watched Iris to see which spoon she picked up and imitated her.

  “This is mushroom consommé,” Mrs. Dobson said, lifting her spoon. “We always have meatless luncheons to support the war effort.”

  “It’s lovely,” Iris said.

  To me, it tasted like dirt soup.

  “So,” Mrs. Dobson said to me, “you live in Oak Ridge.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said. “So does Iris.”

  “It must be a fascinating place—with all those people from all over the country and so much activity going on.” She leaned forward, putting her gigantic bosom in striking distance of her soup bowl, and half-whispered, “We’re all patriotic women here. You can tell me. What do they make there?”

  Iris set down her spoon. “Well, I think the laborers make about seventy-five cents an hour. The higher ranking scientists and military men are on salary, though.”

  Mrs. Dobson’s smile was less than pleasant. “That was very clever, Mrs. Stevens, but I think you know exactly what I’m asking you.”

  “Oh, I understand the question. I just don’t know the answer,” Iris said.

  “Oh, really,” Mrs. Crabtree broke in. “How can you live there and not know?”

  “If the entire U.S. government is working to keep something secret, it’s going to take somebody smarter than me to figure it out,” Iris said.

  “My daddy always tells my little sister they’re making lights for lightning bugs,” I said. “He says as far as he knows that could be the truth.”

  The soup bowls were taken away and replaced by what looked like domes of red Jell-O. I took a bite, expecting it to be either cherry or strawberry, but my mouth was shocked by a sour tang. My surprise must’ve shown because Iris leaned toward me and whispered, “Tomato aspic.”

  If this food was what ladies ate, then it was one more reason I didn’t want to be a lady. The only positive thing I could say about the soup and aspic was that they didn’t need to be chewed. I swallowed them like spoonfuls of medicine, and they slid right down.

  The program after lunch consisted of Mrs. Dobson calling on different ladies to sing songs or talk about the club’s community projects. Nearly an hour had passed by the time Mrs. Dobson got around to saying, “And now I am pleased to present the awards portion of our program.”

  I scooted back from the table in preparation for getting up (hopefully without taking the tablecloth with me), but Mrs. Dobson wasn’t ready to give up the spotlight yet. She had to make the declaration that in These Trying Times, the Flame of Youth shone like a Beacon of Hope in the Darkness. Eventually, she got around to mentioning that in this case, I was the Flame.

  I managed to get up without falling or knocking anything over, accept my certificate and my ten-dollar bond and choke out, “Thank you.” Somehow the moment wasn’t as exciting as I’d imagined it in my head.

  I guess when people look forward to things and imagine what they’ll be like they blow them up in their heads until what’s in their imaginations is bigger and better than the thing itself could ever be. Maybe it’s the unexpected things we don’t have time to anticipate that bring the most pleasure. Like when Iris and I were walking out the hotel’s front doors and she said, “I’m all for war rationing, but that consommé and aspic wouldn’t have been enough to fill Sharon’s little tummy. Why don’t we go get some ice cream?”

  We sat at the counter at the soda fountain, digging up spoonfuls of gooey chocolate sundae and laughing about how we were nothing like the ladies at the luncheon. Afterward, we sat in the Tennessee Theatre and watched the red and gold Wurlitzer organ rise onto the stage. I don’t know if it was the award or the gilt and velvet beauty around me or Iris beside me, but the swelling music from the organ felt like it was coming from my own heart.

  April 25, 1945

  It happened Monday night, but I’ve not been able to bring myself to write about it until now. At about eleven o’clock when we were all in bed, there was a knock on the door that sounded like somebody was fixing to kick it in. I heard Daddy get out of bed and the rustling of his clothes as he got dressed. Once he opened the door, I heard voices for a minute, and then Daddy hollered, “Ruby, it’s for you!”

  I didn’t even think to put on clothes. I went to meet whoever it was barefoot and in my nightgown.

  Standing in the doorway were Virgie and Aaron, their red hair shining like halos in the moonlight. Aaron’s face was a blank mask, but Virgie’s was blotchy and swollen. Something was bad wrong. “Y’all want to come in?” I said. “Everybody’s in bed, so we’ll have to whisper.”

  Virgie took a step into the house, then flung herself into my arms, sobbing. I held her and stroked her hair and said “Shh, shh” even though what I wanted to say was, “Tell me what in the Sam Hill is going on.”

  After her sobbing slowed down, Virgie slipped out of my arms and held both of my hands in hers. “We’re leaving,” she said. “But we couldn’t go without saying goodbye.”

  I could barely catch my breath to speak. “Leaving? What do you mean?”

  “Daddy got called in for questioning,” Virgie said. “The army fellers that questioned him say he’s been giving out all kinds of government secrets in his sermons—secrets that are a security threat. Daddy said he didn’t have no secrets to tell, but they didn’t believe him. They’re kicking us out firs’ thing tomorrow morning.”

  Now I was crying, too. “But what will you do? Where will you go?”

  “Back to West Virginia, at least for now. Daddy’s gonna look for work.”

  My hands were probably squeezing hers too hard. Maybe if I held tight enough, I wouldn’t have to let go.“You’ll…you’ll write to me, won’t you?”

  “I’ll write you, Ruby, but that don’t mean you’ll ever see the letters. You know how it is. This place ain’t even on the map, so it’s hard enough to get the mail here. And then the government opens up every letter that gets sent here. Do you really think they’re gonna let a letter from somebody who got kicked out of this town get through?”

  “Virgie, this ain’t right. The government can’t do this to you.”

  “Sure they can,” Virgie said, wiping her eyes. “They can do anything they damn well please.” She threw her arms around me. “I’m gonna miss you, Ruby.”

  “I’m gonna miss you, too.” I choked. “You’re a sister to me, Virgie.”

  “You’re a sister to me, too.”

  We held each other for a minute, and when we pulled apart, I saw Aaron staring right at me. He stood facing me and took both my hands in his. “Ruby,” he said, looking at me more directly than he’d ever looked at me, “I can’t believe this dadblamed war is tearing us apart like this. But one day when all this is over, I’ll come and find you.”

  Those two sentences were the most he’d ever said to me at one time, and before I could say anything back to him, he pulled me to him and kissed me, long and hard on the mouth, the way Rhett kissed Scarlett, the way Humphrey Bogart kissed Lauren Bacall.

  It was my first kiss, and all I really felt was surprised—surprised because shy Aaron would do such a thing, surprised because while I’d known Virgie was living in a Hollywood-created fantasy, I’d had no idea that Aaron was a romantic hero in the movies in his own mind. I guess he was the strong, silent type.

  “We’d better get back,” Virgie said. “Mother and Daddy’ll throw a fit if they find out we snuck off.”

  I couldn’t make myself say goodbye, so I threw my arms around both of them, and we stood for a minute in a quiet, three-person hug. “I love y’all,” I sobbed.

  “I love you, too,”
Virgie said.

  Aaron said, “I love you, Ruby,” and I knew he meant it in a different way than I had. If I loved Virgie as a sister, then I loved Aaron as a brother, but as much as we were all hurting, I figured there was no harm in letting him interpret my words however he wanted to. Virgie was who my heart was breaking over, but during a war it’s surely not a crime to let a boy think you’re in love with him when the odds are you’ll never see each other again.

  April 27, 1945

  “I could say it’s okay, but I know it’s not,” Iris said. “I hate when people try to comfort me by telling me everything’s fine. If everything were fine, I wouldn’t need comforting.”

  I sat on Iris’s couch, dabbing at my eyes with the hanky she had given me. I had been running though the hankies even though I’d been trying my best to save my tears for private. Sometimes I couldn’t help crying in public, though. Walking into English class yesterday and seeing a new girl—a stranger—sitting in the desk that had been Virgie’s was more than I could stand. As I ran out of the room, Mr. Masters called my name, which made me think of the day I walked into the classroom to find that he had replaced Miss Connor. People I loved disappeared and were replaced as though they had never been there at all.

  “I feel guilty for being so sad,” I said to Iris. “I think about how many people have lost sons or brothers or husbands or boyfriends. And I think of the pictures coming out of Germany, of starved bodies in piles like garbage, and I think here I am, feeling sorry for myself when compared to so many people I’ve lost nothing.”

  Iris sat down next to me. “War tears people apart. Your losses, my losses, other people’s losses, they’re all an effect of the same cause.” She took out a cigarette, studied it for a couple of seconds, then lit it. “I know what you mean, though, about feeling guilty. The way things are now with Warren and me—how we only seem to be able to make polite chit-chat with each other—that’s because of the war, too. And because we live in this place, where the war is absolutely inescapable. But then I think, why am I so sad? Two of my girlfriends from college have lost husbands, so better I should be in a less-than-ideal marriage than be a war widow.”