Secret City

by Julia Watts

  Before I even thought about it, I asked, “Did you ever tell Warren about you and Miriam?”

  She looked away from me. “No. Of course not.”

  * * *

  My afternoons with Iris and Sharon are perfect. It feels like playing house when I was little, except with two mamas and a baby instead of a mama and daddy. And just like when I was little, I get so wrapped up in playing that I forget there’s anything else in the world. So it’s hard when 5:30 rolls around and I have to go back to my real house where nobody can figure me out—where mama is always asking if I’m feeling all right and my sisters go back and forth between thinking I’m pining away for Aaron or that I’ve got a new feller.

  Sometimes, too, when I’m in my real house, I think of what Iris must be doing: eating supper with Warren, listening to music with Warren, lying down in the bed with Warren. And that hot surge of jealousy rushes up again, and no matter how hard I try to stop it, I can’t.

  But I shouldn’t complain too much. You can’t have pleasure without pain, right? And I’m willing to suffer the pains of jealousy, the loneliness I feel when I’m with my family, and if I believed in it, the fire of hell itself if it means that for five days a week, I can have a few perfect hours with Iris.

  June 19, 1945

  Iris didn’t let me in when I knocked today. Instead she came out, pushing Sharon in her stroller. “We’re going to the library,” she said. “But I can’t tell you why yet.”

  “Okay.” I fell into step with her. Her eyes were shining and staring straight ahead like they were already seeing the library in front of her. “You sure are being all cloak and dagger,” I said. “I feel like I’m in one of those Nancy Drew mysteries.”

  Once we got to the library, Iris went straight for the big, dog-slapping dictionary they keep on its own little stand in the reference section. She flipped around in it, glanced down at a page, then looked at me with a big smile. “We can go now,” she said. “I found out what I wanted to know.”

  When we were back outside, I said, “Can you give me a clue, Nancy Drew?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get home,” she whispered.

  In the house, she helped Baby Sharon out of her stroller and told her to play in her room. Iris sat on the couch and patted the place beside her.

  When I sat, she leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Uranium.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Uranium,” she said again. “Last night I had insomnia, so I was reading in bed. Warren started talking in his sleep. Most of it was mumbling I couldn’t make out, but the one word I understood was ‘uranium.’”

  “So you went to the library to look up what uranium is?”

  “I took my share of science courses in college. I know what uranium is.” She leaned in close. “What I wanted to see was if anybody else has heard her husband say something about uranium. I figure Warren can’t be the only man in this town who talks in his sleep. And do you know”—her hand rested on mine—“when I got to the page of the dictionary with uranium on it, that page had been flipped to and pored over so much it was thin to the point of transparency. And the entry for uranium had been fingered so much the print had faded to a smeary gray. Whatever they’re doing here, Ruby, it’s got something to do with uranium.”

  I remembered the worn-out state of that page when I’d looked up the word urbane. “I’ve heard of uranium,” I said, “but I don’t really know what it is.”

  Iris smiled. “What is the science department at that high school teaching you?”

  “They’re teaching me biology. I ain’t got to chemistry yet.”

  “Well, in that case, uranium is a metallic element that has radioactivity. Do you know what radioactivity is?”

  “Not really,” I said, feeling dumber by the minute.

  “When an element is radioactive,” Iris said, lighting a cigarette, “it emits alpha rays, beta rays, sometimes gamma rays when the nucleus of the atom disintegrates.”

  She might as well have been speaking Swahili for all I was understanding. “You sure are smart,” I said because I didn’t know what else to say.

  “No.” She puffed on her cigarette. “If I were really smart, I’d be able to figure out what they’re using the uranium for.” She squeezed my hand. “Promise you won’t tell anybody I talked to you about this, okay?”

  “Okay.” It was an easy promise to keep. After all, you can’t talk about something if you don’t at least halfway understand it.

  June 28, 1945

  You know how in movies sometimes they’ll show a sequence of a happy new couple doing fun things together and laughing and holding hands? That’s how it’s been with Iris and me the past week. If my life was a movie, you’d see images of us picnicking in the park, splashing with Sharon at the public pool, making fudge that turned out to be a hilarious disaster, and dancing close to soft music in the living room during Sharon’s naptime.

  But today when I went to Iris’s she didn’t come to the door. She hollered, “Come in!” in a choked voice, and when I did, she was curled in a ball on the couch, her face red and puffy, her hair uncombed, still just in her nightgown. Sharon was sitting on the floor in her pink pajamas, rolling a pull toy back and forth while giving her mother nervous glances.

  “She…she needs changing, and she hasn’t had lunch yet,” Iris said. Her nose was so stuffy from crying she didn’t even sound like herself.

  “And what I can I do for you?”

  “Just take care of Sharon. I—I can’t right now.” She curled up in a tighter ball, and her shoulders shook as she sobbed.

  “All right,” I said. “I’ll take care of Sharon, but after that, I’m going to take care of you.”

  Her only response was to sob harder.

  “Okay, Sharon,” I said, scooping her up. “Let’s get you out of your jammies and into some big-girl clothes.” I carried her to her room and helped her out of her pajamas and soggy diaper. I powdered her down, diapered her up, and pulled her yellow sundress over her head. “Now why don’t we get some big-girl lunch?”

  Sharon took my hand, and we passed through the living room where Iris was still sobbing.

  “Mama sad,” Sharon said.

  “Yeah, but she’ll be all right,” I said. “Don’t you worry.” Of course, I said this without knowing if it was true or not, and I was worried sick myself. But what was I supposed to tell a one-year-old about her mama? “Now how about I scramble a nice egg for your lunch?”

  “No egg. Chee toe.”

  Being fluent in Sharonese, I said, “Cheese toast it is.” I put a cheese-covered bread slice in the oven long enough for the cheese to get melty and poured Sharon a cup of milk. When she was settled in her high chair, I said, “Now remember you’ve got to blow on your cheese toast to cool it off.”

  She puffed out her cheeks and blew, looking like the way they always draw the North Wind in picture books.

  It was strange. My heart felt like it was going to explode because I didn’t know what was wrong with Iris, and yet here I was, talking nonsense to Sharon while she ate her cheese toast and drank her milk, acting like it was an ordinary afternoon. There’s something about being around little kids that makes you able to act like everything’s okay…maybe because you hope so hard it will be, for their sake even more than yours.

  Once I got Sharon fed and settled down for her nap, I went to where Iris was still lying on the couch. She didn’t say anything, but she reached out for me, and I sat down and held her while she cried.

  “Shh,” I said. “Shh. Whatever it is, you can tell me.”

  But she was crying too hard to tell me anything. She could only gasp and sob and hiccup with her arms around me, one hand flat against my back, the other hand clenched into a fist. When I pulled back from our hug, I saw the clenched fist was holding something. “What is that?” I said.

  She held her fist out but did not unclench it. I gently peeled back her fingers to find a crumpled newspaper clipping. It was fro
m the April 10, January 1936 issue of the Oakdale, Indiana Banner:

  Auto Accident Proves Fatal

  A one-car accident on Lakeside Road Friday night claimed the life of Mrs. Lucille Stevens, age 36. The driver of the car, Dr. Warren Stevens, an assistant professor in the chemistry department at Whitman College, was returning with his wife from a faculty party when, due to rainy conditions, he lost control of the vehicle, running off the road and crashing into a tree. Dr. Stevens suffered a broken arm and minor injuries and was treated at Oakdale Community Hospital. Mrs. Stevens was killed instantly. Her death was ruled an accident.

  The reason I can write down what the article said is that I was in such shock I had to read it enough to memorize it before I could make sense of it. I must’ve read it a dozen times before I was able to ask Iris, “You didn’t know about the accident?”

  Iris looked at me with eyes that were swollen almost shut. “I didn’t know he’d been married before.” She fell into my arms again, sobbing.

  “You’re gonna have to talk to him,” I said, which just made her cry harder, so hard I was afraid she was going to throw up or break a rib. Finally, I said, “Listen, you’ve got brandy, right? Let me get you some brandy.”

  I don’t know why brandy came into my head except that I’d seen characters in movies give it to traumatized people, and I knew it was what Saint Bernard rescue dogs carried in those little barrels that hung from their collars. Clearly brandy was some kind of help in an emergency, and I was willing to try anything that might help.

  I poured a glass full of brandy and brought it to her along with her cigarettes and lighter. “Here. These will calm you down.”

  She took the glass in her shaking hand and knocked back several slugs. She set the glass on the table, put a cigarette between her lips, and let me light it for her. I sat beside her and let her smoke and drink in silence. I figured she’d talk when she was good and ready.

  After a while she lit a second cigarette off the butt of the first one and said, “I feel like I’m in a story by Daphne du Maurier or one of those damn Bronte sisters—like I’m the young bride who has discovered a Terrible Secret about her husband’s first marriage. It’s a lot more entertaining in a book, believe me.”

  I glanced down at the crumpled newspaper clipping on the coffee table. “How did you find the article?”

  “It was an accident.” She shook her head. “Ironic, eh?” She dabbed at her eyes with a hanky. “You remember when I found out about the uranium?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, of course, it’s just been gnawing at me—the curiosity about what they could be using the uranium for—so I thought I’d look up some more specific information on uranium in one of Warren’s old chemistry textbooks. I grabbed a book, opened it, and the clipping fell out.” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I wouldn’t have minded if he’d told me, you know? And I would’ve been sympathetic about the accident, even if he felt like it was his fault…”

  His fault. I thought of Iris telling me Warren didn’t like to drive at night. I took her hand. “Well, there’s no point in driving yourself crazy imagining things. The only person who can tell you anything is Warren.”

  “Well, clearly he doesn’t want to tell me anything. Uncle Sam’s secrets aren’t the only ones he’s keeping.”

  “Maybe he has an explanation. You’ve got to talk to him.”

  Iris shook her head, grabbed the brandy glass, and knocked the rest of it back. “You’re the only person I can talk to, Ruby. You’re the only person I trust.”

  Part of me wanted to say, Go get Sharon, and run away with me. But where would we run to? “Warren’s still your husband, and you need to talk to him.”

  “He’s a stranger. My mother always told me not to talk to strangers.”

  “He’s Sharon’s daddy.” I stood up. “Tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to run you a bath. You can get cleaned up, get your hair fixed, get dressed. Maybe getting fixed up on the outside will help you be fixed up on the inside a little, too…enough that you’ll be able to talk to Warren when he gets home.”

  “You’re so sweet to me, Ruby.” Her voice was thick with brandy and sadness. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too.” I kissed her forehead and then went to run her bath.

  When I cut off the water, she was standing in the doorway.

  “Stay with me, Ruby,” she said. “I don’t want to be alone.”

  “Not even in the bathroom?”

  “Not even in the bathroom.” She slipped off her thin nightgown. When Iris and I had gone swimming, I had blushed to see her in her bathing suit because it was easy when seeing her in it to imagine her out of it. And now I was seeing her, and she was soft and pale and delicate and beautiful. It was a shame, though, to be seeing her for the first time like this when she was so sad.

  She stepped into the tub, then leaned back. “Life’s too damned hard,” she said, sighing. “It’s too damned hard, and I’m not much good at it.”

  “Life’s hard for everybody. You’ve just got to do the best you can.”

  “Thank you, Little Orphan Annie.”

  I knew there was nothing I could say to comfort her. “Iris, do you want me to wash your hair?”

  “If you want. I don’t care enough to do it myself.”

  I filled a cup with warm water, poured it over Iris’s honey blonde curls, then filled and poured again. I let a dollop of Halo shampoo drop from the bottle into my hand.

  There’s something about washing a woman’s hair—the weight and the silkiness of it in your hands, the feel of the foam, the way her head leans back with her eyes closed, trusting you, letting her touch you in a way she usually only touches herself. Iris’s hair was spread out in the water behind her. She was beautiful, a mermaid, and I kissed her on each eyelid before I turned on the faucet for rinse water.

  It’s hard to hear much of anything while water’s running, which is probably why, a couple of minutes later as I was pouring cupfuls of water on Iris’s hair, in between lightly kissing her forehead and cheeks, I screamed to see Eva Lynch standing in the bathroom doorway.

  Iris screamed twice—the first time because I screamed, I think—the second time because she saw Mrs. Lynch.

  Mrs. Lynch clutched her purse in both white-gloved hands. Her lips were drawn into a thin line of outrage. “I knocked and knocked, but no one came to the door,” she said. “I shouldn’t have come in. I don’t know what’s going on here, but this house is clearly no place for decent people!” She spun around, and the next sound we heard was the front door slamming.

  Iris looked at me, her eyes streaming with fresh tears. “Ruby, sweetheart, I think it would be best for you to leave now.”

  July 2, 1945

  Friday and today I went to Iris’s, and nobody answered the door. I’m worried and scared, but there’s nobody I can talk to about how worried and scared I am. You know how in movies they show those sequences of happy couples doing fun things together? Usually those scenes come before something terrible happens.

  July 4, 1945

  Today is all red, white, and blue and marching bands. Everybody’s celebrating but me. When I went to Iris’s and nobody was home again, I left a note on the door that said,

  Dear Iris,

  I keep coming here in the afternoons like always, but you’re never home. I need to know that you and Baby Sharon are all right. If you get this note, can you send a message to me so I won’t worry so much? You know where to find me.

  Ruby

  My hand itched to write “Love, Ruby,” but I didn’t. I knew it wasn’t safe.

  July 6, 1945

  Daddy came home from work today around eleven o’clock. Mama set down her iron and turned off the radio and said, “What’s the matter? Did you get hurt? Are you sick?”

  “No,” Daddy said, but his color wasn’t good, and his jaw was tight. “But I need to talk to Ruby by herself for a few minutes. Why don’t you take the other girls to the show or
something?”

  Mother looked at Daddy, then at me, then at Daddy again. I could tell she was nervous. “It’s kindly early to go the show, ain’t it?”

  “Well, then, take ’em to Woolworth’s and buy ’em some candy,” Daddy said. “But get ’em out of here.”

  “All right, girls, let’s go,” Mama said with a quaver in her voice, then she rushed over and whispered in Daddy’s ear.

  “Naw, it ain’t nothing like that,” he said. “You’uns just make yourselves scarce for half an hour, all right? Go visit a neighbor or something.”

  I sat at the kitchen table and watched my mother and sisters file out of the house. My jaw was clenched, and my lips were pressed together tight. If I opened my mouth, I was sure I’d scream or throw up or both.

  Daddy sat down at the table across from me. “Is there any coffee left?”

  “I think so.”

  “Get me a cup, would you?”

  With shaking hands, I poured him a cup of coffee, set it on the table in front of him, then sat back down.

  He didn’t drink his coffee. He just looked at it, maybe because looking at it was easier than looking at me. “This morning a soldier come over to the job site and took me over to one of the offices for questioning,” he said. “I told ’em if I liked answering questions I would’ve stayed in school, but people like that don’t have no sense of humor.”

  “What did they ask you about?” I said, but the sick feeling I had made me think I already knew.

  “Well, they set me in this big white room with all these old army fellers who looked like they’d shoot me soon as look at me. I didn’t have no idea what they might ask me about, but I have to say I was mighty surprised when they commenced to asking about you.”

  “Me?” I swallowed hard to push back a wave of nausea.

  “Mainly they was asking about you working for Iris Stevens. What did you say about her, what did I know about her, that kind of thing, so I reckon they was trying to find out about her more than they was trying to find out about you.”