by Janet Beard
“That’s all right.”
“Good night. I’ll be seeing you in the cafeteria, I suppose.” He tipped his hat and turned back into the night. She closed the door against the cold night air, aware of a faint feeling of disappointment.
***
JOE HAD GOTTEN the letter from Moriah a few days before Christmas. She wrote him every couple of days, but this note was different, only three lines long:
Dearest Joe—
Our boy sick with fever.
Dr. Cox been out twice. He say prepare for worst.
Please pray for our son.
Love,
M
He must have read it a hundred times before sitting down on his cot to write a reply. Writing was always a struggle for him. He didn’t know what to say, and he hardly knew any words to write, let alone how to spell them. He didn’t want to write anyway; he wanted to go straight to the bus depot and head south as fast as possible to Alabama. But then he’d lose his job. He told Moriah he was praying; he loved her; God would watch over Ben. He put five dollars in an envelope and mailed it straightaway.
He was late for his shift that day. He kept Moriah’s note tucked in his shirt pocket, as if maybe somehow having it close could help his little boy. He was distracted at work, slow and forgetful. Time passed slowly. Ralph was on a different crew, and he had no one to talk to. He prayed silently while pouring concrete.
Joe finally saw Ralph in the cafeteria. He felt awkward with so many other men around, so he asked the boy to step outside. They stood on the boardwalk under a bright electric streetlamp, and Joe gave him the note. He could see Ralph’s breath hanging in the air as he read the letter. The boy looked up at Joe, his face stricken.
“He’ll be all right, Joe.”
Joe nodded. “I’m praying.”
“He’ll pull through, I know.” Ralph patted him on the shoulder. “Come on, we should get something to eat.”
Joe nodded. His stomach was growling, though he hardly had the spirit to eat. Inside the cafeteria, men’s voices combined with the clank of cutlery hitting plates. The warmth of the room made Joe feel sleepy. He filled his plate with beans and potatoes. Ralph waved at someone, and Joe saw Otis waiting for them. He hated the thought of sitting with that man tonight but didn’t know how to politely avoid it without making a fuss.
“I’m headed to the canteen. You boys want to come? There’s gonna be a boxing match,” said Otis with his strange smile.
“I’m tired out,” said Joe.
Ralph glanced at him, nervous. “I’m going home with Joe.”
“You don’t have to,” Joe tried to reassure him. “You should have fun.”
“Shirley’ll be there,” said Otis.
That got Ralph’s attention. “How do you know?”
“Ran into her and her friends on the way here. Told her we’d be there later.”
“She’s expecting me?”
“I reckon so.”
“You should go,” said Joe.
“What you going to do?” the boy asked.
“Go to bed.”
Dark dreams disturbed Joe’s sleep. His head and body ached in the morning. There was no new letter from Moriah. For three days, he got no news. The exhaustion, the aching, the worry quickly turned him ill-tempered. Joe snapped at a man on his crew who’d wandered off from the work site where they were laying the foundation of a house. He smoked constantly and ate little at his meals. He kept praying, though with less enthusiasm as time wore on, and more desperation, anger even. Why didn’t Moriah write? He’d never doubted Moriah as a mother, but now he questioned whether he could trust her to take care of Ben all on her own. Everything she did mattered. If only he were there to help, to advise, to make sure that she was doing everything there was to be done.
Ben had just taken his first steps when Joe left Alabama. He’d been a calm baby, happier than either of the girls had been. Moriah had had an easy birth, and little Ben seemed to cry only when he was hungry. He slept easily and well. The girls doted on him, taking turns at singing him lullabies, playing peekaboo. Now he would be two and a half, walking, talking, becoming a little man. But still so small. Joe hated to think of his tiny body, writhing and sweating with fever. He would do anything to keep the boy safe. Each time Moriah had borne one of his children, Joe had felt a weight settle over him, a physical sensation pressing against his chest, full of menace. When he looked at his children, he felt love like he’d never known before, but also this suffocating weight. It was the terror of knowing that even if Joe dedicated the rest of his life to doing right by them, it wouldn’t be enough. He couldn’t protect them from life. He always told his children he would keep them safe, but he couldn’t really. He’d been lying to them since the day they were born.
Ralph suggested they go to church together on Monday, which was Christmas. They both got off at seven o’clock and went home to change and eat before the colored service. Ralph put on a tie he’d bought in town, along with a new hat that he wore around after work these days. Joe took his own tie and hat out of his trunk. The hat was worn but sturdy. Moriah had made him the tie years ago to wear to church. As Joe wrapped it around his neck, Ralph thrust a small box toward him.
“What’s this?” asked Joe.
“A Christmas present.” Ralph looked up at him with boyish pride.
“Ralph, you shouldn’t spend your paycheck on me!”
Ralph shrugged. “You know I don’t have family of my own to buy presents for.”
Joe tore at the brown paper and unwrapped the box. He popped off the lid and saw a new maroon tie. He took it out of the box and held it up in the harsh electric light. The color was vibrant. Joe had never owned a new piece of store-bought clothing before, besides shoes. “Well,” he said, “ain’t that nice?”
A small tree had been set up on a table in the corner of the cafeteria, decorated with gold and red glass balls. “That’s an awful puny tree if you ask me,” said Ralph.
“Suppose it cheers the place up, though. I wonder if Moriah got the presents I sent for the children.”
“I’m sure she did. She’s probably filling their stockings right now.”
Joe had sent the girls a doll each and a teddy bear for little Ben a week ago.
“I sure do wish I was there tonight.”
“I miss them, too,” said Ralph softly.
Joe gave Ralph an appreciative nod. “How was Shirley?”
Ralph grinned. Something in his face was different from when Joe usually asked about her. “She’s good. Real good.”
“That so?”
“I got her a Christmas present too. Think she liked it.”
“What you get her?”
“Nothing much. A bracelet. But she liked it real well.”
“I’m sure she did.”
The church was crowded. Men who sinned all year long in the rec hall and never set foot in the little chapel had come out tonight. Joe knew he wasn’t the only one here missing a woman or children. The reverend read from the Gospel of Luke, and Joe felt comforted by the familiar words. They stood and sang “Silent Night.” Ralph was beside him, singing soft but clear. The rest of the congregation seemed to fade out for Joe—he heard the boy’s tenor above all others. Joe couldn’t carry a tune himself and mouthed the words silently. He closed his eyes and listened as the boy sang, “Sleep in heavenly peace, sleep in heavenly peace.” He must have said a thousand prayers in the past three days, but he prayed again: Protect my son, Dear Lord, protect my boy.
The song was over. Joe heard everyone taking their seats, his eyes still squeezed shut. He opened them and sat down. Ralph was looking at him. The boy held his eyes for a moment, silent. Ralph couldn’t know what the weight felt like, the terror that death could take your child or the world could hurt him while you could do nothing to stop it from happening. But Ralph knew Joe was in pain, and his gaze held kindness and love.
After the service they went back to the hutment in silence. One of their r
oommates was smoking on his bed and nodded at them when they came in.
“Found that letter for you when I come in,” he said to Joe, motioning to the envelope on Joe’s cot. Joe had it ripped open before he’d even finished speaking.
Dear Joe,
The fever’s broken. Ben drinkin broth and gainin strength.
Sorry it take so long to write. I wanted to have good news for you.
I got your presents for the children—they won’t know what to do with such perty gifts. I also got the brooch. It the nicest thing anyone ever gave me.
I wish I had something more to send you for Christmas but I hope the news that your son is well brightens your day. We miss you something terrible, all of us. I dream of a Christmas when we will be together again.
Love,
Moriah
He read it three quick times. Ralph cleared his throat.
Joe looked up at him. “He better.”
Ralph slapped him on the back. “I told you!”
Joe nodded and sat on the bed, still clutching the letter. “I won’t go another Christmas without my family.”
“I’ll help you.” Ralph was solemn, sincere.
“Thank you.” Joe finally let his face relax into a grin. “Merry Christmas, son.”
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 8
AFTER A YEAR IN OAK RIDGE, SAM STILL FOUND THE WORK thrilling—perhaps more so now than ever, with Y-12 finally functioning as it should. What had once been theoretical was becoming wonderfully, terrifyingly real. This huge factory was slowly but surely refining uranium, sending off tiny precious bits of it to New Mexico in suitcases. But as the outlook of the war began to get better, the idea of this weapon seemed worse. In the beginning of the war, the physicists he knew had all spooked each other by speculating how far along the Germans had gotten creating their own atomic weapon. But at this point, Hitler’s army was crumbling, and it seemed increasingly unlikely that they were racing with Germany to build the bomb. If anything, they were racing with the war itself. He knew scientists who believed the bomb would end all wars, but hadn’t the horrors of the last war been supposed to end all wars? There would always be more war. How anyone could think humanity would ever give up its destructiveness was beyond him.
Max Kingsley shared his grim outlook, and they routinely wallowed in their misery over the dreadful low-alcohol “near beer” served at the taverns in Oak Ridge. Max was a physicist from England and had been working on the project before the United States had even officially gotten involved. His disillusionment was proportional to his years of service.
“Can I get you another?” Sam asked, motioning to Max’s almost-empty glass. They were sitting across from each other at their usual table, hats and jackets slung carelessly on their chair backs, the ashtray between them already full.
Max shrugged. “I suppose I must.” His blond hair was carefully combed across his head, a thin, slightly darker mustache balancing his face.
Sam went to the bar and brought back two beers. Max took a gulp and shook his head mournfully. “I don’t know which is worse: this beer or that toxin in your pocket.”
Sam always took a flask of moonshine to the canteen these days. “I don’t know either, but I do know which one works faster.”
Sam had stumbled upon the black market for booze one night last winter, when he found himself waiting in the usual long line to buy cigarettes. He didn’t really mind the lines. He used empty time like this to ponder things that might not otherwise bubble to the surface of his mind. It could be something as simple as recalling that he had left his umbrella in the laboratory conference room the day before, or as unexpected as a memory of his grandmother’s taking him to one of the Yiddish plays on Second Avenue when he was a boy. If he was lucky, his thoughts would become creative, and he would find a possible solution to the ongoing problem of leaking vacuum tanks at Y-12. Long bus rides and endless lines made him feel calm, and idleness worked a kind of magic on his mind. But this day, his thoughts kept being interrupted by a coarse young man in a dirty shirt and work pants.
“Great day, there sure is a lot a folks wantin’ cigarettes!” The man shook his head at Sam. Up until now Sam had ignored him, but this was the third such comment the man had made, and it seemed too rude to pretend not to hear.
“Yes, there is.”
A breeze blew through the square where they stood in front of the store. Sam shivered and flipped up the collar on his jacket to protect his neck.
“It is colder than a witch’s tit out here!” exclaimed the man. The young woman standing in line in front of him raised her chin and sniffed loudly to indicate disapproval. Sam couldn’t help but crack a smile. The man seemed encouraged and kept talking. “I done been here four months, and I have just about had it with these lines! I work hard during my ten-hour shift. I want to enjoy myself when I get off, not stand in no line just to get a pack a smokes!”
“Not like there’s too much else to do around here for fun,” said Sam, giving in at last to this stranger’s desire to converse.
“Ain’t that the truth! Sometimes the men on my crew go to the tavern. But they don’t even serve real beer.”
The line shuffled forward and the disapproving young woman got to make her purchase. “Looks like we’ve almost made it!”
Later, as Sam walked home along the wooden boardwalk, he heard a whistle behind him. At first he ignored it, but then he heard the whistle again. “Hey, mister!” said a man in a loud whisper.
Sam wondered if he was about to be robbed. The man from the cigarette line came out from the shadow of a post holding up a billboard. “Didn’t mean to startle you. Which way you headed?”
“Just up this hill.” Sam tried to sound even and calm.
“I’ll walk with you. Listen, I wanted to ask. You interested in something better than near beer?”
Sam perked up. “Yeah, definitely.”
“I’ve got a friend who could get you something. You ain’t a spy, is you?”
“No, sir.”
“If you’re interested, meet me under this sign tomorrow night at seven, understand?”
“Yes.”
And with that, the man crept back into the darkness and was gone. Sam felt like a character in a gangster movie, if the gangsters had hillbilly accents. It seemed like a terrible idea to come back tomorrow; he could be arrested and lose his job. On the other hand, he hadn’t had a real drink in two months.
The next night was equally dark and cold as Sam walked toward the sign. Soft light glowed from houses. He had promised to meet Ann and Charlie later at one of the rec halls but didn’t much feel like it. All the people and the laughing and the dancing—sometimes he wondered what on earth these people had to be so happy about. The girls who worked at Y-12 were all smiles and laughter as soon as their shifts ended. He hated to hear them in the corridors. They plunged him into dark moods, which gripped him and held on tight for days. He tried to keep to himself when he felt this wretched, but Ann had a way of forcing him into conversation. Once he’d foolishly told her some of his thoughts. She’d looked at him like he was a puppy with a broken leg. “Oh, Sam, sure, the world’s in an awful state. Sure, the war is terrible. My two kid brothers are over there, and I think about them all the time. But we can’t just give up, can we? People do what they can to keep going.”
“But these girls!” He couldn’t stop himself from continuing. This was another problem with the moods. When he was in a bad way, he had to stay quiet, because once he got talking, he found it hard to stop. “They’re not getting by, they’re thriving! The way they flirt with the men at work! The way they giggle and skip down the sidewalk!”
“Why do you think they flirt, Sam? It makes them feel alive! With so much death around us all, who can blame these young girls for wanting to feel alive?”
Sam didn’t want to fight with Ann. She was too good and kind to see what he saw, and, he reminded himself, she didn’t have a clue what the
y were really doing here. Her job was keeping the pathetic little house in order, playing the perfect little wife to Charlie. Sam didn’t doubt that it was hard on her. She had been reared on maids and white gloves and coming-out parties. He admired her for her spirit, for holding a live chicken in her hand and dusting three times a day to try to rid the house of coal specks. But he didn’t expect her to understand the awfulness of people.
He arrived at the billboard, one of the many signs reminding citizens to keep their mouths shut. “The Enemy is LOOKING . . . for information,” it read. “Guard your talk.” A large eyeball with a swastika for a pupil stared out from it. It seemed an ominous place to meet. He imagined having to call Charlie if he was arrested and how disappointed his friend would be. Charlie thought so well of Sam, always had. He had encouraged him to be more social back in graduate school, and would take Sam along to football games and picnics with his old college pals. Charlie was oblivious to how awkward Sam felt in the midst of those old-money Mayflower descendants, how much they despised him for having no money and parents who’d arrived on Ellis Island just twenty-five years ago. Charlie was so unabashedly optimistic about people that he couldn’t see how awful his old chums were or how useless Sam was at functioning in their world. Even now Charlie ignored Sam’s dark spells. Ann tried to cheer him up, but Charlie just slapped him on the back.
He wanted to smoke a cigarette, but was afraid lighting it might attract attention. He shivered and pushed his hands deep into his pockets. His fingers found a folded piece of paper, a letter from his brother, which he took out to reexamine. He tried to remember to write Jon regularly. It was the least he could do. Jon was in the Marines and had fought at Tarawa. The last time Sam had seen him was three years ago, before leaving for the West, and his little brother had only been sixteen. The idea of him fighting was ridiculous. He watched newsreels of the Marines in action and struggled to convince himself that one of those men could be his goofy little brother. Of course Jon’s letter didn’t say anything about fighting. It was short, which was to be expected, full of generic pleasantries about the weather, the ocean, the other boys, the food in the mess hall. Sam was ten years older than Jon, so they hardly knew each other.
