by Janet Beard
“But don’t let me stop you. Go, find a nice girl, Godspeed. Maybe you’d leave me alone.”
“I know. That’s my one worry. If I could be guaranteed to find a worthless, cruel woman, then I’d pursue it. But I’m terrified of winding up with a nice girl and ruining her life. What time is it?”
Sam glanced at his watch and realized he must be drunk, since it was difficult to make out the location of the hands. “Ten twenty,” he finally determined.
Max slammed his beer down. “This is pathetic. Let’s get out of this dump, for God’s sake. It’s New Year’s.”
“Where do you propose we go? The Copacabana?”
“The rec hall. Let’s go to the dance.”
“Oh, God, no. I went last year, and it was just awful.”
Max stood and began putting on his coat. “There weren’t nearly as many girls here last year. Come on. When’s the last time you had your hand on a woman’s waist?”
Sam didn’t answer because he couldn’t remember. “I think I’m too drunk to move.”
“We’re just drunk enough that it won’t be too painful. In fact you might want to take a few more swigs from your flask before we go in.” Max got up and handed Sam his coat from the rack.
“All right, fine, but I’m not dancing!”
“Fine, but it’s the only way you get to touch a woman you hardly know without being arrested.” Coats and hats in place, they wobbled out the door.
Sam had emptied his flask by the time they got to the rec hall and found it hard to focus as they walked into the large, crowded room. He was not too drunk to know he must be very drunk. Everything in the room seemed to be in motion—people, his stomach, the walls. A band was playing, and he could feel the swing music in his bones.
Max led him across the room to the far wall. “Look for a table,” Max shouted back to him, but the room was packed, and he could see they weren’t going to find seats. It was all the same to Sam; he felt restless, and though not sober or coordinated enough to dance, he wasn’t inclined to sit still either. But Max was determined. He spotted two empty but obviously already taken seats, clearly marked by men’s jackets over their backs, at a round table near the wall. Max slid into the seat nearest a tall blonde. “Mind if we sit for a minute?” Max patted the chair next to him, and Sam obediently sat down.
The blonde giggled. “Someone was sitting there . . .”
“Well, it was terribly discourteous of him to leave you all by yourself.”
More giggles. Sam lit a cigarette as Max commenced his seduction. He looked around the room. There were definitely more girls here than last year; the room was overflowing with them, all wearing their best dresses, bright and colorful, sparkling in some cases, twirling and floating across the dance floor. He sucked hard on his cigarette and thought about how it would feel to have one of these women in his arms, out of her gaudy attire, naked and fleshy, her soft, smooth skin touching his, breasts and everything else. It was pathetic to be driven to self-abuse at his age, especially humiliating in his little room down the hall from the married couple he lived with, but that was what it came to every night. Max got up and winked at him as he led the blonde toward the dance floor. Sam lit another cigarette.
A few tables over, he noticed a couple of familiar girls—the brunette stunner and her quiet friend, the one from the Greeleys’, June. The brunette was holding hands with a soldier while June looked on. There was something about her. She never had an empty, vapid smile on her face, like all the other girls, he’d noticed. Tonight was no different. Maybe that’s what he liked about her.
***
JUNE KEPT HER word and danced with two of Tom’s friends. One was two inches shorter than her and used this to his advantage to stare down her dress. She declined a second dance with him and was forced to dance with another, this one a foot taller and already half bald, though he couldn’t have been more than twenty-one years old. He was a good dancer, or at least fancied himself to be a good dancer, insisting on twirling, tossing, and dipping June at every possible opportunity and sometimes attempting to do all three at once. Whenever she lost her balance, tripped over his toes, or thudded into his arms, he let out a shockingly high-pitched laugh. She turned down a second dance with him as well and slumped back to the table. Luckily, the rest of Tom’s buddies all seemed to have dates for the night. June drank punch and watched all the graceful couples having fun dancing. She wasn’t too down; it was a good party, and after all, she wasn’t looking for romance. She’d bought a new dress from Miller’s as a Christmas present to herself—her first ever store-bought dress. It was only cotton, but it was a bright festive red with a full skirt. A live band was playing, and she couldn’t stay sad with the swinging music going. Her feet tapped under the table as she made small talk with the soldiers and their girlfriends.
Cici and Tom returned arm in arm from the dance floor. Seeing only one empty chair, he took it and motioned for Cici to sit on his lap. He grabbed two glasses of punch from the table, handed one to Cici, and said, “To 1945!”
“Nineteen forty-five!” Cici held out her glass to June, who dutifully clinked. “Did you dance with Jerry?” she asked, referring to the balding giant.
“Yes. I have the bruises to prove it.”
Tom laughed. “Jerry likes to show off his skill on the dance floor. I hope it wasn’t too awful.”
“No, he seems nice.” June hoped her tone was bland enough that they’d give up trying to match her with him.
“You must have more single friends,” said Cici to Tom.
“All my friends are single.”
“You know what I mean. Friends that aren’t attached at the moment.”
“Give it a week. They become unattached.”
“Tom! Don’t scare June.”
June winced. “You make me sound like a charity case.”
“No, of course not! It’s so much better to find a fella through friends and know he’s a decent guy.”
“Oh, you’re looking for a decent guy for June? You should’ve said. I’m afraid I can’t help you there.”
“Stop! He’s just joking, June.”
June looked out across the dance floor in the hopes they would stop talking about her. She noticed a figure who looked out of place. Dr. Cantor was walking toward the back of the room, scowling, completely divorced from the frivolity around him as usual.
Cici followed June’s gaze. “What’s Dr. Cantor doing here? He’s such a snob; I’d think he had some important scientist’s party to go to.”
“Do you think he’s a snob? I didn’t know you knew him,” said June.
“Of course! He never talks to anyone in the cafeteria or on the bus. Thinks he’s too good for the likes of us. But look at him! He must think he’s too good to bother wearing decent clothes.”
His jacket was shapeless and wrinkled, it was true. June watched him get punch from the refreshment table, looking no more at ease. He seemed to tremble a bit as the woman handed him a cup.
“Looks like he’s been into the gin,” said Tom with a chuckle.
“Ugh!” Cici let out a loud, dismissive sniff. “He may be a snob, but he has no class. Why does he keep looking over here?”
He did seem to be looking in their direction. June turned away, embarrassed. “Maybe he saw us staring.”
“I don’t know,” said Cici. “I think he’s looking at you.”
June hardly thought that was likely, but she stole a quick look in his direction just as he began walking straight toward their table. He was unmistakably headed for them, despite the fact that the dance floor was in his way. As he stumbled through the dancers, punch splashed out of his cup and dancing couples glared. He must be drunk, June thought.
“He’s coming here!” Cici shrieked, as though he were a knife-wielding maniac.
He nodded at them all. “Hello again,” he said, clearly addressing June.
“Hello, Dr. Cantor,” she said in a soft, high voice. “This is Cici and Tom.”
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“Nice to meet you all,” Sam said, not taking his eyes off June. “June, I was wondering if you’d like to dance.”
She stared up at him in shock.
“We’re in the middle of a chat,” said Cici before June could respond.
“June can speak for herself, can’t she?”
“We’re best friends,” said Cici. “I can speak for her.”
Sam took a gulp of his punch and stared at June. He was swaying slightly from side to side. “If you’re friends, then you’ll have plenty of time to chat later. This is a party, and you should be dancing.”
“I’m not sure you’re in any condition to dance, sir.” Tom was standing now and puffing out his chest in a show of manly protectiveness that June found alarming.
“Excuse me? Am I not young enough to dance with a pretty girl?”
June felt her cheeks flush. Tom somehow rose even taller. “What I mean, sir, is that maybe you’ve had too much to drink. Maybe it’s time to go home.”
Sam laughed loudly. “What, are you going to challenge me to a duel, soldier?”
The tension at the table seemed to drift outward, and other people were starting to stare. Tom looked like he was ready to fight, and June moved decisively, doing the only thing she could think of to defuse the situation. She stood quickly. “I’ll dance,” she said, aware that both Cici and Tom were glaring at her.
Sam slammed his punch glass down on the table and led her to the dance floor. They faced each other and spent an awkward moment placing their hands in the correct places. Luckily, the song playing was slow; Sam nevertheless led her around at odds with the rhythm. June tried to stay calm and follow his stumbling as best she could. She could smell whiskey, the familiar scent that followed her grandfather, and saw that he needed a shave. He had dark eyes magnified by round glasses and was staring at her a little too intensely for comfort. But still, he was handsome, definitely different from all these young boys they usually hung around. He looked more adult, weary even, and though he might be drunk and terribly clumsy, June felt sympathetic toward him.
He stumbled badly and stepped on her toe. “Ouch!” she exclaimed before thinking.
“I’m sorry. I’m not a very good dancer.”
He attempted to turn her and knocked his elbow into the back of a passing couple.
“Watch out, buddy!” an angry soldier called out.
“Dr. Cantor, maybe we should go outside.”
“Why?!” He was defensive, hurt.
“Fresh air?”
“It’s freezing out there. I’m having fun.”
The song came to an end, but he continued moving in the same jerky way, as though he hadn’t noticed. June was sure that many people were staring at them now. She leaned in to whisper to him, “Dr. Cantor, you could get in trouble with the Army if someone reports that you’ve been drinking.”
“I’ve not been drinking!”
“I can smell the whiskey on your breath.”
He smiled sheepishly, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.
“Please, let’s get out of here. People are staring, and you could lose your job.”
Finally he stopped moving, though at this point the band was at least playing again. She led him by the hand to the door, deliberately not looking back to catch Cici’s disapproving look. Everyone in the room seemed to watch them go. This was, no doubt, a horrible mistake. Folks in Oak Ridge loved to gossip, and she had just walked outside alone with an important man from work who was clearly intoxicated. But she felt she had to get Dr. Cantor out of there. She wasn’t sure why she suddenly felt so protective of this man she hardly knew, except that he looked like he needed help, and he’d come to her.
He was right; it was freezing outside, and June realized as soon as they’d walked out onto the concrete steps that her coat was inside. She couldn’t possibly face the room again just to get her coat. She sat on the concrete ledge at the top of the stairs, shivering.
“Here.” Dr. Cantor had taken off his jacket and was handing it to her.
“Won’t you be cold?”
He shook his head and shoved the jacket toward her. It was warm from his body, and putting it on made her feel close to him.
“Don’t you have a soldier boyfriend in there somewhere?” he asked, leaning back against the side of the building and pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.
“No.”
He offered her a cigarette, but she shook her head. He lit his own. “You’re right. I’m drunk.”
“You should go home and sober up. They say they’ll throw you off the reservation if you’re caught drinking.”
“Why do you care if I lose my job?”
“I don’t know. You seem nice.”
“No, I don’t.” He waved the cigarette at her. “I’ve been awful and rude. Your friend’s boyfriend wanted to punch me. And he probably should have.”
“You gave me your jacket,” she said, feeling foolish.
He tossed away the cigarette and sat down beside her on the ledge, so close that their arms were touching. She knew she should move her arm away, but it was warmer with him beside her. He was staring right at her face, in an embarrassing way, and she was glad of the rouge and eye shadow.
“June. . . . Is your birthday in June?”
She nodded. The music inside stopped, and they both turned at the sound of the countdown, everyone shouting, “Ten, nine, eight . . .” June thought that she should be inside with her friends at midnight, but it was too late now. Dr. Cantor began chanting along, too. “ . . . four, three, two—Happy New Year, June.”
Before she could reply or even knew what was happening, his arm was around her and his mouth was on hers. She tasted cigarettes and whiskey and felt his tongue brush against her own. Her mind snapped into focus, and she realized that she must push him away. She used both hands, and he looked back at her, startled.
“Dr. Cantor! What are you doing?”
“I’m sorry.”
She half expected the same sheepish smile as when he’d admitted to being drunk, but this time he hung his head with proper remorse. June looked around to make sure no one could have seen.
“You should go home now.” The forcefulness of her voice surprised her.
“Yes, you’re probably right.”
She had already taken off his jacket and was handing it back to him.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel uncomfortable, June.” His face had crumpled with distress.
“It’s all right. Just go home and get some sleep.”
He began to walk away, and she felt deeply relieved. But he turned back. “I’ll see you at work.”
“Yes.”
“I always see you there. All you pretty girls who have no idea you’re building a very nasty bomb.” He turned and walked away along the boardwalk.
June looked around for a second time to make sure no one had heard. She stood motionless for a moment. After wondering for so long what they were working on, she now recoiled from the truth. She had often thought it must be some kind of weapon, but to know it definitively was frightening.
The door behind her opened, and she turned to see Cici and Tom. “What are you doing out here?” Cici asked, her voice more annoyed than concerned.
“I just sent Dr. Cantor home.”
“Did he give you any trouble?” Tom asked, beginning to puff up again.
“No, he was fine.”
“You missed New Year’s.”
June’s heart sped up despite her at the thought of the kiss. “I heard. Happy New Year.”
“Happy New Year. You must be freezing! Let’s get inside.”
June followed them back into the crowded room. Cici nudged her as they walked back to the table. “Get yourself a soldier. A man like that can’t be serious about you.”
Later that night, June lay in bed with her eyes wide open, listening to the low hum of music from the roller rink. A bomb, he had said, a very nasty bomb. It made her feel pow
erful, excited even, to know what so many did not, even if she was ignorant of the details.
But that wasn’t all she was excited about, she had to admit, a smile lingering on her lips. He had kissed her, and she knew that the way she felt about Dr. Cantor right now was the way she should have felt about Ronnie all that time. Dr. Cantor had behaved badly, and yet she didn’t care; she couldn’t wait to see him tomorrow. Would he talk to her? What should she say? Would he try to kiss her again?
She couldn’t sleep. Somehow, even with the terrible secret now loose in her mind, she felt too hopeful to worry, and the world was too full of possibility for rest.
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
(Courtesy of the Department of Energy)
Chapter 10
SAM AWOKE ON JANUARY 1 WITH A PIERCING HEADACHE AND A heavy sense of regret. He was sure he had kissed the plain girl from Y-12, and he had a horrible feeling that he had also told her something he shouldn’t have about the project. His memory was cloudy. Everything was pretty much intact up until he left the canteen, but after that, he could only pull up snapshots. Max dancing with a pretty blond girl. Himself spilling punch on the dance floor. The images became increasingly humiliating. Incredible as it seemed, he must have attempted to dance. Then he remembered the cold night air, and the girl—June. The ominous word bomb coming from his lips. Oh God.
He spent the bus ride to work focused equally on rectifying the situation with the girl and not throwing up. He hadn’t managed to get a seat and contemplated feigning illness and asking a young lady if he could have hers. He was sinking lower and lower and beginning to feel completely unfit for human contact. How could he have made such a fool of himself? He drank a lot, yes, but he usually knew how to handle his liquor. The last time he’d gotten so tight that he couldn’t remember things the next morning had been years ago at a party in Berkeley, when he’d consumed most of a bottle of rum by himself. How could he have been so mad with drink to talk so loosely? And exactly what had he said? He closed his eyes and tried to push away the nausea rising in his gut.
