by Janet Beard
“I’m here,” she said. “I’m here.”
He could feel the contours of her body against him, just as he remembered them. He didn’t want to let go but knew the girls were staring up at them, anxious. They were bashful at first. Ellie was almost as tall as Moriah now, a skinny thing, all legs and big, wide eyes. Becky was softer, still insulated in baby fat, not quite a young woman yet, thank goodness. He said their names, “Becky, Ellie,” and they forgot their shyness and attacked from both sides, hugging his waist and legs. He kissed both their heads, then scooped up Ben, and stared into his son’s eyes. The child stared at him suspiciously, and it hurt Joe to know that he must not remember his daddy at all. Joe blew air onto Ben’s cheek, an old trick that he remembered amused the girls when they were little, and the boy laughed.
The Army had begun allowing colored families to live together only a month earlier, finally caving in to the demands from the Colored Camp Council. Negro families could apply for their own hutments now, and a small school for colored children had been set up. Even so, Ralph and his friends weren’t content. Joe thought they might quit while they were ahead, but they continued meeting once a week, and Ralph had even gone to a labor meeting on the other side of town, too. There was no talking him out of it. Joe was certain Ralph would get laid off, but so far he hadn’t been. Even this didn’t make Ralph happy. He said it was because the bosses thought it would look bad to fire him after he’d made all that fuss. Joe couldn’t see what difference it made. A paycheck was a paycheck.
Folks knew who Ralph was now, and other men looked up to him, even with his crippled arm. Still, he was hardly more than a boy. His cheeks remained childishly plump, his eyes clear and hopeful. Joe felt bad having to leave him on his own in the hutment while he moved to the family area with Moriah. Ralph was awfully quiet that day as Joe packed up his stuff. He’d been sitting on his cot, watching Joe gather what few possessions he had. Finally, when Joe was snapping his footlocker shut, Ralph muttered, almost under his breath, “You remember Alabama?”
A silly question. Joe had lived there for forty-five years, hadn’t he? “Yeah.”
“When I first got to the farm, I didn’t know nobody.”
“You looked like something the cat drug in.”
“Reckon I did. But you and Moriah were real friendly to me.”
Joe put down the locker and turned to him. “You weren’t no more than a boy.”
“Even so . . .”
“You’re always welcome in our house.”
Ralph had nodded without looking at Joe, embarrassed by the emotion in his voice.
Moriah suggested inviting him and Shirley over for supper once they had their hutment set up. It was her day off from cooking in the cafeteria, but nevertheless she spent hours over her own woodstove, trying to make a nice stew out of scraps from the cafeteria. The girls were tasked with keeping the hutment neat—it was all but impossible to keep dirt out, but they dutifully swept and dusted as their mother cooked. Joe set up a table outside where they could eat in the fresh air.
Ralph arrived promptly in his fancy hat and tie, with Shirley on his arm. She was wearing a dark green dress that fit her perfectly. A small black hat and big smooth curls framed her face. Becky and Ellie peered out from the doorway at her. “Come on outside, girls, and say hello.”
Ellie jumped down the steps and put her hand out toward Shirley. “Hi. I’m Ellie.”
Shirley shook Ellie’s bare hand in her delicate, gloved one. “Hi, Ellie. Nice to meet you.”
Becky stood behind her big sister, shy.
“This is Becky,” Ellie said for her.
“Say hello, Becky,” urged Joe.
Becky silently stared up at Shirley. “Hi, Becky. My name’s Shirley.”
Becky glanced up at her sister, then cautiously smiled.
“Come on over and have a seat.” Joe motioned to the makeshift table he’d constructed from some spare boards left over from hutment construction. Somehow Shirley looked elegant, even in this ridiculous setting, smoothing her skirt as she sat at the rickety table.
“Ellie, fetch some water for our guests.”
Moriah leaned out the doorway. Ralph stood politely, as he always did around her. “Hello, Mrs. Moriah.”
“Hi there, Ralph. What do you think of our new house?”
Ralph looked around at the dusty jumble of hutments and shook his head. “All I can say is, at least you’re together as a family.”
“Thank God for that,” added Joe.
Ralph motioned to Shirley, who was still seated. “This here’s Shirley Crawford from Atlanta, Georgia.”
Moriah stepped out of the hutment, followed closely by Ben. “Hi, Shirley. I’m Moriah.”
Shirley extended her hand. Moriah shook it and turned back to the hutment. “I better finish getting supper ready.”
Ellie returned with glasses of water. “What’s Atlanta like?” she asked as she set the glasses in front of Ralph and Shirley.
“It’s nice—a real big city. We’ve got streetcars, and new buildings going up all the time.”
“Sounds like Oak Ridge,” said Joe.
“It’s nothing like Oak Ridge. Atlanta’s a real, proper city, with all sorts of people in it.”
“How you like Oak Ridge, Ellie?” asked Ralph.
Ellie shrugged. “There’s lots to see. But Daddy won’t let us leave the hutments.”
“Your daddy just wants you to be safe,” said Ralph. “This ain’t like living in the country.”
“Ain’t that the truth!” Moriah came back out, carrying a steaming pot.
Joe called the children to the table, and they all joined hands to pray. Moriah began serving stew out while Ellie passed around peas and potatoes.
“How are you finding it here, Moriah?” asked Ralph.
“I miss the farm. Only place I ever lived. But I’m glad to be making money, and I’d have moved just about anywhere to have my family all together again.”
Moriah spoke sincerely. Her face was thinner than when Joe had left her in Alabama, with a few new lines around her mouth and eyes. She looked tired most of the time. Joe knew living here wasn’t easy for her, and living without him in Alabama hadn’t been, either.
“I’m glad you here,” said Ralph. “And I’m real glad you all get to live together. But I’m ashamed it has to be like this, in these here hutments.”
Becky and Ellie could hear the anger in Ralph’s tone. They watched the adults attentively to see what would happen next.
“It’s a roof over our heads, and we’re all together. That’s what matters.” Moriah smiled and instantly looked young again.
“You are too accepting,” said Shirley. The girls’ eyes were glued on her now. “Do you know that the Army actually planned to build slums here? Can you imagine that? When else in history have people created slums on purpose?”
“I ain’t thought of it that way,” said Moriah.
Ralph turned to Ellie. “You still got your harmonica?”
Ellie beamed. “Yes! Mama, can I play a song?”
“After we through with supper.” She shook her head. “This girl loves music!”
“I can dance!” Becky chimed in.
Ralph sat back in his chair. “Well, I think after dinner, we’ll just have to have a little concert!”
“You’ll have to sing for us, Ralph,” said Moriah. “You got about the nicest voice I’ve ever heard.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Moriah. If Ellie will play her harmonica, I’ll surely sing.”
Ellie was good at squawking out melodies, and Ralph kept his word and sang along. The girls attempted to tap-dance less successfully, but Joe clapped and cheered for them all the same. They could do so many things they couldn’t when he’d left them to come up here. Later, when Ralph and Shirley had gone and the children were in bed, Joe found Moriah outside at the sink, washing the dishes. He took the rag she’d slung over her shoulder and began drying them.
“That girl sure h
as a lot of opinions,” she said.
“Shirley?”
“Mmm-hmm.” Moriah mocked: “Shirley Crawford of Atlanta, Georgia.”
“She’s a real city girl.”
“She’s a real know-it-all if you ask me.”
“Ralph’s crazy for her.”
“Well, she’s good-looking, I’ll say that much.”
“Is she? I hadn’t noticed.” Joe grinned at his wife, who put down the dish she was holding. He leaned over and kissed her on the mouth. “You’re the most beautiful woman I know.”
“I know that ain’t true. But I like to hear you say it.”
***
UNLIKE RALPH AND Shirley, Joe didn’t feel too much like complaining. For the first time in his life, he wasn’t working out in the sun. He was in charge of cleaning two corridors of the factory building. He pushed the large flat broom down the hallway and thought it was just in time, too. His knees ached when he walked up the stairs, and his back ached all the time.
The scrawny secretary who worked for Dr. Cantor walked past and smiled. “Hi, Joe.”
“Hello, Miss Walker. Don’t tell me Dr. Cantor’s got you working this late?”
“I’m just finishing up a couple of things for him.”
“Well, you better hurry on up and get out of this place. It a beautiful summer night. You go on and enjoy it.”
“I will. Good night, Joe.”
She went into Dr. Cantor’s office and shut the door behind her. Joe continued down the hallway; he’d have to remember to come back to the office later. For now he had the ladies’ restroom to deal with. He whistled louder now, his tune echoing in the small, tiled room.
***
JUNE FOUND THAT not only was she a good typist, she also had a knack for organization. Each evening Sam would leave an explosion of papers and trash on his desk, and then in the morning June would set about arranging it into neat labeled piles. Her own desk was tidy, with a calendar on one side, where she kept her running to-do list, and orderly piles along the other end. She would go over her to-do list for the day, make coffee for herself and Sam, and prioritize the day’s tasks. By the time Sam got there, she was already hard at work.
In the first weeks on the job, it became obvious that June needed to learn dictation. Sam was kind about her ineptitude, of course, but she realized she couldn’t hold this position without learning the skills required. She found a guide at the small library, and after some careful observation of the other secretaries on the floor, determined that Sophie, a sweet, chubby girl from Ohio, would be understanding if she asked for help. Sophie met with her at lunch a few times and helped June practice dictation until she had the confidence to follow Sam around, jotting down his words just like a proper secretary.
Sam was less happy with his new position. The Army required large amounts of paperwork, and he missed his laboratory. Often he told June that he didn’t know what he’d do if she weren’t there with him—lose his mind, probably. It made her glad that he appreciated her presence, but she worried about him. She was so much happier as a secretary and hated that he had to be so miserable, as though her happiness had been traded for his. His bad moods made her anxious. She worried about him, but worried too that he might take out his frustration on her. And she couldn’t help but wonder why she wasn’t enough to satisfy him anymore.
Today, though, she could see that Sam was excited. His old boss from California, Ernest Lawrence, was visiting. Sam’s usual cynicism had dropped away, and he seemed genuinely eager to impress Lawrence. June thought it was sweet. As best she could tell, Y-12 was running smoothly these days, so hopefully Lawrence would be pleased with Sam’s work.
Officially, she was not supposed to know about Lawrence’s visit. She had to follow all sorts of special protocol to maintain secrecy. Many of the letters and memos she typed were coded so that she didn’t actually know what they meant. Sam assured her that it was nothing worth knowing, just dull administrative matters. Classified letters had to be sealed in double envelopes with a sealing wax that would make tampering evident. She also had a special wastebasket for any secret information. Every time she picked up the heavy black phone, a red insert was revealed on the base, which reminded her to “Avoid Loose Talk.”
In truth, she and Sam barely spoke about the war these days. They had all but exhausted the subject of atomic bombs. Now that they worked together, when it was time to go home, all they really wanted to do was leave the office behind, go to the movies, listen to the radio, discuss anything besides Y-12.
It was the middle of summer, and June’s windowless office was already stuffy when she arrived in the morning; by the afternoon, the air became muggy and oppressive. She inched the small electric fan on her desk closer and closer to her face, forced to use spare change and heavy pens as paperweights for whatever might be in the path of its breeze. The dorm was miserable, too, and never seemed to cool down at night. She had taken to wearing her lightest slip to bed and using only a sheet, her feet sticking out from under it. Still, she would wake in the middle of the night, sweating, her feet throbbing in the heat.
The absolute worst place to be on a summer afternoon was on one of the buses. If folks opened the windows, dust came blowing in. If they didn’t open them, the bus was suffocating. The still air smelled of sweat, and when the buses were crowded, which was always the case at shift changes, you had to sit or stand uncomfortably close to other damp, sticky bodies. This was one reason that June had taken to staying late at work with Sam. She was supposed to clock out at five, but if Sam wrote a request for her to stay late, she could present it at the clock alley. They tried to avoid the rush on the buses and the busiest times at the cafeteria. Sam genuinely did need to stay late most days; he never seemed to get a handle on all the forms he had to fill out, letters that had to be signed. Often he got distracted in the afternoons, wandering back to his old lab to see how things were going there. June’s work was almost always finished by five, but she didn’t mind staying to keep him company. If she did leave without him, it was usually to go to the movies by herself, time alone in the dark that she cherished. Sam didn’t care for the pictures the way she did, and she didn’t need him sitting beside her to enjoy the stories on the screen.
She’d slowly been improving her wardrobe, making little purchases from Miller’s—new boots here, a jacket and scarf there—in an effort to look smarter, less like a country girl. Now that she was a secretary, this seemed even more urgent. She wanted to dress the part. But it was difficult in this heat to get excited about putting on any clothes. Even lipstick and rouge felt hot on her face. Two simple cotton dresses she’d made herself were the coolest things she owned, and she wore them as much as possible. Stockings were hard to come by these days, so luckily, she didn’t stand out by not wearing them.
She’d bought a satin slip, telling herself a working woman needed proper undergarments in addition to the more noticeable accessories. One day when Cici was at work, June tried it on in front of their small mirror. She had never dared look at herself naked before. Sometimes she felt wicked to have let Sam make love to her. With Ronnie she had felt obligated, but with Sam she had no real excuse. She figured he didn’t know, but she was always nervous when they managed to get the house to themselves. He would expect her to give in to him, and she could hardly tell him no now. Sometimes she didn’t know how to react to him—if she was holding her body in the right position, what sounds she was supposed to make. Even when she felt pleasure, it was usually eclipsed by her anxiety. Still, she loved how Sam looked at her when she was naked. She never knew she could have that effect on a man. Slowly she’d drawn her hand across her belly, the fabric deliciously smooth, her skin hot underneath. She was wearing the slip that day in the office as well; it swished against her legs when she walked, and her every step felt sophisticated.
She got a call from the front security checkpoint announcing Mr. Lawson’s arrival. “Lawson” was a code name for “Lawrence.” A few minutes later
, she let in Dr. Armstrong and “Mr. Lawson,” a tall man with glasses. She was surprised by how youthful and athletic he looked, not at all what she’d expected. In Sam’s office, the men were all smiles and vigorous handshakes, jolly in one another’s presence, and she closed the door on them. A few minutes later, they emerged, and Sam told her not to expect him back in the office until after lunch.
One problem with being good at organization and prioritizing was that by midday she’d often run out of things to do. Sometimes she would type things just for herself, almost to herself, like a journal. Most of the time, she ripped them up when she was done, but every once in a while she’d fold them and put them in her purse. Today she wrote:
Bored, bored, but why should I be bored? I can do anything I want really. Hope S. becomes happy. Does my happiness depend on his happiness? Is that good or bad? It would make him angry if I said that. He doesn’t like to think I’m too dependent. But if you love someone, how can you be happy if they are not? Truly, completely happy, anyway.
She stopped typing, stood up, and paced across the room. She had a novel in her purse for reading on the bus, but it seemed too blatantly recreational to take it out here. Strange that she should be paid more money now to do less work. She went back to the typewriter, deciding she would use the time to write her parents another letter. They were so impressed by her typing.
Sam didn’t get back until after five o’clock. By that point, June had given up all pretense of work and was reading the book. As he opened the door, she tossed it into her open pocketbook on the floor. Not that Sam would really mind, yet still she felt guilty. But he didn’t notice at all. He had a goofy smile, and she wondered if he was drunk.
He closed the door behind him and grinned at her. “I did well today.”
“Good!” she said, standing, genuinely pleased.
