“I’m sure she won’t, ma’am.”
Parker’s smile was unexpectedly warm. “You’re in good hands. His wife makes darn fine pie.”
I’ll admit that I was surprised to see what appeared to be genuine camaraderie between the two men. My own experiences with Parker had been less than ideal. I hoped that didn’t mean that Major Lindholm would turn out to be charming but unpleasant too. “Thank you. Now that that’s sorted, we can go on to the meeting.” Not that I had any desire to go to a meeting, but I would give a lot to feel like I could be of some use.
“Ah … I’m sorry, ma’am.” Parker tugged at his tie. “What I should have said was that Dr. York already has the necessary clearance levels from the Manhattan Project. You understand.”
Clearance, my ass. From what he was saying, there was no hierarchy at all, much less clearance. But if I voiced any of that, nothing useful would follow, so I settled back in my chair. “Well, bless your heart. Of course I understand. I’ll just sit here and wait.”
Nathaniel raised his brows at that. He knew me well enough to know I was good and angry, if not exactly why. I shook my head at him, reassuring him that I was fine. I smiled, folded my hands demurely in my lap, and settled back. Like a good little girl, I would sit and wait, let my husband do the work, and pray to God that this mishegas wasn’t going to start a nuclear war.
FOUR
90 DIE IN IRAN EARTHQUAKE
TEHERAN, Iran, March 3, 1952—(Reuters)—Ninety persons were killed and 180 injured in earthquakes in LaRistan and Bastak in southern Iran. Teheran Radio announced today that the earthquakes are believed to have been triggered by the Meteor impact in North America.
The sun had set in a vivid vermilion, with copper and streaks of dark gold. We might well have been transported to Mars based on the red sky arching over us. The ruddy light stained everything, so that even the white picket fence of Major Lindholm’s house looked as if it had been dipped in blood.
Normally, I’d hate to impose on anyone, but Parker had irked me. And, truly, I was too tired to think, and grateful to have someone tell me where to go. Besides, they’d be needing the TLFs for refugee housing.
Nathaniel was still tied up with his meeting. He’d come out long enough to encourage me to go, and I really didn’t have any excuse for staying on base—aside from the absolute certainty that if I left, I would never see him again. These are not things that one voices aloud. Not on a day like today.
As I got out of the jeep, the stains on my clothes seemed to deepen. I could almost hear my mother saying, “Elma! What will people think?”
I clutched the door of the jeep and bit down on the grief. At least I’d washed my face. Straightening, I followed Major Lindholm through the fence and up the tidy walk to the front porch. The door opened as we were climbing the steps, and a plump woman in a powder-blue dress stepped out.
Her skin was no darker than Nathaniel gets in the summer, and her features were soft and rounded. I realized, with a little bit of a shock, that I’d never been to the home of a black person before. Mrs. Lindholm’s curls had been teased into a bouffant hairdo that framed the curve of her light brown cheeks. Behind her glasses, her eyes were rimmed red and tight with worry.
She pulled the door open wider, and pressed a hand to her bosom. “Oh my poor dear. You come right in.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” The floor inside was a pristine faux brick linoleum. My shoes were so dirty that the original color was gone. “Just let me take my boots off.”
“Don’t you worry about that.”
I sat on the steps to pull them off. Mama would have been ashamed of me if I had carried this much grime into anyone’s home. “My husband will track in enough dirt for both us when he arrives.”
She laughed. “Aren’t husbands just all alike?”
“I’m right here.” Major Lindholm paused on the steps next to me. “But you let us know if you need anything. Anything at all. And I’ll make sure Dr. York gets back here safe and sound.”
“Thank you.” If I had to see another look of kindness, I would come completely apart. I concentrated on the other boot. Even my stockings were filthy, and my feet weren’t much better.
Mrs. Lindholm took a few steps out onto the porch. “I raised three sons. Believe me, a little dirt is not a problem.”
No tears. Not yet. A shallow breath kept the worst of it from flooding out. I swallowed the salt. Grabbing the railing, I pulled myself up to my bare feet. “I really can’t thank you enough.”
“Oh, I haven’t done anything yet.” She put her hand near my back, not quite touching me, and guided me into her home. “Now … I suspect that the first thing you’ll want is a nice hot bath.”
“I would take a cold shower at this point.”
The front door had opened directly into her living room. All the furniture sat at neat right angles, and even the tchotchkes had been squared with the edges of their shelves and tables. The air smelled of lemon furniture cleaner and cinnamon.
“For a cold shower, you could have stayed in the barracks.” Mrs. Lindholm bustled down the hall off the living room and opened the first door on the right. Most of the floor in the bathroom was given over to a claw-foot tub. “I have bubble bath. Lavender and rose.”
“I should probably shower first.”
She adjusted her glasses, taking in the dirt that caked my clothing and visible skin. “Hm … all right. But after that, you soak, you hear me? Else you’ll be all over aches and pains tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am.” She wasn’t wrong. Given everything, I’d be surprised if I could even get out of bed tomorrow.
“Now. Here are your towels, and a set of my oldest son’s pj’s.” She put her hand on a set of red flannel pajamas. “My nightgowns would just fall off you. Just set your clothes on the counter, and I’ll get them washed.”
As she bustled out of the room I nodded, hoping she would take it as thanks.
She had to wash my clothes, because otherwise I would have nothing to wear. Not in the despairing debutante way, but a literal fact. We were refugees. Our home. Our jobs. Our bank. Our friends. Everything had been destroyed when the meteorite hit.
And if Nathaniel had not been a rocket scientist—if Parker hadn’t needed him—where would we be? I had thought about people like Mr. Goldman, but not about the people who lived. What were all the other hundreds and thousands of people who were on the edges of the destruction to do?
A cloud of steam preceded me out of the bathroom. I crept down the hall in my borrowed flannel pajamas. The trousers were fine, since I have long legs, but the sleeves hung down to my fingers. I rolled them up as I walked, and the myriad nicks on my fingers snagged against the soft fabric. My mind seemed empty of thought.
I think I was still in shock, which was to be expected, I suppose, but at least it wasn’t manifesting with tremors anymore. It just seemed as if everything had been swathed in cotton.
In the living room, the television was on but turned down low. Mrs. Lindholm had pulled her chair close to the screen. She hunched forward, staring at the news, with her hands balled in fists around a handkerchief.
Rendered in flickering black and white, Edward R. Murrow sat at his news desk with his cigarette, and spoke about the events of the day.
“… The latest total of known dead in the wake of the Meteor that struck today was seventy thousand, although that estimate is expected to rise. Five hundred thousand persons have been reported homeless in the states of Maryland, Delaware, Pennsylvania, New York, New Jersey, Virginia, and into Canada, and as far down the Eastern Seaboard as Florida. These images were taken by airplane some five hours after the disaster. What you are looking at, ladies and gentlemen, was formerly the site of our nation’s capital.”