Page 2 of The Women of Oak Ridge
CHAPTER ONE:LAUREL
OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE
JUNE 1979
The secret changes everything.
Those four simple words echoed through my mind as I drove down the streets of Oak Ridge, a place I hadn’t seen in ten or more years. Although the small town tucked in the hills of East Tennessee looked like any you might find along the back roads of America, this particular community was anything but typical.
The secret made it so.
I glanced at the directions Dad had given me to Aunt Mae’s house, but either he’d forgotten how to get there or I couldn’t read a map. Being that I’d found my way from Massachusetts to Tennessee without issue, I didn’t think it was the latter.
“Come on, Dad,” I muttered, steering my Camaro Z28 down yet another dead-end road. The cobalt blue car had been a surprise gift from Dad and Mom when I graduated from Boston University with a master’s degree in psychology, making my younger sistersenvious. I’d reminded them I had to drive our old station wagon all through college. After the ribbing I’d had to endure from friends about the tanklike vehicle, I deserved a cool car.
The new hit “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb played on the radio.
“I wish I was reunited with Aunt Mae right about now. Why can’t I find her house?”
It had been years since our family traveled from Boston to visit Dad’s older sister. His job as a vice president of a national insurance company took him all over the country, and he’d stop in to see Aunt Mae when he was in Tennessee. Every few years she took the train to visit us, but the last time she came—wasn’t it for the big bicentennial celebration in 1976?—I’d taken a summer job in New York City and missed seeing her.
I pulled up to a four-way stop and tapped the steering wheel.
Which way should I go?
I vaguely recalled spending Thanksgiving in Oak Ridge when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, but like most teenagers, I hadn’t paid attention to directions and landmarks as we made our way through town. Aunt Mae’s house was tiny, that I did remember. I’d slept on the pullout sofa in the cramped living room with both of my sisters, which was not ideal for a girl who preferred to sleep late during her school holiday.
Yet not once during the handful of visits my family made to Aunt Mae’s over the years did anyone mentionthe secret. The fact is, I wouldn’t know about the secret even now if I hadn’t walked into the faculty lounge at the community college last month. My first year teaching freshmen psychology was nearing an end, and like most of the staff, I was ready for a break. I had plans to spend the summer with friends in Maine, eating lobster and enjoying the gorgeous scenery. I’d also hoped to use the time away from the city to finalize the topic of my dissertation. For some reason, I couldn’t land on a subject that ignited a fire in me.
That changed the day I learned about the secret.
The recent memory sped across my mind.
The small television in the corner of the faculty lounge had been tuned to the early news that afternoon. Dr. Baca, the school’s history professor, sat on the worn sofa in front of it, eyes glued to the set.
“A London grandmother was taken into custody yesterday,” the TV announcer had said, his voice and face projecting seriousness while film of an older woman being led away by police rolled behind him. “Letty Gladding is an alleged spy for the Soviet Union, having worked undercover and undetected in British government offices as a secretary for decades. It is believed Mrs. Gladding passed classified information to the Soviets, including materials regarding Tube Alloys, the British atomic weapons program during the 1940s.”
“Wow,” I’d said, gaining Dr. Baca’s attention. “She looks so normal. Who would’ve ever suspected she was a Soviet spy?”
“Spies come in all shapes and sizes,” he’d said. “There were plenty of them in the US during the war. Most were communists.” He’d launched into a tale about Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, a husband and wife with two young kids. They’d been arrested, tried, and executed in the 1950s for espionage during the Manhattan Project. Ethel’s brother, David Greenglass, who was also arrested for spying, spent time in Oak Ridge in 1944 before being transferred to New Mexico. “Didn’t you say you have an aunt who lives in Oak Ridge? Was she there during the war?”
I’d nodded. “She worked at a manufacturing plant, but I’m sure nothing that happened in Podunk Oak Ridge was of interest to the Russians.”
I distinctly remember chuckling at my little joke.
Dr. Baca had stared at me. “Laurel, Oak Ridge was a secret city during the war, like Los Alamos. My guess is the plant your auntworked at helped provide highly enriched uranium for the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.”
I’d stood in dumbfounded silence.
Tiny, obscure Oak Ridge had a role in producing the atomic bomb? And Aunt Mae was involved? How had I not known this?
After my conversation with Dr. Baca, I’d driven to my parents’ house and quizzed Dad about Aunt Mae and Oak Ridge. The next day I’d gone to the university library and read everything I could get my hands on about the Manhattan Project. What I learned convinced me of two things: I’d found the topic for my dissertation, and Aunt Mae’s life was a total mystery to me.
Both observations were the reason I now found myself in Tennessee instead of Maine.
I made another half dozen turns, passed a school and a church with a tall steeple, before I finally located the correct street. The homes in this part of town were modest, with postage-stamp-sized yards. I saw the familiar beige residence, set just off the road, and confirmed it was hers by the street number painted on the mailbox. With a sigh of relief, I turned into the driveway and cut the engine. It had been a long trip, and I was ready to be someplace other than my car.
I groaned and stretched as I exited the vehicle.
