Page 3 of The Women of Oak Ridge
Mom had worried about me making the trip by myself, declaring all manner of terrible things could happen to a twenty-five-year-old woman alone on the highway. She’d bought me a can of mace, a whistle, and given me five rolls of quarters, making me promise to call her from a pay phone every so often until I reached Oak Ridge in one piece. I spent last night in Durham, North Carolina, with Hannah, a friend from our days at Boston University. When I’d called Mom, she tried to talk Hannah into joining me for the remainder of my journey.
“Mom,” I’d said into the telephone receiver, rolling my eyeswhile Hannah giggled behind her hand, “I don’t know how long I’ll stay in Oak Ridge. Classes at the community college don’t start again until September, so I have the entire summer off from teaching. The research for my dissertation could take a while, depending on how much Aunt Mae remembers about her work during the war and who else I can find to talk with me about those days.”
As I headed for the steps to my aunt’s narrow front porch, I made a mental note to call Mom as soon as I got settled.
The house looked just as it did years ago. Maybe a little more weatherworn, but still as neat and tidy as I remembered. The lawn had recently been cut, and a window box full of various flowers made a colorful splash on the otherwise plain exterior. An overgrown patch in the back corner of the yard reminded me Aunt Mae enjoyed gardening, yet despite warm weather, it didn’t appear as though she intended to grow anything this year.
I knocked on the front door. A dog barked from inside.
A moment later, an older, slightly pudgier version of the woman of my memories appeared. Her chestnut brown hair had gone prematurely gray, so she’d always seemed ancient to my sisters and me. According to Dad, I looked like my aunt when she was younger.
Green eyes squinted behind thick glasses. “Laurel? Is that you?”
The question was unexpected. “Yes, Aunt Mae. It’s me.”
She pulled the door wider. “My eyesight isn’t too good these days. The doctor calls it some kind of degenerative disease with a fancy name. Come in, dear.”
I hadn’t heard this news.Does Dad know?I wondered.
We hugged, then I stepped inside and was immediately transported back in time. Old-fashioned furnishings. Black-and-white framed photographs of family members long gone, along with more recent color photos of my family. The faint odor of mothballspermeated the air, and a plethora of potted houseplants occupied what little space remained.
Peggy—Aunt Mae’s terribly spoiled Pomeranian, according to Dad—waddled up, a great puff of light brown fur. The dog sniffed my shoes, peered up at me for a long moment, then padded off in the direction she’d come from, apparently declaring me harmless. I was more of a cat person myself, but the fluffy critter was kind of cute.
“I admit I was surprised when your dad said you were coming down for a visit. I can’t recall the last time you were in Tennessee.” She closed the door behind me and squinted. “My, you’ve certainly grown up.”
Guilt swept over me.
I’d never made much of an attempt to have a relationship with my aunt. She was an odd bird, ten years older than Dad. When she visited us in Boston, she never seemed to know what to do with my chatty sisters and me. She wasn’t up on the latest music or movies or anything else that might interest us. We’d greet her with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek when she arrived and again when she left, with little interaction in between.
“School has kept me busy.” Even though it was true, I knew I was making excuses. Earning a master’s degree in psychology was no easy task, but a phone call to my aging aunt would only have taken a few minutes here and there.
She gave me a long study. “Harris said you’re working on your dissertation. I had no idea you wanted to get your doctorate. That’s quite ambitious.”
Her tone hinted at possible failure. “It’s definitely a lot of work, especially now that I’m teaching, but I’m up for the challenge.”
“I’m sure you are, dear.” She smiled. “Let’s get you settled, then we can catch up before dinner.”
I followed her through the living room to a short hallwaywhere three doors stood open. Two bedrooms and one baby-blue-tiled bathroom. Aunt Mae led me to the room on the left. A quilt-covered bed, nightstand, and an old cabinet-encased sewing machine, complete with a wide foot pedal, were the only furnishings. The walls were bare.
“I don’t have much company stay overnight.” She glanced around the sparse room. “Harris is the only one who sleeps in here these days.”
A flash of memory surfaced when I approached the sewing machine, positioned under a window where late afternoon sunshine spilled through lacey curtains. “I remember you used to make clothes for my sisters and me. Matching dresses. Nightgowns. Even things for our dolls.”
Her mouth lifted in a wistful smile. “I enjoyed sewing for you girls.”
Another wave of guilt washed over me. I couldn’t recall ever thanking her for the handmade gifts.
“Make yourself at home.” She turned to exit the room. “We’ll eat around six.”
“Thank you, Aunt Mae,” I hurried to say before she got away. “For everything. I’m happy we can spend some time together.”
The wrinkles on her face softened. “I’m glad you’re here.”
After she left, I retrieved my suitcase from the back seat of the car. The neighbor next door—a woman about the same age as my aunt, I guessed—gave a friendly wave from her place on her porch.
“Hello,” she called across the space, her voice and expression curious.
I returned the gesture and the greeting but continued to the house. While I did hope to talk to people in town about their time in Oak Ridge, especially if they were here during the war, right now I just wanted to take off my shoes and relax.
