Page 16 of The Women of Oak Ridge
CHAPTER SIX:MAE
DAYS TURNED INTO WEEKS.Weeks turned into months.
By the end of September, I felt like an old-timer at CEW, especially when new, wide-eyed employees arrived, which happened on a regular basis. I’d become used to mud, buses, and long lines, but I’d also experienced more fun than I ever had in Kentucky.
Sissy and I joined a bowling league, played bridge in the recreation room, and saw two movies I’d heard about but hadn’t had the opportunity or the money to see back home. There were dances at the tennis court or one of the rec centers, sporting games to attend, Sunday church services at Chapel on the Hill, and gab sessions in the dormitory after curfew with girls who’d quickly become friends. The first day we visited the community swimming pool, a young photographer—Ed Westcott, the only person authorized to document life in Oak Ridge through photographs—asked permission to take our picture. We felt like movie stars as we posed beside the pool’s edge.
Life on the Reservation suited me just fine.
A maintenance request came in after lunch. Although there were other clerical girls employed at the shop, I was the only one currently in the office. A large compressor on the second level required repairs. I loaded the basket on my bike with tools the crew may not have in their tool kits and arrived to find a group of men gathered around the gigantic machine. Three employees from the maintenance crew were adamant about what the problem was, but another young man I didn’t recognize calmly disagreed.
While I waited, I noticed the fellow doing the talking wore trousers and a white short-sleeved button-down shirt like the guys I’d seen in the control room upstairs. Most of the maintenance crew and other employees who worked on the plant floor opted to wear coveralls, since much of what they did every day required getting their hands dirty. Wearing regular street clothes was only done by those whose jobs kept them away from grease and grime.
The argument ended when a supervisor arrived. Much to the obvious chagrin of the maintenance crew, he agreed with the young man. I saw frustration in their eyes as they unloaded my basket, adding the tools I’d brought to those they already had, and got to work.
The young man stepped away to let them do their job.
When he glanced at me, he smiled. “Hi. I’m Garlyn Young.” He stuck out his hand.
I offered mine. “Maebelle Willett.”
He nodded as we shook hands. “I know. I’ve seen you around.”
When my brow rose, he hurried to add, “Your boss, Mr. Colby, and I work together sometimes. He mentioned your name.”
An awkward silence sat between us. I couldn’t escape, since I had to wait in case the repair crew needed additional tools or something from the maintenance shop. Garlyn didn’t appear to be in a hurry to leave either.
“How long have you been in Oak Ridge?” he asked after a time.
“I arrived a few months ago. You?”
A wry grin inched up his face. “I arrived last year.”
“Wow, you’re really an old-timer.”
He chuckled. “That I am.”
The crew boss asked me to retrieve some parts from the shop, so I moved in the direction of where I’d parked my bicycle.
Garlyn followed. “May I ask you a question?”
“That depends.” I glanced at him. “If you want to know what I do at K-25, what we make here, or how many people are employed at CEW, then the answer is no.”
That made him laugh. “Your secrets are safe. I was wondering if you’d like to have dinner with me tonight. We could go to the snack bar in town. Have you tried their milkshakes yet?”
My mouth fairly watered at the mention of the sweet treat, but I was determined not to form any romantic attachments. When the war ended and I was no longer employed at CEW, I would return to Kentucky.
Sissy, on the other hand, had gone on a number of dates with Clive Morrison. His job gave him access to an Army sedan, making him one of the few people we knew with a vehicle. She said they’d park near the river and talk for hours. Although she didn’t gush about the young man, I could tell she was smitten. I’d only met Clive once, but there was something about his demeanor that felt phony to me. Like he was putting on airs, wanting to impress people, which seemed silly. We lived in a secret city in the hills of East Tennessee. No one cared what school you graduated from or how far back your lineage went.
But Garlyn Young seemed polite and obviously had a good position at K-25. He was also nice-looking, with sandy-colored hair and warm brown eyes. Maybe I should consider—
“Get going, Willett,” the crew boss bellowed.
I startled.
Turning, I found his angry glare aimed at me. “Yes, sir.”
I hurried to climb onto the bicycle, embarrassed. When I peeked at Garlyn, his scowl was directed at the other man, not at me.
