Page 19 of The Women of Oak Ridge
CHAPTER SEVEN:LAUREL
AUNT MAE DIDN’T FEEL WELLthe next morning. A headache kept her awake most of the night. I couldn’t help but wonder if it had something to do with the contents of the box and my desire to know more about her life during the war. I wasn’t sure what exactly upset her last night, but I felt responsible, nonetheless.
“Don’t worry about me.” She spoke from her bed when I peeked in to check on her. “I just need to rest. You go on to town and do some of that sightseeing you were talking about.”
We’d planned to purchase seeds and plants for the garden today, but it looked as if that was on hold for the time being.
“Can I get you anything before I go? Some hot tea or cocoa?”
She sank into the pillow. “No, thank you, dear. I think I’ll take a little nap. If I feel better, perhaps we’ll work on the garden later this afternoon.”
I kissed her forehead, grabbed my purse, and left the house. Georgeanne was in her yard, watering a plethora of multicolored flowers growing haphazardly throughout the small space.
“Good morning, Laurel.” She waved me over. “I’ve got news.”
I changed course and made my way to the low picket fence that separated the yards. “Good morning. Your flowers are gorgeous.”
“Thank you. They make me happy.”
“You have news?”
“You mentioned that you’d like to interview other residents of Oak Ridge who were here during the war, so I made some inquiries. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all. Talking to a varied group of individuals will provide a good range of thoughts and opinions about the secret work that took place here.”
She seemed pleased. “Some of my friends would be happy to share their stories with you. Elliot was especially interested in your research. He was in the Army and came to work at Oak Ridge as a young soldier. He’s still employed at the labs.”
This news intrigued me. “I haven’t spoken with anyone who still works at Los Alamos or Oak Ridge. His perspective could be really interesting.”
Georgeanne left me with the water hose while she went inside and returned with a handwritten list of five names, addresses, and telephone numbers.
“I know they’ll be thrilled to chat with you.”
I accepted the list, thanked her, and handed back the hose. While it would be easier to call the potential interviewees from Aunt Mae’s telephone, I didn’t want to go inside and disturb her. I’d find a pay phone in town.
Armed with a plan, I drove to Jackson Square, which seemed the best place to begin. Georgeanne said it was known as Town Center when she first arrived and was the main shopping area. She’d also informed me the dormitories and administrative offices, often referred to as Castle on the Hill, had been located nearby, but I hadn’t thought to ask if any of them still existed. Happily, the Guest House, where Manhattan Project VIPs stayed—now theAlexander Motor Inn—and Chapel on the Hill, a small, white-painted church, still stood where they’d been built, a short walk from the shopping center. As soon as I made my phone calls, I’d poke around the World War II-era buildings.
I parked in front of the movie theater and found a pay phone nearby. I dialed the first number on Georgeanne’s list. A man answered.
“Hi, is this Elliot Tyson?”
“This is his son, Jonas. May I help you?”
“Is Elliot available? Georgeanne Stokes gave me his number. My name is Laurel Willett, Mae Willett’s niece. I’m doing some research into the history of Oak Ridge, and Georgeanne said Elliot was interested in speaking with me.”
Seconds ticked by. “Just a moment.” A loud rustling noise sounded, as though he put his hand over the mouthpiece. Murmured voices in the background followed.
When the noise cleared, his deep voice filled the receiver. “Miss Willett, my father says if you’re available now, you’re welcome to come over. He’s home with a sprained ankle and bored out of his mind. He’d love to talk to someone new.”
I thought I detected a hint of humor in the comment. “Perfect. I’m currently at Jackson Square. Is your home nearby?”
He gave me directions to the house, located along the Black Oak Ridge on West Outer Drive, and we hung up.
I walked back to where I’d parked the car. I’d have to explore the town later.
Jonas Tyson answered the door when I arrived at the two-story brick home on a spacious lot. The house looked similar to those I’d seen around town, but the darkhaired man wasn’t at all what I expected.
Tall, good-looking, and maybe a few years older than me, he wore a police uniform, with a gun holstered on his hip.
