Page 47 of The Women of Oak Ridge
I threw back the bedcovers, knelt on the cold floor beside Sissy’s bed, and slid my hand beneath her mattress.
My fingers met something hard.
I pulled the diary from its hiding place and stared at the cover.
It didn’t feel right to read Sissy’s personal thoughts and feelings. Even if she had gone back to Georgia, the words she’d recorded in the small journal were none of my business.
But what if something in the entries held answers to the questions I’d asked since she hadn’t returned from Knoxville? People who kept diaries often included details they didn’t want anyone else to know. Wrote things they wouldn’t speak aloud. If readingher private musings helped me understand what happened to my friend, then it was worth breaching the boundaries of trust that were normally in place between roommates.
I crawled beneath the warm covers of my bed, and with a deep breath, opened the book.
Dear Diary,
I’m in Tennessee! Mama thought it’d be fun for me to write down my experiences and share them with her later, so she bought me this diary.
I recalled reading this entry the day I discovered the journal on the table. But unlike the last time I’d held the book, I continued to read the remaining words, which were all about me.
Sissy wrote that she had a feeling we were going to be good friends. I was pleased by the compliments she gave me, expressing how she’d never had an older sister before but hoped she’d found one in me. I too had felt a sisterly connection from the beginning, although we’d never spoken about it. When I saw her again, I’d be sure to tell her how much I’d enjoyed rooming with her.
I turned the page.
The next entries were all about Oak Ridge. The mud. The long lines. The people she met. She described the scenery surrounding the town, using flowery words likeemerald hillsandcornflower blue skies. By the end of the first week, however, Sissy confessed to feeling homesick and expressed her hope that she would receive a letter from her mama soon.
I wonder if I made a mistake coming here. It’s so far away from Georgia. I miss my family,she’d written.If I still feel like this next week, I might get on a bus and go home.
I drew an imaginary line with my finger, underscoring her words.I might get on a bus and go home.
Is this the answer I was looking for? Sissy admitted to having thoughts of leaving Oak Ridge, even before Clive broke things off with her. She’d felt loneliness for her family and wondered if she’d made a mistake moving so far away from them. If Clive’s rejection left her emotions raw and her spirit broken, she very well could’ve shaken the dust of our secret town off her shoes and hightailed it back to Georgia. Although it hurt that she hadn’t said goodbye, I couldn’t blame her for not wanting to face the likes of Prudence Thorpe and others whose favorite form of entertainment was spreading gossip throughout the Reservation.
I skimmed the next two pages, which were mostly about her new job at Y-12. I wasn’t interested in the needle gauges, knobs, and dials she adjusted on her cubicle all day. She didn’t know the purpose for any of it, and neither did I.
I was about to conclude the diary was of no help when I came to the entry she’d written after her first date with Clive.
Dear Diary,
I met a man named Clive Morrison at a dance the other night. He said I was the prettiest thing he’d ever seen and asked me to dinner. Tonight we ate at one of the restaurants in town instead of the cafeteria. After that we took his car tothe river and talked for hours. He’s awfully smart. He’s nice-looking too, but not in a Clark Gable way. More like Jimmy Stewart, I guess. But there’s something about him I really like. I can hardly wait to see him again.
“I wish you’d never met Clive Morrison,” I muttered.
If Sissy hadn’t gone out with the odd fellow, she’d still be here with me. With a pang of regret, I realized I’d have to let Mrs. Kepple know that I needed a new roommate. I’d have to pack up Sissy’s things and send them to her in Georgia.
A number of entries about Clive followed. I sped through icky, gushy comments, claiming him wonderful, considerate, and romantic. I was convinced my naive roommate had been fooled by the man. I’d sure never seen those qualities in him.
Although the thought didn’t bring me satisfaction, I’d bet Sissy’s opinion of Clive Morrison changed considerably after he broke things off with her. I just wish she would’ve recognized how ill matched she and the serious, unfriendly engineer were and had broken up with him first. Plenty of fun, amiable fellows had been interested in Sissy, but she’d only had eyes for Clive.
My own eyes began to grow heavy. I let out a noisy yawn.
I flipped ahead and saw there were only a half dozen or so entries left. Maybe I should wait and finish reading them tomorrow. I had work in the morning, and I’d be sorry if I didn’t get some sleep. Biking around K-25 all day was hard enough when I was fully rested. Mr. Colby wouldn’t be pleased if he found me napping on the job.
I was about to close the book when my gaze landed on the final entry, dated two days before Sissy disappeared.
I fear Clive is a spy. In fact, I’m sure of it. I don’t know what to do. He warned me not to tell a soul about the papers I saw or the secrets he’s shared with me. He said if I did, I’d be sorry, and so would whoever I told. I’m scared, Diary. So very, very frightened.
My hands shook as words leaped off the page.
Spy. Secrets. Frightened.
I stared at Sissy’s shaky handwriting.
Could it be true? The man who’d given us the introduction speech the day we arrived in Oak Ridge warned that anyone couldbe a spy. To discover that Sissy believed Clive was one sent a cold chill racing through me.
One question demanded an answer.
If Clive was indeed a spy, did he have something to do with the reason why Sissy was no longer in Oak Ridge?
