The Atomic Weight of Love (17 page)

Was this how women had talked about my mother, after she’d spent the day kneeling at the edge of their tubs, scrubbing soap scum? Did they think my mother was ignorant, had to be watched every minute? And without my housework, what on earth would I do with my time?

“Come, let’s sit on the couch,” Georgia said, “It’ll be easier to see everyone’s pictures.”

And so it went. Picture after picture, a competition between the women with regard to their children’s developing talents, stunning displays of intellect, and charmingly naughty escapades. I honestly found the children cute, admired their beautiful young skin, their happy faces, but my smile felt frozen in place. As the exchange dragged on, I wondered why none of the women asked about my life, my interests, why they thought I should be content to serve as a rapt audience. These were intelligent women; couldn’t they find more to talk about? I gave it a try after refilling everyone’s coffee cups and circulating a bowl of fortune cookies.

“What do you think about the Soviet Union’s test of its first nuclear weapon?
First Lightning
, I think they call it,” I asked. “How do you think it might impact work at the Lab?”

They met me with blank stares. Finally, Bernadette answered a bit timidly, “More work for our husbands?”

“Bingo!” Louise said, as if declaring the winner in a game show. “But, Meri, you can’t really want to discuss such dreary topics, can you? At a party?”

“I guess not,” I said, cowed but not completely daunted. I’d try books, instead. “I just finished
The Naked and the Dead
. Has anyone else read it?”

“I wouldn’t have the book in my house,” Georgia said. “The language!”

“You mean
fug
instead of, well . . .” I said, wishing Belle were here to say
fuck
for me. Georgia was bothered by
fug
? “I was appalled by his portrayal of women,” I said instead. “Rampant misogyny.” I added cream to my coffee.

“That reminds me,” Bernadette chimed in, “we never finished looking at photos.”

We hadn’t?
Maybe there is nothing more interesting than one’s progeny. Maybe that’s what I didn’t understand. I felt marooned—excluded from the men’s technical discussion, marginalized when it came to something “scientific” like a newly invented photographic process—forced instead into a discussion of diapers, the pros and cons of different grade school teachers, and recipes for homemade salt clay. I didn’t belong, even in my own home.

At eight o’clock, they began gracious leave-taking, reciting a need to free their respective babysitters. Alden and I stood together in the doorway, handing out jackets and waving good-bye as the couples drove away.

“You did a bang-up job, honey. I think everyone was impressed,” Alden said as he emptied ashtrays. “It’s good to see you making friends.”

I was tired and so I didn’t explain to him that those women made me want to put a gun to my head. I removed the pins from my tight French twist and let my hair fall while I ran hot water over the dishes in the sink and tried not to think about how much my new shoes hurt my feet.

“DON’T LEAVE OUT A
single detail,” Belle said. “I’m dying to hear about the hoity-toity crowd.”

“It was fine.”

“Oh, hell, Meri. C’mon!
Dish
.”

“The food worked. Those paper lampshades I told you about? Not a single one caught fire.”

“So there were no calls to the fire department. And was Alden wowed by your dress?”

“He liked it.”

“OK, this is dull. Was the evening that dull?”

“Well, there was the picture show.”

“Oh, lord. Not the baby photo brigade.”

“Yes. With the men doing a technical sideshow, dissecting Alden’s new camera. A
photographic
theme to the evening, if you will,” I giggled.

“Lord.”

“The kids were cute, sweet. But only for about half an hour. After that . . .”

“Half an
hour
?”

“Maybe longer. Seemed longer.” I started to laugh. “And they would not be dissuaded. I tried—believe me, I tried.”

“Thank you for not inviting us.”

It was the very topic I’d tried to avoid—Alden’s insistence that the guest list be limited to
his
people. Belle read my face. “Sweetheart,” she said, touching my forearm, “I’m serious. I was relieved not to be included. Besides, you can’t afford enough alcohol to get me through one of those Lab parties.” I smiled at her generosity. “And, Meri baby, you know what’s next, right?”

“My next party? Maybe a Scandinavian theme this time?”

“No, sweetie. The reciprocal invitations!” Belle laughed. “Shit, Meri, you’ve gone and done it now!” She hooted.

Lord
, I thought.

“Bone up on the cute-kid talk!”

“Lord,” I reiterated.

A Pod of Meadowlarks

1. The Western Meadowlark has a bold yellow breast and a particularly complex, melodious song.

2. Some associate the black crescent shape on the joyful meadowlark’s breast with phases of the moon and inward journeys of self discovery.

On New Year’s Eve of 1952, Alden told me he planned to stay home. He wanted to read a bit and then go to bed at his usual 10:30 bedtime. I was twenty-eight years old and not inclined to bring in the year in such a desultory manner. Belle told me I could join her and Butch for pot roast and a New Year’s toast, and so I did.

Butch sent the champagne cork flying, and at two minutes till midnight we raised our glasses and made silent wishes for the new year. I watched the two of them look at each other and felt such joy that Belle had that in her life. They turned to me, and each kissed me on the cheek.

The champagne was too sweet, and I took only a few sips before setting my glass aside, making my New Year’s wish:
Let me find a purpose, a reason.
I saw Belle mouth “Now?” to Butch.

“What?” I lowered myself onto the floor, my back against a hassock. “What are you two signaling about?”

“We have some news,” Belle said. She looked toward Butch, and again I saw something nearly palpable pass between them. She sat beside me, carefully setting her champagne glass on an end table. Her hair was down, loose, and tendrils of it curled along her temples. A deep blush held her cheeks. She smiled at me and reached up to hold Butch’s hand where he stood beside her. “Meri, part of this might be hard for you. But I hope you’ll be happy for us.”

I knew. Had I known for a while? Maybe. “Oh,” I said and reached to hug my friend. “You’re pregnant,” I whispered.

“Yes, darling.” When she released me, I saw the deep, vulnerable shadows of her collarbones, and I felt a shiver go through me. Belle noticed. “Be happy for me, will you?” she said, and I could see her fear for me, for our friendship.

“Oh, I am. I am!” And I was. Thoroughly, completely, determinedly happy for her. I raised my glass: “Congratulations! And,” I said, miming great solemnity, “you must make me godmother.”

“No one else, sweetie. No one else.”

“YOU’RE JEALOUS, IS THAT
it?” Alden finished carving the roast turkey I’d made for our special New Year’s Day meal.

“Of course not! She wants a baby—I’m happy for her.”

“All right then.” He laid his napkin across his lap. “This all looks wonderful.” He touched his water glass to mine and then began ladling gravy over his meat and mashed potatoes.

While we ate, I thought about the chubby, puffed juncos I’d seen that morning hunched in the snowbroth beneath my feeders. I’d wanted to hold them in my hands, warm them, feel their softness. Maybe, I thought, we should get a puppy. I could hike with a dog.

“What do you want to achieve in 1952?” I asked, making conversation.

Ignoring my question, he added more gravy to his plate and asked: “Does it hurt you that Belle’s pregnant and you’re not?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

He replaced the gravy boat. “Should we try?”

“Oh,” I said, resisting the temptation to stick out my elbows and create room for myself in what suddenly felt like a small broom closet. “Oh,” I reiterated, eloquently.

“A baby would be fulfilling, give you a purpose,” he said.

No
, I thought—being a godmother, experiencing a child through Belle, suited me perfectly. I’d have all of the joys, none of the responsibility, and I could still live my own life. Alden reached across the table and took my hand as if he were courting me. Maybe he was.

“A child might just be the answer you need, Meri.” His eyes were soft, the wrinkles of his forehead relaxed. It was one of the few times I’d ever seen him sentimental, blurry around the edges.

I searched for words that would not hurt him. “It’s an awfully big commitment for such an iffy experiment,” I placated.

“Just because you haven’t conceived so far doesn’t mean we should give up hope.”

We?

“Wouldn’t Darwin say it’s a natural inclination?” he continued. “Is it so astounding that I’d like for my family name to live on after I’m gone? You have to admit the two of us have some pretty good genetic material. It could be a way of contributing to the world. Meri, we talked about this,” he finished.

“When?” I was flabbergasted. When had we discussed having children, ensuring his legacy?

“In Chicago. Long before I left for New Mexico.”

“No, we didn’t.”

“We did. In the café. Remember the mother with the smashed peas?”

“What I remember,” I said, choosing my words carefully, “was that you mentioned your wife had a couple of miscarriages.”

“Right,” he said, nodding. “So I made it clear that I wanted children.”

“Oh, Alden.” Were we really that bad at talking with each other? “I didn’t take that from our conversation—not at all.” I pulled my hand back from his, closed my eyes briefly. “I’m delighted for my friend. I love Belle, and I think she will have a beautiful child, a baby I’ll love as if it were my own.” I hesitated and then looked him in the eye. “But I don’t want my own. I don’t,” I said as gently as I could.

He shook his head. “Sometimes,” he pushed his chair away from the table, “sometimes, Meri, I get the feeling you’re just a little bit unnatural.”

“
Unnatural?
” I couldn’t keep anger from narrowing my eyes.

“Women want children. Your position is unnatural.” He held a single index finger in the air, a Roman emperor dictating to the senate.

I stood and pulled my napkin from where static electricity had glued it to my skirt. “Don’t you understand?” I asked. “I’m lost, Alden. Lost. I can’t find my footing. I have no business trying to guide a child!”

“What I see but you cannot see, Meri, is that having a child would give you the direction you need. Your
footing
, as you say. Look around this house,” he gestured expansively. “It is filled with half-finished projects. Your hat making. Whatever happened to that? There are boxes and boxes full of material, wooden heads, pins and God knows what else. And how many unfinished sweaters? Hmm? Yes, I can see you’re floundering. That’s why I am, quite reasonably, suggesting a wholly viable solution to your problem.”

With an air of finality, he picked up his plate. I followed him to the kitchen and watched as he put his plate in the sink and then stood there, inert, staring at the floor’s linoleum as if he could observe electrons orbiting, spinning off.

“Alden.” I moved to put my arms around him, but he stuffed his fists into his pants pockets. “I don’t think you understand what I mean when I say I’m lost. I don’t think you’ve ever been lost. Not for a day, not for a moment.”

“Lost? Found? Oh, hell, Meri. What’s the point? I give up.” He turned and walked away, and I heard his match flare as he lit his pipe in the living room. Outside the kitchen door, the sky was a deep gray, and the juncos had bedded down in the interstices of the bushes. I breathed onto the door’s glass pane and pressed my palm into the moisture, thinking about the clay handprints I’d once helped the kindergarteners make for their mothers, when I volunteered at the grade school. Tiny handprints, fired in a kiln, preserved for posterity.

Children are the future. They are hope, possibility, and they let us believe in immortality and potentiality. But why couldn’t I have those things without a child? How many times did Alden expect for me to bow to his pressure, accede to his inflexible wishes? I pressed my forehead to the glass and tried to cool the burning.

IN THE WAKE OF
our standoff, I felt an intense need for change and so made my first-ever appointment at the beauty parlor, next to the new savings and loan. I carried with me an ad I’d torn out of a magazine in which the model wore a “twirler” dress that was cinched to a tiny circle of a waist, high necked, sleeveless, with a full skirt that had fun, oversized diamonds of pockets sewn on in contrasting material. What caught my eye, though, was the model’s modern, short haircut. All but the very tops of her ears were exposed, and the top was longer, curled—reminiscent of a sultry Ava Gardner rather than the girlish pixie of Audrey Hepburn. It might not work as well with my lighter colored hair, but it was a striking haircut, and it was different.

“Well, of course, I can do that,” Millie Gonzales, the beautician, said, holding the photo and looking between it and my reflection in the mirror. “Sure you’re ready for such a big change?”

“Am I ever. Will it look all right on me? I have this odd ear. See?” I said, pulling my hair back from my right ear. “It’s deformed, sort of folded over on itself at the top. I try to hide it.” I was terribly self-conscious about my ear. Jerry had teased me about it, calling me a Darwinian throwback.

She began tugging at my hair, moving it away from my face. “No one will notice your ear. Your hair will cover the tops of your ears.” She continued to fuss. “You have the features to carry it off. Such a pretty face.” We both stared at my reflection. “But with your hair, you’ll need a permanent wave on top—to give it body. You don’t have enough natural curl.”

“OK.”

“And you’ll have to curl the top, set it. Otherwise,” she used her palms to flatten my hair, “it will just lie there.”