The Atomic Weight of Love (6 page)

“Have you told him about Alden?”

“I will. My next letter.”

“Will it be hard?”

“A little.”

“Do you want to know something that will make it easier?”

“Sure.”

“He’s writing to at least three other girls.” Kitty’s fingers circled her soda glass, and her cheeks flamed bright red. “Sorry,” she added.

“I’m not.” It was a relief—a huge relief—and it sounded exactly like Jerry. “Kitty?” I smiled at her. “I’m sure they’re all
just friends
.” We burst out laughing, and I thought about how I’d sign my next letter to
Jer!

As I finished my Coke, I looked at a poster tacked to the wall behind Kitty:
SHAVE HITLER AND SAVE AMERICA: BUY WAR STAMPS
.
The cartoon showed Hitler with his small mustache, and a disfigured swastika tumbled across the drawing. Next to that, an advertisement for Coca-Cola read:
ASK THE FLYING TIGER FROM CHINA
—“Scratch one zero,” the soldier in the drawing said, “Out there we’d give a buck for a Coke. They’re still a nickel here.”

“I have an idea,” I said. “What if we do a scrap metal drive, in Red’s honor? As a welcome home?”

“I like it!”

“Maybe next weekend? We can make some flyers, see what we can bring in.”

“We can make it into a party,” Kitty said, and the intensity of her blush made me wonder if she didn’t have her sights set on the returning Red Palmer. The marriage of two redheads, I thought, and smiled while picturing the porcelain skin of redheaded babies.

ALDEN PAID THE CABBIE
and helped me out of the taxi. Although it was April, stubborn traces of winter clung to gusts of spring wind, and I pulled my coat closed and shivered. We stood on the sidewalk in front of Malnekoff Jewelers—and the mood I was in was not how I’d imagined I’d feel moments before choosing an engagement ring.

“I’m saying that you’re driving the censors crazy. You’ve got to stop talking about or asking any questions having to do with science.”

Why was it my fault that the censors couldn’t distinguish between science that might be top-secret, nuclear science, and my brand of biology? Why was Alden angry with
me
?

“Don’t pout. Just stick to topics that get nowhere near anything that might be censored.”

“I still don’t know what those topics might be, really I don’t. I don’t know the rules, and I’m not a fortune teller, Alden. I’m not that kind of supremely intuitive woman.”

“Your sarcasm is quite attractive. Really a nice quality. Very.”

“I don’t want to fight. I also don’t want to be blamed for something that’s not my fault. It’s not fair.”

“Nothing about this is fair, Meri. And if you’re waiting for ‘fair’ to show up, I suspect you’ll have to wait until long after this war is over—and that’s if we win.”

Alden’s soft green eyes were bloodshot. I brought his hand to my mouth and kissed his nicotine-stained fingers.

“Sweetheart, I’m sorry,” he said, “but I can’t even tell you how many houses are being constructed because then you’d have an idea as to the scope of the project. I can’t give you any estimation of how long my job will last, other than to tell you that it will last ‘the duration of the war.’ That’s the official, prescribed language. The degree of censorship is absurd but maybe necessary. I don’t know. What I do know is that most of your letters are almost completely excised, and this whole issue is coming between us on the first days we’ve had together since January. Now, that’s even more absurd than the regulations I’m telling you about—the ones I’m not supposed to tell you about.”

A light rain began to fall. I let the drops hit my face and felt a wide moorland of loneliness stretching between the two of us. The war cast a pall over everything, wore us all down to the nub.

I ended up choosing a simple, square-cut diamond accompanied by two small diamonds perched on either side of the large stone. There was something about the number three—three diamonds—that appealed to me. When I told Alden how I felt about the number, he waxed eloquent about the solidity of triangles, the power of four triangles combined to form a pyramid. And then, like a cherry atop a sundae, he threw in a small discourse on Euclidean geometry.

I took his arm. Walking beside Alden was like having a set of the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
at my disposal, always at hand to satisfy my curiosity.

Our foreplay that night consisted of piling one idea on top of another, drawing connections, extrapolating while we lay beside each other, naked. Finally, Alden rolled to face me. He leaned on an elbow and used his other hand to trace the line of my nose, to twist my hair amongst his fingers.

“What’s different about your hair?”

“Kitty gave me a permanent wave. It gives it body—my hair’s so fine, otherwise it just lies flat, boring.”

“I like it.” He moved his weight onto me, laid his body the full length of mine. “Meri,” he twisted my hair in both hands and sighed. “Meri.”

His mouth tasted of cigarettes and after-dinner coffee. “Open your mouth,” he said. “More.” I closed my eyes and breathed in his commanding tone. Our teeth clicked against each other, and we laughed. He wet his fingers in his mouth and probed inside of me, commanded that I look at him, that I unflinchingly meet his gaze. “Don’t ever be sorry,” he breathed into my ear. “Don’t ever be sorry about us, no matter what.” He entered me, and my back arched, my pelvis rose to meet him. “Promise me, Meri.”

“No,” I said reflexively. “Never.” And I wondered what he might be predicting that would lead him to extract that promise.

At the train station the next morning, he kissed the back of my hand. We stood there wordlessly, and all I could think about was departures, always departures. Whenever Alden left me, it felt like my tissues were being torn, like old wounds reopening.

ALDEN SENT ME A
packet of black and white picture postcards. I was surprised by the climate revealed in the images—dust, dust, and more dust. He’d written descriptions on the backs of the cards—none of which, to my amazement, were censored.

I saw soaring rock cliffs pockmarked with holes Alden described as being a mix of wind-altered stone and stone purposefully carved by ancient Indians—handholds and footholds for climbing the sharp cliffs. There was a photo of an Indian woman with a woven blanket draped over her head. Her cheekbones were forthright, beautifully angled, her smile that of a bemused Mona Lisa. A close-up picture of a donkey he identified as a “burro, the most common New Mexico resident, although all of them are friendly.” It made me smile. There were several images that he said typified the local architecture—low-slung homes made of adobe mud bricks; bleak, bare courtyards; thick, twisted cottonwoods growing in flood plains along a river. At his altitude, which he said was nearly 8,000 feet, there were aspens.

How primitive it all appeared—as if it were another country, certainly not the United States. Despite having been designed for tourists, the postcards showed an impoverished swathe of a nation that at the same time incongruously strode the world stage, spending so much money each day, each minute, in war. How abjectly poor must one be to build a house of mud, cow manure, and straw? Alden described the climate as “high desert,” meaning that the winters were cold, with snow. How on earth would a mud house provide adequate shelter in wintertime, and why didn’t the walls melt into mud when it rained?

I wondered how many questions might escape the black pen of the omnipresent censors. I decided to play it safe.

To:

Alden Whetstone

PO Box 1663

Santa Fe, N. Mex.

From:

Meridian Wallace

1225 Wayland Ave.

Chicago, Ill.

May 10, 1943

Dear Alden,

I wrote to Mother about my beautiful ring, and she’s asking when she will be able to meet you. Don’t worry—I won’t make promises I can’t keep.

I’ve been thinking about my father. Did I tell you that he used to call me “my wee brown sparrow”? I wish he could be here when you and I marry.

I won’t tell you about any of my initial crow research. No need to tempt the censors. The postcards were grand, although honestly they were also unsettling. I cannot fathom this place where you are living, the bleakness of it all. Am I wrong? Is it as bleak as it appears?

I was thinking about this: We believe in lovebirds. Not lovehorses or lovecows, or even lovebutterflies. Lovebirds.

I believe in
you
, Alden.

Yours — Meridian

To:

Meridian Wallace

1225 Wayland Ave.

Chicago, Ill.

From:

Alden Whetstone

PO Box 1663 Dear Meri,

Santa Fe, N. Mex.

May 31, 1943

Dear Meri,

Do NOT taunt the censors. It doesn’t do anyone any good. I don’t want to have to repeat myself ad nauseam on this topic, and I think I’ve been quite clear. If that’s your form of humor, alter it.

I’m returning your draft tax return. Are you certain there are no additional sources of income, other than your work as a teaching assistant? You’ll see that I’ve checked your math and noted several errors.

The landscape is desolate. However, I’m told the wildflowers are spectacular and that the mountains are much cooler and more pleasant than are the valleys in the summer months. Remember, too, that many people come to New Mexico precisely for the arid climate—as a curative for tuberculosis. So, it has its advantages.

I’m working
a lot of hours these days—
we’re all
pressing hard
. Still, I will try to get in some hikes, to explore some more of this land. Will pick a bunch of posies for you.

Tell me how many men you snub daily on my behalf.

Always—Alden

He enclosed my tax return with corrections and commentary written in his succinct draftsman’s printing: “Where did you get this number? It should be X.” and “No!—the instructions said ADD this amount, not SUBTRACT this amount!” I was hurt and a little ashamed to have made so many errors—it was my first-ever tax return. I’d failed to live up to Alden’s expectations. I’d have to do better.

IN THE SUMMER OF
1943,
I worked as a lab assistant for Professor Matthews, learning the basics of field research. It surprised me, given his girth and complete lack of visible muscle tone, that he had the stamina to climb trees or ladders to blinds and to sit or squat for the hours of observation. Sometimes, all I could think about was how I’d never be strong enough to drag him miles back to civilization and medical care.

I found a good pair of used boots that I could muck up, and I bought two pairs of sturdy men’s pants that I could cinch with a belt and roll up at the cuffs. The summer humidity made the work even dirtier, but I didn’t mind. I loved the sensation of thorough physical exhaustion and the aftermath of deep sleep. Fearful I might lose it, I left my engagement ring in its burgundy, velvet-lined box on top of my bureau. Sometimes, several days would go by without my wearing it so that when I did have it on, I felt its weight and how it encumbered the movement of my fingers. I could also see Mrs. Hudson notice its regular absence.

It was thrilling to hold in my heavily gloved hands a newly banded juvenile Cooper’s hawk, to be in such close proximity to a creature so wholly wild, so perfectly free. His distress call distressed me—a rapid-fire
bikbikbikbikbikbikbikbikbik
, silence for a beat or two, and then repetition:
bikbikbikbikbikbikbikbikbik
. Professor Matthews taught me how to hold the raptor by its legs, raise it above my head, and simply let go. Just before letting go, though, I watched the bird’s eyes, vigilant, rapidly flicking to the left, right, above; the short, fine facial feathers lifted by a breeze. Once released, how quickly the bird recovered, immediately executed several powerful wing flaps, and spirited itself away. I was humbled by the thought that our lives, however briefly, had touched.

I thought about how lives bump up against each other, whether for moments of superficial conversation in line at the post office or a deeper enmeshment, such as that I had with Jerry for those few months. How much meaning should I ascribe to knowing a stranger for the moments it took for me to donate to a V-book campaign? What are the evolutionary implications of kindness? I missed Alden, longed to talk about these sorts of things with him, wondered how he’d frame the matter.

When I finally wrote to Jerry of my engagement, his letters ceased. Through Kitty, I knew he was still alive. He just let whatever it was we’d had die a merciful death.

Meanwhile, Professor Matthews was unrelenting on the subject of my academic career. “Talk to me about your progress, Miss Wallace. Update me on your current research leanings.”

The autumn of 1943 had come and gone, and Professor Matthews and I were sharing a sandwich early in the spring semester. He’d decided to lose weight, and so we often split the lunches his wife made for him.

“Foremost, that crows understand cause and effect.”

“Be more specific,” he said, eyeing my half of the sandwich resting on a rectangle of waxed paper. Soft white bread, liverwurst, and a generous layer of mayonnaise. The paper had been intricately folded, making me think his wife was perhaps unwittingly practicing origami.