The Atomic Weight of Love (8 page)

How could Alden possibly be late? Had he forgotten me, lost in his formulae, his misbegotten sense of the here and now? I was just about to pick up my suitcase and step into the shade of the wide veranda, thinking I’d find some food in the Fred Harvey Café, when I heard him calling my name. He half-jogged toward me, and I felt the surprising revelation that I was married to the man who approached me.

“Meri, Meri,” he said, rushing to hold me and inadvertently knocking over my suitcase. He buried his face in the side of my neck and inhaled deeply. “I missed the smell of you,” he said, his voice muffled. I turned my head and kissed his fat, substantial earlobe. His hair had grown even longer, curling just above his collar, and for the first time I noticed that his mustache contained some gray, along with whiskers tinged a barely discernible nicotine yellow.

“I’m so glad you’re here and so sorry.” He released me and instantly returned to high gear. “It was crazy getting here. We had a flat, but thank God the tube held for the rest of the trip. I don’t know about the return trip. Honestly, I don’t. Those things have been patched so many times.”

“We?”

“I gave a colleague a ride down. He’ll get another ride back, but you’ll meet him one day. You’d like him—brilliant, enthusiastic, close to your age. His wife is in the sanitarium here.”

“Sanitarium?”

“She’s got TB.”

“Oh, God.”

“It’s awful. But Feynman’s pretty upbeat, despite it all. He tries to come down just about every weekend, and of course I wanted to help him out. He doesn’t have a car.”

“And you do?”

“1940 Studebaker Champion Utility Coupe.”

“Wonderful,” I said, feeling my eyes begin to burn in the sun’s sharp glare. “But, I have to tell you that what I want right now is food and something cool to drink.”

He picked up my suitcase and mimed weighing it. “Planning to stay more than one night?”

“I didn’t know what to bring. And it is just for the summer.”

“As long as you have your swimsuit.”

“Of course.”

“Then all is well with the world. C’mon, wife of mine, let’s get you some food. Oh,” he stopped suddenly. “Forget the name I mentioned. Damn it, I keep forgetting. I called him ‘Joe,’ OK?”

“All right.” I held up my hand as if swearing a witness’ oath. “I will look forward to meeting your friend ‘Joe,’ about whom I know nothing whatsoever.”

THE PROMISED RENTAL
OF
the other half of a duplex hadn’t worked out, for reasons Alden didn’t say. Instead, he’d found me rooms in a Victorian-style home on Walter Street, near downtown Albuquerque. Walter, High, and a few other streets in the area had five to six Victorian homes apiece—all completely incongruous with the rest of the landscape and architecture, and all in jarring contrast to the postcard images Alden had sent me. My rooms had hardwood floors, tall sash windows, and the house was surrounded with locust trees that were in the last stages of full bloom. Alden carried my suitcase up the stairs and immediately opened the bedroom window; we could smell the heavy, sweet scent of the white-blossomed trees. I heard robins calling to each other, and I felt I would be happy here.

The furnishings were more than adequate: a brass bed, complete with an unforgiving mattress and starched white sheets that smelled of wash lines and the outdoors. A bureau with a crocheted dresser scarf, a tiger walnut armoire with a long, rectangular mirror on the inside of one door. I could see where some ancient mouse had gnawed through the back panel of the armoire; the hole had been stained over, a slapdash approach to remediation. In the sitting room were a pale pink upholstered love seat and a wonderful floral wing-backed chair with a reading lamp. A small desk stood next to a set of bookshelves, and Alden had stocked the shelves with some Southwest guidebooks and histories. He even included a best-selling novel I’d mentioned wanting to find the time to read—
A Tree Grows in Brooklyn
. I was touched by the trouble he’d taken to be sure I was comfortable.

I was also, admittedly, relieved. I know Alden had meant well when he planned to set me up with some colleague’s wife as a roommate, but I preferred to be on my own. I’d never lived completely alone before, and the idea of it made me feel a kind of anticipatory joy. I wanted to challenge myself to meet New Mexicans, not other temporary, wartime transplants. I thought about having the time to read something other than textbooks, exploring on my own, how much I’d relish the chance to be so independent. I didn’t want to be one of the other fungible wives; I wanted my own life, my own experiences without the prejudice of someone else’s likes or dislikes. Still, I wondered about the other wives, how they felt about New Mexico.

BEFORE WE MADE LOVE,
I insisted on taking a bath. I knew then that the bathroom would be my favorite room—in particular because it was the first time in years that I’d had a bathtub I didn’t have to share with other boarders. The floor was tiled in small squares of traditional black and white, and there was an enormous claw-footed tub, a porcelain sink with a rubber stopper carefully leashed on a chain in case it had any inclination to roll across the floor and make a break for freedom. There was no mixer; separate spouts gave cold and hot water, and part of the pleasure of bathing or washing my face that summer was getting the temperature just right. Alden teased me, saying that my lab skills—my exactitude with measurements, beakers, and volume—were finally of some practical use.

I filled the tub with lukewarm water and immediately sank beneath the surface, feeling my hair float in loose curls, released from gravitational pull. The water felt utterly delicious. Alden brought the desk chair in so that he could sit and talk with me, but soon he knelt beside the tub, took a washcloth in his hands and the cake of Ivory soap from my slippery fingers. “Let me,” he said, and he worked the cloth into a lather, began with my feet, washing between my toes, stretching the toes, the arches of my feet, releasing all of the hidden little cramps, aches, and pains. He took his time, moving up my body, and behind my closed eyelids I envisioned tenderness in his face, a veritable ministration. Instead, when I opened my eyes I saw the expression of a man intent upon a task. He was literally bathing me, as if my cleanliness were a project. His eyes showed focus, but they lacked the sweetness I’d longed to see.

The water cooled, and I felt goosebumps forming all over my body, heard the water sloshing. He reached my neck, kneaded the muscles of my shoulders.

“Do you know about wave propagation, wife of mine?”

I kept my eyes closed, held my silence.

“Wave propagation refers to the ways in which waves travel. Their speed of travel is largely determined by the density of the medium in which the waves exist.”

I set myself afloat on the waves of his words, remembering that teaching sessions like this were why I fell in love with him.

“Obviously, on a molecular level, waves are created by molecules bumping into each other. And molecular movement is a result of vibration. That vibration can be referred to as ‘local excitation,’ ” he said, letting loose of the soap, which as advertised floated rather than sank. “And, as you know, for there to be any wave motion, inertia must be overcome.” He helped me to stand and wrapped a towel about my shoulders before leading me to bed.

And so it was, the seductive language of physics and a quickly repressed longing for more.

I AWOKE ALONE THE
next morning after a deep, seemingly dreamless sleep. A note stuck into the frame of the bathroom mirror told me Alden had gone to get us Sunday doughnuts and coffee. I was to wear my swimsuit beneath my clothes, grab towels, and be ready to head out for my first real tour of Albuquerque. My clothes were wrinkled and smelled wet, of another land, another time. Still, I didn’t bother pressing anything—just vehemently shook my cotton shift several times, as if that would render me presentable. Thinking of the heat, I slipped on a pair of sandals.

Our Studebaker was cream-colored, with a layer of gritty, pale-brown dust coating every inch of it, inside and out—the upholstery, the mirrors, the dashboard and steering wheel. I thought of the contrast of the near-black soil of the Midwest, the gentle green hills of Pennsylvania. Alden’s handprints made appearances at the door handles and trunk, and I wondered if the obvious passenger-side handprints might belong to the Feynman fellow whose name I was supposed to forget. The secrecy, this truncated way of living—and all any spy had to do was to take fingerprints from the door of a car. I looked around. All of the cars were this dirty. I started to think that my entire life would soon be covered in a fine patina of transient New Mexico sand.

Alden handed me a still-warm, grease-dotted paper bag that smelled wonderfully of fat and sugar, and he waited until I was inside the car before settling a Thermos of coffee in my lap alongside the doughnuts. I could tell he was excited, happy to be showing me his new world—at least the Albuquerque part.

“OK,” he said, and the engine roared to life. “Are you ready for a perfect day?”

“Absolutely,” I said, wondering how car engines functioned or people with frail lungs breathed in this dust-driven expanse. I overcame a desire to cough.

“You snored.” Alden pulled the car out of the parking spot.

“Did not.”

“Did,” he said, and reached over to squeeze my knee. “It was the second-most lovely thing I’ve heard in the dark for a long, long time, Meri.”

I put my hand over his until he had to shift gears.

We drove down Central Avenue, through downtown Albuquerque. The tallest building was a department store, three stories tall. I saw a policeman astride a horse and block-shaped Indian women in tiered velvet skirts with deerskin moccasins that ended at mid-calf. They moved slowly, eyes downcast. The drive through the business district took less than two minutes.

I felt a lassitude emanating from the buildings, the asphalt of the street—nothing like the frenzied pace of Chicago. There were no blaring car horns, and no groups of pedestrians waited on the corners for lights to change. Instead, people just ambled out into sparse traffic, trusting that they were immune from motorists.

“Land of
mañana
,” Alden said, reading my mind.

“Is it the heat?”

“Doubtful. Think about Chicago summers. It doesn’t stop anyone, does it?”

“I suppose not.” I held my hand out the window, thinking I could nearly see the moisture evaporating from my skin. “I’ll become a leathery old woman here,” I said, pulling my arm back into the car. “Dry up and blow away.”

We crossed a bridge over a broad, shallow expanse of red-brown water lined by vibrantly green cottonwoods.

“The Rio Grande,” he said, nodding his head toward the water.

“
That?
”

“Meri, out here,
that
is a lot of water.”

I tried to look again, to reassess my first impression, but it was too late, the river was already behind us. Alden turned into a parking lot jammed with cars and pickups. A painted plywood sign read
TINGLEY BEACH
.

“A
beach
? Here? Is it a joke?” I realized I was gripping the paper bag too tightly, putting our fresh doughnuts in peril.

“They diverted some of the river water. You’ll see.”

Alden shut down the engine and came around to get the door for me. He pulled a plaid wool travel blanket from the trunk and took my elbow, steering me toward the sand. I saw men fishing along a thin ribbon of red-brown water, some of them with little boys alongside them. There were women in light cotton dresses, a few sunbathing in swimsuits. An old man dozed beneath a tented newspaper, a curly-haired black dog panting at his feet. Two little girls flicked tiny children’s shovelfuls of sand at each other.

“I know how much you love to swim, and I just wanted to show you that you’ll be able to do that all summer if you want.” He found an open spot and spread the blanket. I watched him make sure the fringed edges lay perfectly flat. I looked at the stingy flow of water and sighed. He couldn’t begin to understand what real swimming was, if he thought I could swim here.

“Time for doughnuts,” Alden said, pulling me down beside him. I watched him fill the nesting cups of the Thermos with coffee, and I took off my sandals to let my toes wiggle free in the sun. There was a squeal of delight from down the beach—teenaged girls splashing teenaged boys in the shallows of the river water. The suspended droplets trapped the sun, sent shivers of sparkling water arcing into the air. I felt the colors of the day lodge in my chest, the perfectly combined scent of doughnuts and coffee, and I reached for Alden’s hand, squeezed it.

I told myself this was different, that was all. I needed to adjust to this new life. My husband was trying to make me happy. Couldn’t I do the same for him?

I stood and removed my shift, stalked bravely to the water’s edge. The river was cooler than I expected, and I waded in until I was calf deep. I scooped a handful of water, sent it flying, and watched the glittering results. I could feel Alden watching me as I bent over; his gaze generated a pleasant warmth at the back of my neck. When I turned to wave, he smiled with his success.

AFTER THE BEACH
AND
my near-immediate sunburn, Alden took us on a sightseeing drive. We looked up at the 10,000-foot Sandia Mountains, Albuquerque lying supplicant below. He showed me a nearby grocer, the library a few blocks from my rooms, and—grinning all the while—several bars I was to avoid. During the night, we got up and watched a dust storm blow through town. It turned the beams of light beneath streetlamps into a deep-brown mass of whirling, stinging silica and obscured stop signs and fire hydrants. I marveled at how brutal nature could be here, how unforgiving. I held onto Alden as we stood together at the window, his body warm and solid, reassuring beside me. Despite my insistent autonomy, it felt good to lean on someone.

Alden had to leave for Los Alamos at about three that afternoon, but before he left, he handed me a small box as we sat together on the edge of the bed. Atop a cushion of cotton was a narrow, three-quarter-inch-wide band of silver, with black geometric designs and a single rough knuckle of turquoise. He stretched it around the bones of my wrist and squeezed to make it fit snugly. He kept his hand over the bracelet and gazed out the window to the locust tree where it shifted in a minuscule breeze.