The Atomic Weight of Love (7 page)

“Do you want my half?” I asked, sliding it toward him across the tabletop.

“No, no.” I could tell he was trying to convince himself.

“I’m not all that hungry, really. I’ve had about six cups of coffee this morning,” I said.

“If you’re sure.” He hesitated for only a second before pulling the food close to him.

I lit a cigarette, realizing that later I’d have to find something to eat. My clothes were hanging loosely on my frame.

“Keep going, Miss Wallace,” he said in between bites and motioned with his hand.

“OK. Well, one of the first North American ornithologists was an army major, Charles Bendire.”

“Of course. Yes.” One more bite, and the sandwich was gone.

“OK. Well, he recounts the tale of a crow named Jim. Some idiot taunted Jim with a knife kept just out of Jim’s reach. Finally, Jim bit the hand that held the knife, causing the tormenter to drop it. Then Jim flew off with the knife, hiding it and putting an end to the teasing game. Cause and effect.”

“What else?”

“I just now thought about it. Jim Crow laws. Hunh.” I paused.

“Stay on topic. Please.” He folded the waxed paper into smaller and smaller rectangles. “None of your peregrinations.”

“Oh, bird humor. I love it!”

He sighed meaningfully.

“Crows know to soak hard food in water to soften it. They know to put a nut, a walnut or whatever, on the road and wait for a car to run over it, to crack the shell.”

“Right, so that’s causation.” He wiped his mouth and reached for his pack of cigarettes. “What else?”

“They have an astounding number of calls, an intricate system of communication.”

“Exactly. And, while you’ve not asked for my opinion, I’m going to give it to you. That’s where your focus should be—on crow language. It’s rich and ripe for in-depth research, and no one has yet done a thorough study. I truly believe you could make a name for yourself there—that’s the place to put your energies.”

I smiled. This man whom I so respected said without hesitation that I could make a name for myself.
Me
. I could become the first female expert in crow language. I closed my eyes with pleasure, savoring my foodless lunch.

To:

Meridian Wallace

1225 Wayland Ave.

Chicago, Ill.

From:

Alden Whetstone

PO Box 1663 Dear Meri,

Santa Fe, N. Mex.

February 10, 1944

Dear Meri,

Happy Valentine’s Day, my girl.

Just to be certain: Will you still marry me?

Will you marry me on April 22nd?

I will come to Chicago or Pittsburgh, so as to make things easier for your mother—you tell me, and I will be there.

Eternally—Alden

P.S. What did you decide about the timing of your graduation? I’ll explain in person.

PITTSBURGH WAS AN EASIER
trip for Mother, so that’s where we were married. Much to Mother’s disappointment, I chose a civil marriage ceremony, not the church wedding she’d envisioned. I didn’t want for her to spend one penny, and so I bought my own flowers, paid for my own cake.

I kept everything in my white leather wedding album: the receipt for our blood test (six dollars); my dried orchid corsage; and the florist’s bill (fifty dollars). I used some of my summer earnings, and I was proud of having paid for things myself, although I wished Alden had offered. He did pay for the honeymoon at the Roosevelt Hotel—three nights at five dollars a night, and long distance charges incurred by Alden when he made mysterious but “highly necessary, Meri” calls back to New Mexico (thirty-one and ten cents, respectively).

We stayed in a beautiful room with a private bath and a radio. We ate at Childs and kept eating there because we liked the food. In the Buhl Planetarium, I rested my head against Alden’s shoulder while he whispered to me of the flight of electrons and the universes contained in something as small as the nucleus of an atom. Still, we were only able to hide from the impositions of the real world for two days before he had to return to New Mexico.

Mother visited a Pittsburgh cousin while Alden and I honeymooned, and she and I had breakfast together before I boarded the train back to Chicago and she boarded a bus for Greensburg. Alden had left for Los Alamos late the previous night, and I had the sensation of a hole widening in the center of my being, a darkness I’d have to hide and endure. He’d hinted broadly that work was intense, that he’d moved mountains to get even these few days to be wed.

“I want you to be happy.” Mother smiled at me. Morning light intensified by the white tablecloth accentuated my mother’s burgeoning wrinkles, making me even sadder.

“I am. I will be. I want to be as happy as you and Daddy were.” I hoped that I’d not overstepped and quickly added: “If that’s all right for me to say.”

“Of course it is. I was happy with your father. But, honey . . .” she paused, “don’t have unrealistic expectations.”

“Happiness is unrealistic?”

“Constant happiness, yes. Contentment—that’s realistic. I should have said I want for you to be content, that your daddy and I were content.”

I nodded at the waitress who asked with a glance if I wanted more coffee. When she finished pouring, I said: “I want mountain peaks, Mother. I want joy. Elation.”

“Well, sweetie, temper that enthusiasm with a little reality, that’s all I’m saying.”

I smiled, placating her. I had no intention of settling. None whatsoever. I told no one of my dream of accepting prizes for my work with crows, for my discoveries and proofs. I wanted to see Alden in the shadows of the audience while I gave acceptance speeches, wanted to see him proud, holding a glass high to toast my accomplishments. I wanted to see my name on the spine of a book on a library shelf, the preeminent authority on crow behavior. Maybe next to a volume by Alden. Whetstones, side by side.

To:

Meridian Wallace

1225 Wayland Ave.

Chicago, Ill.

From:

Alden Whetstone

PO Box 1663 Dear Meri,

Santa Fe, N. Mex.

May 16, 1944

Dear Mrs. Whetstone,

How did you do on your exams? Were you number one on each and every one? I don’t doubt it—don’t really even need to ask, sweetheart.

I know we discussed your taking the full four years to get your bachelors of science, and that makes sense to me—especially in light of Matthews’ recommendations about building your academic resume for application to graduate school. So, I’m fine with all of that. But I need to have you closer to me—I need you in more than writing or sporadic, rare visits to Chicago. Some of the other men have their wives living in Albuquerque. It’s about 100 miles from here, so maybe a half day’s drive. I could come be with you on weekends. Just for the summer, and then you can head back to Chicago for your last year.

I’ve made arrangements for you to rent the other half of a duplex in Albuquerque next to
John Franklin’s
wife. He’s a
research chemist
, a nice guy. I don’t know her, but the two of you will be friends, I’m sure.

I’ve enclosed your train ticket. Pack your bags!

Can’t wait—Alden

A part of me could not believe that he’d already made the arrangements, but I suppose I saw that it made sense, and I really did want to be closer to Alden. Our separate lives took a toll on me, too. So I tamped down my resentment and followed Mother’s example, set about to please my husband. When Alden and I were at least living in the same state, I reasoned, we could discuss these kinds of issues, work things out. For now, I needed to understand that these were extraordinary times, calling for compassion and compromise.

I know I disappointed Professor Matthews when I told him I wouldn’t be working for him that summer, that I was headed west to be with Alden. He was gracious and didn’t question my need to compromise for my husband’s sake. On our final meeting before my departure, he presented me with a copy of Roger Peterson’s
A Field Guide to Western Birds: Field Marks of all Species Found in North America West of the 100th Meridian, with a Section on the Birds of the Hawaiian Islands
.

“You’re venturing past the one-hundredth meridian, Miss Wallace—I mean Whetstone—and I think that’s significant. Go west, young woman!” he laughed, but stopped abruptly. “Just come back. Finish what you started, my dear.” And then he surprised me with the familiarity of a hug. I thought I smelled glazed doughnuts beneath the omnipresent cloud of cigarette smoke.

I had no idea how to pronounce “Albuquerque,” let alone what I’d do there. I was guessing that none of my clothes would suit the climate I’d seen in Alden’s picture postcards. He told me that summer in Albuquerque could mean several consecutive days of one hundred-degree heat. “But not that humid heat you’re used to, Meri. It’s different—just plain dry.” I was scared and thrilled, all at the same time. And I was eager to be with my husband again.

A Party of Jays

1. Part of the crow family, jays are regarded as noisy, colorful, bold, and fearless.

2. “Jaywalking” may take its meaning from reckless, impertinent behavior associated with these birds.

The
Super Chief
luxury liner left Chicago on time at 12:01, and my love for Alden reached its fingers around my breastbone in an irredeemable grasp, dragging me across the United States, my feet helplessly bumping over rocks and sagebrush. Dodge City, Kansas; La Junta, Colorado; Las Vegas, New Mexico; and finally Albuquerque. I reveled in the crisp linens of the dining car, melt-in-your-mouth lamb chops, waffles for breakfast, and a black waiter with more practiced manners than I. A fellow diner told me the secrets of the dinnerware, which bore reproductions of Mimbres Indian designs—beautiful white pottery with simple, abstracted black designs of animals, rainbows, gods. My sleeping compartment was a girl’s dream of a doll house with clever miniature soaps, a single rose in a slender vase, and turn-down service.

I savored the heavy hunks of milk chocolate fudge Mrs. Hudson had sent with me, careful to keep melted chocolate from staining my new tan rayon dress—short sleeves, belted, with a bold black geometric design running along one side, top to bottom. Kitty had given me her old imitation alligator bag, and I pulled my powder compact from it to check my lipstick. I contrasted the cocooned opulence in which I hurtled away from everything I knew to the setting outside my window, the country as it morphed from deep greens and tilled soil planted with corn and wheat to less demanding crops such as alfalfa—from lucky, fat milk cows to subsistence-level ranchland with stringy meat cattle perpetually in search of shade. It was as though the farther west I traveled, the sun leached more from the countryside and impoverished everything. At the same time, colors intensified, and the earth’s palette seemed to explode with variety and subtlety, all beneath an astounding blue sky freed of the haze of humidity.

Alden wasn’t there when I disembarked in Albuquerque. I was stiff, jittery, and irritable, standing there alone with my suitcase and my oh-so-stylish purse that contained what was left of my last paycheck– $6.43. Sweat began just beneath my hairline and trickled down to sting my eyes. I stood on the promenade beside the tracks in the June sun outside the Alvarado Hotel and used a cotton handkerchief to wipe the back of my neck. Before me, there was a large building with a round, painted emblem of a fantastic figure—part human, part bird, arms feathered and outstretched. A sign identified it as the Indian Building, and along the sidewalk that led to the door I saw dark-skinned women with thick, blunt-cut, blue-black hair, unbelievably shrouded in blankets in the same heat that threatened to incapacitate me. The women squatted or knelt, and on cloths spread in front of them they displayed baskets of polished stones, necklaces made of dried, dyed corn threaded on leather thongs, and careful lines of silver jewelry with bright blue stones the color of the sky. None of them met my eyes.

Indian men stood behind the women, some of them wearing heavy silver necklaces extending nearly to their navels, rich red and purple velvet shirts, and brightly colored headbands. The men’s hair was drawn into single or double long braids, or sometimes loose, elongated buns at the backs of their necks. Their eyes were narrow, their skin weathered and dry. All I could think about was how harsh this place must be, how unforgiving. It seemed that the line between life and death was easily crossed here.