The Green Glass Sea (24 page)

“There, there, kiddo, ” Mrs. Gordon whispers. “I miss him too. He was one of the good guys. ”

Dewey trembles and closes her eyes. She feels Mrs. Gordon's arm under her knees, feels herself being lifted, then cradled, and allows herself to sink into Mrs. Gordon's lap. She feels the faint brush of a kiss on her forehead, and then she is gently rocked. No one has held her like this since Nana, when she was little, in those first lonely weeks in St. Louis. Something inside Dewey lets go. She finally begins to cry, a slow, steady trickle, as if she is leaking.

FOR THE NEXT
few weeks, Dewey rarely left the apartment. Her gadgets lay untouched in shoeboxes under the bed, her Erector set gathered dust. She spoke when she was spoken to, ate when she was hungry—which was not often—and sat by herself in the bedroom, reading and rereading Suze's comic books.

Billy Batson was an orphan. So was Superman. So was Batman. They became superheroes because of it. Orphans with capes. And now they can never die, no matter what danger they get into. Trains, bombs, spaceships from other planets, Nazi spies, machine-gun gangsters. Nothing can kill them. That was better than real life, where there was war, and drunken soldiers.

In real life, almost everyone was gone. Dr. Gordon had gone off with the other men, south to the desert where Charlie said they were going to test the gadget. Charlie and Jack were going away too, to their grandmother's in Oregon for all of July, because, Jack said, their mother was afraid that what was in the desert might set fire to the world, or at least New Mexico. They said they'd leave their comic books with her for safekeeping, more than two hundred of them. She'd read most of Suze's.

Finally one evening in the middle of June, Mrs. Gordon sat down on the end of Dewey's bed and cleared her throat. Dewey put down
Captain America
and looked up.

“Dewey? Honey? I think it's time to bring the rest of your things over here. From Morgan—from your house. ”

Dewey nodded. She had known this was coming. “I'll take my wagon over after breakfast tomorrow. It may take a couple of trips, ” she said in a small voice.

Mrs. Gordon smiled and patted Dewey's knee. “Well, if you'd like some help, some company, I've got a car. I thought we could stop by the Commissary and get some empty boxes. Norma says she'll cover for me at the lab tomorrow.” Dewey thought about it. Mrs. Gordon was the nicest grown-up lady she had ever known. She understood about experiments, because she was a scientist, and about not wanting to put down your book when the clock said it was bedtime. And she wore glasses to read or do the crossword puzzle, and that was kinship.

“I'd like that, ” she said finally.

They went over after breakfast Saturday morning. Mrs. Gordon wore a bandana over her hair, and a flannel shirt with the sleeves cut off, in case they had to clean up dust. They packed the easy things in the kitchen first. The canned beans and tuna could go into the Gordons' cupboards, along with the bowls and plates. Mrs. Gordon admired the glass Chemex coffeemaker, and Dewey said that she could have it. Dewey didn't drink coffee.

There was not much in the living room. The furniture all belonged to the army and was kind of ugly. Dewey didn't mind leaving it behind. One of the pictures on the wall was a print of water lilies. Mrs. Gordon said it was Monet. Maybe they could hang it in the living room of the Sundt? Dewey had to think about whether seeing that painting every day would make her too sad, and decided that it would be okay. The other painting was darker, a still life with a dead pheasant and lots of fruit, and when Dewey shook her head, Mrs. Gordon wrapped it in newspaper and put it in a carton. Dewey said to leave the record player for last.

In Dewey's room, Mrs. Gordon asked about the pieces of equipment, and told her a story about getting her first chemistry set, when she was Dewey's age. That was in 1920, when it was even harder to be a girl. “Our kind of girl, ” she said with a wink, as if she and Dewey were part of a club.

Dewey liked that. She leaned against her dresser. “Can I ask you something?” she said. “A science question? It's been kind of bothering me. ”

“Sure. I'm about ready for a break. ” Mrs. Gordon sat on the end of the bed and lit a cigarette. “Shoot. ”

“It's probably stupid. ”

“There are no stupid questions, just stupid answers. Try me. ”

“Okay, well. ” Dewey rubbed some dirt off the end of her finger. “Jack—he's a boy in my class? He said that Dr. Fermi made a bet with his dad that when they test the gadget, all the air in the world is going to catch fire. And his mom found out, and that's why he and Charlie have to go to their gramma's farm in Oregon next month. Just in case. ”

Mrs. Gordon looked at Dewey, her eyes wide, her cigarette stopped halfway to her lips. “Jack told you that?”

“Yeah. And I figured it was just hooey, but—” She shrugged. “Is it?”

“Oh, jeez, ” Mrs. Gordon said. She took a long puff on her cigarette. “I shouldn't tell you anything at all. But if the other kids are talking—” She looked around for an ashtray, sighed, and tapped the ashes into her cupped hand. “I don't think it's something you need to worry about, ” she said.

“But is it true?”

Mrs. Gordon sighed again. “Partly. Enrico
did
make a bet with Bob and some of the other fellas. More as a joke, because the calculations the theoretical guys have done really don't bear it out. ”

Now Dewey's eyes got wide. “You mean it
could
happen?”

“It's a remote possibility. Very remote. A thousand to one. ”

“Then why is Jack's mom taking them to Oregon?” Dewey asked.

Mrs. Gordon looked off into an empty corner of the room. “To keep her cubs safe, ” she said softly.

“What?”

“Nothing. ” Mrs. Gordon shook her head. “Look, I'm going to flush this butt down the toilet and start on the other room. Can you finish up in here?”

“I think so, ” said Dewey. Mrs. Gordon hadn't answered the way she'd hoped. She took a breath and thought about the air with a worried frown, then shook her head and finished packing. All her equipment fit in one carton, her clothes and a few books in another. A lot of her things had migrated over to the Gordons' in the last two months, and all that was left was heavy winter clothes and a dress she'd only worn once since she'd arrived.

When she went into the second bedroom, Mrs. Gordon had laid everything from the closet out on the bed. The shirts and ties and pants seemed so empty without someone in them.

Dewey bent over to help fold them and put them in a box. She picked up a blue wool sweater and was ambushed by the smell of Papa—tobacco and aftershave and the baked-fruit scent of the Brylcreem he used to slick back his hair. Dewey heard herself whimper. She dropped the sweater and left without a word, sitting in the kitchen until she could walk without shaking and she trusted herself not to cry.

When she went back into the bedroom, Mrs. Gordon held out a small cedar box. “You okay?”

Dewey nodded.

“You sure? We can come back tomorrow. ”

“I need to get this done, ” Dewey said, shaking her head.

“Okay. Up to you, ” said Mrs. Gordon. She hesitated for a moment, then handed Dewey the box. “I think you'll want this. ”

Dewey sat on the edge of the bed and opened the box. The bottom was lined with dark green felt. Inside were two small photographs, Dewey as a baby and her third-grade picture. She picked up the two heavy silver dollars and saw that one was from 1907, the year Papa was born, and one from 1932, when she was. A pair of silver cuff links with his initials—JPK, James Patrick Kerrigan—lay curled inside the circle of the leather-banded wristwatch that he had rarely worn. Dewey felt her eyes begin to sting, way back in her head, and closed the box quickly.

“I'll put this with my clothes, ” she said.

She kept a few of his handkerchiefs, white linen with a blue script K embroidered in the corner, and two undershirts. His hats were too big, coming down over her eyes, but when she tried on his cap, a tan-checked wool with a pale silk lining, and glanced in the mirror, she looked like a newsboy. Like Billy Batson. So she kept that too. Dewey would have liked to have his other watch, the silver pocket watch he carried every day. But it had been in his pocket and—and she didn't want to think about that at all.

“I thought we'd just put these boxes down in the furnace room at our place, for now anyway, ” Mrs. Gordon said. She folded all the flaps on the top of a carton so they interlocked like a Chinese puzzle.

“Okay, ” Dewey said. She wasn't sure what she'd do with two boxes of men's clothes. If she was a boy, she could grow up and wear them. But she wasn't, and there were poor people in Santa Fe who could use them. They could wait a few months, though. Until the sweaters became ordinary wool and didn't smell like memories.

Mrs. Gordon carried the boxes outside and put them in the trunk of her black Chevy. “I think that's it, ” she said. She stood in the doorway and pulled her bandana off, running her fingers through her short honey-brown hair. “If you've got the key, we can lock up and get it back to the Housing Office before they close at five. It's twenty of now. ”

Dewey sat on the arm of the couch. “Do I have to give it back today?”

“I suppose not. I just figured since we're done here and they're still open—”

“I'm not done, ” said Dewey quietly.

“Oh. ” Mrs. Gordon looked around the room. “You mean the phonograph? We can put that on the front seat. There's plenty of room. ”

Dewey shook her head, trying to figure out how to tell Mrs. Gordon to leave. She didn't want to be rude—she liked Mrs. Gordon. A lot. But it was time to say goodbye to her house, Papa's house, and she needed to do that alone.

“I'll put it in my wagon when I leave. It's not that heavy. ”

“Don't be silly. The car's—” Mrs. Gordon looked at Dewey and didn't finish her sentence. She thumped the heel of her hand softly against her forehead. “Oh. Sorry. I'm a little dense at the end of the day. You need some time to yourself, don't you?”

“Yes, please, ” Dewey said. “If that's okay. ”

“Okay?” Mrs. Gordon said, her voice going funny, as if her throat were being squeezed. “Yes, hon. It's okay. ” She took a step toward Dewey, hesitated, then stopped where she was and jingled her car keys lightly in one hand. “Tell you what. I'm going to go home, open a beer, and make a meat loaf. It'll be done around seven, if you're hungry. But take your time. It'll keep. ”

“Thanks, ” said Dewey. Mrs. Gordon started to say something more, then just smiled, a small, sad smile, and went out the front door, pulling it shut behind her with a click.

Dewey waited until she heard the Chevy's engine and the crunch of tires on gravel and dirt fade away with distance. Then she got up off the arm of the couch.

Dewey walks from room to room in the dimming sun of late afternoon, standing still in doorways, memorizing what had been. These rooms are the only places she has lived with Papa since she was a tiny child. A year and a half. She rests her hand on the light switch of the bathroom and wishes she could flip time off and on as easily. One more week. One more day. But it is gone, over.

She says a silent good-bye to the bathroom where her small red toothbrush hung next to Papa's brown one. To the bedroom where she woke to the sound of Papa's tenor as he shaved. To Papa's room, where some nights a slit of yellow light under the door angled out into the hall until almost dawn. To the kitchen where they shared tuna casserole and news of their days. And to the living room, where Papa drank a glass of whiskey and explained music and books and calculus and the moon after the supper dishes were washed and dried.

When she has etched a memory for every room, Dewey lifts the wooden lid and turns on the record player. Through the cloth grill in the front she hears the low humming as the tubes warm up. She pulls the black disk with Nipper the dog out of its paper envelope. Leopold Stokowski. The Philadelphia Orchestra. She holds the record by its edges and carefully lowers
Toccata and Fugue in D Minor
onto the turntable.

Dewey sets the needle gently onto the first groove, then sinks into the armchair. She takes off her glasses, laying them in her lap, and closes her eyes.

Bach's dramatic opening bars fill the small room, and the music strikes her with an almost physical force, raising the hair on her arms with its intensity. It grows and crashes in mournful waves, and when the stairstep oboes sound, Dewey begins to cry. She has not cried since the night Oppie brought the news. There has been no place safe enough to let go.