Page 2 of The Women of Oak Ridge

OAK RIDGE, TENNESSEE

The secret changes everything.

Those four simple words echoed through my mind as I drove down the streets of Oak Ridge, a place I hadn’t seen in ten or more years.

Although the small town tucked in the hills of East Tennessee looked like any you might find along the back roads of America, this particular community was anything but typical.

The secret made it so.

I glanced at the directions Dad had given me to Aunt Mae’s house, but either he’d forgotten how to get there or I couldn’t read a map. Being that I’d found my way from Massachusetts to Tennessee without issue, I didn’t think it was the latter.

“Come on, Dad,” I muttered, steering my Camaro Z28 down yet another dead-end road.

The cobalt blue car had been a surprise gift from Dad and Mom when I graduated from Boston University with a master’s degree in psychology, making my younger sisters envious.

I’d reminded them I had to drive our old station wagon all through college.

After the ribbing I’d had to endure from friends about the tanklike vehicle, I deserved a cool car.

The new hit “Reunited” by Peaches & Herb played on the radio.

“I wish I was reunited with Aunt Mae right about now. Why can’t I find her house?”

It had been years since our family traveled from Boston to visit Dad’s older sister.

His job as a vice president of a national insurance company took him all over the country, and he’d stop in to see Aunt Mae when he was in Tennessee.

Every few years she took the train to visit us, but the last time she came—wasn’t it for the big bicentennial celebration in 1976?

—I’d taken a summer job in New York City and missed seeing her.

I pulled up to a four-way stop and tapped the steering wheel.

Which way should I go?

I vaguely recalled spending Thanksgiving in Oak Ridge when I was fourteen or fifteen years old, but like most teenagers, I hadn’t paid attention to directions and landmarks as we made our way through town.

Aunt Mae’s house was tiny, that I did remember.

I’d slept on the pullout sofa in the cramped living room with both of my sisters, which was not ideal for a girl who preferred to sleep late during her school holiday.

Yet not once during the handful of visits my family made to Aunt Mae’s over the years did anyone mention the secret .

The fact is, I wouldn’t know about the secret even now if I hadn’t walked into the faculty lounge at the community college last month.

My first year teaching freshmen psychology was nearing an end, and like most of the staff, I was ready for a break.

I had plans to spend the summer with friends in Maine, eating lobster and enjoying the gorgeous scenery.

I’d also hoped to use the time away from the city to finalize the topic of my dissertation.

For some reason, I couldn’t land on a subject that ignited a fire in me.

That changed the day I learned about the secret.

The recent memory sped across my mind.

The small television in the corner of the faculty lounge had been tuned to the early news that afternoon. Dr. Baca, the school’s history professor, sat on the worn sofa in front of it, eyes glued to the set.

“A London grandmother was taken into custody yesterday,” the TV announcer had said, his voice and face projecting seriousness while film of an older woman being led away by police rolled behind him.

“Letty Gladding is an alleged spy for the Soviet Union, having worked undercover and undetected in British government offices as a secretary for decades. It is believed Mrs. Gladding passed classified information to the Soviets, including materials regarding Tube Alloys, the British atomic weapons program during the 1940s.”

“Wow,” I’d said, gaining Dr. Baca’s attention. “She looks so normal. Who would’ve ever suspected she was a Soviet spy?”

“Spies come in all shapes and sizes,” he’d said.

“There were plenty of them in the US during the war. Most were communists.” He’d launched into a tale about Julius and Ethel Rosenberg, a husband and wife with two young kids.

They’d been arrested, tried, and executed in the 1950s for espionage during the Manhattan Project.

Ethel’s brother, David Greenglass, who was also arrested for spying, spent time in Oak Ridge in 1944 before being transferred to New Mexico.

“Didn’t you say you have an aunt who lives in Oak Ridge? Was she there during the war?”

I’d nodded. “She worked at a manufacturing plant, but I’m sure nothing that happened in Podunk Oak Ridge was of interest to the Russians.”

I distinctly remember chuckling at my little joke.

Dr. Baca had stared at me. “Laurel, Oak Ridge was a secret city during the war, like Los Alamos. My guess is the plant your aunt worked at helped provide highly enriched uranium for the bomb that was dropped on Hiroshima.”

I’d stood in dumbfounded silence.

Tiny, obscure Oak Ridge had a role in producing the atomic bomb? And Aunt Mae was involved? How had I not known this?

After my conversation with Dr. Baca, I’d driven to my parents’ house and quizzed Dad about Aunt Mae and Oak Ridge.

The next day I’d gone to the university library and read everything I could get my hands on about the Manhattan Project.

What I learned convinced me of two things: I’d found the topic for my dissertation, and Aunt Mae’s life was a total mystery to me.

Both observations were the reason I now found myself in Tennessee instead of Maine.

I made another half dozen turns, passed a school and a church with a tall steeple, before I finally located the correct street.

The homes in this part of town were modest, with postage-stamp-sized yards.

I saw the familiar beige residence, set just off the road, and confirmed it was hers by the street number painted on the mailbox.

With a sigh of relief, I turned into the driveway and cut the engine.

It had been a long trip, and I was ready to be someplace other than my car.

I groaned and stretched as I exited the vehicle.

Mom had worried about me making the trip by myself, declaring all manner of terrible things could happen to a twenty-five-year-old woman alone on the highway.

She’d bought me a can of mace, a whistle, and given me five rolls of quarters, making me promise to call her from a pay phone every so often until I reached Oak Ridge in one piece.

I spent last night in Durham, North Carolina, with Hannah, a friend from our days at Boston University.

When I’d called Mom, she tried to talk Hannah into joining me for the remainder of my journey.

“Mom,” I’d said into the telephone receiver, rolling my eyes while Hannah giggled behind her hand, “I don’t know how long I’ll stay in Oak Ridge.

Classes at the community college don’t start again until September, so I have the entire summer off from teaching.

The research for my dissertation could take a while, depending on how much Aunt Mae remembers about her work during the war and who else I can find to talk with me about those days. ”

As I headed for the steps to my aunt’s narrow front porch, I made a mental note to call Mom as soon as I got settled.

The house looked just as it did years ago.

Maybe a little more weatherworn, but still as neat and tidy as I remembered.

The lawn had recently been cut, and a window box full of various flowers made a colorful splash on the otherwise plain exterior.

An overgrown patch in the back corner of the yard reminded me Aunt Mae enjoyed gardening, yet despite warm weather, it didn’t appear as though she intended to grow anything this year.

I knocked on the front door. A dog barked from inside.

A moment later, an older, slightly pudgier version of the woman of my memories appeared. Her chestnut brown hair had gone prematurely gray, so she’d always seemed ancient to my sisters and me. According to Dad, I looked like my aunt when she was younger.

Green eyes squinted behind thick glasses. “Laurel? Is that you?”

The question was unexpected. “Yes, Aunt Mae. It’s me.”

She pulled the door wider. “My eyesight isn’t too good these days. The doctor calls it some kind of degenerative disease with a fancy name. Come in, dear.”

I hadn’t heard this news. Does Dad know? I wondered.

We hugged, then I stepped inside and was immediately transported back in time.

Old-fashioned furnishings. Black-and-white framed photographs of family members long gone, along with more recent color photos of my family.

The faint odor of mothballs permeated the air, and a plethora of potted houseplants occupied what little space remained.

Peggy—Aunt Mae’s terribly spoiled Pomeranian, according to Dad—waddled up, a great puff of light brown fur.

The dog sniffed my shoes, peered up at me for a long moment, then padded off in the direction she’d come from, apparently declaring me harmless.

I was more of a cat person myself, but the fluffy critter was kind of cute.

“I admit I was surprised when your dad said you were coming down for a visit. I can’t recall the last time you were in Tennessee.” She closed the door behind me and squinted. “My, you’ve certainly grown up.”

Guilt swept over me.

I’d never made much of an attempt to have a relationship with my aunt.

She was an odd bird, ten years older than Dad.

When she visited us in Boston, she never seemed to know what to do with my chatty sisters and me.

She wasn’t up on the latest music or movies or anything else that might interest us.

We’d greet her with a perfunctory kiss on the cheek when she arrived and again when she left, with little interaction in between.