Page 33 of The Women of Oak Ridge

AUNT MAE’S TELEPHONE rang in the kitchen, startling me where I sat at the table, the books I’d borrowed from the library about Oak Ridge’s history spread across the surface. Aunt Mae had gone to visit the couple down the street whose baby was due to arrive any day, so I stood to answer the call.

“Hi, Laurel,” Jonas said. “I’m glad you answered.” His voice sounded tense.

“Is everything okay?”

“Are you free right now? Could you come down to the station? I found something I think you need to see.”

Surprise surged through me. “About Sylvia Galloway? That was fast. Can’t you just tell me about it over the phone?”

“It’s actually about your aunt,” he said, his voice lowered. “I’d rather talk about it in person.”

That didn’t sound good. “Of course, I can be there in twenty minutes.”

I hurried to freshen up and change from shorts to jeans, then scribbled a note to Aunt Mae, letting her know I would be out for a while. The fact that Jonas had found something he wasn’t willing to discuss over the telephone stirred up an anxious feeling inside me.

He met me in the front lobby of the police station, his expression sober.

“Thanks for coming.”

I nodded, my concern growing. “I confess you have me worried.”

He led the way down a hall to a small room with a table and three chairs. A file lay on the tabletop. “We’ll have some privacy in here,” he said as he closed the door.

“Jonas, what’s going on?”

He motioned me to a chair while he settled in the one opposite from me.

“After you told me about Sylvia Galloway and the article asking for information on her whereabouts, I did some digging. Records from the 1940s are stored in cardboard boxes, so locating a specific case file is no easy task.”

“But you found something?”

He nodded. “I found the box that held records from the last half of 1944. There’s not a file on Sylvia. At least, not about her specifically.”

My brow tugged. “I don’t understand.”

He reached for the folder that lay on the tabletop between us, opened it, and took out a single sheet of paper. “This is a report from December 1944. It was filed with the MP’s office by someone named Clive Morrison.” He met my confused gaze. “It’s a complaint against your aunt, Maebelle Willett.”

“A complaint? For what?”

“Mr. Morrison claims your aunt broke into his home.”

I stared at him, my mind spinning. “That’s absurd. Aunt Mae is not a thief.”

“It says nothing of value was stolen, but—”

“Then why file a report?”

A look of remorse filled his face. “Because Mr. Morrison claims your aunt was his scorned lover, and she wanted to discredit him in some way.”

It felt like the air evaporated from the room with his words.

I shook my head. “That can’t be. Aunt Mae wouldn’t...” Whatever else I was going to say faded in disbelief. I simply shook my head again. “She wouldn’t.”

Jonas glanced at the report. “Mr. Morrison’s statement goes on to say that Mae was jealous when he broke things off with her and started to date her roommate.” He paused. “Sylvia Galloway.”

When I didn’t appear surprised by the revelation, he studied me a long moment. “You knew Sylvia was Mae’s roommate.” It wasn’t a question.

“I did. I’m sorry,” I said. “The notice in the newspaper about Sylvia was posted by Aunt Mae. I didn’t want to tell you because... well, I suppose I wanted to protect her privacy. But this,” I indicated the report, “kind of blows privacy out of the water.”

He offered a compassionate nod. “I understand.”

“Is there any information on the man who filed the complaint?”

“Some.” He referred to the paper in his hand. “It says Morrison was in the Army and lists his rank. His job in Oak Ridge was something called a health physics officer.” He shot me a look that told me there was more and handed the paper to me. “He claims Mae’s jealousy drove Sylvia to leave town.”

He handed the paper to me. I read over the typed report, dumbfounded that Aunt Mae had been accused of breaking into someone’s home. That the complaint also described her as the man’s scorned lover was beyond comprehension.

“I just can’t believe this,” I said, setting the document on the table.

“Aunt Mae might be a little eccentric, but it’s impossible for me to accept what this report says about her.

” I leaned forward to look at the date below the signature of the MP who took the statement.

“This report was filed after the article in the newspaper ran.”

I took the printed copy of the article from my purse and showed it to Jonas, who read it aloud.

“Maebelle Willett requests your help regarding her roommate Sissy Galloway who has not been seen in Oak Ridge since November25, 1944. If you have information on Miss Galloway’s whereabouts, please contact Miss Willett immediately.

” He looked up. “How did you know her roommate’s name was Sylvia? This refers to her as Sissy.”

I told him about the two security badges in the box of Aunt Mae’s mementos. “I figured an official report would use her given name rather than a nickname.”

“Let’s get the timeline down,” Jonas said.

“The article says Aunt Mae last saw Sissy on November25.” I watched as he jotted some notes. “I wish we had a calendar from 1944.”

He tapped his pen on the table. “Mr. Morrison said Mae was jealous of his relationship with Sissy, yet it was Mae who posted the newspaper notice.”

“That seems odd.”

“You also said your aunt has Sissy’s security badge.

I’ve often heard Dad mention that people who lived in Oak Ridge during the war couldn’t go anywhere without their ID badge.

Not the cafeteria. Not the grocery store.

You couldn’t pass through the gates to come into town without it, and you also couldn’t leave if you weren’t wearing it.

If someone was caught without their badge on a regular basis, they’d lose their job.

So that begs the question, why does Mae have Sissy’s badge? ”

I shrugged. “The only person who knows the answer is Aunt Mae, and she isn’t talking.”

“The complaint Morrison filed may have something to do with that.” Jonas frowned. “I hate to say this, but when someone is guilty of breaking the law, they usually clam up. They don’t want their friends and family to know what they’ve done.”

I knew he was right. “Some of the coursework I’ve done for my doctorate involved studying guilt complexes.

Feelings and emotions resulting from guilt or remorse can consume a person.

While guilt is a normal emotion, guilt complexes can cause long-term psychological harm, such as depression, anxiety, and low self-esteem.

In the short time I’ve been in Oak Ridge, I’ve observed all of those in Aunt Mae’s behavior. ”

“But even if she did break into Morrison’s home, she was never charged that I can see. Why carry so much guilt over something relatively minor?”

I heaved a sigh. “It seems we have more questions than answers.”

“I’ll keep looking through the old files. There may be something from 1945 that can help us figure this out.”

His generosity warmed me. “I appreciate the offer, Jonas, but I can’t ask you to waste any more of your valuable time on this. Besides, I don’t have a valid reason to pursue it other than my burning curiosity.”

He smiled. “I don’t mind. One of my hobbies is digging into old unsolved case files. It gives a new perspective on crimes that happened decades in the past. The exercise has even helped me work current cases with new eyes.”

“I admit I really want to know what happened to Sissy and why Aunt Mae has her ID badge. I’d also like to hear her side of the story regarding Clive Morrison.

I’ve never been close to Aunt Mae, but I can’t imagine her being so angry at an ex-boyfriend that she’d break into his home to.

.. What did the report say? Discredit him? ”

Jonas agreed. “It does seem uncharacteristic for the woman I’ve known for years, but domestic issues like this aren’t uncommon.”

We stood and exited the small room. Jonas walked with me to my car.

“Thank you,” I said. “I have a feeling that all of this has something to do with Aunt Mae’s reticence regarding her past. I’d love to help her get over whatever it is that’s keeping her from letting it go.”

“I’d be honored to help, too. She’s a wonderful lady.” He met my gaze. “So is her niece.”

I’m sure my face revealed my pleasure at his words. “Thank you.”

On the way back to Aunt Mae’s, I passed the library.

Maybe I should follow Jonas’s lead and continue the search for information in old issues of the Oak Ridge Journal .

I’d stumbled upon the notice about Sissy, so maybe I’d missed something about Aunt Mae and the break-in.

It was worth a try, anyway. I turned the car around.

The same librarian I’d met before greeted me when I came through the door.

She was happy to help pull up the microfilm I sought.

I was soon seated in front of the familiar screen, anxious to dive back into stories written in the Secret City during World War II.

What had started out as a research trip for my dissertation had become so much more personal.

“Aunt Mae,” I whispered. “Please let me help you. No matter what’s in your past. Nothing is so terrible that you can’t put it behind you and move on.”

With that, I settled in for a long afternoon.