The Green Glass Sea (23 page)

“Sweetie? How're you doing?” Her mother's voice came from the living-room doorway and sounded, right then, as sweet and soothing as the juice.

“Okay, I guess. ” Suze snuffled once and opened her eyes.

“I know. It's so hard to believe. ” Her mother pulled a chair out and sat down, close enough that Suze could smell the comforting, familiar smokiness of her hair. “You read about the war. Somewhere else. Hundreds of people probably died yesterday. We knew this one. ”

Suze nodded. She felt so strange, as if a big piece of the world had vanished, even though she'd only met Mr. Kerrigan once. She sat down. “I'm glad it wasn't Daddy, ” she said finally, and then put her hand over her mouth, because that seemed like the exact wrong thing to say. It was true, but it felt rude to be glad about anything.

“Me too, ” her mother said. She put an arm around Suze's shoulder and kissed her cheek. “Seems like a crummy thing to think right now, but I guess that's human nature. There but for the grace of god—” She looked around the kitchen. “Where's Dewey?”

“She went for a walk, ” Suze said. A pause. “How come she didn't cry?”

“It hits everyone differently. Maybe she wanted to cry by herself. Dewey's a pretty private person, you know. ”

“Yeah. ” Suze wouldn't have said it that way, but it was true. “Mom?”

“Yes, sweetie. ”

“What's going to happen to Dewey now?
Will
she have to leave?”

Her mother lit a Chesterfield and blew out a long stream of smoke before she answered. “That's what Oppie and I were talking about, outside. Poor kid. I don't think there's anywhere for her to go. Her grandmother's in a home, and no one's seen her mother for almost ten years. ”

“Nobody knows where her
mother
is?” That seemed impossible to Suze. How could a mother get lost?

“Not since Dewey was a baby. ” She looked for the ashtray. “What's this drawer?” she asked, moving it aside. The glass ashtray was underneath, and she tapped her cigarette into it.

“It's for my art project. Like a frame. ” Suze put it onto an empty chair. “So what's going to happen?”

“It's a muddle. That's what Oppie said. Dewey could easily fall through the cracks. ”

“How come?”

“Well, Jimmy—her dad—her papa—was a civilian. If he'd been Army there would be official government channels. And under normal circumstances, there are state agencies to take care of an orphan. But since this place is so goddamn secret, the state of New Mexico can't even know that Dewey Kerrigan of Los Alamos exists. ”

Orphan. Suze was startled by the word. Even though it was eighty degrees outside, she imagined Dewey in the snow, in rags, begging, or being locked away in some huge stone building, cold and forbidding.

“She's not really an orphan though, is she? Not if she's got a mother. ”

“Not technically. But for all practical purposes, she is. ”

“So what's going to happen to her?” Suze asked for the third time, sounding a little impatient.

Her mother let out another stream of smoke. “Well, legally, no one knows right now. But she can't go back to Morganville, not by herself, and the duplex can't stay empty long. There's still a housing shortage. Oppie says he'll take care of the paperwork so nothing has to be done immediately, but that only buys her a couple of weeks. ”

“And then what?”

“I guess I'll have to box up Jimmy's things, put them in storage. ” She looked like she was going to cry again, and busied herself stubbing out her cigarette as if it were the most important thing she'd ever done.

“But where will
Dewey
go?” Suze asked.

“Sweetie, I really don't know. ”

“Can't she stay here?”

“For now, yes. Would that be all right with you?”

Suze glanced at the drawer she and Dewey brought home from the dump, and her thoughts seemed to carom around its corners. If anyone had told her two months ago that she'd be
asking
to let Dewey stay with her, she'd have told them they were nuts. But it felt right.

“Yeah. There's plenty of room. ”

“Good. I like her too. That's settled, at least for the duration. ”

“How long is that?”

“Till the war's over. No one's going anywhere until then. ”

Suze started to ask another question, but her mother answered it before she'd gotten the first word out.

“If the tests that Daddy and the other fellows are working on are a success, we might see an end to it by fall. Maybe even sooner. ”

“What if the gadget doesn't work?” Suze asked, because it was obvious that was what they were testing, whatever it was.

“Oh Christ, sweetie, don't even
think
that. If it's a dud, we're all back to square one, and they'll be invading Japan within a month. ” She drummed her fingers on the oilcloth as if trying to make up her mind, then lit another cigarette. “Thousands more American boys dead, and the war could go on for years. It'll work. It has to. ”

“So what happens when the war ends?”

“Well, now there's the $64 Question. I haven't a clue. I suppose we'll fold up our tents here and go back to Berkeley. ”

“Good, ” said Suze. She wondered if their neighborhood had changed, if the war had made everything different, or if she could just slip back into her old life. “Would we take Dewey home with us?”

“Well, Daddy and I will have to talk about that. ” Her mother shook her head. “And I don't even know if we can. There are laws. She's got a mother out there—somewhere.” She rubbed her eyes with both hands. “But let's cross that bridge when we come to it. ” She stubbed out her second cigarette, this time without even looking. “In the meantime, she's more than welcome here. ”

“For the duration?”

“For the duration. ”

“Thanks, ” Suze said.

“I'm glad you feel that way, sweetie. ” Her mother smiled, the kind of smile that made Suze feel warm all over, like she'd won a prize for being a good kid. A good—And then, for the first time since she'd seen her mother and Oppie on the couch, she remembered Joyce and the mud, and gave a little involuntary groan.

“What is it, Suze?” Her mother patted her hand gently. “I'm sorry. This is all happening so fast. It's tough for all of us. ”

“It's not that. . . . ” Suze said, and let the
that
drift off because she wasn't sure what she was going to say next.

“What? Whatever it is, it's okay, sweetie. ”

Suze was pretty sure that wasn't going to be true, but she took a deep breath and said, “I kind of pushed Joyce into the mud this afternoon. ”

In the next two seconds, her mother's face went from startled to almost amused, just her eyes, to a more typical Mom look.

“I see. ” She raised one eyebrow, a signal Suze knew meant “Tell me the rest. ”

“Okay, well, Dewey and I went to the dump to get this drawer, ” Suze said quickly, patting it on the chair next to her, “and then Joyce and Barbara saw us and Joyce called Dewey ‘Screwy Dew—' you know, that name—and tried to take the drawer away so I pushed her and she kind of fell into a puddle. I didn't
mean
for her to fall down or get her Girl Scout dress all dirty but she called me a big fat truck and—”

Suze burst into ragged sobs that she hadn't known were coming. Not at all.

She felt her mother's arm around her, felt a soft kiss on her forehead. “What a miserable afternoon, ” Terry whispered. She held Suze while she cried, and when the sobs faded to sniffles and tears, pulled a hankie from her pocket.

“Blow, ” she said.

Suze blew.

“I'll talk to Joyce's mother tomorrow, ” she said. “Under the circumstances, I think we're going to let this one slide. But, Suze—”

“I know, I know. ” Suze nodded. “You don't even have to say it. ”

“Okay. I won't. ” She patted Suze on the shoulder and stood up. “You want a hamburger? I need to eat something.”

“Yeah, sure. ” Suze wasn't really hungry, but it was nice to have Mom home for supper.

DEWEY WALKS AROUND
the Hill without thinking, without seeing anything but the ground in front of her feet, each step. She walks because as long as she is moving, she doesn't have to do anything, say anything, feel anything. She doesn't want to talk to anyone, answer questions. She doesn't trust her voice to speak without breaking.

She walks by the post office, by the mud puddle that looks alien now, a puddle from another life. She touches the barbed wire of the fence that surrounds the Tech offices, but that is too real, too close. She walks away, one foot in front of the other, trying to stay blank.
Tabula rasa
. Who said that? She can almost hear Papa's voice and she won't. She can't. She starts saying the multiplication table, fast, under her breath, as if it were a chant that will keep all other thoughts at bay.

Dewey puts her hands in her pockets. Her fingers curl unexpectedly around a small black Bakelite knob and caress it as if it were a talisman, the ball of her thumb tracing the smooth curve over and over and over.

She walks around the edge of the Hill, without intention, looping east, then north, until she finds herself in Morganville. She walks by the small empty house, touches the glass of the front window gently, her palm flat against the cool pane. She remembers the feel of Papa's rough-bearded cheek, the smell of wool and aftershave, and pulls her hand away as if she were burned.

Dewey begins the multiplication table again, out loud, starting with the twelves, because the bigger the number, the more power it has. Numbers don't change. Numbers don't leave. Numbers don't die. They go on for eternity, infinity, and there is comfort in that.

She walks and chants until the sky in the west is streaked with orange and the margins of the forest have grown dusky blue and indistinct in the twilight. She walks until the lights of the apartments wink on, until the stars begin to appear at the edge of the world.

When she can no longer see the ground in front of her, can barely make out the shapes of her own shoes, Dewey returns to the road that leads past the Sundts. She would walk all night, but someone would come looking for her, and that would make it harder. She counts her steps—one, two, three, four—and at three hundred seventeen, she is at the foot of the Gordons' stairs. The kitchen light is on, but she does not hear voices.

She climbs three steps, then sits down in the darkness, in the shadow of the building where she is nearly invisible. She rests her head against the wood siding, slightly warmer than the night air. Dewey closes her eyes and leans against the solidity of the wall, her fingers curled protectively around a small, smooth knob, softly murmuring numbers until her lips are barely moving, chanting herself into a stillness that soon becomes sleep.

When Dewey wakes the moon is high in the night sky, and her glasses are askew on her face. Why is she on the stairs—? and then she remembers, all in a rush, and she feels as if she is dissolving from the inside out. She holds her arms across her chest and shudders. Her neck is stiff from sleeping against the wall.

“Hey, kiddo, ” a voice from above her says softly.

Dewey twists to look up the stairs. Mrs. Gordon is sitting on the top step, in a wedge of light from the open kitchen door. She is wearing her reading glasses, a sheaf of papers in one hand, a cigarette in the other, its tip glowing as bright as neon in the darkness. An amber beer bottle rests by her thigh.

“I fell asleep, ” Dewey says.

“I know. I've been keeping an eye on you. ” Mrs. Gordon pushes her glasses up onto her hair. She shakes the beer bottle, then drops her cigarette into the neck. There is a quick hiss, then silence. “I made some lemonade. I thought you might be thirsty when you woke up. ”

“What time is it?” asks Dewey.

“A little after midnight. ”

“Oh. ” Dewey is not usually up this late. But nothing is usual. She swallows, testing her throat, and nods. She stands up awkwardly, bracing herself against the wall, her leg all pins and needles, and slowly climbs the stairs.

She pauses two steps from the top, eye level with Mrs. Gordon, uncertain whether to continue and sit down next to her. Mrs. Gordon smiles. “It's okay, ” she says, and puts her hand on Dewey's shoulder, pulling her into a hug.

Dewey is surprised, but lets her. It feels nice, Mrs. Gordon's arms around her, her face against the soft cotton of the plaid shirt.