The Green Glass Sea (5 page)

“Okay, ” she says. They walk back through the train, toward the dining car. “So what do you do? Do you teach math too?” she asks when he pauses to open the door between two cars.

Dick looks around, then shakes his head. “No. Physics,” he says in a low voice. There is no one else around. “But I can't talk about what I'm doing now, either. ”

“It's secret, right?” she sighs. She is tired of the war. Everything interesting is a secret.

“Yeah, 'fraid so, ” he says. “It has to be. ” He opens the door and motions her to go through.

Dewey nods silently and wonders just what Papa has gotten himself into.

After breakfast, she goes back to the observation car, but it's crowded again, so she returns to her seat, back in its daytime position. There is not much to see out the window, but she pretends that it's the scrubby bushes that are moving, moving backward, and that's interesting to watch. For a while. Then she gets
The Boy Mechanic
out of her bag.

Dick said that she should read another section about making a radio do more things. Some of it she doesn't quite understand. She is glad when Eddie comes and gets her at lunchtime. She has grilled cheese in the dining car and reads while she eats. The chapter makes a little more sense the second time, but she hopes she will see Dick again to ask him some questions.

The train pulls into Lamy one minute after 2:00 in the afternoon. Eddie brings Dewey and her bags to the front of the station, a little one-room building. No green Studebaker. She sits on a wooden bench and pulls her good coat around her. It is cold, even colder than in St. Louis. There are only a few straggly trees, and not much of a town: a diner with a buzzing neon sign, a few houses that need paint and repairs. Dewey is amazed to see a goat wandering down the middle of the dusty street. It stops and nibbles at something she can't see. She does not want to live here.

Dick comes out of the station carrying a brown duffel bag and his
LIFE
magazine. “Hey, ” he says. He looks around. “Your dad's not here yet? Want me to wait with you until he comes?”

“You don't have to, ” says Dewey in a small voice, but she doesn't really mean it. Half a dozen other people are hugging and carrying luggage off to cars, and she can feel her heart racing with the thought that Papa will not come.

“My pleasure, ” Dick says. He drops his bag and leans against the wall of the station. “I've got a little time. ”

They wait for what seems like forever to Dewey. She asks him some radio questions, and he is in the middle of a very interesting answer about antennas when a black car pulls up. A sandy-haired man in an army uniform gets out. He looks at Dewey, then at Dick, and wrinkles his forehead in confusion.

“Afternoon, Mr. Feynman. You're not on my list today. ”

“I borrowed a car this time, ” says Dick. “I'm just keeping this young lady company. ”

“Kerrigan?” asks the soldier.

Dewey nods.

“I'm your ride, ma'am. I'll take your things to the car. ”

Dewey is relieved that someone has finally come to get her, and disappointed, again, that it is not Papa.

Dick looks at her and says, “It's okay. That's Sergeant Prager's job. The army's answer to the Fresh Air Taxi Company. ”

“I could just ride with you, ” Dewey suggests. Dick is much better than another stranger, and she wants to hear more about antennas.

“Sorry, not this time. You need to go to Santa Fe and get a pass from Dorothy first. But I'll see you up on the Hill. We can talk more then. ” He pats Dewey on the shoulder, then salutes the soldier with two fingers and walks over to a battered beige Chevy.

“Ma'am?” says the soldier.

“Okay, ” Dewey says with a sigh.

The car jumps and jolts over the uneven pavement for almost an hour. Sgt. Prager doesn't say much, which is fine with Dewey. She does not feel like talking. She is more tired than she can ever remember being. Not sleepy, but weary. Tired of strangers and “ma'am” and being in the same clothes. Tired of having no idea where she is or where she's going.

She expects Santa Fe to look like St. Louis. A city. It is the state capital of New Mexico, and she expects trees and tall brick-and-stone offices and a highway. But it is just a village, with low, beige buildings, shrubs and cactuses, and narrow, cobblestoned streets. Most of the buildings have rounded corners with logs sticking out of the sides, like Abe Lincoln's cabin.

“I've got your bags, ma'am, ” Sgt. Prager says after he parks. “You just follow me. ”

He leads her through an archway and into a sunny plaza, a city block-size square of winter-dead grass surrounded by buildings that look like they have grown right up out of the muddy ground. In one corner, though, there is a Woolworth's, and Dewey smiles at its familiar red-and-gold sign. They turn down a small alley and through a wrought-iron gate into a courtyard dominated by a large, leafless tree.

“Where are we?” asks Dewey.

“109 East Palace Avenue, ma'am. ” He opens a door marked U. S. ARMY CORPS OF ENGINEERS, and gestures for Dewey to go in.

It does not look like an official army place. Boxes and crates and paper shopping bags are piled everywhere around two desks and a few wooden chairs, kitchen-looking chairs, painted yellow and blue. A middle-aged woman stands behind one of the desks, talking on the phone. She is not in uniform, just a sweater and a tweed skirt. Her face is round, with rosy cheeks, and her eyes crinkle with a smile when she looks up and sees Dewey. She holds up one finger; she'll be just a minute.

A small white dog is sleeping next to a stone fireplace. Dewey doesn't think it looks much like an army dog, either.

Behind her, Sgt. Prager clears his throat. The woman on the phone waves her hand at him, dismissing him.

“Sit, sit, ” mouths the woman, motioning to a chair by the fire.

Dewey sits. It is warm, and the smoke smells like pine trees. She takes off her coat and wonders what a place like this has to do with the war.

“Sorry about the wait, ” says the woman after she hangs up the phone. “There are more and more people to get settled every day, it seems. ” She smiles and walks around the desk, holding out her hand. “I'm Dorothy McKibbin. Think of me as the welcoming committee. Everyone does. ”

Dewey shakes her hand. “I'm Dewey Kerrigan, ” she says. She is also getting very tired of introducing herself.

“Oh, good. I've been expecting you. Your father called a little while ago. He was just leaving, so I imagine it'll be another half an hour or so. ”

“He's really coming?” Dewey asks.

“Yes, why?” Mrs. McKibbin looks puzzled.

“He was supposed to come to St. Louis too, ” Dewey sighs. “But I had to take a train to New Mexico. And he wasn't at that station either. Just an army man. ”

“St. Louis! Gracious. You poor lamb. You must be exhausted, traveling all that way by yourself. Would you like a cup of hot cocoa?”

“Yes, please, ” says Dewey. “I'd like that very much. ”

“Good. I think I'll have a cup too. It's awfully chilly today. ” Mrs. McKibbin uncorks a large green metal thermos and pours steaming brown cocoa into two china mugs.

“Why don't you pull your chair up to the desk, so you've got someplace to put your cup, ” she says, putting one of the mugs down. “Don't worry about the wood. Nothing can hurt an army desk. ”

Dewey moves her chair over to the desk and inhales the chocolate steam.

“While we're waiting for it to cool, I can make out your pass and tell you some of the rules—there are a lot of rules, the army, you know. ” Mrs. McKibbin shakes her head, but Dewey is glad there are rules here. Rules are like the directions in
The Boy Mechanic
. You know what to expect.

“And I'll try to answer any questions you might have. Of course, your mother and father will be able to show you the ropes once you get settled, but—”

“Just Papa, ” says Dewey.

“Oh, your mother isn't here yet?”

“I don't know where she is. She left when I was a baby. ”

“Oh, dear. I am so sorry. I had no idea. ” Mrs. McKibbin bites her lip and clucks to herself under her breath.

“It's okay, ” Dewey says. “It was a long time ago. I don't really remember. ” There is an awkward silence. Dewey takes a sip of her cocoa. The milk skin sticks to her lip and she licks it off. “Will you tell me about the rules now?” she asks.

“Of course. ” Mrs. McKibbin looks down at the wood of her desk, as if there is something in the grain that will tell her what to say next, then looks back at Dewey and smiles. “Well, the main thing is that everything about your new home has to be a secret. Off the Hill, you can't tell anyone where you live, or who you live with, or what you see or hear. I know that sounds hard, but it's important,” she says in a gentle voice.

Dewey nods. “Everything is secret. ” She makes a gesture that Nana used to do, running her thumb and forefinger across her lips as if she is zipping them shut. “Because of the war, right?”

“Yes. Your father and the other men are working to win the war. And we don't want anything to get in the way of that, do we?”

“No ma'am. ” Dewey pauses for a moment. “But what is he
doing
? ”

Mrs. McKibbin shrugs. “I honestly don't know. And I don't need to. I just do my part. And, Dewey? That's one question I'm afraid you aren't allowed to ask anywhere, even up on the Hill. Okay?”

“Okay, ” says Dewey, even though she
really
wants to know.

“Good. ”

“What else am I not allowed to do?” The rules here sound very strict. Worse than Mrs. Kovack.

“It's not as bad as all that, ” says Mrs. McKibbin. “It's really a lovely place to live. And most of these rules only apply in the outside world, like not using anyone's title. ”

“What?” Dewey is confused.

“I'm sorry. That wasn't very clear, was it?” Mrs. McKibbin shakes her head. “Let's see. Even though your father has a Ph. D. , I don't call him
Doctor
Kerrigan. Just Mister. ”

“How come?”

“Because if the people in Santa Fe notice that there are an awful lot of doctors living up on the Hill, they might start to wonder. ”

“Like spies, ” says Dewey. “Loose lips sink ships. ”

“Ex-actly. ” Mrs. McKibbin beams at Dewey, a smile so warm and friendly that for the first time since she left Mrs. Kovack's house, Dewey starts to feel like everything might just turn out okay.

“Finish up your cocoa and I'll make out your pass. ” Mrs. McKibbin rummages in a drawer and comes up with a small printed rectangle of stiff paper. “Don't lose this, ” she says. “You can't get in—or out—of the project without one. You'll get a permanent one next week, with a photo, but this will get you through the gate today. ” She uncaps a fountain pen and begins to write.

“But I'll be with Papa, right?”

“Doesn't matter.
Every
one has their own pass. Think of it as a membership in a very exclusive club, ” she says, winking. “Now, can you spell your name for me, dear?”

“Does it have to be my whole name? That's kind of long. Everyone just calls me Dewey. ”

"For today, I'm sure Dewey is just fine. D-E-W-E-Y, like the admiral?”

Dewey nods.

“And you're what, seven, eight?”

“Ten, ” Dewey sighs. “I'm just little. I'll be eleven next month. ”

“Ten it is. ” She fills in the last blank, signs the bottom of the card, and passes it across the desk.

Dewey starts to put it into her pocket, but she is wearing a dress, which is inconvenient. She tucks the card into the top of her right kneesock.

“I think that's about it, ” says Mrs. McKibbin. “We can just—” She stops in mid-sentence when the heavy outside door opens with a loud click, and a cold breeze ruffles the papers on her desk.

Dewey turns around. “Papa!” She jumps out of her chair and throws herself into his arms.

“Hey, Dews, ” Jimmy Kerrigan says, returning the hug with equal enthusiasm. He is a trim man in his middle thirties, with wavy dark hair and blue eyes behind tortoiseshell glasses. He is wearing a heavy blue turtleneck sweater over a pair of chinos, a gray felt hat tipped back on his head.

He closes the door with one foot and they stand in the warm, piñon-scented air and hug. He kisses the top of her head, then holds her at arm's length. “You've gone and grown again, haven't you?”

“A little, ” Dewey giggles.