“The blue one. It brings out your eyes.” I shut the door to the closet, and the knot in my stomach immediately loosened.
“Are you okay?” He lowered the ties and came over to feel my forehead.
“Just a little under the weather.” I was having my period, but that wasn’t the problem. I would milk it, though, for all it was worth, if it meant I could avoid this meeting. “But I’ve got the report typed up for you, and you understand the equations as well as I do.”
“That is a serious exaggeration.” He set the green tie down on the desk. “If they have any questions, I’m not sure I’m equipped to answer them.”
They. Of course it would be a crowd. It was one thing to follow Nathaniel into a meeting as support, or to argue with Parker, but get more than six men in a room, and … all the old memories came back. I wiped my palms on my dressing gown, still nervous even though I wouldn’t be going. “The general likely won’t be able to follow the equations anyway. So all you have to do is talk about the conclusions.”
He sighed and looped the tie around the back of his neck. “That’s what I was planning on doing. I wanted you there for the things I couldn’t answer. Like the correlation between steam in the air and increased global temperatures.”
I grabbed one of the reports I’d typed up and flipped through the pages. “That’s on page four, and there’s a graph at the back that shows the rise in temperature over the next fifty years. So—”
“I know.”
“They’ll believe it coming from you. They won’t if I explain it.”
“Please.” He turned from the mirror. “Which of us was a math tutor in college? You’re brilliant at explaining things.”
My husband was a good man. He believed in me. And he also had a huge blind spot, because he didn’t see how people would ignore what I said until he repeated it. “It doesn’t matter. I just don’t feel well. Okay?”
Nathaniel wrapped the tie into a Windsor and snugged the sharp knot up against his collar. “Sorry. I’d just been planning on having you there. But if you don’t feel well, you don’t feel well.”
I shrank a little into my bathrobe. “I just … today’s not a good day.”
“When is? We haven’t had a good day since the meteorite struck.”
“I’m—it’s a feminine—”
“Got it.” He frowned and rubbed his brow. Shaking his head, he grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair. “Well. This is just a precursor to meeting the president. You’ll be better for that one.”
The problem was that I wouldn’t be better. Meeting the president would be infinitely worse … but at least it wasn’t happening today. And maybe I wouldn’t be needed, or maybe my security clearance wouldn’t be high enough, or something would save me from having to stand in front of a roomful of men.
I’m an intelligent woman. I understood that there was absolutely no danger. I really, truly did.
And yet … and yet, going to high school when you are eleven years old. Being the only girl in a mathematics class. Repeatedly. Going to college at fourteen. Having everyone stare at you because you can do math in your head. Having boys hate you, hate you, because you never get questions wrong in class. Being used as a tool by professor after professor. “Look! Even this little girl knows the answer.”
By the time I left college, I would do anything to avoid speaking in front of a group. I cleared my throat. “Have you met him before?”
“The president, or Eisenhower? I mean, yes, either way, but only briefly.”
“General Eisenhower and Daddy used to golf together.”
“See! This is why I want you there.”
“Because of who my dad is—was? Whatever.” I slapped the report back down on the desk. “I can’t go.”
He sighed again and stared at the floor. “I’m sorry. I’m being selfish, because I’m nervous.” Nathaniel walked over and wrapped his arms around me. “Is there anything you need today? Hot water bottle? Chocolate?”
“Empty promises. Where do you think you’ll get chocolate?” With the ports on the East Coast still closed, the grocery store shelves were already getting thin.
“I’ll requisition it from General Eisenhower.”
“On what grounds?”
“That the fate of the world depends on keeping my wife healthy and happy.” He kissed my forehead. “I’m not even sure it’s an exaggeration.”
* * *
There’s a cascading effect that happens when you lie about not feeling well. I was supposed to go volunteer at the hospital after the meeting with Eisenhower. After Nathaniel left, Myrtle knocked on my door.
I buttoned the last button on my blouse. “Come in?”
Using her foot, Myrtle pushed the door open. She had a tray with some saltines and a glass of ginger ale. “Nathaniel said you weren’t feeling well.”
“Oh … it’s just, you know, feminine complaints.” I tucked in my shirt so I wouldn’t have to face her. “The worst seems to have passed, actually.”
“I know every woman is different, but mine lays me out for an entire day.” She set the tray down on the little desk in our room. “So I’ve brought you some things to settle your stomach. Do you need a hot water bottle? Or … I have some bourbon, if that will help.”
How had we gotten so lucky as to land with these people? My eyes watered, which was a sign that my period was, in fact, affecting me. “You are kindness embodied.” I wiped my fingers under my eyes. “Honestly, I am much better. It usually doesn’t hit me very hard at all. I guess I just…” I waved my hand, hoping she would create her own story from the ambiguity.
“All the stress of—well, everything you’ve gone through in the past couple of weeks.” She held out the glass of ginger ale. “No wonder you’re wrung out.”
“I’m fine.” But I took the ginger ale, and even the icy chill of the glass was soothing. “Really. What about you? Any progress with your church on the refugee front?”
Myrtle hesitated, then wet her lips. “Actually … yes. Maybe. We have an idea, but it involves asking you a favor.”
Oh God. A chance to be useful? “Yes. Anything. After everything y’all have done for us, anything I can do is already done.”
“Don’t worry—this won’t require you to do a thing.” She straightened the tray on the desk so it was square with the edges. “Eugene says you have a plane?”
“It’s damaged, but yes.”
She nodded as if she already knew this. “If he could get it fixed up, can he borrow it?”
“Of course.” It was small and petty of me, but I was disappointed that there was nothing more. “But I called all the mechanics and none of them could help.”
She gave a little smile. “You called all the white mechanics. Not everyone who knows planes is in the phone book. Eugene can get it fixed.”
Had she known that there were other mechanics all along and not told me, or was it something that hadn’t come up until just now? Either way, resentment was a completely inappropriate response. I owed her. She owed me nothing. “It can only hold four. You won’t be able to get a lot of refugees in there.”
“Oh … I know. We’ve got a different plan.” She straightened and clapped her hands together. “Listen to me, running my mouth off when you don’t feel well. Now, you just take it easy for the rest of the day, even if you do feel better. I’ll leave some chicken broth—no bacon—simmering on the stove for later.”
“Thank you, but really—”
“You’re fine. I know. You’re as bad as Eugene. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a man.”
“It’s a pilot thing, I guess.” I shrugged. “They ground you if you’re sick.”
“Well … I don’t have daughters, but you’re grounded, young lady. I think that’s the only way to get you to slow down and take care of yourself.”
Slow down? I’d done nothing since the meteorite. I should have gone with Nathaniel. I might have been a tiny bit useful there.
; * * *
“What are you doing in the kitchen?” Myrtle stood in the living room with her hat and gloves still on.
With a handful of lettuce poised over a bowl, I somehow suddenly felt guilty. “Making dinner?”
“Girl, you’re supposed to be resting.” Sometimes her mid-Atlantic housewife diction disappeared, mostly when she was irritated. I got a sense I was hearing a more honest version of herself. Myrtle set her things down on one of the side tables and came in, making shooing gestures. “Go on. Back to bed.”
“I’m fine. There was a little cramping, but really…” I put the rest of the lettuce in the bowl and shredded it with, perhaps, a little more force than was strictly necessary. I should have just buckled up and gone with Nathaniel. “I was restless, and you worked all day.”
Outside, the rumble of Major Lindholm’s jeep gave notice that at least one of the men was home. Glancing out the window, I couldn’t quite make out the vehicle. Had Nathaniel been kept in meetings? Again? I should have gone. I was an idiot.
She pulled open the pantry door and reached inside for an apron. “Well, tell me what I can do.”
“Um … Check the tagliarini to see if the foil needs to come off?”
The front door opened and brought with it the sound of Eugene and Nathaniel talking. It seemed like every time he got a chance, Eugene would pump Nathaniel for information about rockets. “… out at Edwards Air Force Base.”
“Oh Lord … not this again.” Myrtle strode toward the living room. “You are not going to be a test pilot. Fighter was bad enough, but at least there was a war on then.”
“Baby … we’re just talking about the rocket work they’re doing.”
Nathaniel laughed uncomfortably. “We’re comparing the facilities at Sunflower in Kansas to Edwards. That’s all … Um. I should go check on Elma.”
“She’s in the kitchen.”
Nathaniel appeared in the door as I picked up a carrot to grate into the salad. He set his folder of papers down on the kitchen table. “Hey. Feeling better?”
“Yes, thank you.” We needed to get him a new briefcase, but it seemed low on the list of priorities. I picked up the grater and ran the carrot over the rough surface with quick downstrokes. “How did it go?”
“Good. Thank God.” He loosened his tie and leaned against the counter. “Anything I can do?”
“Um … make a cocktail?”
“Gladly.” We had added to the Lindholms’ liquor cabinet as soon as Nathaniel had received his first paycheck from the military. And, yes, we stockpiled some under the bed in our room—currency. In case things really collapsed. “Martini okay?”
“Perfect.” I set the grater aside and scraped the carrots into the bowl with the lettuce. Every time I’d handled food since doing the calculations, I wondered if this was the last year I’d be eating it. But carrots and lettuce … they’d both survive the meteorite winter years. I think. “So what did Eisenhower say? Tell me about your brilliance.”
Nathaniel snorted as he pulled the gin out of the freezer. “Well … your brilliant, brilliant husband—hang on.” He wandered over to the door to the living room, and I wanted to scream at him. Such a tease. “Do you all want martinis?”
Their hushed conversation broke off and Eugene said, “God yes. If my wife allows—oof.”
“Thank you, Nathaniel. That would be very much appreciated. Might I have a double?” You could have caught flies with the honey in Myrtle’s voice.
Chuckling, I rinsed the grater in the kitchen sink. At least there were no issues with clean water here. Some of the refugees had been without it for days by the time they got to us. Of course, the acid rains hadn’t reached the Midwest yet. “A double sounds like an excellent idea.”
Nathaniel turned back from the doorway with his brows raised. “And I’m the one who had the meeting.”
“Medicinal. And you should have a double too.” The dressing was already made, but I wouldn’t add it until we were ready to eat. That left … checking the tagliarini. “You were telling me about Eisenhower and your brilliance.”
“Ah. Right.” He grabbed a pitcher from the cabinet. “Well … after I dazzled them with my rhetoric and awe-inspiring elocution, I stunned Eisenhower into silence by handing him your brilliant, in-depth report. Not that he could follow the calculations, but—”
“See, I didn’t need to be there.” As I opened the oven door, the heat from it rushed up into my face. Four hundred and fifty degrees. That was cooler than the air that would have hit Washington from the airblast.
“Well, I did have to bluff my way past some of his questions.” Nathaniel measured gin into the pitcher. “But he has enough understanding of rocketry, from a military perspective, to understand that moving the asteroid would have been impossible given the Soviet’s current level of technology.”
“Thank God.” I teased the foil off the tagliarini so the cheese could brown, then shut the oven door. “What about the weather?”
“The weather today was lovely.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. And it’s relevant. It’s hard to convince people that catastrophic weather changes are coming on a nice day.” The bottle of vermouth was standing on the counter next to him. “Besides, it doesn’t have ‘military significance,’ so he didn’t feel the urgency of it.”
“The bulk of the report was about that!” I should have gone with him. Next time. Next time, I would have to go. “So … do you get to see the president? Is that what happens next?”
He shrugged and grabbed the ice from the freezer. “I’m trying. Eisenhower said he would attempt to expedite it, but without the Soviet threat, the urgency isn’t there. Acting President Brannan is, understandably, busy with restoring the U.S. government.”
“Ugh.” I stood with my hands on my hips and hated myself even more for this morning’s lie. If I had been there—what? Would General Eisenhower really have listened to a girl talk about math and weather? Maybe, for the sake of my father, he might have given me time, but I doubt I could have changed his mind. “I’m glad I already asked for a double, because if they don’t make plans…”
“I know.” He lifted the lever to crack the ice in the tray with such force that a piece hopped out and skittered across the floor. “But one step at a time. They aren’t going to attack the Soviets, and that would have been far worse.”
It wouldn’t have been. Just more immediate.
NINE
POLLUTION DEFIES EUROPE’S BORDERS
Norway Finds Air Waste From Abroad a Problem
By JOHN M. LEE
OSLO, Norway, April 3, 1952—Rising European concern about air pollution deriving from last month’s Meteor strike found expression in Norway this week when a leading scientist declared, “Our freshwater fish and our forests will be destroyed if these developments continue uncontrolled.”
After that glorious week of calculations, my life returned to volunteering at the hospital while we waited to hear from the president. April 3rd. One month, to the day, after the Meteor struck, one of the daily refugee planes landed. You would think they would stop coming at a certain point, but there were always more. The people who had survived the initial devastation had held out until it became clear that the infrastructure wouldn’t recover any time soon.
I waited in the shade of one of our canvas triage tents as the plane taxied to a stop. Uniformed men ran the stairs out to the plane, and the doctors and nurses waited at the ready. We had a good system down now.
The door opened and the first of the refugees stepped out, gaunt as a rake. And black. I inhaled and turned, automatically, to look for Myrtle. In the entire month, this was the first black man who had gotten off one of the refugee planes.
She had her back to the plane, squaring bandages on a table.
“Myrtle?” Behind me, a murmur of surprise came from the doctors and nurses.
“Hm?” She looked over her shoulder. Her knees buckled, but she caught herself on th
e table. “Oh God. Praise God, it worked. Thank you, God, for your mercy.”
When I turned back, there was a line of black men, women, and children coming down the stairs. There were white people mixed in, and we saw more as the refugees kept deplaning. First in, last out. The black people had been the last ones they’d let on the plane.
As they came closer, their features were easier to make out. Thin, yes. But also pocked with tiny pink sores. Someone moaned—it might have been me. We’d seen the sores from acid rain before, but the damage was so much more apparent on darker skin.
I shook myself and picked up my tray of paper cups of electrolytes. Hydration. Someone else would be standing by with sandwiches. Glancing back at Myrtle, I said, “So I guess Eugene finally talked someone into changing the location of the rescue missions, huh?”
“No.” The smile on her face died away. “No. We used your plane to drop fliers on the black neighborhoods, telling them where to go to be picked up by the refugee planes. But they’re here now, and there will be more, and we’ll thank God for that.”
She picked up a packet of swabs and prepared to meet the incoming wave.
* * *
Two weeks later, I’d had ample opportunity to feel guilty for ditching the first meeting about the climate problem like it was a plane on fire. So, feeling the total lack of a parachute, I followed Nathaniel into the meeting with the president, his staff, some cabinet members, and half a dozen other men who served goodness knows what function.
I tried to focus on the mundane details to get past the fear. For instance, whoever had decorated this conference room had gone to great lengths to mask the fact that it was an underground bunker. The wood-paneled walls and green carpet evoked a forest glade. Curtains hung over faux windows, which were lit from the back with a warm golden light.
I clutched my portfolio of papers against my chest and followed Nathaniel into the room. Men in ties and dark suits sat or stood around the room in little knots of conversation. Some stood in front of a chalkboard, where my calculations had been transferred. They stopped talking and turned to stare when Acting President Brannan stood to greet us.
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