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Chain ReactionCaroline Marwitz
Mia was late to work for four reasons. First, she’d argued with Stephen, her husband, who had just announced his plan to go on for his doctorate, now that he’d finished his M.B.A and his J.D. He hadn’t put either one to use yet.
“When do I get to follow my dreams?” she asked him that morning.
“You have followed your dreams,” he countered. “You wanted to be in charge of your own library and you are. None of this skipping around from career to career, hoping that finally you’ve figured out what you should do with your life—you knew what you wanted to do and you did it. You don’t even know what it feels like to doubt yourself, do you?”
Second, she’d stopped to vomit behind a convenience store.
Third, she’d seen cars sliding on the black ice on the highway out to the plant, and so she’d driven about twenty when she usually drove eighty.
And the fourth was the long line at the gate to get onto the plant site.
As she sat in the line of idling cars, she wondered if she was coming down with the flu. She felt woozy, a little dizzy, a little off.
Her turn at the checkpoint. She should have chosen one of the other four lines. The guard was new and took extra long with the mirror stick that he swept beneath the car. Luckily, she’d learned to keep the trunk and interior immaculate, so the physical search never took very long.
She pulled her badge out from under her coat and unclipped it from the nylon cord around her neck. The new guard studied the photo, then her face, then the photo again. Did he have to be so obvious in his disbelief? For God’s sake, there were men at this plant who’d started work at Rocky Flats when they were twenty-two, and now, twenty-five years later they still sported the same ID photo, though they looked like grizzled fathers of their young selves. And no one ever commented on it. But let someone see her ID photo of herself five years ago and instantly it was, “Wow. That was you?” Meaning either, gee, you’ve put on a lot of wrinkles, or man, were you totally ugly back then.
Sometimes she thought the guards liked to rub things in. They were, after all, always in their early twenties. She supposed when they hit twenty-five they retired and became cops in nearby Denver, having seen all there was to life in just a few years guarding a nuclear weapons plant. Now the guard glanced at the red circles that showed where she could go on plant site escorted and unescorted, turned over the rectangular badge to check the dosimeter attached to the back, then handed it to her. His eyes, she thought, were already practiced at looking through people.
Of course, all the parking places near her building were gone. She parked in overflow, about a quarter of a mile away, and started walking. The cold wind invigorated her and her nausea lifted. Beyond the plant’s buildings, she could see the foothills between Boulder and Golden, and to the east, Denver and its suburbs. So close. Another reminder about why she was pissed at Stephen—they lived downstream and downwind east of the plant, not up in the foothills west of the plant as they had originally planned. Too expensive, what with Stephen in school.
Beside the sidewalk that led to her building, eight-foot high chain-link fencing topped with coils of razor wire kept people away from the holding ponds where radioactive “pondcrete” waited to be trucked somewhere distant. Common knowledge at plant site was that the company had goofed on the formula and the so-called concrete remained oatmeal-like in consistency. She shivered. Nothing grew near those ponds.
Her building was a windowless four-story block of concrete. It looked like it had been poured into a mold and then doors cut into it. It was no worse than the smelly portable buildings they called Trailer City, where all the new temps and contractors worked, close to the main entrance because their security clearance was lower.
At the guardhouse for her building, she got in line and showed her badge again. These guards were older, in their thirties, and were friendlier. One had a German shepherd at his side, a huge butterscotch-colored dog with touches of black on his paws and head. Around its neck dangled a heavy gold chain and an ID photo just like hers, except of course, with the dog’s photo on it. The dog had a higher security clearance than she did.
“Hello, Kafka,” she cooed at the dog, while making sure not to move too close to it. One didn’t touch the bomb dogs. Ditto for the drug dogs. Still, she noticed that its ears perked up at mention of its name. “Where’s he been? Sick leave?”
The guard laughed. “Nah. Kafka got some more training last week. He’s better than ever now.” He said something harsh-sounding—German words maybe—to the dog and it instantly lay down. “We might be bringing him in to practice later this week.”
“Anytime.” Mia liked to take a break from shelving books and watch the dogs work the stacks in the library, looking for dummy bombs the guards planted. When Kafka fixed on the scent of an explosive, he would stand still as a wild rabbit, muzzle pointing to the source. The drug dogs on the other hand, were annoying, as they were trained to bark and scratch with their paws when they made a find.
Mia hurried through the guardhouse and into the lobby of the building where she worked. She was the head librarian, but still, being late was frowned upon.
At the bulletproof glass screen next to the x-ray machine and metal detector, she got in line again and went through the daily drill. Remove shoes, put purse and lunch bag on conveyor belt. Earrings, hair clip and glasses went into a special bag because even they could set off an alarm. Plus her wedding ring. The guards waited while she took everything off that was supposed to come off. Except the wedding ring.
It was a simple gold band. Inside, their wedding date and their initials were inscribed, one letter following another. Whose initials were first? She couldn’t remember. She tugged on the ring. Twisted. Tugged again.
A line began to form behind her as she struggled with the ring.
“It’s just my ring,” she told the guard, Alvarez, who held the bag containing the rest of her things. “That’s all.”
“Sorry, Ma’am.” He’d been here for six months manning the metal detector and X-ray machine and she knew he knew her name.
“It won’t come off.” She held out her hand to him and it seemed like he was going to reach out and grab the ring and help pull, but he didn’t.
“Hey, Paulson,” he called to the guard at the X-ray machine. “Got any lotion, Vaseline, oil, something? We got a stuck ring here.”
The other guard sighed, climbed off his high stool, turned off the conveyor belt and came around to look at her hand. “Gained some weight recently?” He rummaged around in the first aid kit and handed her a tube of antibiotic cream without once looking her in the eyes. “Here. And if you could, please, step aside--we’ve got people waiting behind you.”
Mia felt her face heat up. As she stood by the wall to let others by, a wave of nausea came over her and she knelt on the floor until it passed. The cream smelled like eucalyptus leaves. She smeared it dutifully on her finger and the ring, working it into the creases and folds around her knuckles. When she pulled, however, the ring stayed put.
“It’s not like I just started work here yesterday,” she said as Alvarez walked over to check on her progress. “I’ve been here for five years. Since you know it’s my ring causing the problem, can’t you just let me go? I’m not carrying any weapons, if that’s what you’re afraid of.”
“We treat everyone here the same, ma’am, whether they’ve worked here twenty-four hours or twenty-four years. It has nothing to do with you personally.”
“What am I supposed to do? It’s not coming off and I’m late for work.”
Alvarez looked at her hand and then at her. “I don’t know.” Yet it wasn’t an uncaring “I don’t know, that’s your problem,” but more of an “I don’t know, I’m mystified as to how to help you.” His eyes were narrow and dark brown, beautiful up close. She wondered if he was married, if this was the best job he could get or was he just marking time looking for something better? And when he took off his uniform, was he a real person again?
“There are probably huge lines of people waiting to get into the library, Alvarez,” she said. “They have to do research and if I’m not there to help them, they’ll have to spend valuable time waiting. Expensive time. Couldn’t you just let me through, just this once?”
The other guard walked over. He was fat and bald, with a chunky gold band on his own ring finger. “Send her home. She’ll just have to take a sick day.”
“I don’t want to go home.” Stephen was at home. “I’ve got work to do.”
Alvarez brightened. “I’ve got it. A hot towel on the ring might expand the metal and—”
“John,” the other guard said. He jerked his head. A group of business suits stood at the door, shoes and briefcases in hand as if on a pilgrimage to a holy site. After they were gone, Alvarez disappeared for a moment and returned with a roll of damp gauze steaming in his hand. Shrugging at the other guard’s derisive snort, he came out from around the glass barrier and handed her the hot cloth. “Put this on your finger, if it’s not too hot, and maybe the heat will expand the ring. It worked on my sister when she was pregnant and got her ring stuck.”
Her eyes filled with tears. “If it’s not too hot,” he’d said. Not like the other men around here, barking orders. Not like Stephen either. She blinked hard, held out her hand and let him wrap her finger in the gauze.
The gauze was hot, but she ignored the pain and looked out the plate glass windows at the cars in the parking lot being enveloped by morning fog.
When the bandage cooled, Alvarez came back. Mia unwound the clammy gauze and handed it to him. Her finger was red and fat from the heat. She tried to wrestle the ring off. It wouldn’t budge.
“Let me call my boss in Building 850,” she said. Herb would be annoyed with her, but she knew he’d prefer it to her taking a sick day. “He could come over and escort me through.”
“No good,” Alvarez said. “When it comes to security, your boss has no authority, no matter how high he is. Why don’t you just take the day off, see a movie, go shopping or something.”
“Maybe the infirmary has one of those special saws that cuts plaster but not flesh. Maybe they could cut the ring off.”
Alvarez raised his eyebrows. “This is a wedding ring, isn’t it?”
Mia looked at the floor. “Yes.”
“I gotta get back to work.” He joined the bald guard at the x-ray machine and they started talking in low tones. The bald guard laughed. Alvarez shook his head and said something. They both roared with laughter.
Mia put on her shoes and coat, took her purse, and went back through the guardhouse into the cold of the parking lot. Snow was falling in dry little flakes. She tugged at the ring. Nothing. Her hand hurt. Feeling another wave of wooziness, she breathed in deeply and started back to her car.
Maybe she was pregnant.
She stopped and leaned against the chain link fence. No. She was thirty-eight. Not now. She and Stephen had tried so hard for so many years. Back when it mattered.
Her body was just playing tricks on her. She twisted the ring and started walking again. The high radiation readings on her dosimeter—please, she thought, not pregnant. She shivered. Some months her readings were as high as the production workers who worked in the glove boxes with the plutonium. The technicians at the infirmary thought it was because she ran errands constantly around the plant, delivering books and articles, picking up materials for the library. The very pages she handled had lain on workbenches in the laboratories where the most dangerous substances in the world were.
But the readings, though high, were well within the range of acceptable exposure. The Department of Energy said so. And if she’d had a problem with that, she would have left long ago.
Something about not being able to have children had made her think she was safe.
The wind was cutting now, and she ran the last fifty yards to her car. So warm and still inside. She put the key in the ignition and wondered where to go. To a doctor? Home? To the mall?
Pregnant. Couldn’t be.
She started the car. Suddenly cramps raked across her belly, pulling every muscle inside of her. She leaned against the steering wheel and groaned. A gush of warmth slid out of her body and soaked her jeans. She grabbed that morning’s newspaper and slid it under her butt, took a peek and saw blood.
“My God.” Maybe the doctors had been wrong and she could conceive. Maybe. Tears brimmed, caught on her lashes, refused to fall.
She stared at the ring on her finger. Now what?
Home wasn’t home if you didn’t want to go there.
She yanked at the ring, twisting and wrenching skin against bone against metal until her finger nearly dislocated. The ring popped off, bounced against the passenger side window and onto the seat. She shoved it in her coat pocket, grabbed her purse and keys and got out. Craning her neck to look at the backside of her jeans, she couldn’t see any visible stains. Her coat would hide her too.
Back to the guardhouse, the gate, the metal detector and young Alvarez of the warm brown eyes and close-cropped curls. She could feel a wave of pain coming again.
“Got it off finally?”
She handed him her purse and shoes. “Yup.” She tossed the ring and her keys in the plastic bowl and watched it slither down the conveyor belt. She walked through the metal detector in silence.
“You must want to make those bombs pretty bad,” the other guard said as she collected her things. “You trying for Employee of the Millennium or something?”
“I work in the library.” She held her breath a moment, waiting for the pain to ease. “I don’t make the bombs.”
“Sure,” the guard said. “That’s what they all say.”
“Wait,” Alvarez called as she strode to the elevator. He held out the bowl with the ring and the keys. “Looks like you got some motor oil on your jeans or something,” he added.
Her smile felt hard and waxy. She fled to the library.
No one was there. The union guys who sometimes vacuumed secretly for her when she was between janitors (hard to find a janitor with a high security clearance) weren’t lounging at the study carrels reading magazines. No clerks. No security personnel. No dogs.
She checked the alarm in the classified vault, then hustled to the tiny bathroom near the circulation desk. After a good scrubbing in the sink, her jeans and underpants were still wet but clean. She held them under the hand dryer until they were mostly dry, then skinned them on.
Yuck—damp jeans. She left a trail of droplets in the gray carpet as she hobbled over to unlock the classified vault’s heavy metal doors. How much of the carpet was gray dye and how much was gray dust? And how much of the dust was radioactive? And how far along could she have been?
Enough of that. Time to work. Soon would come that time of year when she would destroy documents, some old, some new, going by the list the DOE sent her. She had to sign out each document, with two guards beside her to confirm she’d chosen correctly, before she placed the document in a sealed envelope and packed it in a carton to be shipped to an incinerator. It was a little like the radioactive waste they packed into drums and shipped off to New Mexico and Nevada. Only instead of old trigger parts and glove boxes and worn-out respirators and suits, she shipped off words on paper and microfiche.
I’m a teller in a bank, she thought. Make a deposit, make a withdrawal. The classified documents vault did remind her of a bank vault. She scanned her badge through a slot to disarm the secondary back-up alarm, then swung the massive, well-oiled doors open and stepped into the little room.
Inside was no larger than some people’s walk-in closets, holding nothing but shelves for the documents few people were allowed to read. Documents so dangerous they were locked up tighter than the toxic chemicals at this plant. Documents that started with one word, then a second word following it, and a third, and a fourth. Chains of words forming sentences that formed ideas that led to one thing: the destruction of everything in one terrible moment.
Her throat tightened. She should be glad she wasn’t pregnant. The world was an unsafe place.
She leaned against a shelf. Her belly still ached. She might be bleeding again. Ought to go back out to the restroom and check. But it was so quiet, so sheltered in here. This was probably the safest room on Earth: thick walled, fireproof, bomb proof, earthquake proof, radiation proof. These documents were safer than she’d ever be, safer than any child of hers would ever have been.
But I would have done my damnedest to keep my child safe, she thought. I would have. I would have.
I would have.
Would she? She turned toward the shelf and cradled her head on her arm and began to cry, not caring that she was weeping all over the cracked cardboard cover of document number D4k-s8-Az12CD. The cardboard smelled of tobacco and sweat. The forty-year-old ink of the words on the typewritten label, not meant to withstand the saltiness of human tears, began to bleed.
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