WE WERE GOING back to Berkeley, New York, or Madison. We were going to Hiroshima. We were going to Oak Ridge. Three years in the desert and we were near thirty or past it. Our pants were thin, our shirts needed to be mended, and we had little idea what women wore these days. If we began as foreigners we became naturalized during these years and so we were not going back to France, Germany, or Italy. Some of us were staying, even after our husbands had promised this move was only temporary, and we were going back to a real city only in our imagination. Saying good-bye to our friends was not just saying good-bye to them, we were saying good-bye to a part of ourselves.
FOR THOSE OF us who were leaving, we thought for the first time we might miss Los Alamos. The piñons, the snowy vistas, the thin fresh air, the hard rain falling. On our last ride on the horses, Genevieve, who was returning to Britain, stopped, closed her eyes, and said, All my life I will remember this sunshine. We loved the hush the snow placed on the landscape, and we thought of the hand of God, or we thought of light, and we thought of the stillness of snow, how it quieted even our children. It was the earth winning a small battle.
NEAR THE END we began to pull away from one another, we stopped by unannounced less frequently and started looking for the next thing. But we still threw parties. We hosted good-bye dinners that ended with Auld Lang Syne and tears. Some children ran around gathering autographs.
BY THE END of our time at Los Alamos we had two or ten black-on-black pieces of pottery and we wanted more. We wore weighty belts of silver. We bought high-topped deerskin moccasins. We spread Navajo rugs on our floor and draped Chimayo blankets over our couch. We decided we would like to live without gas and the daily newspaper. We decided we wanted to buy land like the Spanish and the Indians had, or we offered to buy what they owned.
WE SAID SO long with fruitcake, with lingering hugs, with quick pats on the back, with picnics at Frijoles Canyon. We took last rides on the horses. Katherine fell down a canyon wall and broke her neck and left Los Alamos in an off-white brace that constricted our ability to hold tightly to her. It was in the departure that we learned our true feelings: we would miss one another terribly.
THE PEOPLE OF the San Ildefonso pueblo threw us a party. They fed us things they knew we liked—Jell-O and Coke. We called it a fiesta hoedown and brought hotdogs. The pueblo wives were encouraged by Po, the one Indian we had invited to our square dance group, to make authentic recipes. We ate prune pies that tasted like pemmican cakes; we ate tamales, tiny chicken rolls, tortillas, and squash mixtures. We ate things we could never figure out, but it all was delicious, and our hosts seemed to be enjoying the food as much as we were. There were pitchers of fruit juice and plenty of coffee. We begged for recipes.
WE DANCED WITH the men we haggled with over bowls the week before. Or we attended out of obligation. Or we did not attend at all. Initially only the dance group members were invited, with a few exceptions made for the other women Louise liked: Dorothy, Edith, and Helen. But every woman had to promise they wouldn’t tell anyone about the event. They promised, though everyone found out about it. Maria insisted on no alcohol, and Louise assured her, but given the rowdiness of the crowds, we thought that would be difficult.
THE FESTIVITIES OPENED with drums and a chanting chorus of men led by Montoya, our janitor from the Lodge. Po called us in for a square dance demonstration; we formed squares and designated Starla as the caller—we had long ago concluded that Starla’s secret was that there was no secret. Our brief demonstration was followed by a group of Indian men with Cokes in their hands, shaking their bodies in motions we were nervous that we could not reproduce. Po called out in Tewa, and the group moved serpent-like. The governor of the pueblo, wearing a blue-and-white-checkered blanket over his shoulders, made gyrations we tried to follow. He put both hands on his head, as if they were antlers, and grinned. Some of us chuckled to see his missing two front teeth—but his feet kept perfect time. The intricate steps changed to another quite sophisticated move, and we followed as best we could. The drummers went faster and faster: it was a test of endurance we were sure to fail; we dared not stop. Montoya stood on a chair and shouted, above the fast drumbeat and shuffles: This is the Atomic Age—This is the Atomic Age!