Alas, Babylon

Each hour the county Conelrad station repeated warnings to boil all drinking water, do not drink fresh milk, do not use the telephone, and, in the Sunday morning hours after the destruc tion of Orlando, warnings to take shelter and guard against fallout and radiation. There had been no milk deliveries and the telephones hadn’t worked since the first mushroom sprouted in the south; nor were there any actual shelters in Fort Repose. All Sunday, Randy insisted that Helen and the children stay in the house. He knew that any shelter, even a slate roof, insulation, walls, and roof, was better than none. There was no time to dig. The time to dig had been before The Day. After Orlando, digging seemed wasted effort. Anyway, there were so many other things to do, each minor crisis demanding instant attention. While radiation was a danger, it could not be felt or seen, and therefore other dangers, and even annoyances, seemed more imperative.

At two o’clock Monday afternoon Helen was in Randy’s apartment, and they were listening to the hourly Conelrad broadcast, when Ben Franklin marched in and announced, “We’re just about out of water.”

“That’s impossible!” Randy said.

“It’s Peyton’s fault,” said Ben Franklin. “Every time she goes to the john she has to flush it. The tub in our bathroom is empty, and she’s been dipping water out of mother’s bathtub too.” Randy looked at Helen. This was a mother’s problem. “Peyton’s a fastidious little girl,” Helen said. “After all, one of the first things a child learns is always to flush the john. What’re we going to do?”

Randy said, “For now, Ben Franklin and I will drive down to the dock and fill up what washtubs and buckets we have out of the river. You can’t drink river water without boiling it but it’ll be okay for the toilets. And from now on Peyton-all of us—can’t afford to be so fastidious. We’ll flush the toilets only twice a day. Then I guess we’ll have to dig latrines out in the grove because I can’t haul water from the river forever. Matter of gasoline.”

Randy looked out on the grove, noticing a thin powder of dust on the leaves. There had been a long dry spell. The fine, clear, crisp days with low humidity were wonderful for people but bad for the orange crop. He would have to turn on the sprinklers in the grove. . . .

He slammed his fist on the bar counter and shouted, “I’m a damn fool! We’ve got all the water we want!”

“Where?” Helen asked.

“Right out there!” Randy waved his arms. “Artesian water, unlimited!”

“But that’s in the grove, isn’t it?”

“I’m sure we can pipe it into the house. After all, that’s the same water the Henrys use every day. I think there are some big wrenches in the garage and Malachai will know how to do it. Come on, Ben, let’s go over to the Henrys’.”

Randy and the boy walked down the old gravel and clay road that led from the garage through the grove and to the river. Randy’s navels had been picked, but the Valencias were still on the trees. They would not be picked this year. Matching strides with Randy, Ben Franklin said, “I just thought of something.” “Yes?”

“I don’t have to go to school any more.”

“What makes you think you don’t have to go to school? As soon as things get back to normal you’re going to school, young feller. Want to grow up to be an ignoramus?”

Ben Franklin scuffed a pebble, looked up sideways at Randy, and grinned. “What school?”

“Why, the school in Fort Repose, of course, until you can go back to Omaha, or wherever your father is stationed.”

Ben stopped. “Just a minute, Randy. I’m not fooling myself. Nobody’s going back to Omaha, maybe ever. And I don’t think I’ll ever see Dad again. The Hole wasn’t safe, you know. Maybe you think so. I know Mother does. But I’m not fooling myself, Randy, and don’t you try to fool me.”

Randy put his hands on the boy’s shoulders and looked into his face, measuring the depth of courage behind the brown eyes, finding it at least as deep as his own. “Okay, son,” he said, “I’ll level with you. I’ll level with you, and don’t you ever do anything less with me. I think Mark has had it. I think you’re the man of the family from now on.”

“That’s what Dad said.”

“Did he? Well, you’re a man who still has to go to school. I don’t know where, or when, or how. But as soon as school reopens in Fort Repose, or anywhere around, you go. You may have to walk.”

“Golly, Randy, walk! It’s three miles to town.”

“Your grandfather used to walk to school in Fort Repose. When he was your age there weren’t any school busses. When he couldn’t hitch a ride in a buggy, or one of the early automobiles, he walked.” Randy put his arm around the boy’s shoulder. “Let’s get going. I guess we’ll both have to learn to walk again.”