Fallout

Now I looked up. Above the rod where Dad’s suits hung was a shelf, and from the floor I could see the corners of things like boxes and maybe a book. I climbed up on the chest of drawers. The shelf was still mostly out of reach, but if I stretched on my tiptoes, there was one green box I was able to work toward the edge until it tipped and fell into my hands. It was the size of a cereal box but heavy, and I was lucky that it didn’t slip through my fingers and crash to the floor.

The box had the shiny, slick feel of newness. Still standing on the chest of drawers, I opened it curiously.

Inside was a gun.

Other than on a policeman’s belt, it was the first real gun I’d ever seen. The metal had a vague sheen of oil, and I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it might go off accidentally in my hands.

Then Mom called: “Scott? Edward? Dinner!”

I inched the box back up on the shelf. There was only one reason why Dad would have a gun: for war.

In the kitchen, instead of setting the table, Mom had placed two plates of spaghetti and meatballs on a tray, along with napkins, forks, and glasses of milk.

She said, “They’re for you and Edward. Go eat in the den.”

“Dad said we’re not allowed.”

“I say you can,” Mom said.

I carried the tray into the den, where Sparky was watching Quick Draw McGraw, and placed the food between us.

Sparky touched the spaghetti with his fork, then stared at the TV. I felt my insides tighten anxiously. Dad had a gun. Mom was letting us eat in the den. Could there be any clearer signs that the end of the world was approaching?

53

We sit in near-dark in the shelter and listen while the men work on the other side of the shield wall. Sparky has taken up permanent residence on Janet’s lap.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get out?” Mrs. Shaw asks.

Sparky: “Everything.”

Paula: “Take a bath.”

Ronnie: “Eat something good.”

Me: “Take a bath and eat something good.”

Ronnie’s mom says, “What about you, Janet?”

“Look for my children, Mrs. Shaw.”

Ronnie’s mom utters a little “Oh!” of surprise. “I’m so sorry.”

As if there weren’t already a million reasons to feel bad, now I feel even worse. The two small faces at the window the day Mom drove Janet home… All the time we’ve been together down here, she never said a word. Sparky snuggles closer to her. “If you can’t find them, you can be my other mommy.”

Janet starts to cry.

The fathers’ voices come around the shield wall. “Move it a little to the right.” “Can you shine the light on this?” “Anyone see the screwdriver?”

Finally Dad calls, “I think we’re ready.”

We go into the corridor to find the bunk bed rebuilt under the trapdoor. Standing on the floor, Mr. McGovern is holding the flashlight on Dad and Mr. Shaw, both wearing masks and squatting naked on the top bunk under the trapdoor. Dad presses his back against it. He reminds me of that statue in New York City of Atlas holding up the world, only Atlas was all muscles and Dad looks so skinny. Next to him, Mr. Shaw lies on his back with his feet against the door.

They grit their teeth and push and strain. The bunk bed creaks; the trapdoor rises slowly. The creaking grows louder.

The trapdoor rises a tiny bit more.

Crack! The sound of splintering wood explodes into our ears.

“Stop!” Mr. Shaw gasps.

Clank! The trapdoor slams down.

Atop the bunk, both fathers breathe hard for a moment, then Dad asks, “What happened?”

“The board under us cracked,” says Mr. Shaw.

“Of course,” Mr. McGovern says, as if he’s just realized something. “You’re pushing up on a metal door, but at the same time you’re pushing down on a wooden board. This is never going to work.”

54

The Russian ships were getting closer to the quarantine line set up by the United States Navy. There was going to be a showdown. Would one side back down, or would there be war?

My stomach was in a nonstop knot, and I would catch myself at my school desk with my hands clenched and my toes curled up in my shoes. At lunch, the spaghetti and meatballs looked slimy, and I hardly had any appetite anyway. On the way home from school, I asked Ronnie if he wanted to play Nok-Hockey again.

“Why?” He asked.

“Don’t you want a rematch?”

“I killed you last time.”

“You won’t this time.”

Ronnie gave me an uncertain look.

“Scared I’ll win?” I challenged him.

He snorted. “Fat chance.”

We went to his house, where he beat me eleven games to one.

“Can I eat over?” I asked. “We could watch TV.”

The Shaws were the only family I knew with a color television set. In the den, Ronnie and I watched The Jetsons, but what I really wanted to do was look in a Playboy before we went to war, only I was afraid Ronnie would make fun of me. When The Jetsons ended, Ronnie glanced toward the kitchen, where his mom had started dinner, and then went to the liquor cabinet and poured some Dubonnet into a glass. “We’ll share,” he whispered.