Warday

Let’s see. I’m supposed to identify myself? Yes? Oh, you’re going to be totally silent. What is this, some kind of psychological thing? You’re smiling. Is it? Are you really psychologists? Are you British? Joan said you were from Dallas.

Well, anyway, I am A m y Hill Carver. I teach junior high at the Baldwin N e w School in Baldwin, Pennsylvania. This school was reorganized in 1991, and serves as the central educational facility for all the surrounding suburbs.

I am thirty-seven years of age. Before Warday I was a freelance writer. I had done work for all the major women’s magazines— Cosmo, Good Housekeeping, Bazaar, The Journal, all of them.

And then your next question is where was I on Warday. Well, I was on my way to Killington, Vermont, to ski. I was thirty-two years old, making good money, single, and there had been an early snowfall. So off I went for a long weekend. I heard nothing, saw nothing. The car radio went off. I thought, thank you, Mr. Ford. I continued on to Killington. When I got to the Holiday Inn, it turned out that all the radios and TVs were out in the whole place. There was an uproar. Nobody knew what had happened.

I skied anyway, all that afternoon. I remember it was powdery and not very settled, but it was still fun. I’ve never skied since, not after that day. So that’s where I was on Warday. Skiing.

It wasn’t until the next day that people started saying stuff—New York had been bombed, there had been a nuclear accident, a reactor explosion, that sort of thing. We saw a couple of helicopters. The out-of-town papers didn’t get delivered. The second morning of my trip, I found the dining room of the hotel closed. No breakfast, and no explanations. That scared me. So I headed for home, which was New York.

I was in Hartford when I started seeing this immense black cloud to the south. It wasn’t a mushroom cloud or anything. Just a huge black thing like a giant blob or something. By the time I was in Middletown, it was all the way across the southern sky.

It was the most terrifying thing I’ve ever seen. I stopped in Middletown and asked about it at the gas station. The man said there had been a bomb. He told me not to go any farther, because New York was burning.

I remember I just stood there staring at that old man. There was nothing to say. The radios and TVs were out. Many car ignitions were out. Even so, cars were streaming up from the south.

And there was that cloud.

I stayed that night in Middletown—I was very lucky to get a motel room. Refugees were all over the place. When I got to the room, I found that there were six other people in it already. Two of them had these disgusting swellings, one all over his back and one on his face. I did not know then what flash burns look like if they’re left untreated. I learned, though.

When the sun went down, we saw that the cloud was full of lightning. I decided then and there to stay inside the motel as long as I could. Other people did too. We were scared there was radiation.

We had a very hard time. Food ran out. My car got stolen. I lived at that motel for months. Nobody knew what to do. The manager kept a tab, but he couldn’t get the bank to pay him on his credit-card chits. Then the bank closed. Food got really scarce. I used to get a slice of bread and make it into soup, seasoned with salt and pepper. No, wait a minute, that was months later. In the famine.

What saved me was staying in that motel as long as I did. I’m over thirty, single and childless. I didn’t get much of a dose. I don’t think I’m in a high-risk cancer situation. I have a little cluster of B cells on my nose, but they slough off as rapidly as they form, which is a good sign. Even if they do become cancerous, they will treat me because skin cancers are curable.

I was in that motel for six months. We became a family. The Brentwood Middletown Motel People. We had deaths and a marriage, and we foraged together during the food shortage.

One day a man came through, traveling from the West. He said Pittsburgh was good. There was food, and the people were okay.

Outsiders were welcome there. So I thought, why not? Our motel family was down to ten or twelve people. We’d gone through the worst winter of our lives together, and we were ready to say good-bye. You don’t necessarily want to stay with people you endured hell with. Every time you look at them, you see the past.

It took me two weeks to get to Pittsburgh. I hitched, took the bus, took the train.