Fallout (15 page)

But Ronnie smiled back. “What rock have you been hiding under?”

It didn't make sense. Men and women had body parts that fit together. Men couldn't have sex with men because they had the same body parts and therefore wouldn't fit.

“So how do they do it?” I asked.

Ronnie shook his head like he knew the answer and didn't want to tell.

“Come on, if you're so smart, let's hear it,” I said.

“I would, but if your parents found out, they'd be really mad.”

“I swear to God I won't tell them.”

“How do I know you'll keep your promise?”

I held out my right pinkie, and Ronnie stopped smiling. A pinkie swear was the most inviolate swear there was. If you broke a pinkie swear, you were branded for life. No one would ever trust you again.

“Come on.” I beckoned with my outstretched pinkie.

Ronnie didn't take it.

“See?” I said. “You're such a liar.”

“I'm hungry.”
Sparky crosses his arms over his stomach and bends forward like he's in agony. Even before this, he was skinny and bony, but now his ribs poke out, especially where the concave curve of his stomach begins.

“There, there.” Janet puts her arm around his shoulders and tries to soothe him. He sits with her almost all the time now.

“Give him something,” Mrs. Shaw says to Dad.

“What about my child?” asks Mr. McGovern.

Hunger has turned my stomach into a knot, too, and my own ribs feel tight against my skin, but I don't want to say anything that will make it worse for Dad, who goes over to the shelf. “Sardines?”

Sparky shakes his head.

“Tuna?”

“Okay.”

“Why does he get to choose when the rest of us don't?” Mr. McGovern asks.

“If your child was the youngest here, I'd do the same for her,” Dad answers.

“But not if she's the second or third youngest?”

“That makes no sense, Richard,” Mrs. Shaw says. I hate the way she and Mr. McGovern gang up on Dad. It's still our bomb shelter and our food. Like Dad said, they could have built their own shelters.

“I'm hungry, too,” says Ronnie.

“What's left?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

Mr. Shaw hardly talks anymore. Mostly he just stares at the walls and floor. It makes me uncomfortable. He seems like a different person from the one who sat in his den sipping wine and talking about topless women in France.

Dad tells us what remains on the food shelf. “Three cans of Spam, four of tuna, six of sardines, and some peanut butter and jelly.”

“No bread?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

Dad shakes his head.

“We could make it last longer,” Mr. McGovern says. “For someone hardheaded and logical enough to build this shelter, you've become awfully softhearted, Richard.”

Dad glares at him furiously. “You're talking about my wife and this innocent woman, Herb.”

“I'm talking about our lives and the lives of our children,” Mr. McGovern replies forcefully. “We've already lost enough thanks to this goddamn war. The sooner we use up the food, the sooner we'll be forced to go back up there. And if we go up too soon, we run the risk of radiation sickness. Be rational about it, Richard. It's not going to get any easier once we're up there. Like Stephanie said, we'll be spending every moment trying to survive. There won't be time for anyone who needs help.”

“How can you say that?” Dad asks. “I mean, think of your own son.”

Mr. McGovern's face darkens. “That . . . is
exactly
why I can say it.”

I feel the urge to tug. The spot behind my right ear feels as smooth and hairless as my forehead, but along the edge of the bald spot, I find some hairs to grasp. Mr. McGovern doesn't think we'll be able to take care of Mom once we get out, but why does he want Janet to leave? Because she's a Negro? If he makes her leave, what's to stop him from saying Sparky should go next? After all, he's too young and small to take care of himself.

“So?” Mr. McGovern demands.

Dad gathers himself up. “I said it before and I'll say it again. Over . . . my . . . dead . . . body.”

“It won't just be
your
dead body — it will be everyone's,” Mr. McGovern counters, then turns to the Shaws. “Who gave him the right to make decisions for all of us? Because it's his bomb shelter? I'm sorry, but I don't think that matters anymore. We're all in this together now. Are you really comfortable putting your lives in
his
hands? Letting
him
decide how much we eat and drink?”

Mrs. Shaw glances at her husband, who's staring at a wall as if his thoughts are a million miles away. Then she says in a softer, more reasonable tone, “Let the children eat, Richard.”

“I never said I wasn't going to,” Dad replies icily. He opens a can of tuna and divides it four ways. Normally I could eat my share in one bite, but I separate it into three parts and savor each one slowly.

Sparky gets to lick the inside of the can.

When I finish my three parts, I'm still hungry.

Sometimes, when it's quiet for a long time, I think I hear whispers, as if there's someone else down here. And even though I don't believe in ghosts, I get scared. If I never imagined the whole world being destroyed, what else have I never imagined? Could there be some kind of invisible radioactive creature on the other side of the shield wall? Invisible Godzilla?

I look over at Mom, wishing she would wake up so I could tell her about Invisible Godzilla and she could tell me it's only my imagination. But she just lies there, blank-eyed, so I go over to Janet and hold her hand. If Mr. McGovern and the Shaws say she has to go, I'll say over my dead body, too.

When we run out of rags for washing and the toilet, the men tear off their pajama legs at the knees. We're slowly using up our clothing.

At times the hunger and the feeling of being cooped up in this chilly, smelly dungeon is so bad, I feel like I can't spend another minute down here. Would it be worth risking radiation poisoning to go up and see the sun for a few minutes? Could such a short time up there be
that
bad?

Dad and Mr. McGovern have an argument over how long we've been down here. Dad thinks it's only been five or six days. Mr. McGovern insists it's been eight or nine.

“This is more than a week's worth of beard,” Mr. McGovern says, brushing the stubble that mats the lower half of his face. The lower half of Dad's face is similarly darkened, but Mr. Shaw's is only patchy, and I wonder if he could grow a beard even if he wanted to.

“Maybe it's time to check the radiation levels again,” Mrs. Shaw says in her nice voice.

Dad starts to get to his feet, then stumbles and has to grab the bunk bed.

“Dad!” Sparky blurts with fright.

“Sorry, just got a little dizzy.”

“Hunger,” Mr. McGovern grumbles as if it's Dad's fault.

When Dad picks up the flashlight, Sparky whimpers. Janet presses the side of his head to her bosom and comforts him. “He'll just be gone for a moment.”

At the shelf lined with supplies, Dad aims the flashlight beam at the green box as if he's thinking about what's inside. Then he takes the Family Radiation Measurement Kit and goes into the corridor on the other side of the shield wall. Once again without the flashlight, it gets darker in the shelter. Then he's back. “A hundred and sixty roentgens.”

“Isn't that much better than before?” Mrs. Shaw asks hopefully.

Dad nods grimly. “It's still much too high.”

There's nothing on the radio.

“I guess the good news is you're not picking up any stations in Russian,” says Mr. McGovern.

“I'd almost feel better if we did,” mumbles Mr. Shaw. It feels like it's the first time he's spoken in days.

Ronnie scowls at his dad. “Why?”

“At least we'd know someone was out there,” Mr. Shaw replies.

Mr. McGovern, who always has to have the last word, mutters, “Better dead than red.”

“Take cover! We're under attack!” We were in the middle of learning ratios when Principal Sharp's voice crackled over the PA system: “Follow your teacher's instructions! Duck and cover! Duck and cover!”

Puddin' Belly Wright ran to the windows. A few weeks earlier, Principal Sharp had told each teacher to select a student to pull down the window shades so we wouldn't be blinded or burned by the nuclear flash. It sounded like an important job, but Mr. Kasman chose Puddin' Belly, who now pulled a shade so hard that the whole thing came crashing down.

“Ahh!”
Paula wailed.

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Mr. Kasman sputtered.

Kids dove for the floor.

“Stop!” Mr. Kasman shouted. “It's not an attack. It's just a drill.”

“But Principal Sharp said —”

“Be quiet,” our teacher ordered. “Do you hear sirens?”

We listened. There were no sirens.

“Why did Principal Sharp say we were under attack?” asked Freak O' Nature.

Instead of answering, Mr. Kasman closed his eyes and squeezed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips as if he was getting a headache.

“Should we still get under our desks?” Ronnie asked.

Our teacher took his hand away from his face. “Sure, go ahead.” He sounded like he didn't care.

It wasn't easy. Our new desks came with chairs that were attached. We were crawling around on the floor, trying to get under them, when the PA crackled back on. “Uh, there's been some confusion,” said Principal Sharp. “We are not under attack. I repeat, we are not under attack. This is an air-raid drill. I repeat, this is only a drill. Teachers, escort your students into the hallway and await further instructions.”

“You heard him,” said Mr. Kasman. “Everyone out to the hall.”

We wiped our dirty hands on our pants and filed out. Up and down the corridor, kids were pouring from classrooms. Some of the girls were red-eyed and teary, and some boys looked pale and shaken — as if their teachers had believed it was a real attack, too.

“Students, sit with your backs against lockers, your knees pulled up, and your faces buried in your arms,” Principal Sharp announced over the loudspeaker.

“Do as he said,” instructed Mr. Kasman.

“I have ordered you out into the hall because in the event of a nuclear attack, this will protect you from flying glass and flash burns,” Principal Sharp continued. “You will keep your eyes shut and covered to prevent blindness from the flash. No matter where you are, do not look at the blast. Always turn your back to it and look away.”

“Always,” Mr. Kasman repeated.

The hunger pangs have gone from sharp to dull but constant. Everyone's irritable. Ronnie's winning a game of Parcheesi until Sparky rolls a six and knocks one of his pawns back to the start.

“Why'd you do that?” Ronnie asks. “You could have used that roll to get your pawn home.”

“I can do that later,” Sparky replies.