Fallout (8 page)

The men always arrived early in the morning and usually stayed until around five o'clock, when a pickup truck would come get them. There wasn't room for all three in the truck cab, so one would sit in front and two would climb into the back. The man who drove the pickup was white.

Each day the men brought metal lunch boxes and thermoses. By now they were used to me and Sparky watching and would sometimes nod at us. And sometimes they would carry on a conversation as if we weren't there.

One day when the sun was like a yellow oven in the sky, sweat dripped from the men's faces. The collars of their T-shirts were dark with moisture, and the skin on their bare arms glistened. They paused often, dabbing the sweat with bandannas and shielding their eyes. I watched the muscular man climb out of the hole and unscrew the cap on his thermos. Only a drop or two came out. The other two leaned on their shovels as if they needed the support. Tracks of sweat lined their faces.

I went into the house. It was hot in the kitchen, and Mom was sitting at the table with a tall glass of iced tea streaked with condensation. She dabbed her forehead with one of Dad's white handkerchiefs.

I gestured to the glass. “I think the men outside could use some.”

Mom got up and took three glasses from the kitchen cabinet. “Get some ice.”

I took an ice tray from the freezer. Hating the way the frosty metal stuck to my fingertips, I quickly placed the tray in the sink and ran water over it, then pulled the metal lever to crack the ice so Mom could get the pieces out. A few moments later, I carried the glasses outside on a platter.

It was hard to tell whether the men's grins reflected more delight or surprise.

“What's your name, son?” asked the paunchy one.

“Scott,” I said.

“Well, Scott, much obliged.”

In no time, the glasses were empty. Back in the kitchen, Mom raised her eyebrows. “They asked for more?”

“No, but I think they'll need it.”

Mom glanced outside, squinting at the brightness. “That's very thoughtful of you, sweetheart.” She started toward the refrigerator, then paused to wipe something out of the corner of her eye.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Yes, Scott.” She took out the pitcher of iced tea and put it on the platter, then left the kitchen without another word.

After a while, Dad unfolds the card table and invites the others to sit. There are four chairs, and Mr. and Mrs. Shaw and Mr. McGovern sit in three of them. Paula sits on her father's lap. Dad returns to Mom's side.

“You sit with them,” Janet says to him. “I'll stay with Mrs. Porter.”

Dad hesitates, then gets up, letting Janet take his place. At the table, the grown-ups sit silently in the dim light. Sparky picks at the lint on the scratchy army blanket we're huddled under. Ronnie gnaws at his fingernails.

“You kids want to play a game?” Dad asks.

Paula shakes her head. Ronnie gives me a questioning look. I'm still uncertain about whether to be angry about the fight, and somehow it feels wrong to play games when everything is so serious. But there's nothing else to do, so I lean toward the shelf to get the checkerboard.

“Hey!” Sparky yelps when I accidentally pull some blanket away from him, leaving parts of his naked body exposed to the cool air and others' eyes. He yanks the blanket back, and the next thing I know, I'm completely naked.

By the time my eyes go to Paula, she's looking away, but I have a feeling that's not where she was looking an instant ago. Ronnie grins his jerky grin, which makes me mad at him all over again. I grab the blanket and manage to cover myself, but Sparky grabs it back, and soon we're in a tug-of-war.

“Stop it!” Dad orders, getting up. “I've got an idea.”

He holds my damp pajamas under the ventilator while Mr. McGovern turns the crank and blows air on them. After a while, Paula's dad stops to rest, and Mr. Shaw takes over. After two cranks, he's frowning. You can see that it's harder than he expected. His eyes go to his wife.

“Do you have to keep doing that?” Mrs. Shaw asks. “It's cold enough in here.”

Dad backs away from the ventilator and hands the pajamas to me. They're cold and still damp.

“Sit on them,” Mr. McGovern suggests. “They'll get warmer.”

I do what he says, and it's not long before the pajamas stop feeling cold under my butt. While Paula looks away, I pull on the top and then the bottoms. They're still damp in spots, and when Sparky leans close and sniffs, he wrinkles his nose. But at least now I can get out from under the blanket.

Meanwhile, Ronnie's looking at the checkerboard. Our eyes meet, but I'm still mad at him for grinning when Sparky pulled the blanket off me. If our parents weren't here, I'd tell him he'd have to apologize before I'd play with him. Only knowing Ronnie, he never would.

Sparky and I thumb wrestle. To keep it interesting, I let him win a couple of times, but it gets boring just the same. He's still wrapped in the blanket. I doubt he'd wear his pajamas even if Dad dried them. He's much pickier about things like that than I am. After a while, he says, “Dad, I'm hungry.”

“We're all hungry, Edward.”

“But, Dad . . . ” he whines.

“Let him have something,” Mrs. Shaw says.

“There won't be enough food to —” Dad begins, but Mrs. Shaw cuts him short.

“He's a child and he's scared. Food comforts them. We'll worry about running out later.”

Dad sighs as if he disagrees but has decided not to argue. It feels strange to hear Mrs. Shaw talk about comfort food, since whenever I ate at their house, she made TV dinners.

While Dad starts to open another can of Spam, Ronnie and Paula share a look. They're also hungry. But I know that they won't say anything because it's our bomb shelter and our food. So it's up to me: “Us, too, Dad.”

Ronnie gives me a nod as if he appreciates it, but I look away.

“How long before we've eaten everything?” Mr. McGovern asks.

Dad gestures to the shelf. “That's all we've got.”

On the shelf are about two dozen cans of Spam, tuna fish, sardines, some small jars of peanut butter and jelly, bread, and crackers. Even I can see that if we only have one more meal today, and only two small meals for every day to come, it won't last long.

We devour the extra Spam and Tang that Dad gives us. Sparky yawns. “What time is it?”

We don't know. No one was wearing a watch when we were awakened in the middle of the night by the sirens.

“I wonder if it's even noon,” says Mr. McGovern.

Everyone is quiet. Are they thinking what I'm thinking? That it feels hopeless? Not even a day has passed, and I'm already bored, dirty, hungry, and smelly in my pee-stinky pajamas. How are we ever going to stay down here for two weeks?

One Saturday just before lunchtime, Sparky came in and asked why the Shaws were in our backyard.

Dad, who'd just come home from tennis and was still wearing his white shorts and shirt, went outside. Mom, Sparky, and I followed. Ronnie's parents were standing beside the hole with their collie, Leader. This was surprising, because even though they only lived one house away and always said hello and acted friendly, my parents and the Shaws never went out together or had dinner with us kids the way we did with other families.

We stood on one side of the hole, and the Shaws stood on the other. Ronnie's parents smiled like they thought something was funny. “That's quite a hole,” said Mr. Shaw.

Dad didn't answer.

“What's next?” asked Mr. Shaw.

“Sorry?” Dad said.

Ronnie's dad pointed. “Something's going in there, isn't it?”

“Yes, and over it will go Scott's new bedroom and a playroom,” Dad said.

“So what's going in there?” Mr. Shaw asked.

“A shelter,” Dad said.

“A bomb shelter,” Mom added, annoyed, as if it was silly to pretend it was anything else.

Everyone was quiet, then Mr. Shaw said, “Well, good luck.” He and Mrs. Shaw and Leader left.

Back in the house, Dad went to change out of his tennis clothes while Sparky and I set the kitchen table for lunch.

“How come the Shaws wanted to see the hole?” I asked.

“I guess they were curious,” Mom answered.

“They never came over before,” I said.

“We never had a hole before,” Sparky said, as if it was obvious.

Mom laughed.

But when Dad came in, she stopped smiling. Usually at meals our parents would talk or ask us questions about our plans for the day. But that day Mom and Dad were quiet. Sparky kept shooting me puzzled looks, and I'd shrug.

Finally Mom said, “You knew that was going to happen sooner or later.”

Dad took a bite of tuna-fish sandwich and gave her the “not in front of the kids” look.

“Don't you think they should know?” Mom asked. “They're part of this, too.” She turned to us. “Your friends may say something about the bomb shelter.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“They may want to know why we're building it.”

“Because of the Russians, right?” I said.

Dad nodded.

“The problem is that not everyone agrees with what we're doing,” Mom said.

“Why not?” asked Sparky.

Mom looked at Dad as if it was his job to answer.

“People have different ideas about whether we'll go to war or not,” Dad said. “Some think it's likely, and some don't.”

“You think it's likely, right?” I asked.

“Well . . . ” Dad paused. “I think it's possible.”

“And the bomb shelter is for just in case,” Sparky said. “Like a spare tire.”

“Right,” said Dad.

It got quiet again.

“So . . . what's the problem?” I asked.

Mom and Dad looked at each other. I expected Dad to answer, since he was sort of in charge of the bomb shelter. But it was Mom who said, “The problem is that everyone knows about it.”

“The threat of war?” I said, confused.

“No, the bomb shelter.” Mom looked at me questioningly. “Do you know anyone else who has one?”

“No.”

“Your mom's worried that other kids may make fun of you,” Dad said.

Sparky made a fist. “Anyone makes fun of me, I'll punch 'em in the face.”

“Why would they make fun of us?” I asked.

“Some people think it's silly,” Mom said. “They don't believe there'll be a war. And there are other people who think it's silly because if there is a war and everything's destroyed, what would be the point of living?”

“Everyone wants to live,” I said.

“Even if there was nothing left?” Mom asked. “No electricity. No jobs. Hardly any food.”

“We'd rebuild,” Dad said. “Think about what it must have been like when the Pilgrims first got here.”

“What a wonderful existence they had,” Mom muttered sourly.

“They had Thanksgiving,” Sparky said. “After the war, we could have Thanksgiving, too.”

Mom's eyes suddenly filled with tears. Her chair scraped loudly as she pushed it back and hurried out of the kitchen.

Dad stared at the empty doorway, then let out a sigh and got up. “Sorry, boys. This is something your mom and I disagree about.”

He left Sparky and me at the table. Our parents' voices came down the hall from their bedroom, too faint to make out what they were saying. But we could hear the tone. Mom was upset and angry, and Dad was trying to get her to calm down.

Back in the kitchen, Sparky whispered, “What's so bad about Thanksgiving?”