The Nuclear Age (6 page)

All through seventh and eighth grades, that most vulnerable time in a kid’s life, I carved out a comfortable slot for myself at the dead center of the Bell-Shaped Curve. I wore blue jeans and sneakers. I played shortstop for the Rural Electric Association Little League team; I batted a smooth .270—not great, but respectable. I was popular. People liked me. At school I pulled down solid grades, A’s and B’s, mostly B’s, which was exactly how I wanted it. I devoted long hours to the practice of a normal smile, a normal posture, a normal way of walking and talking. God knows, I worked at it. During the autumn of my freshman year, I hiked down to the junior high every Thursday night for dancing lessons—fox-trot and tango, the whole ballroom routine. I went out on hayrides with the Methodist Youth Fellowship. It didn’t matter that I hated hayrides, or that I wasn’t a Methodist, it was a question of locking in with the small-town conventions, hugging the happy medium.

So what went wrong?

Genetics, probably. Or a malfunction somewhere in the internal dynamics.

The problem was this: I didn’t
fit
.

It’s a hard thing to explain, but for some reason I felt different from all the others. Like an alien, sort of, an outsider. I couldn’t open up. I couldn’t tell jokes or clown around or slide gracefully into the usual banter and horseplay. At times I wondered if those midnight flashes hadn’t short-circuited the wiring that connected me to the rest of the world. I wasn’t shy, just skittish and tense; very tight inside; I couldn’t deal with girls; I avoided crowds; I had trouble figuring out when to laugh and where to put my hands and how to make simple conversations.

I did have problems, obviously, but they weren’t the kind a shrink can solve. That’s the key point. They were
real
problems.

I gave up dancing lessons.

I also gave up hayrides and MYF.

By the time I reached high school, 1960 or so, I’d turned into something of a loner. A tough skin, almost a shell. I steered clear of parties and pep rallies and all the rah-rah stuff. I zipped myself into a nice cozy cocoon, a private world, and that’s where I lived. Like a hermit: William Cowling, the Lone Ranger. On the surface it might’ve looked unwholesome, but I honestly preferred it that way. I was above it all. A little arrogant, a little belligerent. I despised the whole corrupt high school system: the phys-ed teachers, the jocks, the endless pranks and gossip, the teasing, the tight little self-serving cliques. Everything. Top to bottom—real hate.

And who needed it?

Who needed homecoming?

Who needed cheerleaders and football and proms and giggly-ass majorettes?

Who needed friends?

I was well adjusted, actually, in a screwed-up sort of way. During the summers I’d hike up into the mountains above town, all alone, no tension or tightness, just enjoying the immense solitude of those purply cliffs and canyons, exploring, poking around, collecting chunks of quartz and feldspar and granite. I felt an affinity for rocks. They were safe; they never gave me any lip. In the evenings, locked in my bedroom, I’d spend hours polishing a single slice of mica, shaving away the imperfections, rubbing the tips of
my fingers across those smooth, oily surfaces. There was something reassuring about it, just me and the elements.

My parents, of course, didn’t see it that way.

“Look,” my dad said one evening, “rocks are fine, but what about people? You can’t
talk
to rocks. Human contact, William, it’s important.” He stood nervously for a moment, jingling the loose change in his pockets. “Thing is, you seem cut off from the world. Maybe I’m way off base but I get the feeling that you’re—I don’t know. Unhappy.”

I smiled at him. “No,” I said, “I’m fine.”

My father nodded and ran a hand along his jaw.

“What about—you know—what about girls?”

“Girls how?”

“Just
girls
,” he said. He studied the palms of his hands. “This isn’t a criticism, it really isn’t, but I haven’t noticed you out there burning up the old social circuit, no dates or anything, no fun.”

“Rocks are fun,” I told him.

“Yes, but what I’m driving at … I’m saying, hey, there’s more to life than locking yourself up with a bunch of
stones
. It’s bad for the mental gyroscope. Things start wobbling, they get out of synch. Just a question of companionship.”

I nodded at him. “All right. Companionship.”

“Fun, William. Get on the phone, line up a date or two. If you need cash, anything, just say the word.”

“Will do.”

“Fun.”

“Fun,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

He smiled and gave me a bashful pat on the shoulder. For a second I was afraid he might lean in for a hug, but he had the good sense to fold his arms and wink and back off.

He took two steps and then hesitated.

“One other thing,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I—we love you. Love, got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

I loved him, too. Which is why I didn’t blurt out the facts. To protect him, to beef up his confidence. Say what you want about honesty
and trust, but there isn’t a father in the world who wants to hear that his kid has turned into a slightly warped ding-a-ling. All I wanted, really, was to give him the son he deserved.

So I kept the wraps on. A few fibs here and there. Quite a few, in fact.

Once or twice a week, for instance, I’d do a little trick with the telephone, dialing a random number, quietly breaking the connection, then carrying on fake conversations with fake friends. It was strictly a parental morale booster. Eyes closed, leaning back, I’d pretend I was calling up one of Fort Derry High’s hot-dog cheerleaders, like Sarah Strouch, and I’d make up zippy little bits of dialogue, clucking my tongue, trying to imagine the sort of topics Sarah might want to talk about. There were problems at first, but eventually, once I got the hang of it, I was able to relax and enjoy myself. It was a form of human contact. “So what’s happening?” I’d say, and she’d say, “Nothing much,” and then for an hour or two we’d discuss politics and religion, the nature of cheerleading, anything that popped up. A spooky thing, but there were even times when I’d get the feeling that Sarah was actually on the line—I could almost hear that husky voice of hers, very sexy but also very tough. “You poor, fucked-up guy,” she’d say, and I’d listen while she listed all my problems, then finally I’d say, “Okay, you’re right, but it’s just temporary,” and then I’d hear a snorting sound and she’d say, “I’m all ears, Billy, tell me about it.” So I’d lay it on the line. I’d talk about that alien feeling. How lonely I felt, how disconnected—lost in space.

It might sound strange, but those fake phone calls produced some of the most intelligent conversations I’d ever had. Absolutely no bullshit, no teasing. Sarah Strouch was my closest buddy.

A game, that’s all.

And what was the harm?

On weekends I’d sometimes go out on trumped-up dates. I’d do my phone trick with Sarah and splash on some Old Spice and bum money from my dad and then head down to Jig’s Confectionery for an evening of pinball and cherry phosphates and do-it-yourself fun.

It was a double life. Normal, but also shaky, and there were
times when all the pressures took a toll. A weighed-down feeling: I couldn’t function. Lying in bed at night, I’d hold my breath and pretend I was stone dead, no more troubles, a nice thick coffin to keep out the worms.

Other times I’d imagine a yacht bobbing in the South Pacific. Waves and sun and gentle winds. Sarah Strouch sunbathing on a teak deck, those tight muscles, all that smooth brown skin.

Or a tree house made of steel.

A concrete igloo in Alaska.

A snug spaceship heading for the stars.

In the middle of the night I’d get up and wander out to the living room and shake dice or play solitaire. I’d roam from room to room. I’d fill the bathtub with hot water and ease myself in and practice floating.

Once, around four in the morning, my mother found me there. I was half asleep, waterlogged.

“Darling,” she whispered, “what’s
wrong?
”

“Nothing,” I said.

“William, please, it’s almost daylight.”

I smiled.

“No problem,” I said. “I need a bath.”

October 1962, and things got ticklish.

I looked at my father and said, “There, you see?” I wasn’t being a smart aleck. It was a serious question: Did he finally
see?

How did we survive?

We were civilized. We observed the traditional courtesies, waving at neighbors, making polite conversation in supermarkets. People counted their change. Vacations were planned and promises were made. We pursued the future as though it might still be caught.

My mother vacuumed the living-room rug, dusted furniture, washed windows, told me to buckle down to my schoolwork—there was college to think about.

“College?” I said, and my mother fluffed her hair and said, “We have to trust,” so I buckled down.

We carried on.

By looking loved ones in the eye. By not blinking when Kennedy said:
The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are
.

And we were brave. We went to church. We paid attention to our bodies—the in-and-out movement of lungs, the sweet pulse of a toothache. We masturbated. We slept. We found pleasure in the autumn foliage. There was much kissing and touching, and the name of the Lord was invoked at Kiwanis meetings.

My father made me get a haircut. “Shaggy-waggy,” he said, playfully, but he meant it.

Birthdays were celebrated. Clocks were wound.

One evening, at twilight, my mother and father and I sat in plastic lawn chairs in the backyard, scanning the sky, a peaceful pinkish sky rimmed with violet. No words were spoken. We were simply waiting. When darkness came, my mother took my hand, and my father’s hand, pressing them together. A modest gesture: Did she finally see? We just sat and waited. Later my father covered his eyes and yawned and stood up.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

I didn’t dream. I felt some fear, of course, or the memory of fear, but I had the advantage of having been there before, a kind of knowledge.

At school we practiced evacuation drills. There was bravado and squealing.

A convocation in the school gym. The principal delivered a speech about the need for courage and calm. The pep band played fight songs. Sarah Strouch led us in the Pledge of Allegiance, guileless and solemn, her hand teasing the breast beneath her letter sweater. The pastor of the First Baptist Church offered a punchy
prayer, then we filed back to the classrooms to pursue the study of math and physics.

How?

By rolling dice. By playing solitaire. By adding up assets, smoking cigarettes, getting ready for Halloween, touching bases, treading water.

A dream, wasn’t it?

Jets scrambled over Miami Beach and warships cruised through the warm turquoise waters off St. Thomas.

“How’s tricks?” my dad asked.

“Fine.”

“Flashes?”

“What flashes?”

He grinned. “That’s the ticket.
What
flashes?”

We held together.

By pretending.

By issuing declarations of faith.

“They aren’t madmen,” my mother said.

“Exactly,” said my father.

So we played Scrabble at the kitchen table, quibbling over proper nouns and secondary spellings.

“They know better.”

“Of course.”

“Even the Russians—they don’t want it—politics, that’s all it is. True? Isn’t that true?”

“Oh, Christ,” my father said.

I wasn’t haunted by the nuclear stuff, I didn’t lose control, and if it hadn’t been for the headaches and constipation, I would’ve come through in good shape. Problem was, I couldn’t shit. Which brought on the headaches, which led to other problems.

In any case, I spent the Cuban missile crisis squatting on a toilet. It was painful business, and embarrassing, so one morning on the sly I slipped down to Elf’s Drug Store on Main Street and swiped the laxatives. Except nothing much happened. A slight bellyache, a throbbing at my temples. I doubled the dose and drank a couple of Cokes and dragged myself off to school.

That’s where it hit me.

One minute I was sitting quietly in study hall, finishing up some geometry problems, then a dizzy-scrambly feeling came over me. A fun-house experience—topsy-turvy, no traction. In a way I felt very loose and relaxed, letting things spin, lying there on the floor while everybody yelled, “Give him air.”

I almost laughed.

I didn’t
need
air. I needed peace. I started to sit up, but then I felt a cool hand against my forehead. “God,” someone said, and right away I knew who it was. All those fake phone calls. “Man alive,” Sarah muttered, “just look at this, just look.”

She unbuttoned my collar and began fanning me with a notebook.

I closed my eyes. The situation, I realized, was not romantic, but still I felt a sparky kind of human contact. That thick voice of hers: “God,” she kept saying. A few seconds later, when I opened my eyes, the first thing I saw was one of her kneecaps, smooth and shiny. I could’ve licked it, or kissed it, but instead I jerked my arms and pretended I’d gone into a deep coma.

“Wow,” Sarah whispered.

I ended up in the school nurse’s office.

One thing led to another, thermometers and ice bags, and a half hour later I was ass-up on Doc Crenshaw’s examining table. “Don’t sweat it,” I told him, “I’m all right,” but Crenshaw didn’t listen.

His eyes sparkled. “Well, well,” he said.

I never saw a man enjoy his work so much.

He was a quack, though. He didn’t cure me. A week later my insides were clogged up again and the headaches were worse than ever. I was even running a temperature. Crenshaw put me through every test in the book, but at the end, when the results were in, he just wagged his head and told my mother that it didn’t seem to be anything physical.

“Not physical?” my mom said.