Fallout (20 page)

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.

We each drank some, and then Ronnie went to the bathroom to wash the glass. As soon as he left the den, I lifted the bottle of Dubonnet to my lips and took a big gulp. The wine warmed my throat and my empty stomach, and I felt myself relax. The anxiety of war became one step removed.

Ronnie and I watched more TV. A little while later, Mr. Shaw came into the den wearing a suit and smelling of cigarettes and the train. He looked serious. “Any news?”

We shook our heads.

Ronnie's dad took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “How about a little something to take the edge off, gentlemen?”

Ronnie and I shared an uncertain look.

“Come on, boys, you wouldn't let a man drink alone at a time like this, would you?”

It wasn't long before I had a glass filled with ice and more Dubonnet. Ronnie shot me a smirk as if he thought we were getting away with something. Little did he know.

We sipped our drinks. When I closed my eyes, I felt like I was on the deck of a boat in swaying seas.

“That bomb shelter might come in handy after all, Scott,” Mr. Shaw said. For once he wasn't joking.

“You really think we could go to war, Dad?” Ronnie asked.

“It's hard to imagine,” Mr. Shaw said gravely. “I mean, the sheer insanity of it. No one can win.”

“What if the Russians don't care about winning?” Ronnie asked.

Mr. Shaw sighed and shook his head.

From the kitchen, Mrs. Shaw called, “Dinner's ready. I called your mom, Scotty. She said it was okay.”

Mr. Shaw got up. “Shall we?”

I stood up, and the room suddenly rocked.

“It's hopeless,” mumbles Mr. Shaw.

We're all back in the shelter. Mom's on her bunk. The rest of us sit on chairs or on the floor.

“Is it, Dad?” Sparky asks.

“I need to think,” Dad says.

“About what?” Mr. McGovern demands. “How stupid it was to build this shelter in the first place? How much better it would have been if we'd just died when we had the chance?”

“Shut up!”
Dad shouts so loudly, we all jump. This time, Paula's father does what Dad says.

I'm scared sick. The shelter seems dimmer than usual until Dad replaces the batteries in the flashlight and it's brighter again.

“Well, at least you made sure to have enough batteries,” Mr. McGovern says bitterly.

“Buried alive,” Mr. Shaw mutters.

Sparky lets out a frightened whimper and hugs Janet tightly.

“There's a way,” Dad says a little while later.

“Oh, give it up already, will you?” Mr. McGovern growls.

“What's your idea?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

“We have to reinforce the bunk bed.”

“It won't work,” Mr. McGovern says.

Dad turns to Mr. Shaw as if asking if he'll help, but Ronnie's dad lowers his head.

They don't think it can be done. And if they won't help, it's hopeless. Dad can't do it alone. My insides churn. How can they just give up and let us die down here?

It's Janet who speaks up. “I'll help you, Mr. Porter. I want to find my children.”

Her eyes meet Dad's, and he blinks slowly and hard as if to fight back tears. Is it because he's grateful that she's offered to help? Or is it sadness because it's hard to imagine how her children could still be alive?

“Thank you,” Dad says.

They begin by moving Mom from her bunk to some pillows on the floor and making her comfortable. Then Dad turns toward the bunk she was lying on and says, “We have to take this one apart and use the pieces to reinforce the other one.” But his shoulders stoop, as if just the thought of all that work is too much. “We're going to need more hands.”

None of the other grown-ups reply.

I clear my throat. “I'll help.”

“Me, too,” says Sparky.

Dad gives us a weak smile as if he doesn't think we can make much of a difference. You can tell by the way he looks at Mr. Shaw that he's hoping he'll try again, but Ronnie's father sits besides his wife with his knees pulled up under his chin and doesn't respond.

“What good will giving up do?” Dad asks.

Ronnie's dad looks up at him, and then back down without answering.

“Seriously, Steven,” Dad persists.

“I don't know what's on the other side of that trapdoor, but whatever it is, it's too heavy,” Mr. Shaw finally says. “We tried, Richard. Before the board cracked.”

Dad stands still, his face tilted upward in thought. Is he considering giving up, too?

He looks at Sparky and me. “I'm going to keep trying. Come on, boys.”

I realize I've been holding my breath. When I push myself up, dizziness causes my vision to narrow, and I have to bend over with my hands on my knees and my head as low as it will go.

When I straighten up, everyone's staring.

“You okay?” Dad whispers.

I nod. He gives me a screwdriver and shows me which screws to take out of Mom's bunk bed. I do what I'm told, but I don't say what I'm really wondering: Is he just trying to keep us busy so we won't think about what's ahead?

“Whoa!” In the Shaws' den, Ronnie's father caught me by the arm. “Steady, sailor.”

Holding my elbow, he led me into the kitchen, where four aluminum trays were set with little compartments that kept the meat from touching the potatoes and vegetables. Mrs. Shaw pointed to a chair. “You're there, Scotty.”

I went to sit but missed the chair and nearly fell over. Mrs. Shaw frowned and looked at her husband.

“Cheap drunk,” said Mr. Shaw.

Mrs. Shaw's eyes widened. “Steven, you didn't.”

“Couldn't have been more than a thimbleful,” Mr. Shaw said. “He just needs to get something in his stomach.”

We began to eat. I tried to cut into the meat, but it was really tough.

“Ahem, Scott.” Mr. Shaw cleared his throat. “Your knife's upside down.”

“Oh.” I turned the knife and started again. That's when the Salisbury steak shot off my tray and landed in the middle of the table like a small brown island on a sea of white.

“Let's try a sharper knife.” Mr. Shaw went to a drawer and got one with a black handle. “Careful with this one, okay? We'd like to send you home with all ten fingers.”

Ronnie made a funny noise, as if muffling a laugh. I decided to try the corn, but most of the kernels fell off the fork before they got to my mouth.

“Care to spoon-feed your friend, Ronnie?” Mrs. Shaw suggested.

“Why doesn't he just go home?” Ronnie sounded like I'd become an embarrassment. His parents had a conversation with their eyes.

Mr. Shaw turned to me. “Try the mashed potatoes, Scott.”

It would have been impolite not to, but as soon as I felt that mealy sensation in my mouth, I spit them back onto the tray.

Ronnie muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot that I hate mashed potatoes.”

“
Now
will you send him home?” Ronnie begged his parents. “Or are you scared you'll get into trouble because he's drunk?”

“He's not drunk,” Mrs. Shaw replied.

“Oh, really?” Ronnie asked in a fresh way that would have definitely gotten me spanked. “What would you call it?”

I can't loosen the bunk-bed screws. Are they
that
tight, or have I just grown too weak? I'm so scared that we're never going to get out, but I keep it to myself because I don't want to make things worse. Paula quietly weeps and clings to her dad. Sparky tried to help but gave up and now huddles with Janet, his eyes nervous and darting.

Ronnie takes the screwdriver and tries, but he can't get the screws loose, either. Dad struggles with them for a while, then gives up and sits down beside Janet, Sparky, and me. He gazes away, slowly kneading the muscles in his forearms. “I'm sorry, Janet.”

She places her hand on his shoulder. “Take a rest and try again, Mr. Porter,” she gently urges him. “For your children. For mine.”

Dad lets out a deep sigh, then picks up the screwdriver and tries again.

A hand gently shakes me awake. It's Dad. He's finally gotten one of the bunk boards loose and needs help carrying it around the shield wall.

I yawn and get up, and we carry the board into the narrow corridor. Dad looks up at the bunk, and once again his shoulders sag as if he's not sure he has the strength to lift the board up there. We lean against the cinder blocks. Everyone else is on the other side of the shield wall. Dad puts his arms around me, and I slide mine around his waist and press my cheek against his cool skin. I think he must be a good father. There may have been a lot of things he didn't think of, and a lot of times he got mad and spanked Sparky and me, but he was never mean.

And he always tried his best.

When we go back into the shelter, it feels like no one's moved. Dad starts to unscrew another bunk board but spends more time resting than working. Janet kneads his shoulders and whispers encouragement. When he's finally ready to move the second board, he asks her to help. The three of us pick it up and take a few steps, but the board slips out of our hands and hits the floor with a loud
clack!
Everyone jumps.

“Listen,” Dad says, breathing hard. “We can't do this without the rest of you.” He pauses as if just the act of talking takes an effort. “If you folks just want to sit here and wait for the end, I can't stop you. But I want to keep trying.”

No one moves. The air is stale. The ventilator should probably be cranked.

“You're wasting your time,” says Mr. McGovern. “Whatever's on top of the door is too heavy.”

“No one's going to come and save us, Herb,” Dad answers. “This is our only chance.”