White Noise (15 page)

Babette’s head sank out of sight. I watched Heinrich tape the road map to two posts. Then I went down to the kitchen to pay some bills, aware of colored spots whirling atomically somewhere to the right and behind me.

Steffie said, “Can you see the feathery plume from the attic window?”

“It’s not a plume.”

“But will we have to leave our homes?”

“Of course not.”

“How do you know?”

“I just know.”

“Remember how we couldn’t go to school?”

“That was inside. This is outside.”

We heard police sirens blowing. I watched Steffie’s lips form the sequence:
wow wow
wow
wow.
She smiled in a certain way when she saw me watching, as though gently startled out of some absentminded pleasure.

Denise walked in, rubbing her hands on her jeans.

“They’re using snow-blowers to blow stuff onto the spill,” she said.

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know but it’s supposed to make the spill harmless, which doesn’t explain what they’re doing about the actual plume.”

“They’re keeping it from getting bigger,” I said. “When do we eat?”

“I don’t know but if it gets any bigger it’ll get here with or without a wind.”

“It won’t get here,” I said.

“How do you know?”

“Because it won’t.”

She looked at her palms and went upstairs. The phone rang. Babette walked into the kitchen and picked it up. She looked at me as she listened. I wrote two checks, periodically glancing up to see if she was still looking at me. She seemed to study my face for the hidden meaning of the message she was receiving. I puckered my lips in a way I knew she disliked.

“That was the Stovers,” she said. “They spoke directly with the weather center outside Glassboro. They’re not calling it a feathery plume anymore.”

“What are they calling it?”

“A black billowing cloud.”

“That’s a little more accurate, which means they’re coming to grips with the thing. Good.”

“There’s more,” she said. “It’s expected that some sort of air mass may be moving down from Canada.”

“There’s always an air mass moving down from Canada.”

“That’s true,” she said. “There’s certainly nothing new in that. And since Canada is to the north, if the billowing cloud is blown due south, it will miss us by a comfortable margin.”

“When do we eat?” I said.

We heard sirens again, a different set this time, a larger sound—not police, fire, ambulance. They were air-raid sirens, I realized, and they seemed to be blowing in Sawyersville, a small community to the northeast.

Steffie washed her hands at the kitchen sink and went upstairs. Babette started taking things out of the refrigerator. I grabbed her by the inside of the thigh as she passed the table. She squirmed deliciously, a package of frozen corn in her hand.

“Maybe we ought to be more concerned about the billowing cloud,” she said. “It’s because of the kids we keep saying nothing’s going to happen. We don’t want to scare them.”

“Nothing is going to happen.”

“I know nothing’s going to happen, you know nothing’s going to happen. But at some level we ought to think about it anyway, just in case.”

“These things happen to poor people who live in exposed areas. Society is set up in such a way that it’s the poor and the uneducated who suffer the main impact of natural and man-made disasters. People in low-lying areas get the floods, people in shanties get the hurricanes and tornados. I’m a college professor. Did you ever see a college professor rowing a boat down his own street in one of those TV floods? We live in a neat and pleasant town near a college with a quaint name. These things don’t happen in places like Blacksmith.”

She was sitting on my lap by now. The checks, bills, contest forms and coupons were scattered across the table.

“Why do you want dinner so early?” she said in a sexy whisper.

“I missed lunch.”

“Shall I do some chili-fried chicken?”

“First-rate.”

“Where is Wilder?” she said, thick-voiced, as I ran my hands over her breasts, trying with my teeth to undo her bra clip through the blouse.

“I don’t know. Maybe Murray stole him.”

“I ironed your gown,” she said.

“Great, great.”

“Did you pay the phone bill?”

“Can’t find it.”

We were both thick-voiced now. Her arms were crossed over my arms in such a way that I could read the serving suggestions on the box of corn niblets in her left hand.

“Let’s think about the billowing cloud. Just a little bit, okay? It could be dangerous.”

“Everything in tank cars is dangerous. But the effects are mainly long-range and all we have to do is stay out of the way.”

“Let’s just be sure to keep it in the back of our mind,” she said, getting up to smash an ice tray repeatedly on the rim of the sink, dislodging the cubes in groups of two and three.

I puckered my lips at her. Then I climbed to the attic one more time. Wilder was up there with Heinrich, whose fast glance in my direction contained a certain practiced accusation.

“They’re not calling it the feathery plume anymore,” he said, not meeting my eyes, as if to spare himself the pain of my embarrassment.

“I already knew that.”

“They’re calling it the black billowing cloud.”

“Good.”

“Why is that good?”

“It means they’re looking the thing more or less squarely in the eye. They’re on top of the situation.”

With an air of weary decisiveness, I opened the window, took the binoculars and climbed onto the ledge. I was wearing a heavy sweater and felt comfortable enough in the cold air but made certain to keep my weight tipped against the building, with my son’s outstretched hand clutching my belt. I sensed his support for my little mission, even his hopeful conviction that I might be able to add the balanced weight of a mature and considered judgment to his pure observations. This is a parent’s task, after all.

I put the glasses to my face and peered through the gathering dark. Beneath the cloud of vaporized chemicals, the scene was one of urgency and operatic chaos. Floodlights swept across the switching yard. Army helicopters hovered at various points, shining additional lights down on the scene. Colored lights from police cruisers crisscrossed these wider beams. The tank car sat solidly on tracks, fumes rising from what appeared to be a hole in one end. The coupling device from a second car had apparently pierced the tank car. Fire engines were deployed at a distance, ambulances and police vans at a greater distance. I could hear sirens, voices calling through bullhorns, a layer of radio static causing small warps in the frosty air. Men raced from one vehicle to another, unpacked equipment, carried empty stretchers. Other men in bright yellow Mylex suits and respirator masks moved slowly through the luminous haze, carrying death-measuring instruments. Snow-blowers sprayed a pink substance toward the tank car and the surrounding landscape. This thick mist arched through the air like some grand confection at a concert of patriotic music. The snow-blowers were the type used on airport runways, the police vans were the type to transport riot casualties. Smoke drifted from red beams of light into darkness and then into the breadth of scenic white floods. The men in Mylex suits moved with a lunar caution. Each step was the exercise of some anxiety not provided for by instinct. Fire and explosion were not the inherent dangers here. This death would penetrate, seep into the genes, show itself in bodies not yet born. They moved as if across a swale of moon dust, bulky and wobbling, trapped in the idea of the nature of time.

I crawled back inside with some difficulty.

“What do you think?” he said.

“It’s still hanging there. Looks rooted to the spot.”

“So you’re saying you don’t think it’ll come this way.”

“I can tell by your voice that you know something I don’t know.”

“Do you think it’ll come this way or not?”

“You want me to say it won’t come this way in a million years. Then you’ll attack with your little fistful of data. Come on, tell me what they said on the radio while I was out there.”

“It doesn’t cause nausea, vomiting, shortness of breath, like they said before.”

“What does it cause?”

“Heart palpitations and a sense of
déjà vu.”

“It affects the false part of the human memory or whatever. That’s not all. They’re not calling it the black billowing cloud anymore.”

“What are they calling it?”

He looked at me carefully.

“The airborne toxic event.”

He spoke these words in a clipped and foreboding manner, syllable by syllable, as if he sensed the threat in state-created terminology. He continued to watch me carefully, searching my face for some reassurance against the possibility of real danger—a reassurance he would immediately reject as phony. A favorite ploy of his.

“These things are not important. The important thing is location. It’s there, we’re here.”

“A large air mass is moving down from Canada,” he said evenly.

“I already knew that.”

“That doesn’t mean it’s not important.”

“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t. Depends.”

“The weather’s about to change,” he practically cried out to me in a voice charged with the plaintive throb of his special time of life.

“I’m not just a college professor. I’m the head of a department. I don’t see myself fleeing an airborne toxic event. That’s for people who live in mobile homes out in the scrubby parts of the county, where the fish hatcheries are.”

We watched Wilder climb backwards down the attic steps, which were higher than the steps elsewhere in the house. At dinner Denise kept getting up and walking in small stiff rapid strides to the toilet off the hall, a hand clapped to her mouth. We paused in odd moments of chewing or salt-sprinkling to hear her retch incompletely. Heinrich told her she was showing outdated symptoms. She gave him a slit-eyed look. It was a period of looks and glances, teeming interactions, part of the sensory array I ordinarily cherish. Heat, noise, lights, looks, words, gestures, personalities, appliances. A colloquial density that makes family life the one medium of sense knowledge in which an astonishment of heart is routinely contained.

I watched the girls communicate in hooded looks.

“Aren’t we eating a little early tonight?” Denise said.

“What do you call early?” her mother said.

Denise looked at Steffie.

“Is it because we want to get it out of the way?” she said.

“Why do we want to get it out of the way?”

“In case something happens,” Steffie said.

“What could happen?” Babette said.

The girls looked at each other again, a solemn and lingering exchange that indicated some dark suspicion was being confirmed. Air-raid sirens sounded again, this time so close to us that we were negatively affected, shaken to the point of avoiding each other’s eyes as a way of denying that something unusual was going on. The sound came from our own red brick firehouse, sirens that hadn’t been tested in a decade or more. They made a noise like some territorial squawk from out of the Mesozoic. A parrot carnivore with a DC-9 wingspan. What a raucousness of brute aggression filled the house, making it seem as though the walls would fly apart. So close to us, so surely upon us. Amazing to think this sonic monster lay hidden nearby for years.

We went on eating, quietly and neatly, reducing the size of our bites, asking politely for things to be passed. We became meticulous and terse, diminished the scope of our movements, buttered our bread in the manner of technicians restoring a fresco. Still the horrific squawk went on. We continued to avoid eye contact, were careful not to clink utensils. I believe there passed among us the sheepish hope that only in this way could we avoid being noticed. It was as though the sirens heralded the presence of some controlling mechanism—a thing we would do well not to provoke with our contentiousness and spilled food.

It wasn’t until a second noise became audible in the pulse of the powerful sirens that we thought to effect a pause in our little episode of decorous hysteria. Heinrich ran to the front door and opened it. The night’s combined sounds came washing in with a freshness and renewed immediacy. For the first time in minutes we looked at each other, knowing the new sound was an amplified voice but not sure what it was saying. Heinrich returned, walking in an over-deliberate and stylized manner, with elements of stealth. This seemed to mean he was frozen with significance.

“They want us to evacuate,” he said, not meeting our eyes.

Babette said, “Did you get the impression they were only making a suggestion or was it a little more mandatory, do you think?”

“It was a fire captain’s car with a loudspeaker and it was going pretty fast.”

I said, “In other words you didn’t have an opportunity to notice the subtle edges of intonation.”

“The voice was screaming out.”

“Due to the sirens,” Babette said helpfully.

“It said something like, ‘Evacuate all places of residence. Cloud of deadly chemicals, cloud of deadly chemicals.’ ”

We sat there over sponge cake and canned peaches.

“I’m sure there’s plenty of time,” Babette said, “or they would have made a point of telling us to hurry. How fast do air masses move, I wonder.”

Steffie read a coupon for Baby Lux, crying softly. This brought Denise to life. She went upstairs to pack some things for all of us. Heinrich raced two steps at a time to the attic for his binoculars, highway map and radio. Babette went to the pantry and began gathering tins and jars with familiar life-enhancing labels.

Steffie helped me clear the table.

Twenty minutes later we were in the car. The voice on the radio said that people in the west end of town were to head for the abandoned Boy Scout camp, where Red Cross volunteers would dispense juice and coffee. People from the east end were to take the parkway to the fourth service area, where they would proceed to a restaurant called the Kung Fu Palace, a multiwing building with pagodas, lily ponds and live deer.