Fallout

  Finally the bolt beneath the trapdoor slides open with a screech.

  My heart speeds up.

  Silence.

  Then a grunt and a groan as if Mr. McGovern is struggling.

  “It’s heavy,” Dad says, his voice muffled by the mask.

  A louder groan follows, along with the clank of metal.

  Then more heavy breathing.

  We all hear what Mr. McGovern says next: “There’s something on the other side blocking it.”

  A sense of alarm spreads. Mr. and Mrs. Shaw push themselves up and go see. The rest of us follow. Soon we’ve all squeezed into the narrow corridor watching while Mr. McGovern climbs down the rungs. Dad hands him the flashlight, then turns and looks at us through his mask. Is he going to tell us to go back into the shelter? No. He starts to climb.

  Above him is the trapdoor. This is the first time I’ve seen it since the night we came down here, and back come all the awful memories of the struggle and the desperate cries of those above who didn’t get in. Dad was right. Of all the things that have happened, those horrible sounds and haunting pleas are still what I remember most clearly. And somehow, even though I’m only eleven, I know they’ll follow me forever.

  Dad has to stop partway up the rungs to catch his breath. Come on, I think anxiously. Hurry!

  He starts to climb again, then places his hand against the trapdoor and pushes up. The door rises a fraction of an inch and then falls closed with a loud clank! He tries again, straining, and the door rises a tiny bit higher before falling. Dad lowers himself a rung and stares up, catching his breath. Even though he’s been weakened by lack of food and exercise, he should have been able to push the trapdoor open.

  Mrs. Shaw says what’s on all our minds: “We’re trapped.”

  When Mr. Kasman asked if we’d watched the president on TV, Paula’s hand shot up. “He ordered the navy to stop the Russians from giving missiles to Cuba.”

  “And now what happens?”

  I raised my hand. “We wait to see whether the Russian ships will turn back or keep going.”

  “What will happen if they don’t turn back?”

  I raised my hand again. “It could be war.”

  The class grew quiet. Was everyone thinking that the sirens might start at any moment? That right at this very second, Khrushchev could be ordering an attack? That Russian bombers might already be on their way and missiles could be blasting off?

  Dickie Keller raised his hand. “My father says we should bomb them before they bomb us.”

  “But what if they don’t really intend to attack us?” asked Mr. Kasman.

  Eric Flom raised his hand. “Then why are they putting missiles on Cuba?”

  “Some people think it’s because we have missiles in Turkey aimed at them.”

  “We do?” Freak O’ Nature asked in his normal voice, sounding surprised.

  Mr. Kasman pulled down a map of Europe and eastern Asia and used a wooden pointer. “Turkey is almost the same distance to Moscow as Cuba is to Washington.”

  Dickie Keller raised his hand. “Why did we put missiles there?”

  “I’d guess for the same reason that the Russians are putting missiles on Cuba,” Mr. Kasman answered.

  “To attack them?” Eric Flom asked, reflecting the confusion many of us felt. Could this really be true? On TV, President Kennedy had said we wanted peace, not war, and that we would never attack Russia unless they attacked us first.

  “Does that change the way you think about the situation?” Mr. Kasman asked.

  Maybe it was still too early in the morning. Or maybe this information was too confusing, but we sat there like bumps on a log. The room would have been completely silent were it not for a faint scratching sound. Mr. Kasman frowned, then stepped quietly toward the back. We all turned to watch.

  Puddin’ Belly Wright’s head lay on his arm as if he were asleep, but he wasn’t. He was busy scratching his initials into the scratch-proof desktop with a paper clip. Mr. Kasman tiptoed close and craned his neck. After a moment, Puddin’ Belly must have sensed that it was too quiet. He straightened up with an astonished expression when he realized that we were all watching him, then quickly placed his forearm over his handiwork.

  “Move your arm, Stuart.”

  Puddin’ Belly slid it away, revealing the initials SW scratched nearly a quarter of an inch into the new desktop. Everybody held their breath and waited for Mr. Kasman to send him to the office, where Principal Sharp would probably suspend him and make his parents pay for a new desk.

  “Looks like you’ve been working pretty hard, Stuart,” said our teacher. “Imagine what would happen if you applied all that energy to your schoolwork.”

  Puddin’ Belly hung his head remorsefully.

  Mr. Kasman patted him on the shoulder. “Think about it, okay?”

  “We’re not trapped,” Dad says as he climbs down the rungs.

  “How can you say that?” Mr. McGovern demands.

  “The door moved. We just have to get whatever’s on top of it off.”

  “And how, if I may ask, do you plan to do that?” Paula’s dad asks.

  “Give me a moment, okay?” Dad grumbles.

  “Lot of good that will do us,” Mr. McGovern mutters.

  Sparky kicks Mr. McGovern in the leg. My brother’s not strong enough to hurt him with his bare foot, but Mr. McGovern jumps and looks surprised.

  “Edward!” Dad snaps.

  But I think, Good for you, Sparky.

  Are we doomed to slowly starve to death in this dark, damp, smelly dungeon?

  Dad goes back into the shelter and sweeps the flashlight around until it stops on the bunk bed next to the one where Mom lies. “Steven, could you give me a hand?” he asks.

  “To do what?” Mr. Shaw replies.

  “Take the bunk apart and put it back together on the other side,” Dad says. “Then we can stand on it and push open the trapdoor.”

  It sounds like a lot of work, and I’m surprised when Mr. Shaw, who acts like everything is so hopeless, agrees to help.

  Dismantling the bunk takes time. Dad gets tired and has to rest. Mr. Shaw takes over for a while, and then Mrs. Shaw, and even Mr. McGovern. Parts have to be unscrewed, then moved around the shield wall and put back together. With the extra activity, the air gets stale faster, so Dad assigns Ronnie and me to crank the ventilator. They need to use the flashlight, so when they’re working on the other side of the shield wall, the rest of us are in near-dark.

  “We should eat what’s left,” says Mr. McGovern, panting as he finishes assembling part of the bunk. “There’s no point in rationing anymore.”

  It takes a moment to realize what he means: if we really are trapped down here, rationing what food is left isn’t going to make a difference. My heart rises into my throat, and I try to swallow it down. Imagine running out of food, then growing weaker and weaker until no one has the strength to crank the ventilator. . . .

  “It could still take a while to get out,” Dad cautions.

  “You men should eat,” suggests Mrs. Shaw. “It will help give you the strength you’ll need to get this done.”

  “I feel terrible doing this,” Dad says a little later, running his finger around the inside of the peanut butter jar to get every last smudge. But the strange thing is, it isn’t so hard to watch. I’ve been hungry for so long that it’s more like a dull ache than a sharp pain. What’s more upsetting is knowing that after this there’ll be no more food no matter what happens.

  “You’re doing it for our sake,” Mrs. Shaw reminds him.

  It doesn’t take long for the men to finish what little food is left, but rather than get back to work, they yawn and say they have to rest first.

  So we wait while they nap. But it’s hard because now the clock is ticking. The food’s gone. If we don’t get out soon, we’ll really begin to starve.

  We continued to do normal stuff at school, but it felt like a shadow hung over everything. You couldn’t forget
about the Russians for long. A teacher would pull down a shade, and you’d think about how Puddin’ Belly was supposed to do that if we were attacked. Or a kid would slam a locker, and everyone in the hall would jump.

  On the news, they talked about the Russian ships sailing toward Cuba and the American blockade around the island. The moment of confrontation was nearing.

  At dinnertime, Sparky and I went into the kitchen and found Mom sitting at the table, gazing out at the backyard.

  “Where’s Dad?” Sparky asked.

  “Working late.”

  “Because there might be a war?” I asked.

  Mom puffed on her cigarette. “I don’t know.”

  “Is there any news?” I asked.

  She blinked, and I could see that she wasn’t certain what I meant.

  “About the Russians?” I added.

  “I haven’t been listening.”

  That seemed strange. Why wasn’t she following the news like everyone else?

  “What’s for dinner?” Sparky asked. Mom glanced at the kitchen clock, then got up and looked in the refrigerator. She said dinner would be ready soon and we should go watch TV.

  While Sparky watched and Mom cooked, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom. Inside the top drawer of Dad’s dresser was a felt-lined tray with compartments for cuff links, tie tacks, and tie bars. Dad had a miniature gold tennis-racket tie bar and a silver one that was a pair of crossed skis. Another compartment held the small brass stays he inserted into his shirt collars so that they would keep their shape all day.

  The next drawer contained Dad’s shirts, each one folded over a piece of cardboard and held in place by a paper band. The mixed scents of Dad’s body smell and chemicals from the dry cleaner wafted up as I slid my hands under the stacks of shirts and felt around. The drawer below that one contained underwear — white V-necked T-shirts and boxers. The bottom drawer was for sweaters.

  I tried his closet next. Here amid the hanging suits and slacks, the scent of feet and leather filled my nostrils. Two shelves held shoes, each pair kept in its proper shape by wooden shoe trees. A small chest of drawers contained Dad’s wool socks, tennis clothes, and sweatshirts. I slid my hands under the contents. Nothing. So Ronnie was wrong. Not every father hid Playboy in his dresser drawers.

  Now I looked up. Above the rod where Dad’s suits hung was a shelf, and from the floor I could see the corners of things like boxes and maybe a book. I climbed up on the chest of drawers. The shelf was still mostly out of reach, but if I stretched on my tiptoes, there was one green box I was able to work toward the edge until it tipped and fell into my hands. It was the size of a cereal box but heavy, and I was lucky that it didn’t slip through my fingers and crash to the floor.

  The box had the shiny, slick feel of newness. Still standing on the chest of drawers, I opened it curiously.

  Inside was a gun.

  Other than on a policeman’s belt, it was the first real gun I’d ever seen. The metal had a vague sheen of oil, and I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it might go off accidentally in my hands.

  Then Mom called: “Scott? Edward? Dinner!”

  I inched the box back up on the shelf. There was only one reason why Dad would have a gun: for war.

  In the kitchen, instead of setting the table, Mom had placed two plates of spaghetti and meatballs on a tray, along with napkins, forks, and glasses of milk.

  She said, “They’re for you and Edward. Go eat in the den.”

  “Dad said we’re not allowed.”

  “I say you can,” Mom said.

  I carried the tray into the den, where Sparky was watching Quick Draw McGraw, and placed the food between us.

  Sparky touched the spaghetti with his fork, then stared at the TV. I felt my insides tighten anxiously. Dad had a gun. Mom was letting us eat in the den. Could there be any clearer signs that the end of the world was approaching?

  We sit in near-dark in the shelter and listen while the men work on the other side of the shield wall. Sparky has taken up permanent residence on Janet’s lap.

  “What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get out?” Mrs. Shaw asks.

  Sparky: “Everything.”

  Paula: “Take a bath.”

  Ronnie: “Eat something good.”

  Me: “Take a bath and eat something good.”

  Ronnie’s mom says, “What about you, Janet?”

  “Look for my children, Mrs. Shaw.”

  Ronnie’s mom utters a little “Oh!” of surprise. “I’m so sorry.”

  As if there weren’t already a million reasons to feel bad, now I feel even worse. The two small faces at the window the day Mom drove Janet home . . . All the time we’ve been together down here, she never said a word. Sparky snuggles closer to her. “If you can’t find them, you can be my other mommy.”

  Janet starts to cry.

  The fathers’ voices come around the shield wall. “Move it a little to the right.” “Can you shine the light on this?” “Anyone see the screwdriver?”

  Finally Dad calls, “I think we’re ready.”

  We go into the corridor to find the bunk bed rebuilt under the trapdoor. Standing on the floor, Mr. McGovern is holding the flashlight on Dad and Mr. Shaw, both wearing masks and squatting naked on the top bunk under the trapdoor. Dad presses his back against it. He reminds me of that statue in New York City of Atlas holding up the world, only Atlas was all muscles and Dad looks so skinny. Next to him, Mr. Shaw lies on his back with his feet against the door.

  They grit their teeth and push and strain. The bunk bed creaks; the trapdoor rises slowly. The creaking grows louder.

  The trapdoor rises a tiny bit more.

  Crack! The sound of splintering wood explodes into our ears.

  “Stop!” Mr. Shaw gasps.

  Clank! The trapdoor slams down.

  Atop the bunk, both fathers breathe hard for a moment, then Dad asks, “What happened?”

  “The board under us cracked,” says Mr. Shaw.

  “Of course,” Mr. McGovern says, as if he’s just realized something. “You’re pushing up on a metal door, but at the same time you’re pushing down on a wooden board. This is never going to work.”

  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.