“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.”
No one moves.
We sit. Dad hugs Sparky and me to him. I touch Sparky’s arm and nod over at Janet. He may only be nine, but he knows what I’m thinking. He takes her hand.
What a good little brother he is.
In the dim light, Ronnie sits between his parents, holding their hands. Mr. McGovern has his arm around Paula. Everyone’s quiet — lost in thought, I guess. My thoughts go to my friends. I think about playing fungo and touch football and throwing dirt bombs and burning leaves. How could they do this to kids? We never had anything against Russian kids, and it’s hard to believe they had anything against us.
What’d we do to deserve
this?
“May I say something, Mr. Porter?” Janet’s voice squeezes through the gloom.
“Yes, of course, Janet.”
She addresses everyone. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, Mr. McGovern, if we die in here, you’ll go to your graves knowing what happened to your children.”
Heads rise as they exchange quizzical looks.
“As awful as this is, you’ll have that peace of mind,” Janet continues. “Without your help, I will never know what happened to mine.”
Silence.
“Please,” Janet urges them. “I am asking you to put yourself in my place.”
Silence.
“The Yankees sure are something, huh?” Mr. Shaw said after dinner. “Four World Series in seven years.”
“Yeah.” I’d managed to eat most of the steak and corn. The euphoric feeling brought on by the wine was gradually giving way to throbbing in my skull.
“Maybe this’ll be the Giants’ year to win it all, too.”
“Definitely,” I said. “Tittle’s great.”
“He your favorite player?”
“No, Sam Huff.”
“A fine linebacker,” Mr. Shaw agreed. “Your dad taking you to any games this fall?”
I started to shake my head, but that made it hurt more. Dad was a football fan, but we’d never gone to a game.
“Ronnie and I go a lot,” Mr. Shaw said. “Have a great time, don’t we, Sport?”
Ronnie nodded morosely.
“Maybe you’d like to come with us to a game?”
“You mean, if there isn’t a war?” I asked.
“That’s right,” Mr. Shaw said patiently. “We’ll only go to the game if we haven’t gone to war. Would you like that, Scott?”
“Sure, that would be great,” I said.
Ronnie’s dad smiled. “Okay, let’s plan on it.”
When it was time to go, Ronnie got his jacket.
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“With you.”
“Because I’m drunk?” I asked.
Mr. Shaw rubs my head. “You’re not drunk, Scott. Now, run along.”
It was dark and chilly outside. Ronnie kicked a stone down the sidewalk. “Don’t tell your parents, okay?”
“That I’m going to a football game?”
“No, dummy, about the wine.” He held up his pinkie. “Swear?”
I had to think about it. I guess I knew they were using the Giants to get me to not tell, but the truth was, except for my head hurting, no harm had been done. I didn’t know why I’d taken that big gulp of Dubonnet, but they hadn’t made me, and I didn’t want to get the Shaws into trouble or to make Ronnie angry with me.
I hooked my pinkie to his. “Swear.”
“Okay.” He nodded grimly and patted me on the back. “See you tomorrow.”
No one’s spoken since Janet made her plea for their help to find her children. I know they must feel as bad as I do, but right now we’re so weak, and fortifying the broken bunk bed under the trapdoor seems like such a huge task. Maybe if we just rest awhile . . .
But minutes pass and no one moves.
It’s Sparky who finally speaks up. “I’ll try again, Janet.”
Of course, there’s nothing he can do, but somehow, hearing him say it gets the others to reconsider. Eventually, everyone, even Mr. McGovern, agrees to try. It takes a while, but we manage to get the boards up on top of the bunk under the trapdoor. Dad wants to use some of the posts from the other bunk bed to make this one stronger, and Mr. McGovern suggests angling them in a way that Dad didn’t think of.
Sometimes it feels like we’re working in slow motion, but finally we’re ready.
Then Dad climbs up and says something that really surprises me: “Ronnie and Scott, I want you to help. There’s only room for two adults up here. But I think we can squeeze two boys in place of one adult and still have room for me.”
As frightening as it all is, it makes me feel good that Dad wants me to help. That he thinks Ronnie and me together will be stronger than Mr. Shaw.
We slowly climb up on the reinforced bunk bed, and all three of us put on gas masks. Feeling a crazy mixture of fright and hope, I lie on my back next to Ronnie with our feet against the underside of the cold trapdoor while Dad wedges his back against it. “I hate to say it, boys, but our lives depend on this.”
What if I’m not strong enough?
What if no one would be strong enough?
“One, two, three . . . push!”
We grimace and push as hard as we can. It’s difficult to breathe with the masks on, and the clear plastic disks quickly fog from exertion. The trapdoor feels like it weighs a ton. Something really heavy must be on top of it. Dad grunts. My heart thuds so hard, I can feel the pulse thumping in my ears. The door rises slightly.
“It’s working!” Mrs. Shaw’s voice reaches my ears. “Keep going!”
“You can do it!” Sparky yells.
The trapdoor rises a little more. Bright light begins to seep in.
“A post!” Dad croaks, and Mr. Shaw quickly jams one into the gap between the trapdoor and the closet floor above.
“Stop pushing,” Dad gasps.
Ronnie and I go limp, panting and exhausted from the effort. The light seeping in around the trapdoor feels unnaturally bright, and we have to squint.
With the light comes cold air. Dad studies the instruments from the radiation kit. “Fifty-five roentgens. That’s close enough.”
When he yanks off his mask, it catches me off-guard. It almost seems reckless.
“Come on, boys,” he urges.
Ronnie and I pull off our masks, and cool, fresh air fills our lungs. It feels amazing.
But with it comes a smell.
Like rotten meat.
The others smell it. Noses wrinkle, eyes wince. Dad’s face falls. “Everyone into the other room,” he orders grimly.
Janet leads Sparky back around the shield wall. Ronnie and I climb down and follow. Only the dads stay behind.
In the shelter, Ronnie, Paula, and I sit together, listening to every sound and whisper that comes around the shield wall. Wood scrapes and men grunt.
“Can you turn that post sideways?”
“Wedge it in as far as it will go.”
“There’s a hammer in the toolbox,” Dad says.
Mr. McGovern comes back into the shelter. He seems full of energy, and I wonder whether it’s from excitement or if he really has been saving it up like he said he was. He gets the hammer and goes back through the gap, and soon we hear banging.
“That should work.”
“What about this piece?”
“Can you jam it in that way?”
A long silence follows. Those of us in the shelter exchange uncertain glances.
“Dad?” I call.
“Just a second,” he calls back. Then to the other fathers: “Ready?”
We hear grunts and heaving noises. Wood creaks. Metal hinges squeak. . . .
There’s a slithering sound as if something is sliding off the trapdoor.
The narrow corridor on the other side of the shield wall fills with light. Different light. Natural light. Sparky jumps to his feet and dashes out.
The rest of us follow.
Above us, the trapdoor is open. Dad’s standing on top of the bunk bed, his body half out of the shelter, his pale skin bathed in light. It’s cold, and the rotten meat smell is awful. Mr. McGovern and Mr. Shaw are standing on the floor below.
“How is it?” Mr. McGovern asks somberly.
Something in Dad’s throat catches. “It’s . . . okay . . . I guess.”
It was Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?’s birthday. Earlier in the day, a U.S. Air Force spy plane was shot down over Cuba, and now the U.S. Armed Forces were being mobilized. Preparations for war had begun.
The Sinclairs canceled the birthday party but invited Ronnie, Freak O’ Nature, and me over for cake because we lived so close. Dad said it was okay to go. This was the first time
we’d been allowed in the Sinclairs’ house since the Pee Steam Incident of the previous summer. Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?’s bedroom was upstairs and had its own porch, and one night we’d brought sleeping bags over and slept on the porch under the stars. It was chilly in the morning, and Ronnie said that instead of using the bathroom, we should pee over the railing because when it was cold, your pee had steam. Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? said it wasn’t cold enough for pee steam, and Ronnie said, “Wanna bet?”
I was surprised that Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? took the bet, but I guess he was determined to prove Ronnie wrong. We stood at the railing and peed down onto the flower beds. Of course, Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? was right because he was always right. Then Ronnie laughed and said he’d known all along that it wasn’t cold enough for pee steam and he’d really just wanted to see if he could get us all to pee off the porch.
Unfortunately, Mrs. Sinclair was in the kitchen making breakfast when she looked out the window and saw four glittering gold streams cascading down onto her rosebushes. We were immediately sent home.
“How come she changed her mind?” Freak O’ Nature asked while he, Ronnie, and I walked over for birthday cake.
“Maybe she figures we could all be dead tomorrow, so what does it matter?” Ronnie said.
Mrs. Sinclair let us in with a narrow-eyed look as if warning that if we did anything wrong this time, we would be banned from her house forever. The funny thing about the Sinclairs was that they weren’t all brains like Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? Mr. Sinclair owned a plumbing company and spent most evenings watching TV. And a few months before, Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?’s eight-year-old sister, Barbara, had swallowed a safety pin and had to go to the hospital.
Mrs. Sinclair served a cake with a rocket ship made of icing, and we sang “Happy Birthday,” only under his breath, Ronnie sang:
“Happy birthday to you.
You live in a zoo.
You look like a monkey,
And you smell like one, too!”
I was afraid Mrs. Sinclair had heard him, but she smiled while she cut the rocket cake, so it looked like we were in the clear.