Fallout

  Still, how would it feel if it was someone else’s bomb shelter and our family were the ones who were locked out? I picture myself crawling through the rubble to the trapdoor, knocking and begging to be let in.

  My lungs expand with an involuntary gasp. So far no one’s knocked, but what if someone does?

  Ronnie presses his face against his dad’s arm while Mr. Shaw wipes his own eyes with his fingers. Sparky sniffs. Dad stares at the floor. Now I can’t stop the tears from coming. In the past when there’d been tears in my eyes, I’d always gone to Mom for comfort. I never wanted Dad to see me cry because that was what girls and little kids did. But what does that matter now?

  Janet wraps Mom’s head in gauze to keep everything in place. It’s so quiet. The loudest sound is Mom’s breathing. Dad hardly takes his eyes off her. Every few moments, he reaches over to feel her forehead, pull her robe a little tighter, brush a few hairs away from her face.

  “When’s she going to wake up?” Sparky asks.

  “Don’t know,” Dad says.

  “What if she never wakes up?”

  “Let’s not think about that.”

  More time passes. More silence. Dad takes the hammer and raps the pipes again — Clank! Clank! Clank! — then pauses to listen.

  Still nothing.

  He sighs, puts down the hammer, takes some blankets from a shelf, and offers them around. “Try to make yourselves comfortable.”

  Janet is the only one who says thank you. The Shaws and McGoverns spread the blankets on the cold concrete floor. Both Mrs. Shaw and Paula tuck their knees up against their chests and hug their legs. Paula leans tightly against her dad. After making Mom comfortable on the bunk, Janet sits on the bare concrete floor and wraps her blanket around her shoulders. Soon we are four groups, huddled close to one another in the chilly, damp air.

  In science we learned that some people could go a month or more without food by living on stored-up fat and then on muscle. But no one can go much more than four days without water.

  It’s Sparky who asks the question we’re all thinking: “Dad, what will happen if we can’t get the water?”

  I went to my room, which I shared with Sparky, whose real name was Edward, but I called him Sparky because his hair grew straight out from his head as if he was always touching something electric.

  Wondering how bad the spanking would be, I sat on my bed, tugging at the hair behind my ear, too miserable to look at comics or play with my plastic army men. The paddleball racket was a given. When I was younger, Dad used to spank me, and then Sparky, with his hand, but one day he hurt his wrist and couldn’t play tennis for a few weeks, so now he spanked us with the wooden paddle, which hurt like the dickens.

  The bedroom door began to open and I tensed, but it was only Sparky. He pretended to look for a toy on his shelf, but I knew he’d really come in to see how I was coping with the stress. He kept glancing at me out of the corner of his eye.

  “Dad’s really gonna give it to you. You’re not supposed to steal.”

  “Get lost.” I picked up MAD magazine and pretended to read it. The black and white enemies in “Spy vs. Spy” used the same round black bombs with fizzy fuses that Boris Badenov used against Rocky and Bullwinkle on TV.

  “Mom says she doesn’t know what she’s gonna do with you.”

  That didn’t sound right. Taking the cheesecake was the first bad thing I’d done in months. “No, she didn’t.”

  “Yes, she did,” Sparky insisted.

  “Liar.”

  “Nuh-uh. She said, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do.’ And her eyes got red and watery.”

  That sounded ominous. Was it possible that even I didn’t know how bad what I’d done was? I’d done bad stuff before, like the time Puddin’ Belly Wright and I threw dirt bombs at the back of Old Lady Lester’s freshly painted garage, or the time I dropped Sparky’s brand-new rubber football down the storm drain because he wouldn’t share his double-stick cherry ice pop.

  But I’d never stolen before. Could stealing mean you’d crossed the line into juvenile delinquency and there was no going back? Could it mean I’d have to be a hood from now on and wear a leather jacket and heavy engineer boots all summer and pretend to be tough even though I knew I wasn’t very tough at all? Would I be the only kid on the block who was a hood, and none of my friends would be allowed to play with me? Just thinking about it made me want to cry.

  “Go away or you’re gonna get hurt,” I warned Sparky.

  He left and I felt tears of regret slide down my cheeks. Why had I listened to Ronnie?

  When the door opened a few moments later, I thought it would be Sparky again, but Dad came in, wearing a dark-green suit. I sniffed loudly, hoping he’d see my red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks and know how remorseful I was and that I’d clearly learned my lesson and therefore really didn’t need to be spanked.

  The good news was he didn’t have the paddle, but that could have been because he wanted to change clothes before he spanked me. Dad never did work around the house in his business clothes. He always changed into dungarees and a sweatshirt first. And that included when he punished us.

  I pulled my knees up under my chin and tried to squeeze a few more tears of remorse out of my eyes. Sitting across from me on Sparky’s bed, Dad looked serious, his jaw dark with five o’clock shadow, which was something gangsters and men who were desperate or crazy often had on TV.

  “You know you’re not supposed to steal,” he said.

  I nodded, blinked hard, and sniffed loudly again. At the same time, I tried to estimate how many swats with the paddle I might get. The last time Dad had spanked me was after I did an experiment to see whether a little rock the size of a nickel could break a window if you threw it really hard from close up. The answer was yes, if a five-inch crack in the glass counted. That got me three swats. But that time Mom hadn’t cried or said she didn’t know what she was going to do with me. All she did was laugh and say, “Your father is going to love this.”

  So it stood to reason that the punishment for stealing would be greater — maybe even six or more swats. But it also depended on Dad’s mood. If this was one of those days when he came home angry, it could be even worse.

  “Why did you do it?” He sounded calm and reasonable, so I felt a little hopeful. The truth was, I didn’t know why I’d done it. Hunger had played a part. And Ronnie had said I’d be a chicken if I didn’t do it.

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you knew it was wrong.”

  I nodded and felt a tiny bit encouraged; he didn’t seem all that angry.

  “Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked.

  “Ronnie said it wouldn’t matter because tomorrow the Russians might drop the bomb and we’d all be dead.”

  To be honest, I didn’t think that was such a good excuse, but it was the best I could come up with. At that point, if I’d had to estimate how many swats I was going to get once Dad changed clothes, I would have guessed around five. But Dad didn’t move. He blinked, then blinked again. “Stay here,” he said, then left the room.

  “Is there any water at all?” Mrs. Shaw asks. In the dim light, her eyes are glittery.

  Dad shakes his head.

  “And if we go up there to get some . . . ?”

  “We have to wait as long as we can before leaving the shelter,” Dad says.

  “Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” Mr. McGovern suggests.

  “A bomb went off close by,” Dad says. “We saw the flash and heard the blast winds.”

  “But we don’t really know,” Paula’s dad stresses.

  Dad glances at Mom again. On her cheek are a few streaks of dark dried blood. “I’ll check the levels.” He takes the flashlight and gets up.

  “Can I come?” Sparky asks anxiously.

  “No, it could be dangerous.”

  I put my arm around Sparky’s scrawny shoulders. “We’ll stay here.”

  Dad gets a small box labeled FA
MILY RADIATION MEASUREMENT KIT. Inside is a tubelike thing about the size of a fountain pen. He goes around the shield wall and into the narrow corridor on the other side.

  Without the flashlight, it gets darker in the shelter. We watch the shadows and light in the gap where the shield wall ends and listen as Dad climbs the metal rungs up to the trapdoor.

  A few moments later, he returns. “It’s four hundred ninety-seven roentgens under the door. That’s what’s getting through a quarter inch of iron plate, which means it’s even worse on the other side.”

  “What does that mean?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

  “Anything over fifty roentgens will cause radiation sickness. Anyone who goes out there will be sick within hours and dead within days.”

  When Dad came back into the bedroom, he was still wearing his suit and wasn’t carrying the paddle. “We’re going to the Lewandowskis’.”

  “Noooo!” I wailed, instantly filled with a different sort of dread; the only thing worse than physical pain was the pain of embarrassment. Now I knew where he’d gone when he left the room — to call Mrs. Lewandowski.

  “Yes,” Dad said firmly. “I want you to apologize.”

  “Can’t I call?”

  “In person.” Dad’s tone invited no more arguing.

  This was the worst, most humiliating thing ever. Not only because I’d have to apologize to Mrs. Lewandowski, but because Linda was pretty and blond . . . and I had a crush on her that was so secret even Russian torturers wouldn’t have been able to beat it out of me. Just being near her made me nervous and tongue-tied. The thought of going over there to apologize was unbearable.

  “How about you just spank me?” I begged.

  Dad’s mouth fell open. “Are . . . you serious?”

  I nodded. A spanking would hurt more, but once it was over, you forgot about it. But I saw Linda every day in school. If I did what Dad wanted me to do, I was doomed to a lifetime of embarrassment.

  Dad takes a radio from the shelf and sits down with Sparky and me. He turns the dials. Between gaps of nothing come static and noises like sound bending. He goes back to the static and fiddles around, but all he gets is crackling, scratchy noise.

  “What about the Civil Defense channel?” Mr. McGovern asks.

  “Tried it.” Dad turns the dial. There’s nothing. How can this be a war? No explosions. No shots being fired. Not a sound from above.

  After he snaps the radio off, it’s silent except for Paula’s sniffs. It feels like a long time has passed, but it can’t be more than an hour or two since Dad picked up Sparky and carried him down the hall to the playroom. Sparky yawns and rubs his eyes. I can’t believe he’s actually sleepy. Maybe he’s too young to really understand what’s happened.

  So far Ronnie and I have avoided looking at each other. Last night, just a few hours before Dad shook me awake, Ronnie and I had the first fistfight of our lives. It happened on the way back from having birthday cake at Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?’s house, and now I don’t know whether to still be angry at him or just try to forget. It seems crazy to be mad at each other now that World War III has started, but I can’t help feeling a little sore at him, and I wonder if Ronnie feels sore at me, too.

  Sitting with his parents just a few feet away, Ronnie shakes his head as if he’s trying to fight drowsiness. Like me, he’s probably afraid that something bad may happen while he’s asleep.

  Sparky yawns again, then lays his head down on Dad’s lap. His yawn makes me want to yawn, too, but I cover my mouth and try to fight it.

  “Maybe you should get some sleep, Scott,” Dad says.

  “I don’t want to.”

  “I think you do. It’s okay. You need to rest.”

  Dad slides his arms under Sparky and lifts him to the bunk above Mom’s. Then he turns to me. “There’s room for both of you.”

  I climb the bunk ladder, and when my face is level with Dad’s, I whisper, “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  Dad smiles weakly. “Yes.”

  When I’m on the bunk bed with Sparky, Dad covers us with the scratchy army blanket. He kisses me on the forehead, then tells Ronnie he can use the other upper bunk if he wants and Paula can have the one below it. But Paula doesn’t want to leave her dad. Ronnie climbs up to the bunk catty-corner to the one Sparky and I are on. Our eyes meet when he lies down. His mom covers him with a blanket.

  The bunk has a small pillow, and I lay my head on it and close my eyes but only pretend to sleep. After a while, I open one eye a tiny bit. Dad must have covered the flashlight with something because it’s dimmer in the shelter but not completely dark. The Shaws and McGoverns are sitting on the floor with their backs to the wall. Janet sits by herself.

  In the shadows, Dad stands in the middle of the shelter with his ear close to the water tank and taps lightly with his knuckles. A faint, hollow echo comes from inside. Then he lowers his head and looks down . . . I think toward Mom. He kneels and disappears from view.

  Quietly I inch to the edge of the bunk and look over. Dad is sitting beside Mom, holding her limp hand in one of his. His other hand covers his eyes. His shoulders tremble, and I know he’s hiding tears.

  Like a prisoner, I was marched through the kitchen where Sparky and Mom had started eating dinner. Sparky stopped in mid-chew and watched as we passed. I could tell he knew where Dad and I were going.

  Outside, the air was cool, the moon big and round in the dark sky.

  “What am I supposed to say?” I asked.

  “What do you think you should say?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “And that you promise never to take anything that isn’t yours again.”

  When Dad rang the Lewandowskis’ doorbell, the door opened so quickly that I knew Mrs. Lewandowski had been waiting for us. Behind her stood Linda and three of her four brothers and sisters, all watching curiously. Linda’s and my eyes met, and I felt my insides twist into a knot while my face grew hot with shame and remorse.

  I apologized to Linda’s mother and promised I would never take anything that wasn’t mine again. Mrs. Lewandowski said she appreciated it. Then she and Dad nodded at each other as if they’d completed a deal, and my eyes met Linda’s for a second time. When she looked away, I knew I was doomed.

  As Dad and I walked home through the dark, I couldn’t help thinking that even though all my hopes and dreams regarding Linda had been dashed, apologizing wasn’t as horrible as I’d imagined it would be.

  “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Dad asked.

  I almost agreed but then caught myself. If I sounded too happy about apologizing, he might think it wasn’t punishment enough and decide to spank me anyway. So I tried to sound unhappy. “It wasn’t great. How come you didn’t just spank me?”

  “Don’t you think you’re a little too old to get spanked?”

  His answer caught me by surprise. I’d never realized there was an age limit for spankings. This was the best news I’d heard in a long time.

  Back home, Sparky was taking a bath. While Mom served Dad and me a slightly cold dinner, she asked how it had gone and Dad said fine, and then she left to make sure Sparky washed behind his ears.

  My brother went to bed at eight, but I was allowed to stay up until eight thirty. A small reading lamp on my night table provided just enough light to read MAD magazine or its inferior imitator, Cracked. After I was in bed, Mom and then Dad would come in and kiss me good night.

  That night when Dad came in, I whispered, “What’ll happen if the Russians drop the bomb?”

  He thought for a moment, and the wrinkles near his eyes deepened. “It’ll be the end, I’m afraid.”

  “Of everything?”

  He seemed to hesitate, then nodded. It made me wonder if he thought that since I was now old enough not to be spanked, I was also old enough to hear the truth.

  “We’ll all be killed?” I asked.

  “Well, some people are building bomb shelters. They say that if you can stay belowground and away from
the radiation for two weeks, you can probably survive.”

  “Should we have one?” I asked.

  “I’ve been thinking about it.”

  It seemed odd that he’d only be “thinking” when it could save our lives.

  As if Dad could read my mind, he said, “They’re expensive, Scott, and a lot of people think that because we’ve reached the point of mutually assured destruction, war no longer makes sense.” He sighed. “The problem is, wars almost never make sense — but that never stopped anyone before.”

  My eyes open and it takes a moment to remember where I am, but the sounds of the others breathing in their sleep quickly reminds me. I yawn and stretch, then become aware of dampness around my middle — and the unmistakable smell of urine. My body goes rigid. I’ve wet the bed, something I haven’t done in years. And not only that, but I’ve done it in front of Ronnie and Paula . . .

  Forget about perishing in a nuclear war; I could die from shame right now — unless I can keep it a secret. If I can somehow get Dad’s attention without the others noticing, maybe he can help me figure a way out of this mess. I inch toward the edge of the bunk and look over in the dim light, where my eyes immediately meet Mr. McGovern’s. He’s sitting against the wall with Paula’s head on his thigh while she sleeps. Against the other wall, Mr. and Mrs. Shaw lean into each other with their eyes closed. Janet sits with her head tilted down, her chin on her chest. Dad’s directly below me, his head also tilted down. Lying on her back on her bunk, Mom doesn’t look like she’s moved at all. I inch away from the edge until I feel Sparky behind me.

  Wait . . . I touch the front of my pajamas. They’re dry. It was Sparky, not me! I feel a moment of relief, but then turmoil returns. How can I let the others know it wasn’t me without humiliating him?

  There’s nothing to do except wait for Dad to wake up, but it’s chilly on the wet mattress. I curl up for warmth and still shiver. Meanwhile, unwanted thoughts invade my mind: What will happen to us without water? The grown-ups will probably decide that one of them will go out and look for it, even though it may mean getting radiation sickness. What if the water they find is full of radiation and makes us sick, too?