Fallout

The next thing I know, pee splashes into the bucket, where it mixes with Paula’s and Mrs. Shaw’s, and I wonder why it was so hard to go before.

Janet goes next, and then one by one, the fathers pee in the bucket, only Dad doesn’t crank the ventilator for them. After a while, the only one who hasn’t gone is Ronnie. I glance at him, but instead of a smirk, his face is scrunched up as if he’s in agony.

Mr. Shaw squeezes his arm. “You better go.”

“Shut up,” he grunts.

A jolt jumps through me like an electric charge. I’ve never heard a kid say that to a parent or any grown-up. I wait for Mr. or Mrs. Shaw to scold him, but there’s only silence until Ronnie lets out a low moan as if his bladder is about to explode.

A moment later, when I hear a gurgle, I assume Ronnie is going in his pajamas. But Dad quickly looks up at the water tank, and his eyebrows practically leap off his head. It’s the sound of running water!

Maybe it’s the relief of knowing we have water or the sound of it sloshing through the pipes, but Ronnie races to the toilet bucket and goes.

20

When Dad came home from work, Sparky and I followed him into his and Mom’s bedroom, where he took off his suit, shirt, and tie, removed his brown leather shoes and placed shoe trees in them. Then he unsnapped the elastic garters around his calves that held up his long, thin socks, and put on dungarees, a gray Fruit of the Loom sweatshirt, white wool socks, and old tennis sneakers.

“Are we getting a bomb shelter?” I asked.

“I’ll tell you at dinner,” he said, and headed outside. In the summer, Dad often did yard work before dinner. Sparky and I followed him into the backyard, where he stopped to look at the hole.

“How deep will it get?” I asked.

“Pretty deep,” Dad said.

“Sure would make a good pool,” said Sparky.

“Yes, it would,” said Dad.

“A pool would be fun,” Sparky said.

“We need a shelter more than we need a pool.”

“Couldn’t it be a shelter and a pool?” Sparky asked.

Just then, Mom called us in. During dinner, Dad told Sparky how there was a chance we might go to war with the Russians.

“Why don’t they like us?” my brother asked. “Did we do something bad to them?”

“They don’t agree with our form of government.”

“What’s that?”

Dad tried to explain, but it was hard to go from what a democracy was to why the Russians would want to blow us to smithereens.

“If the Russians win, will we be their prisoners?” I asked.

“Not necessarily,” Dad said. “A lot of people think that if there’s a war, neither side can win.” He must have seen the confused expressions on our faces, because he added, “Both sides have so many bombs that there’s a good chance we’ll destroy so much of each other’s countries that no one will be able to claim victory.”

That didn’t make sense. Why would anyone go to war if they knew ahead of time that neither side could win? Thus far in the conversation, Mom had remained quiet. Now she slowly shook her head. “Mutually assured destruction. It’s ridiculous.”

Dad leveled his gaze at her. “I agree, but it’s a possibility.”

“Don’t scare them,” Mom said, a bit harshly. The “them” she was referring to was Sparky and me.

“They asked why we’re building a shelter —” Dad began to reply.

“Not a shelter, a bomb shelter,” Mom interjected. “And we’re not building it — you are.”

They stared at each other. Then Mom got up and hurried out of the room. Dad let out a sigh. “Finish your dinner, boys.” He left to go find Mom.

21

As water races through the pipes and into the tank, I hear someone’s throat catch and see Mrs. Shaw hug her husband with relief.

“There was probably an obstruction in the line,” says Mr. McGovern. “The water pressure must have forced it loose.”

Dad takes a glass from a shelf and fills it, then sniffs tentatively before taking a sip. He grimaces.

“What’s wrong?” Mr. Shaw asks. Dad hands him the glass, and Ronnie’s dad tries a little, then spits it at the drain in the middle of the floor and wipes his mouth. “Achh! It’s awful.”

“You didn’t rinse the system when it was installed?” Mr. McGovern’s question sounds critical.

Dad doesn’t answer.

“Is that bad?” Mrs. Shaw asks with alarm, directing the question to Mr. McGovern. “Will it hurt us?”

Mr. McGovern pauses thoughtfully. “I don’t think so. It won’t taste good, but we won’t have to drink it forever.”

Mrs. Shaw takes the glass from her husband and sips. Her face goes hard. “Well, at least we can wash our hands.”

Dad gazes up at the water tank. “Maybe we shouldn’t. I’m worried about using it for anything except drinking.”

“You don’t think there’ll be more if this runs out?” Mr. Shaw asks.

Dad shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Actually,” Mr. McGovern begins, then pauses as if he wants to make sure everyone is listening. “Given the circumstances, I suspect we’ll have all the water we’ll need.”

This comment is met with silence. The grown-ups share the kind of meaningful look that makes kids nervous.

“Why?” Paula looks anxiously at her father, who lets out a reluctant sigh like he doesn’t want to give the answer.