Fallout

Dad, who’d just come home from tennis and was still wearing his white shorts and shirt, went outside. Mom, Sparky, and I followed. Ronnie’s parents were standing beside the hole with their collie, Leader. This was surprising, because even though they only lived one house away and always said hello and acted friendly, my parents and the Shaws never went out together or had dinner with us kids the way we did with other families.

We stood on one side of the hole, and the Shaws stood on the other. Ronnie’s parents smiled like they thought something was funny. “That’s quite a hole,” said Mr. Shaw.

Dad didn’t answer.

“What’s next?” asked Mr. Shaw.

“Sorry?” Dad said.

Ronnie’s dad pointed. “Something’s going in there, isn’t it?”

“Yes, and over it will go Scott’s new bedroom and a playroom,” Dad said.

“So what’s going in there?” Mr. Shaw asked.

“A shelter,” Dad said.

“A bomb shelter,” Mom added, annoyed, as if it was silly to pretend it was anything else.

Everyone was quiet, then Mr. Shaw said, “Well, good luck.” He and Mrs. Shaw and Leader left.

Back in the house, Dad went to change out of his tennis clothes while Sparky and I set the kitchen table for lunch.

“How come the Shaws wanted to see the hole?” I asked.

“I guess they were curious,” Mom answered.

“They never came over before,” I said.

“We never had a hole before,” Sparky said, as if it was obvious.

Mom laughed.

But when Dad came in, she stopped smiling. Usually at meals our parents would talk or ask us questions about our plans for the day. But that day Mom and Dad were quiet. Sparky kept shooting me puzzled looks, and I’d shrug.

Finally Mom said, “You knew that was going to happen sooner or later.”

Dad took a bite of tuna-fish sandwich and gave her the “not in front of the kids” look.

“Don’t you think they should know?” Mom asked. “They’re part of this, too.” She turned to us. “Your friends may say something about the bomb shelter.”

“Like what?” I asked.

“They may want to know why we’re building it.”

“Because of the Russians, right?” I said.

Dad nodded.

“The problem is that not everyone agrees with what we’re doing,” Mom said.

“Why not?” asked Sparky.

Mom looked at Dad as if it was his job to answer.

“People have different ideas about whether we’ll go to war or not,” Dad said. “Some think it’s likely, and some don’t.”

“You think it’s likely, right?” I asked.

“Well… ” Dad paused. “I think it’s possible.”

“And the bomb shelter is for just in case,” Sparky said. “Like a spare tire.”

“Right,” said Dad.

It got quiet again.

“So… what’s the problem?” I asked.

Mom and Dad looked at each other. I expected Dad to answer, since he was sort of in charge of the bomb shelter. But it was Mom who said, “The problem is that everyone knows about it.”

“The threat of war?” I said, confused.

“No, the bomb shelter.” Mom looked at me questioningly. “Do you know anyone else who has one?”

“No.”

“Your mom’s worried that other kids may make fun of you,” Dad said.

Sparky made a fist. “Anyone makes fun of me, I’ll punch ’em in the face.”

“Why would they make fun of us?” I asked.

“Some people think it’s silly,” Mom said. “They don’t believe there’ll be a war. And there are other people who think it’s silly because if there is a war and everything’s destroyed, what would be the point of living?”

“Everyone wants to live,” I said.

“Even if there was nothing left?” Mom asked. “No electricity. No jobs. Hardly any food.”

“We’d rebuild,” Dad said. “Think about what it must have been like when the Pilgrims first got here.”

“What a wonderful existence they had,” Mom muttered sourly.

“They had Thanksgiving,” Sparky said. “After the war, we could have Thanksgiving, too.”

Mom’s eyes suddenly filled with tears. Her chair scraped loudly as she pushed it back and hurried out of the kitchen.

Dad stared at the empty doorway, then let out a sigh and got up. “Sorry, boys. This is something your mom and I disagree about.”

He left Sparky and me at the table. Our parents’ voices came down the hall from their bedroom, too faint to make out what they were saying. But we could hear the tone. Mom was upset and angry, and Dad was trying to get her to calm down.

Back in the kitchen, Sparky whispered, “What’s so bad about Thanksgiving?”

25

Ronnie catches me looking at the checkers game and raises his eyebrow. I turn away. I may be going crazy with nothing to do, but I’m still not playing with him.

“Come on, you two, let bygones be bygones,” Dad says.

I bet he wouldn’t say that if he knew what Ronnie said about him.

“Did something happen?” Mr. Shaw asks.

Ronnie and I share another look, neither of us willing to tell.

“They got into a scrape last night,” Dad says.

“About?” asks Mr. Shaw.

“You’ll have to ask them.”

Ronnie’s dad studies us.

“Seriously, boys, whatever it was about, how could it matter now?” Dad asks.

“You’d be surprised,” I mutter.

“Shut up,” Ronnie growls.

“Why don’t you tell them?” I dare him.