Fallout

On the radio, the Indians’ pitcher Gary Bell got Clete Boyer out on a ground ball and Bobby Richardson swinging. But it didn’t matter. The Mick was back, and the Yanks were winning.

“Want a Sara Lee cheesecake?” Ronnie asked as he sucked on a stem of clover he’d plucked from the lawn. He was a stocky, muscular kid with black hair greased back along the sides of his head into a ducktail, while the front hung down in a spit curl.

The thought of sweet, creamy cheese filling and graham-cracker crust made my stomach rumble with anticipation. Even though it was only an hour before dinnertime and a sure bet to ruin my appetite, I asked, “How?”

“There’s a million of ’em in Linda’s garage.”

Ronnie might have been exaggerating, but we got the point. The houses in our neighborhood didn’t have basements, so people put freezers in their garages and filled them with food.

“You mean, steal it?” I sat up and tugged nervously at the hair behind my ear. I’d never stolen anything… except for the stuff it was okay to steal, like cookies from the kitchen when Mom wasn’t around and our Halloween candy from the shopping bag Dad hid in his closet so Sparky and I wouldn’t eat it all at once — but really, we suspected, so he could eat some of it, too.

“It’s not stealing,” Ronnie insisted. “We know Linda. Besides, you ever looked in their freezer? It’s so full, they’ll never notice if one cheesecake is gone.”

Linda Lewandowski had four brothers and sisters, so it made sense that there might be more food in the freezer than her mother could keep track of. But even if there’d been enough cheesecakes to fill Yankee Stadium, that still didn’t make stealing right.

Freak O’ Nature gave me an uncertain look. “What you think, Kemo Scott?”

“What if we get caught?” I asked.

Ronnie plucked another clover from the lawn and sucked on it pensively. “What difference will it make? We could all be dead tomorrow.”

3

From above come grunts, banging, and scraping — the sounds of a scuffle. “Richard, let us in!” someone shouts frantically. “Don’t let us die!”

Petrified with fear, I crouch on the concrete floor beside Janet, who climbed down after Mom fell. The still forms of Mom and Sparky lie in the dark while Dad clings to the metal rungs and tries to pull the trapdoor closed. But people on the other side are trying to pull it open.

The light’s gone on in the playroom, and the shelter brightens each time the trapdoor rises a few inches, then darkens again when Dad manages to yank it down. With each flash of light, I glimpse Mom on her back, one arm stretched out, one leg bent at the knee, the other propped against the wall, Sparky sprawled on top of her.

My brother begins to whimper. Janet draws him off Mom and into her arms. I can’t tell if he’s hurt, but at least he’s moving and making sounds. Unlike Mom, who lies perfectly still.

The trapdoor rises enough to let in the wail of sirens. Someone shouts a curse. Dad’s feet are wedged into the metal rungs. His teeth are gritted with exertion as he struggles to close the door. I want to beg him to let the others in. But I don’t because this is something I’ve been scared of ever since he first told me about the shelter, since I realized we were the only family on the block who had one. What if there are dozens of people up there? What if more are coming? What if they all try to squeeze in until those of us at the bottom are crushed to death?

The trapdoor rises. A thin metal tube slides in and swings around as if trying to hit Dad’s arms and break his grip. It’s a pole from the badminton net.

“Scott, the rope!” Dad shouts.

My eyes meet Janet’s. “Do what he says,” she tells me.

I look up at Dad. “Where?”

“On the wall!”

We’re in a narrow corridor lined with cinder blocks. From a previous visit down here, I know that the wall he’s talking about is around the corner, in the shelter itself. But the small amounts of light seeping in from above don’t reach that far. “I can’t see!” I yell.

“The light!” Dad shouts. “On the string from the ceiling!”

I scuttle into the pitch-black shelter. Stopping in what I think should be the center of the room, I wave my arms around until I feel a string and pull. A lightbulb bursts on, and in the glare I see the kitty-corner double-decker bunks and wooden shelves lined with food and other supplies. On the wall, a coiled rope is looped over a hook. I grab it. Back out in the narrow corridor, Janet is comforting Sparky, who’s staring fearfully up while Dad struggles. Mom still hasn’t moved. Something dark is pooling under her head.

A tennis racket slides through the gap between the trapdoor and the closet floor. They’re using it as a lever to pry the door open. Dad reaches down and grabs the coil of rope from my hands. Now, in addition to the badminton pole and tennis racket, fingers appear along the edge of the trapdoor. First a few, then more and more, turning white around the fingernails as they strain to pull upward.