Fallout

It seems like Paula’s dad doubts almost everything my dad says. Just like he doubted Janet was going to college to learn to be a nurse. Is it because Mr. McGovern teaches college himself? The tension between Dad and the other adults is always just below the surface. When it comes out, Ronnie and I share perplexed looks. Everything is so strange. Our parents getting angry at one another. Mom lying mutely on the bunk. The sadness of Paula being here without her mom and brother.

And wondering all the while what has become of the world on the other side of the trapdoor.

“This was a mistake,” Mr. Shaw mutters. “It’s over. All we’re doing is postponing the inevitable.”

“Don’t talk that way,” Dad says.

“Don’t tell me how to talk,” Mr. Shaw snaps back.

“Steven, the children.” Mrs. Shaw puts a hand on her husband’s knee. I wonder if Mr. Shaw will snap at her, too, but he doesn’t. What would they be saying if we kids weren’t here?

There’s still nothing on the radio except bent sound and static.

Mrs. Shaw smirks. “Is there something you don’t want to miss, Richard?”

“We’re supposed to listen to the Civil Defense channels,” Dad replies. “They’re supposed to tell us what to do.”

“Aren’t we doing what we’re supposed to do?” Mrs. Shaw asks ironically.

“It would be nice to think that someone else has survived,” Mr. McGovern adds.

“They have,” Dad says. “Lots of people built shelters.”

“Lots,” Mrs. Shaw echoes, like she’s laughing at him.

We hear a soft, low groan. Dad squats down close to Mom. “Gwen?”

She doesn’t answer.

He tries her name again and again and touches her face gently, but she doesn’t respond. Then he hangs his head.

“She hasn’t had anything to drink,” Janet says.

Dad nods.

“Is she going to be okay?” Sparky asks anxiously.

“I hope so,” Dad answers, but his heart isn’t in it.

It doesn’t feel as chilly in the shelter as before. Maybe because of our combined body heat or maybe we’re just getting used to the chill. But when Dad cranks the ventilator, Mrs. Shaw complains that it’s cold.

“Who builds a bomb shelter and doesn’t put warm clothes in it?” she asks in a tone Mom sometimes used when the silverware at a restaurant looked dirty.

The question looms over us in the dank, dim air. I brace myself for Dad to get angry, but he doesn’t.

“I’ve been thinking about it, Stephanie,” he replies evenly. “Maybe I never got around to putting warm clothes down here and didn’t rinse the water tank or test the radio because… even though I built this shelter, I never wanted to believe that this could really happen.”

“Then why build it in the first place?” Mr. Shaw asks.

Dad throws up his hands. “I was trying to plan for something completely illogical. Why don’t you tell me, Steven. How do you apply logic to something that makes no sense?”

Mr. Shaw’s forehead furrows. He looks at the floor and doesn’t answer.

30

Mothers had breasts. When you got hurt, they would press the side of your head against their bosoms, which were sometimes soft and comforting, and sometimes rough if under their blouse they were wearing a bra, which was the thing women wore to hold their breasts in place. Boys and men didn’t really have anything that needed to be held in place, except when you played Little League, you were supposed to wear a jock with a protective cup so that you didn’t get whacked in the nuts by the ball.

“Watch this,” Ronnie said, and crossed the street to where Paula was standing beside her bike, talking to Linda. He went behind Paula, reached for the back of her shirt, pulled something underneath, and then let go. Even across the street, you could hear the snapping sound.

Paula cried out. Her bike crashed to the sidewalk, and she ran home.

Ronnie raced back toward me. “Come on!”

I jumped up and ran after him, suspecting that he’d just done something that would get him in trouble again. At least this time, I could say I had nothing to do with it.

Old Lady Lester’s backyard was a good place to hide because she stayed inside all the time. Ronnie and I sat down on the grass.

“What’d you do?” I asked.

“Snapped her bra.” Ronnie grinned.

“Why?”

Ronnie stopped grinning. “That’s what we’re supposed to do. Girls wear bras and boys snap ’em.”

“I never heard of anyone doing that before,” I said.

“We didn’t know any girls who wore bras before.”

“My mom wears a bra.”

Ronnie looked at me like I was crazy. “You can’t snap your mother’s bra.”

“Why not?” Not that I ever would. But I mostly wanted to hear what kind of reason Ronnie would come up with.

“You just can’t.” He pulled up a clover and started to suck on it. “Know how to tell how big a woman’s breasts are?”

“By looking at them?”

“By how thick their bra strap is.”

“Why can’t you tell by looking at them?”

“Sometimes you can. Sometimes you can’t. It depends on what they’re wearing. But you can always tell by the strap. You see a strap like this”— Ronnie spread his thumb and index finger until there was about three inches between them —“and those are really big breasts.”

He paused and studied me. I stared down at the grass.