Fallout

Dad gives him a stern look. “Yes, Herb, I do.”

32

Early each morning, the newspaper boy tossed the paper onto our driveway. Normally Dad would pick it up and read it on the train to the city, where he worked for an insurance company. But lately he went out before breakfast and brought it inside to read with Mom. Sparky and I would come into the kitchen, and they’d be sitting at the table with the paper open, coffee cups in their hands, and serious expressions on their faces.

When I asked what was going on, they either said “nothing” or gave some vague answer about the Russians and Cuba. And Mom would almost always add, “It’s nothing you should worry about.”

One night when Dad came in to kiss me good night, I asked, “What if the Russians attack when you’re not home?”

“You’ll have to go into the shelter without me.”

“But what’ll happen to you?”

“There are lots of shelters in the city. In the basements of buildings and the subway.”

“So we could all meet again after the war?”

Dad nodded. “That’s the plan.”

That was good news because it meant the only times Dad might have a problem was when he was on the train going to and from work. “So if they drop the bomb and you’re at work, after the war should we come to the city, or will you come back here?”

Dad ran his tongue over his front teeth and thought. “Things in New York could be pretty chaotic. You should stay out here.” He got quiet for a moment. “You and Edward riding your bikes to school every day?”

I looked down at the bedcovers. A few weeks before, Dad had made us promise we would.

“I thought we agreed,” he said.

“Sparky quit after the third day, and I don’t like riding all the way there alone.”

Dad looked off. “Well, I guess I can understand that.”

“So what do we do if there’s a war and we’re at school?”

“Try to get home as fast as you can.”

The next day after school, I laid a wooden yardstick end over end, marking yards in chalk on the sidewalk in front of our house. When I thought I had enough, I went back and started counting them. “One, two, three.”

“Seven, six, eight, twelve,” Sparky began spitting out numbers until I forgot where I was. I shook my fist at him. “You want to get hurt?” He backed away and I started over, numbering each yard with chalk. I’d just finished marking off fifty yards when Ronnie and Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? came by.

Ronnie looked at the yardstick and the chalk numbers going up to fifty. Then he saw my stopwatch lying on the grass. He turned to my brother. “What’s he up to?”

Sparky shook his head like he wasn’t allowed to say, which was what I told him if anyone asked.

Ronnie popped a few Sugar Babies in his mouth and smacked his lips. “Man, these are good.” He held the bag out to Sparky. “Want some?”

Five seconds later, Ronnie knew exactly what I was up to: trying to see how long it would take if I had to run all the way home from school.

“Scott, anyone ever tell you you’re crazy?” he asked.

“Yeah. You, about a thousand times.”

“Make it a thousand and one,” Ronnie said. “You’re crazy.”

“Thanks.”

“What’s the point?” he asked. “Didn’t you see those pictures of Hiroshima? All those burned-up and deformed people. Why would you want to be around for that?”

“It’s better than dying,” I said, not because I was really sure that it was, but because it was the only answer I could think of.

“You know about radiation poisoning?” asked Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? He was in the smart class at school and never got into trouble. And he was nice. Not brownnose-teacher’s-pet-nice like Paula, but nice and polite in a sincere way that made everybody like him. And if that wasn’t bad enough, he was a good athlete who could throw and catch and run really fast. The only thing wrong with Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? was that there was nothing wrong with him.

“A little,” I answered.

“What is it?” asked Sparky.

“It’s from the radioactive fallout,” Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? explained. “After the mushroom cloud, dust and ash float down out of the sky, and it’s full of radiation, and when you touch it or breathe it into your lungs, it makes you sick. Your hair falls out and you throw up and —”

“Ahhhhh!” Sparky let out a cry and ran toward the house with his hands over his ears.

“Did I scare him?” asked Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?

“He has this thing about throwing up,” I explained. “Even if you just mention it, he starts to cry.”

“Sorry, I didn’t know,” Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny? said. And the thing was, he wasn’t just saying it. He really was sorry.

Ronnie pointed at the fifty yards I’d marked off. “You gonna try it?”

I gave him the stopwatch, then crouched down like a sprinter, pressing my hands against the rough concrete. “Anytime.”

“Ready… set… go!” Ronnie yelled.

I took off as fast as I could. When I’d passed the fifty-yard line, I stopped and bent over with my hands on my thighs. “How’d I do?” I panted.

Back at the start line, Ronnie shrugged. “How would I know?”

“Didn’t you time me?”

Ronnie looked down at the stopwatch. “Is that what this is for?”