Fallout

“How do you know?”

“It’s obvious you’re no student of history, Richard.” Mr. McGovern sounds like he thinks he’s so smart and Dad’s so dumb. Now I know where Paula gets it. “Great men think of their place in history. They think about what they’ll be remembered for. You really believe Kennedy would risk being remembered as the leader of the free world who refused to fight back? As the coward who allowed the Communists to take over? You actually think the president is hiding in a bunker somewhere waiting to surrender?”

I hate the way Mr. McGovern talks to Dad, but what I hate almost as much is how what he says sounds right. When Dad doesn’t reply, I wonder if he also thinks Mr. McGovern is right.

“If the Russians did win, would we be their prisoners?” Ronnie asks.

Mr. McGovern snorts. “Just what they need. More mouths to feed. I suppose they’d need men and women for work camps, but they’re no strangers to atrocities. Anyone who’s familiar with their actions during the war would know that.”

Sparky tugs at Dad. “What’s he mean?”

“Nothing.” Dad shushes him.

“Far from it,” says Mr. McGovern.

Dad gets to his feet and steps toward Mr. McGovern, who is sitting with Paula. You can feel everyone grow tense. “That’s it, Herb,” Dad growls. “If you know what’s good for you.”

But Mr. McGovern doesn’t look afraid. Maybe because he knows Dad would never do anything in front of Paula and us. I almost wish he would, though.

When Janet isn’t helping Mom, she sits alone and hugs her knees, staring at a spot on the floor. She hasn’t been mean or done anything bad to anyone. It must be awful for her, knowing Mr. McGovern doesn’t want her here.

I go sit next to her. Pulling the blanket around his skinny bare shoulders, Sparky sits on her other side and takes her hand. She sniffs and quietly starts to cry.

Sometimes Mom bought bread at the bakery, and it would still be warm on the inside. Sparky and I would spread butter and jelly on it and eat slice after slice. Sometimes she made a pizza, and we would help her press the dough out flat on the pan and cover it with tomato sauce. Sparky loved the chocolate pudding she made, but he hated the thick, gummy layer on top and would give it to me because I liked to eat it with Cool Whip. Or she’d make chocolate-chip cookies and let us eat the batter, which was always better than the cookies themselves. And at breakfast sometimes she would let us pour heavy cream over our Rice Krispies, then Sparky and I would dump sugar all over it, and it was like eating candy.

All I think about is food. I would eat anything anyone gave me right now. Even spinach.

36

In school, Dickie Keller said that in some parts of Russia they practiced cannibalism. When I got home, Mom was sitting at the kitchen table smoking a cigarette and reading an article in a magazine about decorating bomb shelters. Sparky was in the den watching TV. Recently, she’d started letting him watch all the TV he wanted. And she said I could go to Ronnie’s house, even though I hadn’t finished my homework.

On the floor in his room, Ronnie and I played game after game of Nok-Hockey with small wooden hockey sticks and a flat wooden puck the size of a fifty-cent piece. Ronnie won most of the time. After a while the door opened, and Mrs. Shaw came in. Her hair was all poofed up, and she had black stuff around her eyes and bright-red lips like Brigitte Bardot. “Phew!” She pinched her nose and fanned her face. “Somebody better start using deodorant.”

When Ronnie lifted his arm to sniff, I saw a dark sweat stain. I felt under my arm. It was as dry as the desert.

“Scotty, your mom called,” Mrs. Shaw said. “It’s time for dinner.”

“He can’t go,” Ronnie said. “We’re in the middle of a huge series. If he goes now, it’ll ruin everything.”

That was a lie. We weren’t playing a series. Ronnie just didn’t want me to leave.

“I’ll call her back,” Mrs. Shaw said. “Maybe you can stay.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Shaw.”

She left, and Ronnie gave me a knowing smile. “Another game?”

While we played, I wondered how Ronnie had gotten so good at lying. When I told a lie, I really had to work at it. First I had to stop myself from telling the truth. Then I had to think of the lie I wanted to tell. Then I had to think about whether it was believable or not. Then I had to consider what would happen if I got caught. And only after all that would I dare tell it. But Ronnie was a natural. It was almost like he thought of the lie before he thought of the truth. And they were perfect lies, too. Completely believable if you didn’t already know.

We were in the middle of the next game when Mrs. Shaw came in again. “Your mom says you can stay for dinner. Fried chicken, okay?”

“Great, thanks.”

We must have lost track of time because the next thing I knew, the door opened, and there was Mr. Shaw in a business suit. He took a deep sniff and wrinkled his tanned forehead.

“I believe a shower will be de rigueur before you’re permitted to attend tonight’s soirée, my son,” he said.