Fallout

“If your child was the youngest here, I’d do the same for her,” Dad answers.

“But not if she’s the second or third youngest?”

“That makes no sense, Richard,” Mrs. Shaw says. I hate the way she and Mr. McGovern gang up on Dad. It’s still our bomb shelter and our food. Like Dad said, they could have built their own shelters.

“I’m hungry, too,” says Ronnie.

“What’s left?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

Mr. Shaw hardly talks anymore. Mostly he just stares at the walls and floor. It makes me uncomfortable. He seems like a different person from the one who sat in his den sipping wine and talking about topless women in France.

Dad tells us what remains on the food shelf. “Three cans of Spam, four of tuna, six of sardines, and some peanut butter and jelly.”

“No bread?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

Dad shakes his head.

“We could make it last longer,” Mr. McGovern says. “For someone hardheaded and logical enough to build this shelter, you’ve become awfully softhearted, Richard.”

Dad glares at him furiously. “You’re talking about my wife and this innocent woman, Herb.”

“I’m talking about our lives and the lives of our children,” Mr. McGovern replies forcefully. “We’ve already lost enough thanks to this goddamn war. The sooner we use up the food, the sooner we’ll be forced to go back up there. And if we go up too soon, we run the risk of radiation sickness. Be rational about it, Richard. It’s not going to get any easier once we’re up there. Like Stephanie said, we’ll be spending every moment trying to survive. There won’t be time for anyone who needs help.”

“How can you say that?” Dad asks. “I mean, think of your own son.”

Mr. McGovern’s face darkens. “That… is exactly why I can say it.”

I feel the urge to tug. The spot behind my right ear feels as smooth and hairless as my forehead, but along the edge of the bald spot, I find some hairs to grasp. Mr. McGovern doesn’t think we’ll be able to take care of Mom once we get out, but why does he want Janet to leave? Because she’s a Negro? If he makes her leave, what’s to stop him from saying Sparky should go next? After all, he’s too young and small to take care of himself.

“So?” Mr. McGovern demands.

Dad gathers himself up. “I said it before and I’ll say it again. Over… my… dead… body.”

“It won’t just be your dead body — it will be everyone’s,” Mr. McGovern counters, then turns to the Shaws. “Who gave him the right to make decisions for all of us? Because it’s his bomb shelter? I’m sorry, but I don’t think that matters anymore. We’re all in this together now. Are you really comfortable putting your lives in his hands? Letting him decide how much we eat and drink?”

Mrs. Shaw glances at her husband, who’s staring at a wall as if his thoughts are a million miles away. Then she says in a softer, more reasonable tone, “Let the children eat, Richard.”

“I never said I wasn’t going to,” Dad replies icily. He opens a can of tuna and divides it four ways. Normally I could eat my share in one bite, but I separate it into three parts and savor each one slowly.

Sparky gets to lick the inside of the can.

When I finish my three parts, I’m still hungry.

Sometimes, when it’s quiet for a long time, I think I hear whispers, as if there’s someone else down here. And even though I don’t believe in ghosts, I get scared. If I never imagined the whole world being destroyed, what else have I never imagined? Could there be some kind of invisible radioactive creature on the other side of the shield wall? Invisible Godzilla?

I look over at Mom, wishing she would wake up so I could tell her about Invisible Godzilla and she could tell me it’s only my imagination. But she just lies there, blank-eyed, so I go over to Janet and hold her hand. If Mr. McGovern and the Shaws say she has to go, I’ll say over my dead body, too.

When we run out of rags for washing and the toilet, the men tear off their pajama legs at the knees. We’re slowly using up our clothing.

At times the hunger and the feeling of being cooped up in this chilly, smelly dungeon is so bad, I feel like I can’t spend another minute down here. Would it be worth risking radiation poisoning to go up and see the sun for a few minutes? Could such a short time up there be that bad?

Dad and Mr. McGovern have an argument over how long we’ve been down here. Dad thinks it’s only been five or six days. Mr. McGovern insists it’s been eight or nine.

“This is more than a week’s worth of beard,” Mr. McGovern says, brushing the stubble that mats the lower half of his face. The lower half of Dad’s face is similarly darkened, but Mr. Shaw’s is only patchy, and I wonder if he could grow a beard even if he wanted to.

“Maybe it’s time to check the radiation levels again,” Mrs. Shaw says in her nice voice.

Dad starts to get to his feet, then stumbles and has to grab the bunk bed.

“Dad!” Sparky blurts with fright.

“Sorry, just got a little dizzy.”

“Hunger,” Mr. McGovern grumbles as if it’s Dad’s fault.