Fallout

“Check the radiation,” Mr. McGovern says. He no longer bothers to ask.

“I just checked it a few hours ago,” Dad replies.

“That was yesterday, Richard.”

“No, Herb, it was today.”

Mr. Shaw sighs. “What does it matter?”

“Anything would be better than being down here,” Mr. McGovern says.

“You can leave anytime you like,” Dad snaps.

“I’m not the one who should leave.” Mr. McGovern’s eyes seem full of anger and hatred. Is that what he saved his energy for?

“I told you I won’t have that,” Dad growls.

“Who made you the commander in chief?” Mr. McGovern turns to Mrs. and Mr. Shaw. “I say we vote on reducing the number of mouths by two. This isn’t arbitrary — it’s a matter of survival. It’s what has to be done if we’re going to stay down here long enough to let the danger subside up there.”

Janet’s eyes go wide. As if my stomach doesn’t already hurt enough, now it twists and knots even more.

Is Dad is too tired to argue? When he moves close to the shelves and places his hand near the green box, I feel my heart begin to thump hard and my breaths grow short and fast. He can’t be serious. This can’t be happening.

But that’s what they said about a war with the Russians in the first place.

Mr. McGovern finishes his speech. “All those in favor of reducing the number of mouths by two, raise your hands.”

Dad rests his hand on the green box.

Mr. McGovern raises his hand and looks at the Shaws.

Neither of them budges.

A scowl darkens Mr. McGovern’s face. “Even though we’ll die if we have to go up there too soon?”

“I told you before,” says Mrs. Shaw. “I’d rather die than be responsible for someone else’s death.”

“Steven?” Mr. McGovern says.

Mr. Shaw slowly shakes his head. “Up there, down here. What difference does it make?”

44

Despite the duck-and-cover drills and talk about a nuclear war, teachers still had to teach. In current events, Mr. Kasman reminded us that there were other things going on in the world. He wrote “James Meredith” on the board. “Does anyone know who this man is?”

No one answered.

“James Meredith recently became the first colored man ever to enroll in the University of Mississippi,” our teacher said.

Paula’s hand shot up. “They didn’t want to let him in.”

“That’s right,” said Mr. Kasman.

Paula grinned proudly, as if to say, See how smart I am? But if she was really so smart, how come she wasn’t in the smart-kid class with Why Can’t You Be Like Johnny?

“And can you tell us who ‘they’ are, Paula?” Mr. Kasman asked.

Paula stopped smiling. “Uh, some… white people?” she asked more than stated.

“Yes.” Mr. Kasman nodded, and Paula looked relieved. But not for long. “You’re white, Paula. Would you have been against James Meredith going to the University of Mississippi?”

Paula’s eyes darted around nervously. “No… ”

“Then why do you think those people in Mississippi were against him going?”

Paula didn’t answer, and no hands went up. Except for school custodians and cleaning ladies, we hardly ever came into contact with Negro people. I thought about Janet and the three men who’d dug the hole in our backyard.

“Who knows what segregation is?”

Once again, Paula’s hand shot up. “It’s when white people and Negroes are kept separate.”

“Why?” asked Mr. Kasman. It was strange the way he asked us questions instead of just telling us stuff. As if he actually wanted to know what we thought. I couldn’t remember a teacher doing that before. Miss Yellnick, my fifth-grade teacher, always acted like the last thing she wanted to know was what we thought. After all, we were kids. How were we supposed to know the answers? But the funny thing was, asking us made us think, whereas half the time when teachers told us stuff, it just went in one ear and out the other.

“In some parts of the South, there are separate restaurants for whites and Negroes,” said Mr. Kasman. “There are separate water fountains and bathrooms. Negroes have to ride in the back of public buses.”

“Back of the bus,” Freak O’ Nature rumbled in a deep low voice like the Kingfish’s on the TV show Amos ’n’ Andy. Some kids giggled.

Mr. Kasman ignored him and waited. You could feel discomfort spread through the classroom. What was he waiting for?

“Okay.” He seemed to make up his mind. “Here’s part of your homework for tonight. I want each of you to write a page answering this question.” He turned to the blackboard and wrote: “Why would someone be against letting a Negro go to an all-white university? And do you agree or disagree with that position?”

A bunch of us groaned, but then we always groaned when Mr. Kasman gave us homework.

That night I wrote: