Fallout

Dad goes back into the shelter and sweeps the flashlight around until it stops on the bunk bed next to the one where Mom lies. “Steven, could you give me a hand?” he asks.

“To do what?” Mr. Shaw replies.

“Take the bunk apart and put it back together on the other side,” Dad says. “Then we can stand on it and push open the trapdoor.”

It sounds like a lot of work, and I’m surprised when Mr. Shaw, who acts like everything is so hopeless, agrees to help.

Dismantling the bunk takes time. Dad gets tired and has to rest. Mr. Shaw takes over for a while, and then Mrs. Shaw, and even Mr. McGovern. Parts have to be unscrewed, then moved around the shield wall and put back together. With the extra activity, the air gets stale faster, so Dad assigns Ronnie and me to crank the ventilator. They need to use the flashlight, so when they’re working on the other side of the shield wall, the rest of us are in near-dark.

“We should eat what’s left,” says Mr. McGovern, panting as he finishes assembling part of the bunk. “There’s no point in rationing anymore.”

It takes a moment to realize what he means: if we really are trapped down here, rationing what food is left isn’t going to make a difference. My heart rises into my throat, and I try to swallow it down. Imagine running out of food, then growing weaker and weaker until no one has the strength to crank the ventilator… .

“It could still take a while to get out,” Dad cautions.

“You men should eat,” suggests Mrs. Shaw. “It will help give you the strength you’ll need to get this done.”

“I feel terrible doing this,” Dad says a little later, running his finger around the inside of the peanut butter jar to get every last smudge. But the strange thing is, it isn’t so hard to watch. I’ve been hungry for so long that it’s more like a dull ache than a sharp pain. What’s more upsetting is knowing that after this there’ll be no more food no matter what happens.

“You’re doing it for our sake,” Mrs. Shaw reminds him.

It doesn’t take long for the men to finish what little food is left, but rather than get back to work, they yawn and say they have to rest first.

So we wait while they nap. But it’s hard because now the clock is ticking. The food’s gone. If we don’t get out soon, we’ll really begin to starve.

52

We continued to do normal stuff at school, but it felt like a shadow hung over everything. You couldn’t forget about the Russians for long. A teacher would pull down a shade, and you’d think about how Puddin’ Belly was supposed to do that if we were attacked. Or a kid would slam a locker, and everyone in the hall would jump.

On the news, they talked about the Russian ships sailing toward Cuba and the American blockade around the island. The moment of confrontation was nearing.

At dinnertime, Sparky and I went into the kitchen and found Mom sitting at the table, gazing out at the backyard.

“Where’s Dad?” Sparky asked.

“Working late.”

“Because there might be a war?” I asked.

Mom puffed on her cigarette. “I don’t know.”

“Is there any news?” I asked.

She blinked, and I could see that she wasn’t certain what I meant.

“About the Russians?” I added.

“I haven’t been listening.”

That seemed strange. Why wasn’t she following the news like everyone else?

“What’s for dinner?” Sparky asked. Mom glanced at the kitchen clock, then got up and looked in the refrigerator. She said dinner would be ready soon and we should go watch TV.

While Sparky watched and Mom cooked, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom. Inside the top drawer of Dad’s dresser was a felt-lined tray with compartments for cuff links, tie tacks, and tie bars. Dad had a miniature gold tennis-racket tie bar and a silver one that was a pair of crossed skis. Another compartment held the small brass stays he inserted into his shirt collars so that they would keep their shape all day.

The next drawer contained Dad’s shirts, each one folded over a piece of cardboard and held in place by a paper band. The mixed scents of Dad’s body smell and chemicals from the dry cleaner wafted up as I slid my hands under the stacks of shirts and felt around. The drawer below that one contained underwear — white V-necked T-shirts and boxers. The bottom drawer was for sweaters.

I tried his closet next. Here amid the hanging suits and slacks, the scent of feet and leather filled my nostrils. Two shelves held shoes, each pair kept in its proper shape by wooden shoe trees. A small chest of drawers contained Dad’s wool socks, tennis clothes, and sweatshirts. I slid my hands under the contents. Nothing. So Ronnie was wrong. Not every father hid Playboy in his dresser drawers.