Fallout

When the door opened a few moments later, I thought it would be Sparky again, but Dad came in, wearing a dark-green suit. I sniffed loudly, hoping he’d see my red eyes and tear-streaked cheeks and know how remorseful I was and that I’d clearly learned my lesson and therefore really didn’t need to be spanked.

The good news was he didn’t have the paddle, but that could have been because he wanted to change clothes before he spanked me. Dad never did work around the house in his business clothes. He always changed into dungarees and a sweatshirt first. And that included when he punished us.

I pulled my knees up under my chin and tried to squeeze a few more tears of remorse out of my eyes. Sitting across from me on Sparky’s bed, Dad looked serious, his jaw dark with five o’clock shadow, which was something gangsters and men who were desperate or crazy often had on TV.

“You know you’re not supposed to steal,” he said.

I nodded, blinked hard, and sniffed loudly again. At the same time, I tried to estimate how many swats with the paddle I might get. The last time Dad had spanked me was after I did an experiment to see whether a little rock the size of a nickel could break a window if you threw it really hard from close up. The answer was yes, if a five-inch crack in the glass counted. That got me three swats. But that time Mom hadn’t cried or said she didn’t know what she was going to do with me. All she did was laugh and say, “Your father is going to love this.”

So it stood to reason that the punishment for stealing would be greater — maybe even six or more swats. But it also depended on Dad’s mood. If this was one of those days when he came home angry, it could be even worse.

“Why did you do it?” He sounded calm and reasonable, so I felt a little hopeful. The truth was, I didn’t know why I’d done it. Hunger had played a part. And Ronnie had said I’d be a chicken if I didn’t do it.

“I don’t know.”

“But you knew it was wrong.”

I nodded and felt a tiny bit encouraged; he didn’t seem all that angry.

“Do you have anything to say for yourself?” he asked.

“Ronnie said it wouldn’t matter because tomorrow the Russians might drop the bomb and we’d all be dead.”

To be honest, I didn’t think that was such a good excuse, but it was the best I could come up with. At that point, if I’d had to estimate how many swats I was going to get once Dad changed clothes, I would have guessed around five. But Dad didn’t move. He blinked, then blinked again. “Stay here,” he said, then left the room.

13

“Is there any water at all?” Mrs. Shaw asks. In the dim light, her eyes are glittery.

Dad shakes his head.

“And if we go up there to get some…?”

“We have to wait as long as we can before leaving the shelter,” Dad says.

“Maybe it’s not as bad as you think,” Mr. McGovern suggests.

“A bomb went off close by,” Dad says. “We saw the flash and heard the blast winds.”

“But we don’t really know,” Paula’s dad stresses.

Dad glances at Mom again. On her cheek are a few streaks of dark dried blood. “I’ll check the levels.” He takes the flashlight and gets up.

“Can I come?” Sparky asks anxiously.

“No, it could be dangerous.”

I put my arm around Sparky’s scrawny shoulders. “We’ll stay here.”

Dad gets a small box labeled FAMILY RADIATION MEASUREMENT KIT. Inside is a tubelike thing about the size of a fountain pen. He goes around the shield wall and into the narrow corridor on the other side.

Without the flashlight, it gets darker in the shelter. We watch the shadows and light in the gap where the shield wall ends and listen as Dad climbs the metal rungs up to the trapdoor.

A few moments later, he returns. “It’s four hundred ninety-seven roentgens under the door. That’s what’s getting through a quarter inch of iron plate, which means it’s even worse on the other side.”

“What does that mean?” asks Mrs. Shaw.

“Anything over fifty roentgens will cause radiation sickness. Anyone who goes out there will be sick within hours and dead within days.”

14

When Dad came back into the bedroom, he was still wearing his suit and wasn’t carrying the paddle. “We’re going to the Lewandowskis’.”

“Noooo!” I wailed, instantly filled with a different sort of dread; the only thing worse than physical pain was the pain of embarrassment. Now I knew where he’d gone when he left the room — to call Mrs. Lewandowski.

“Yes,” Dad said firmly. “I want you to apologize.”

“Can’t I call?”

“In person.” Dad’s tone invited no more arguing.

This was the worst, most humiliating thing ever. Not only because I’d have to apologize to Mrs. Lewandowski, but because Linda was pretty and blond… and I had a crush on her that was so secret even Russian torturers wouldn’t have been able to beat it out of me. Just being near her made me nervous and tongue-tied. The thought of going over there to apologize was unbearable.

“How about you just spank me?” I begged.

Dad’s mouth fell open. “Are… you serious?”