Charles Taylor - Boomer

“Dear, I’m going to take a nap.” His wife rose to her feet a bit unsteadily. She’d drunk more of that pertsovka than he’d imagined she could. “I don’t think I could keep my eyes open another minute.”

When she left the room, he noted the level of the liquid in the bottle. It was two-thirds empty. He couldn’t believe they’d drunk that much. Luckily, there was more in the freezer in the small apartment attached to his office. And food — that’s what he really needed right now — there was food there and he was feeling very hungry. His stomach always acted up these days whenever he drank like that. A bit of food would make him feel much better, and he was sure it would help his wife when she awoke.

He couldn’t imagine he’d be getting much sleep. And he knew he’d have to call the others soon. The Lubyanka situation would soon be common knowledge around the other offices in the building. They would have to understand there had been a shift in the power structure.

There was one other aspect of the situation he’d been making a specific effort to avoid — the American boomer Florida. She was the final critical target in the Pacific, and her coordinates had been transmitted to that killer submarine before he’d had the opportunity to plan his next moves. Right this moment she could be in the sights of the hunter, unaware that another American submarine was about to send her to the bottom. He wished there was a way she could be warned, but that would be an admission of guilt and more than likely presage a first launch by the United States.

There had to be a way out of this puzzle, somehow, but he had no idea how … except to put away the vodka that offered so much solace.…

“Mom!” The curl of cigarette smoke rising above Connie Steel’s blond hair had been sure to elicit a cry of exasperation from her daughter, Alycia. “You’re smoking a cigarette.” Her voice carried the high-pitched whine of the TV teenager to a new level of perfection. It was a practiced art form.

“I’m old enough.” Connie made no effort to turn and look over her shoulder, for it would only encourage another obnoxious outburst. She’d been staring down the hill to the harbor at a tall-necked crane lifting crates from a railroad car on the naval-base siding. The Steels’ home was situated in the hills, an older single-story building reminiscent of the Hawaii of mid-century. It was in a location people would have killed for, yet it remained unostentatious, providing a spectacular view of the harbor below and the Pacific beyond. It had been built many years before by someone who intended to keep that view well above the tree line without the necessity of clearing below.

“I never saw you smoke before.” Alicia came around in front of the outdoor chaise and stared grimly at the cigarette before looking down at her mother.

Connie glanced up and smiled unconvincingly. This wasn’t going to be the start of another family argument if she could help it. “I smoked years ago, and I did occasionally when you were little girls.” She looked out of the corner of her eye at the cigarette. They sure as hell didn’t make them like they used to. This one was half filter and tasted like she imagined a cereal box might. “I’m not going to start smoking like a chimney, if that’s what you’re worried about. They don’t taste anywhere near as good as they used to.”

Alycia appeared unconvinced. “They give you cancer. They’ll kill you. It even happens to people who live around smokers without ever picking one up. I can’t stand the thought of that,” she added with another self-serving whine.

“I said this wasn’t going to be a habit.”

“Why’d you start again?” Alycia persisted, flopping down on a beach chair and dropping her school books beside her.

“I had lunch with Myra Newell yesterday. She smokes—”

“And she offered you one. That’s an absolutely awful thing to do to a friend.”

“Don’t interrupt. It’s rude. No, she didn’t offer me one. I asked, she refused, I insisted, and finally she broke down and gave me one.” Connie sighed wistfully and took a tentative puff. “It tasted better yesterday after a good lunch than it does today,”

“She shouldn’t have done it. I’m going to tell Kathy so tomorrow at school.” Alycia and Kathy Newell were in the same class.

“You’ll do nothing of the kind, young lady.” She jammed the cigarette down, where it lay smoldering in the grass. “Her mother had nothing to do with my buying these cigarettes, and you won’t embarrass either of us by doing that.”

Alycia pouted. “She’s a bad influence.”

“Maybe you have some growing up to do,” Connie said in retaliation, regretting it instantly. That was only inviting the teenage mind to react. She sensed hints of that family argument starting, the one she’d intended to avoid at all costs. It was time to retreat a bit. “You don’t like her, do you? I think sometimes you judge adults a little too critically.”

“She’s not so bad …” Alycia began hesitantly. “It’s him I don’t like.” She’d been looking down at her hands. Now her eyes settled on her mother’s face. “He doesn’t like kids, particularly girls.” It was hard to explain something like that to your mother. “Commander Newell is so … so macho,” she decided. “He likes to talk about things that men like, but he doesn’t understand girls. Kathy can’t even talk to him. Half the time he puts her off, or sometimes he just walks away. Besides, he doesn’t even like Kathy.…”

“That’s ridiculous. Kathy’s his daughter. Of course he loves her.” Connie absentmindedly shook out another cigarette and paused to light it. “Where do you get ideas like that?” Irritation once again crept into her voice. “Don’t you have better things to do?”

Greta Steel wandered into the backyard and collapsed into another chair while a large exaggerated yawn was allowed to escape. Then she sat upright and pointed at the cigarette. “Why are you doing that … smoking, I mean?” Her tone was much like her sister’s.

“Because your older sister is driving me to it,” Connie answered sarcastically. Regardless of how good or bad it tasted, she wasn’t about to be harassed into putting it out now. That would be a sign of defeat, and she wasn’t about to let them get the upper hand.

“I wish Daddy was here now. He’d make you put it out,” Greta said, and slumped back into the chair.

“I wish he were here, too, because he’d tell you both to either say something nice or leave me alone.” She took a deep drag and blew it out in a long stream. “Why don’t the two of you go off and do something worthwhile until the three of us can talk pleasantly to each other.”

“I just—” Greta began.

“Now. Please. I’m being nice. Please leave me to myself for a while.” She displayed a practiced expression the girls always understood. It was worth saving that one until she really meant it.

They left, hesitantly, pouting, mad at their mother because she wouldn’t respond the way they expected, mad at themselves because they could tell she wanted to be in another world for a while. They’d attempted to bring her back to their own much smaller one too soon.

If Ben were here, the three of them wouldn’t be picking at each other like this. She wouldn’t have bought a pack of cigarettes either. Somehow there was a different atmosphere whenever he was home. Was he a peacemaker? No, not really. There was no need to make peace when he was in port. They never bickered with each other.

Ben Steel certainly wasn’t a Disneyland dad either. There was discipline when he was there, but it was never hard, never overbearing. It was simply that everyone was expected to do their own job, “their own thing,” as the girls said, without questioning why they did it. It was done in a spirit of Family cooperation and they all enjoyed it. That was why they had so much time for those treasured family trips each weekend. No, he wasn’t a Disneyland dad by any means. He was a family man pure and simple.