Эбби Луби - Nuclear Romance

Years of persistence and dedication didn’t go unnoticed by educators in high places, and she was rewarded with offers to work in better schools, or with more lofty positions in administration. For a time, she resisted, unable to imagine herself outside the classroom. But years of begging for blackboard chalk and pleading for used textbooks had worn thin and took their toll. When a position for assistant principal opened up in a New York City suburb, she thought twice. It was a more affluent area than the Bronx, but would she be selling out if she worked in a school district that had more resources? She argued with herself back and forth, and finally, it wasn’t without guilt that Diana acquiesced and eventually accepted the job. She often reflected on the decision with sadness even now, five years later.

She moved to a cozy cottage on a small lake, just a few miles from the elementary school. It was in one of the many one-story homes built in the 1940s as a summer escape from the city. The house had been winterized for year-round use, a trend that was accommodating a growing area, one that had been transformed from a bucolic rural community to a suburb, now part of the raw urban sprawl. The icing on the cake for Diana was that living in the burbs meant she could get a dog—a true and dedicated companion.

On the first fall day just two months after she moved out of the city, Diana was trying her hand at planting flowers, something she knew absolutely nothing about, but she was willing to experiment. She wasn’t the green-thumb type, and even though she understood the science of regeneration, she always scrunched her nose when sinking her hands in the ground, the soil blackening her fingernails. But little by little she learned to plop bulbs in a small patch outside her front door, plant a few store-bought flowers under her kitchen window and along a side path leading down to the lake. There was something magical about putting bulbs in the ground, knowing something would pop up in the spring.

Kneeling on the ground, she spotted Lin rolling in something smelly at the end of the driveway and turned the hose on to wet down the squirmy little canine. The perky dog yapped and came up on all fours, drenched. Suddenly the dog’s ears shot up as a piercing alarm drowned out all other sounds. What was that? It definitely wasn’t a fire alarm. The long, high-pitched wail was mind-numbing and went on for about two minutes. It was unsettling. When it stopped Diana called over to her neighbor, who was power washing his deck. She waved her arms to get his attention, and he turned off the washer.

“Hey, Sam, was that a special fire alarm or what?”

“What’s that you say, Diana?”

“The siren? What is it for?”

“Oh that. Probably just a test for the nuke plant is all.”

“What nuke plant? You mean a nuclear power plant?”

“Yup. Just down the way there. ALLPower. Electricity. You know.” He nodded vaguely toward the road, and Diana jerked her head in the same direction as if the plant was within site.

“Just how close are we to the plant? How often do they test the alarms?”

“Let’s see. We’re about four, five miles away. It’s down by the river a ways. Siren tests run every now and then. I dunno.”

Wasn’t she the curious one?

“So, how do you know if it’s a test or if something is really wrong at the plant?”

“It’s always a test, Diana. Don’t worry your pretty head. The plant is fine. Always has been.”

She shook her head.

“If it’s fine, why do they have the sirens?”

But her neighbor was picking up the power motor and ducking inside his garage. Oh well, Diana thought. I guess it’s no big deal.

She had forgotten about the plant except for the annoying, monthly scream of the sirens. It was troubling, but she shrugged it off and got on with her day, just like everyone else. Occasionally she noticed ALLPower’s name in the newspaper, especially their brightly colored, full page ads that said “Your Community Power Plant: Safe, Essential, Local.” Articles about ALLPower were usually about monies the company donated to local sports programs and to students who excelled at their game. Sometimes, at the very bottom of the story was a brief, unremarkable report concerning some technical item at the plant.

It was at an Earth Day celebration at the riverfront park that Diana found out why the sirens were tested every month. A woman approached her with a petition to close down ALLPower, pointing at the two domes just to the north.

“Close the plant? Why?” Diana asked.

“Oh my God. You don’t know? How long have you lived here?”

“Less than a year. Just moved up from the city. What’s the big deal?”

“Read this.”

The woman thrust a folded pamphlet into Diana’s hand. On the front, a sketch of the two domes fell under bold letters that read “Profits Before Safety!” Inside was a bulleted list of problems plaguing the aging plant, from the cracked containment domes to leaky pipes and a faulty safety record.

“ALLPower has a dismal track record for safety,” said the woman excitedly.

“But I never hear anything about this? Are you sure of your facts?”

The woman glared at her. “Of course you don’t hear about it. The company controls the press, girl. No one really finds out anything unless they go digging for the info like I do.”

The woman seemed a bit fanatic. Diana reluctantly looked over the pamphlet.

“And you think they should close? What about our electricity? Where would we get power?”

“There’s plenty of electricity we can get from other, safer plants as well as solar, wind, hydro. And no one is pushing folks to conserve energy. It’s a damn shame,” the woman shook her head continuing her rant. “Believe me. This plant is one of the oldest in the country! Bad stuff is happening there all the time. You should call the Nuclear Regulatory Commission in Washington—the NRC—the feds. Just know that they’re in bed with the industry, believe me.”

“In bed with the—what on earth are you talking about?” The woman was weaving riddles. Was there any truth to what she was saying?

“Oh boy. So much you don’t know. It’s a charade. The NRC—they’re supposed to protect us from the unsafe nukes, but it’s a joke. They have to keep the plants open. Figure it out. If the nukes close, the NRC wouldn’t have any plants to regulate. The NRC would be out of a job. Get it?”

“You mean if a plant is really dangerous, they’d keep it open regardless? I find that a bit hard to believe.”

“Think again. Think Chernobyl, Three Mile Island. Stuff goes wrong at these places all the time.”

The woman fumbled around in a large brown duffle bag stuffed with dog-eared petitions, buttons, bumper stickers. Finally she unearthed a business card of someone at the Nuclear Regulatory Commission.

“Here. Call this guy at the NRC and get on their e-mail list for accident reports. But brace yourself. After you read this stuff you won’t sleep nights.”

At first she was reluctant to pursue information about the plant. Like a toe tap on the surface of the water, Diana timidly took the pulse of a few neighbors: Were they worried or afraid something could go wrong at the plant? She got everything from uncertain shrugs to “too scary. I just don’t want to know about it.”

Yes, the plant had problems, but ALLPower paid a chunk of taxes, unburdening many residents who couldn’t really afford to live in one of the richest counties in the country. Yes, maybe there was an occasional accident, but wasn’t the NRC overseeing all that?

Diana tried to track down past news stories, but each one left her with more questions. Suddenly, she was on a mission, just like chasing after new textbooks. What about the NRC guy? Could she ask him a simple question and get a simple answer? She procrastinated but finally, driven to get clear answers, she called the name on the business card: Dick Isling, the NRC press person.