Todd Strasser - Fallout

“We’re not trapped,” Dad says as he climbs down the rungs.

“How can you say that?” Mr. McGovern demands.

“The door moved. We just have to get whatever’s on top of it off.”

“And how, if I may ask, do you plan to do that?” Paula’s dad asks.

“Give me a moment, okay?” Dad grumbles.

“Lot of good that will do us,” Mr. McGovern mutters.

Sparky kicks Mr. McGovern in the leg. My brother’s not strong enough to hurt him with his bare foot, but Mr. McGovern jumps and looks surprised.

“Edward!” Dad snaps.

But I think, Good for you, Sparky.

Are we doomed to slowly starve to death in this dark, damp, smelly dungeon?

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.

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.

Now I looked up. Above the rod where Dad’s suits hung was a shelf, and from the floor I could see the corners of things like boxes and maybe a book. I climbed up on the chest of drawers. The shelf was still mostly out of reach, but if I stretched on my tiptoes, there was one green box I was able to work toward the edge until it tipped and fell into my hands. It was the size of a cereal box but heavy, and I was lucky that it didn’t slip through my fingers and crash to the floor.

The box had the shiny, slick feel of newness. Still standing on the chest of drawers, I opened it curiously.

Inside was a gun.

Other than on a policeman’s belt, it was the first real gun I’d ever seen. The metal had a vague sheen of oil, and I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it might go off accidentally in my hands.

Then Mom called: “Scott? Edward? Dinner!”

I inched the box back up on the shelf. There was only one reason why Dad would have a gun: for war.

In the kitchen, instead of setting the table, Mom had placed two plates of spaghetti and meatballs on a tray, along with napkins, forks, and glasses of milk.

She said, “They’re for you and Edward. Go eat in the den.”

“Dad said we’re not allowed.”

“I say you can,” Mom said.

I carried the tray into the den, where Sparky was watching Quick Draw McGraw, and placed the food between us.

Sparky touched the spaghetti with his fork, then stared at the TV. I felt my insides tighten anxiously. Dad had a gun. Mom was letting us eat in the den. Could there be any clearer signs that the end of the world was approaching?

We sit in near-dark in the shelter and listen while the men work on the other side of the shield wall. Sparky has taken up permanent residence on Janet’s lap.

“What’s the first thing you’ll do when you get out?” Mrs. Shaw asks.

Sparky: “Everything.”