Todd Strasser - Fallout

“Seriously, Steven,” Dad persists.

“I don’t know what’s on the other side of that trapdoor, but whatever it is, it’s too heavy,” Mr. Shaw finally says. “We tried, Richard. Before the board cracked.”

Dad stands still, his face tilted upward in thought. Is he considering giving up, too?

He looks at Sparky and me. “I’m going to keep trying. Come on, boys.”

I realize I’ve been holding my breath. When I push myself up, dizziness causes my vision to narrow, and I have to bend over with my hands on my knees and my head as low as it will go.

When I straighten up, everyone’s staring.

“You okay?” Dad whispers.

I nod. He gives me a screwdriver and shows me which screws to take out of Mom’s bunk bed. I do what I’m told, but I don’t say what I’m really wondering: Is he just trying to keep us busy so we won’t think about what’s ahead?

“Whoa!” In the Shaws’ den, Ronnie’s father caught me by the arm. “Steady, sailor.”

Holding my elbow, he led me into the kitchen, where four aluminum trays were set with little compartments that kept the meat from touching the potatoes and vegetables. Mrs. Shaw pointed to a chair. “You’re there, Scotty.”

I went to sit but missed the chair and nearly fell over. Mrs. Shaw frowned and looked at her husband.

“Cheap drunk,” said Mr. Shaw.

Mrs. Shaw’s eyes widened. “Steven, you didn’t.”

“Couldn’t have been more than a thimbleful,” Mr. Shaw said. “He just needs to get something in his stomach.”

We began to eat. I tried to cut into the meat, but it was really tough.

“Ahem, Scott.” Mr. Shaw cleared his throat. “Your knife’s upside down.”

“Oh.” I turned the knife and started again. That’s when the Salisbury steak shot off my tray and landed in the middle of the table like a small brown island on a sea of white.

“Let’s try a sharper knife.” Mr. Shaw went to a drawer and got one with a black handle. “Careful with this one, okay? We’d like to send you home with all ten fingers.”

Ronnie made a funny noise, as if muffling a laugh. I decided to try the corn, but most of the kernels fell off the fork before they got to my mouth.

“Care to spoon-feed your friend, Ronnie?” Mrs. Shaw suggested.

“Why doesn’t he just go home?” Ronnie sounded like I’d become an embarrassment. His parents had a conversation with their eyes.

Mr. Shaw turned to me. “Try the mashed potatoes, Scott.”

It would have been impolite not to, but as soon as I felt that mealy sensation in my mouth, I spit them back onto the tray.

Ronnie muttered, “Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry,” I apologized. “I forgot that I hate mashed potatoes.”

“ Now will you send him home?” Ronnie begged his parents. “Or are you scared you’ll get into trouble because he’s drunk?”

“He’s not drunk,” Mrs. Shaw replied.

“Oh, really?” Ronnie asked in a fresh way that would have definitely gotten me spanked. “What would you call it?”

I can’t loosen the bunk-bed screws. Are they that tight, or have I just grown too weak? I’m so scared that we’re never going to get out, but I keep it to myself because I don’t want to make things worse. Paula quietly weeps and clings to her dad. Sparky tried to help but gave up and now huddles with Janet, his eyes nervous and darting.

Ronnie takes the screwdriver and tries, but he can’t get the screws loose, either. Dad struggles with them for a while, then gives up and sits down beside Janet, Sparky, and me. He gazes away, slowly kneading the muscles in his forearms. “I’m sorry, Janet.”

She places her hand on his shoulder. “Take a rest and try again, Mr. Porter,” she gently urges him. “For your children. For mine.”

Dad lets out a deep sigh, then picks up the screwdriver and tries again.

A hand gently shakes me awake. It’s Dad. He’s finally gotten one of the bunk boards loose and needs help carrying it around the shield wall.

I yawn and get up, and we carry the board into the narrow corridor. Dad looks up at the bunk, and once again his shoulders sag as if he’s not sure he has the strength to lift the board up there. We lean against the cinder blocks. Everyone else is on the other side of the shield wall. Dad puts his arms around me, and I slide mine around his waist and press my cheek against his cool skin. I think he must be a good father. There may have been a lot of things he didn’t think of, and a lot of times he got mad and spanked Sparky and me, but he was never mean.

And he always tried his best.

When we go back into the shelter, it feels like no one’s moved. Dad starts to unscrew another bunk board but spends more time resting than working. Janet kneads his shoulders and whispers encouragement. When he’s finally ready to move the second board, he asks her to help. The three of us pick it up and take a few steps, but the board slips out of our hands and hits the floor with a loud clack! Everyone jumps.

“Listen,” Dad says, breathing hard. “We can’t do this without the rest of you.” He pauses as if just the act of talking takes an effort. “If you folks just want to sit here and wait for the end, I can’t stop you. But I want to keep trying.”

No one moves. The air is stale. The ventilator should probably be cranked.

“You’re wasting your time,” says Mr. McGovern. “Whatever’s on top of the door is too heavy.”

“No one’s going to come and save us, Herb,” Dad answers. “This is our only chance.”

No one moves.

We sit. Dad hugs Sparky and me to him. I touch Sparky’s arm and nod over at Janet. He may only be nine, but he knows what I’m thinking. He takes her hand.

What a good little brother he is.

In the dim light, Ronnie sits between his parents, holding their hands. Mr. McGovern has his arm around Paula. Everyone’s quiet — lost in thought, I guess. My thoughts go to my friends. I think about playing fungo and touch football and throwing dirt bombs and burning leaves. How could they do this to kids? We never had anything against Russian kids, and it’s hard to believe they had anything against us.

What’d we do to deserve this?

“May I say something, Mr. Porter?” Janet’s voice squeezes through the gloom.

“Yes, of course, Janet.”

She addresses everyone. “Mr. and Mrs. Shaw, Mr. McGovern, if we die in here, you’ll go to your graves knowing what happened to your children.”

Heads rise as they exchange quizzical looks.

“As awful as this is, you’ll have that peace of mind,” Janet continues. “Without your help, I will never know what happened to mine.”

Silence.

“Please,” Janet urges them. “I am asking you to put yourself in my place.”

Silence.

“The Yankees sure are something, huh?” Mr. Shaw said after dinner. “Four World Series in seven years.”

“Yeah.” I’d managed to eat most of the steak and corn. The euphoric feeling brought on by the wine was gradually giving way to throbbing in my skull.

“Maybe this’ll be the Giants’ year to win it all, too.”

“Definitely,” I said. “Tittle’s great.”

“He your favorite player?”

“No, Sam Huff.”

“A fine linebacker,” Mr. Shaw agreed. “Your dad taking you to any games this fall?”