Todd Strasser - Fallout

Trouble swirled around me like those bugs around the streetlight. It was times like this when I wished Ronnie wasn’t my best friend. I needed a friend I could admit I was scared to without having to worry that he’d make fun of me. “Because we might be on the verge of nuclear war. Doesn’t that bother you?”

Ronnie shrugged. “Okay, forget it. I’m not gonna tell you what I saw.”

“Suit yourself,” I said.

Ronnie narrowed his eyes. “Come on, admit it — you’re dying to know.”

“No, I’m really not,” I said, feeling anger and fear and resentment percolating inside me. “And you want to know why? Because we could all be killed tonight. And if we’re not, you’re gonna come up with some scheme to look through Paula’s window again, and I’m gonna get in a ton of trouble. And you’re not gonna get in any trouble because you never get punished for anything.”

“You are the biggest baby I ever saw,” Ronnie taunted. “You don’t know anything, and you’re afraid to find out. Go be a coward in your dumb bomb shelter. Want to know something? My dad thinks your dad’s an idiot. Because there’s never gonna be a war because everyone knows the world would be destroyed and no one would win. Only an idiot would be stupid enough to build a bomb shelter.”

“Well, your father’s stupid for giving kids wine and reading Playboy in front of them and never making you do any chores,” I shot back. “And your mom’s stupid because she dresses like a movie star even though she’s just a mother, and she gives you TV dinners instead of real meals because she’s too lazy to cook.”

“Coward,” Ronnie said.

“Spoiled brat,” I said.

“Homo.”

I balled my hands into fists and swung as hard as I could, hitting him on the arm. It must have hurt a little, but not enough. Ronnie tackled me, and we slammed to the street and rolled around, swinging our fists wildly. I knew I was going to lose, but it didn’t matter. I just wanted to hit him as hard as I could. I wanted to make him pay for calling my father an idiot and for not being scared and not doing chores and for always getting me into trouble and having a home filled with so many temptations.

Even when Ronnie pinned me on my back, I still kicked and tried to hit him. If it hadn’t been for him, I wouldn’t have stolen that cheesecake or drunk too much Dubonnet or had to think about my mother’s breasts and queers. I was sure that behind our backs his father made fun of my father, and that his mother was one of the ladies who stared at my mother in the supermarket.

“Break it up. Come on, boys, that’s enough.” Dad’s voice came through the dark.

I felt Ronnie’s weight rise off me and saw Dad pulling him by the arm. I pushed myself to my feet. My right elbow stung where the skin had been scraped, and my knee throbbed where I’d banged it on the street.

“What’s this about?” Dad asked.

Ronnie and I glared at each other but said nothing. Except for his shirt hanging out and one knee of his pants being torn, he didn’t look like he’d even been in a fight.

“Come on, what’s the story?” Dad asked.

We were silent. I knew that if I told what happened, I’d be labeled a tattletale and a sissy. Dad probably knew it, too.

“Okay, Ronnie, you better go home.” He let go, and Ronnie headed toward his house.

Dad and I started up our driveway, but I limped.

“You okay?” he asked.

“Yeah.”

“Want to tell me what happened?”

I shook my head.

“A boy thing, huh?” He smiled slightly, almost as if he was proud.

“Yeah.”

Mom cleaned my elbow and knee with Mercurochrome, which stung even more than scraping them had in the first place. She was annoyed when I said I couldn’t tell her what had happened and Dad said it was my private business. I had a feeling they were going to have an argument.

I went to bed wondering if Ronnie was right and there wouldn’t be a war after all. I wondered what would happen tomorrow when I saw him at the bus stop. Would he tell everyone we’d had a fight? Would he say he won or that it had been broken up before either of us could win?

Dad came in and sat on the side of my bed. “How’re you feeling?” he whispered.

I shrugged. It hurt, but not as much as you’d imagine a fight would. “Mom was pretty mad,” I said.

“She’s been upset about a lot of things lately.” Dad seemed sad. “It’s a hard time for everyone.”

“You think there’s going to be a war?”

“No one knows,” he answered.

“That’s what the fight was about, kind of.”

He looked surprised. “Seriously?”

“Ronnie said something bad about you because of the bomb shelter.”

Dad let his breath out and slowly nodded. “Maybe they’re right. Maybe it was a mistake. I was just trying to protect us.”

“I think you did the right thing, Dad.”

One of his eyebrows rose. “Even though you got into a fight about it?”

I shrugged. “Ronnie’s a jerk.”

“But he’s your best friend.”

“Yeah.”

A sad knowing smile crept onto Dad’s lips. “Kind of like your mom and me.”

Dad throws down clothes. Sparky and I find our own things, and the others put on whatever comes closest to fitting. Mrs. Shaw and Janet dress Mom.

A few minutes later, Dad and Mr. Shaw climb back down into the shelter.

“Can we go up?” Sparky asks.

“In a moment.” Dad eases Mom to her feet. It’s so strange the way she doesn’t know us but knows to walk when he leads her. In the narrow corridor, Janet and Mrs. Shaw work with Dad to get her onto the bunk bed. Above them, Mr. McGovern reaches down to help her out.

Paula and Sparky go next.

Then Mrs. Shaw and Janet.

Then Ronnie.

Dad looks down from above. “Your turn, Scott.”

I climb up on the bunk bed toward the light and the bad smell. It’s slow going because I’m weak and have to pause and rest, but I’m eager and scared, too. Finally I poke my head out. Even though I’m in the playroom closet, it’s so bright that I have to squint. The playroom windows have been blasted out, leaving jagged ridges of glass in the frames. The floor is covered with broken glass, small branches, leaves, and toys. The rotten meat smell is strong, and I don’t have to ask what the large lumps are that lie under bedsheets here and there. My insides tighten, and the awful thoughts of what it must have been like for those above gnaws at me.

“Don’t look,” Dad says. “Go outside.”

Behind me, Mr. Shaw climbs out of the shelter and hands Dad the flashlight, first-aid kit, the green box, and some other things. Then he and Dad close the trapdoor.

Out in the backyard, the air is cold and fresh. The trees have been stripped bare, and all that remains are stubby, leafless limbs and trunks missing bark on the side that faced the blast. Window screens, tree branches, roof shingles, and sheets of newspapers lie on the ground among the dead leaves and patches of scorched brown grass. The sun is in the west, so for the first time in weeks, we have a sense of what time it is. The air is still, and the sky is mostly blue, with a few feathery clouds here and there.

Up here in the light, it’s a shock to see how thin and gaunt everyone’s gotten. Dad and Mr. McGovern look strange with their short beards. We move slowly and keep looking upward as if trying to adjust to not having a ceiling overhead. Squinting in the angled sunlight, we hug ourselves, not just because we’re chilled.

We’re outside.

It’s so quiet that we can hear Sparky’s teeth chatter.