Todd Strasser: Fallout

Clinks and scratching follow, as if he’s touching things.

Crash!

People cry out in surprise. For one terrifying instant, I imagine that the roof of the shelter is caving in, then realize it was just a bunch of things falling from a shelf. Dad curses, then says, “Sorry, everyone.”

“You all right?” Mr. Shaw asks.

“Yes.”

“Dad, please turn on a light,” Sparky begs.

“I’m trying, Edward. Believe me, I’m trying.” There’s frustration in his voice. Things jangle and scrape as he sorts through whatever fell.

“What about the light from before?” Sparky asks.

I don’t want Dad to get angry, which he sometimes does when we ask too many questions. So I tell Sparky, “It won’t work. There’s no electricity anymore.”

“Why not?”

There’s a clunk and Dad grunts, “Damn it!” as if he banged his head.

“Are you okay?” This time it’s Mrs. Shaw who asks.

“Yes.” But he sounds even more frustrated. Sometimes when he got this way in the house, I would hide in a closet.

“Why isn’t there electricity?” Sparky asks.

“Because the bomb blew everything up,” I tell him.

“I didn’t hear a bomb,” my brother says.

“Be quiet,” Dad snaps. “I’m trying to think.”

“But I didn’t hear a bomb,” Sparky whines, his voice breaking. “Just turn on the light.”

“Quiet!” Dad bellows.

Sparky starts crying again. Fearing Dad will get angrier and yell even more, I pull my brother tighter to me and shush him the way Mom would. More clinking and scratching follows. Then, finally, a click and a light goes on.

It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust, then I see Dad near the bunks, shining the beam from a long silver flashlight on Mom, whose head is on Janet’s lap. My breath catches; there’s a big red stain on Janet’s robe. Mom’s hair is dark and gummy, and in the dim light her skin looks almost gray.

“Mom!” Sparky wails rawly. He bursts out of my grasp and flies toward her, but Dad catches him.

“She’s going to be okay,” he says, swinging the flashlight beam away. I bite my tongue not to say what I’m thinking, which is that she doesn’t look like she’s going to be okay. Dad has to wrestle Sparky, who’s still struggling to get to Mom. “We have to leave her alone, Edward,” he says softly. “We have to let her get better.” He holds my little brother gently but firmly.

“Listen to your father,” Janet tells him.

“But what’s wrong with her?” Sparky asks anxiously, craning to see around Dad.

“Mr. Porter, is there a first-aid kit?” Janet asks.

Dad aims the flashlight at some shelves. “Get it, Scott.”

I rise, and that’s when I notice Mr. McGovern and Paula near the shield wall. Paula’s curled in his arms and weeping miserably. Mr. McGovern hugs her, his eyes glistening.

They’re half a family.

It’s… horrible.

“Run!” Ronnie yelled.

We sprinted around the Lewandowskis’ station wagon — past the astonished faces of Mrs. Lewandowski, Linda, and the rest of the brood — and out into the sunlight, where there was no sign of Freak O’ Nature. I didn’t understand why we were running. Mrs. Lewandowski had seen us. Lest there be any doubt, she now stood at the mouth of the garage and called, “Ronnie? Scott? What’s going on?”

Being a dutiful child who’d been taught to answer grown-ups, I began to slow, but Ronnie grunted, “Don’t stop!”

So I sped up again.

With the cheesecake box tucked into the crook of his arm like a football, Ronnie led the way. On the sidewalk ahead of us was Freak O’ Nature, who’d abandoned his lookout post and was walking home with the transistor radio pressed to his ear. For a moment, I wondered if Ronnie was running after him, angry that Freak O’ Nature had gone AWOL. But he ran right past him and kept going.

As I sprinted past Freak O’ Nature, he asked, “Where’re you going?”

“We got caught!” I gasped.

Ronnie ran another hundred yards and then slowed to a jog. I would have gained on him, but I was winded and slowing as well. Soon we were walking about fifteen yards apart. A stitch had started to cramp in my right side.

“Wait.” I gulped in pain. “She saw us. She called our names.”

But Ronnie kept going — down the sidewalk… across Freak O’ Nature’s front yard… around the side of his house… and into the backyard, where he plopped down under a maple tree. I flopped down opposite him, massaging the stitch in my side.

Neither of us spoke. Ronnie sat staring at the Sara Lee cheesecake box in his lap.

A minute later, Freak O’ Nature joined us, dropping into an Indian-style position.

“Thanks a lot,” Ronnie growled.

“For what?” asked Freak O’ Nature.

“I told you to keep an eye out.”

“I did.”

“For the Lewandowskis. ”

“Oh.” Freak O’ Nature mulled this over. “Sorry.”

“She’s probably telling our mothers right now.” I imagined Mrs. Lewandowski on the party line, reporting the incident to both our moms at once. “We’re dead.”

“You could give it back,” suggested Freak O’ Nature.

“No!” Ronnie clutched the box as if it would shoot right back to the freezer if he let go.

“It’s just a stupid cheesecake,” I said.

To end the debate, Ronnie tore open the box and peeled back the round tinfoil lid, revealing the light-brown-rimmed yellow cake inside. I wished I felt hungry, but mostly I felt dread. Getting caught stealing surely qualified as a spankable offense.

Prying the cake out, Ronnie gripped the sides and tried to break off a piece, but in its frozen state, it wouldn’t even bend. He bared his teeth in the effort, then finally smashed the cake against his knee. It broke sort of in half, and he handed the smaller piece to me and kept the larger for himself.

“What about me?” Freak O’ Nature asked.

“You abandoned your post,” Ronnie said.

Freak O’ Nature didn’t reply. He rarely argued with anyone.

The chunk Ronnie had given me bore the indentations of his fingers and was covered with his fingerprints. Ronnie bit into the corner of his piece where the filling met the graham-cracker crust. He held the bite in his mouth for a moment, probably letting the cheesecake soften, and then closed his eyes, a blissful smile appearing on his lips as if to rub in Freak O’ Nature’s loss.

Somehow, despite all the regret I felt about my participation in this terrible crime, and the apprehension about being punished, my appetite crept back. I found a corner of cake free of Ronnie’s fingerprints and took a nibble. The cheesecake was cold and creamy and delicious, and I bit off a little of the nutty brown crust to go along with it. Like a prisoner on death row, I began to savor my last meal.

The medical kit is the size of a lunch box, with a red cross on it. Next to it is a green box I’ve seen once before, in Dad’s closet. I know what’s in that box, and finding it here catches me by surprise and makes me uncomfortable. I look away and take the first-aid kit to Dad.

He hands me the flashlight. “Keep it aimed on her.”

I shine the beam at Mom’s face, which is gray with some black-and-blue marks near her ears. As Dad rips open a gauze pad, then gently lifts Mom’s head and presses the pad against the wound, my stomach coils with anxiety. Her hair in back is all dark reddish and stuck together. As if Dad knows what I’m thinking, he says, “It looks bad, but head wounds bleed a lot.”