Amy Brashear - The Incredible True Story of the Making of the Eve of Destruction

The letter. Mom worked hard on that letter. The owner, Paul Passoni, wanted to make sure he had all his bases covered when it came to the possibility of a nuke attack. I mean, Griffin Flat might be smallish, a little over eight thousand people, but we were on the nukemap. [13] A list of “top Soviet nuclear targets” all over the United States of America. There were eighteen possible targets, not to mention the Little Rock Air Force Base, and Nuclear One. [14] A pressurized water reactor nuclear power plant on Lake Dardanelle in Russellville, Arkansas. There is only one power plant in Arkansas, and we also have a silo. That means we’re a military target—a primary target—as in one that gets picked even in a “limited” nuclear war. We were pretty much right smack dab in the vicinity of a ground zero situation.

“Your mom wants this done ASAP,” Paula said.

“And let me guess: She wanted you to do it?”

Paula always was a slow learner. She was hired because she was the owner’s sister. Nepotism and all. She blew her gum into a bubble and walked away. No matter how incompetent, you didn’t fire family.

I started stuffing and occasionally reading the letter.

Dear Guest,

I hope your stay will be comfortable and enjoyable.

As you may know, our country is in tense relations with the Soviet Union. We may have to face the threat of rising tensions, which may escalate to a full-out nuclear strike.

Whilst Arkansas has not yet been affected, we request that you follow the instructions below, should there be an air raid in the vicinity of the hotel.

1. If you hear a siren while in the hotel, please go down the staircase to the lobby, which is the lowest floor of the hotel.

2. Please do not use the elevators.

3. Disabled guests or guests who might have difficulties reaching the lobby are requested to inform our front desk at check-in.

4. Staff will direct you to the shelter area.

5. Please stay in the designated area until it is safe to leave.

For any other assistance, please feel free to contact the Front Desk or the Manager on Duty.

I am sure you will join me in hoping a quick end to the Cold War.

No matter how insane—I mean insane —this thing was, I felt like I was living in a movie. We were on the eve of destruction. (Laugh-out-loud funny here. I get the title of the movie. What do they say? Roll credits.)

When Mom had a moment’s peace, she came over and sat down at my small table in the breakfast area. “You shouldn’t have to do that,” she said.

“Paula—”

“But thank you.”

Before she could lecture me about my one-day suspension, I told her about the radio contest and how I won. “They were chanting my name in the locker room.” I raised my right arm and started chanting, “Laura! Laura! Laura!”

“And then—”

“And then I get to bring a friend with me to the set.”

She smiled, sort of. “So I guess you’re going to be bringing”—she sighed—“Dana.”

Dana. The bane of her existence. I am not going to use the word hate because that might not be the type of word Mom would use. No, slash that. She hated Dana. A lot of parents did. Dana was the type of friend who would barge into family situations without asking. One time she just showed up after Mom was going to take me on a special trip to Little Rock and thought she was going, too. Once my dad sent me flowers to my school for Valentine’s Day, and she got mad. Her mom did too. (Her dad didn’t send her any.) Her mom called my mom at work and complained. Like, who did that? I wasn’t exactly friends with Dana. Never really had been. She was just there. And I told Mom that repeatedly, but she didn’t believe me.

“What about Max?”

“Um, maybe.”

Max at a movie lot? Oh dear, he would probably go on a tangent about something and get us kicked off the set. He was really smart but had a problem focusing. We had been friends since kindergarten. Max Randall and Laura Ratliff. Let’s just say we were destined to be by each other’s side alphabetically until graduation. But he was my friend, and even though he was super smart, he didn’t make me feel super dumb. He was on the maybe list.

“Or what about—no. No… I’m not going to push it, but why don’t you just think about—no, no… I’m not going to be that mom. Laura, how about—”

She was trying to say Terrence. My stepbrother. The boy who I shared a bond with now. Both our lives had changed. If I did pick Terrence to go with me, I would make Mom happy, and also Dennis, and of course Terrence, if he was into that kind of thing. I would have so many brownie points with my mother. I could have gotten away with anything with her. And if I could have gotten away with that suspension, I would have said yes. Instead I said I’d think about it. How did I know that was the ticket? She smiled. Patted my knee and said “thank you” in a whisper.

She grabbed her smokes and her lighter, the reason why she came this way in the first place. “So about that suspension,” she said.

“It’s all good,” I said, just thinking about the easy work it was going to be compared with the incompetence of GFHS athletes. (Not all were dumb. I probably should make that clear. Rob Turner went to Vandy, the Harvard of the South, just last year.)

“It’ll be on your permanent record.”

“It won’t.”

“It might. And colleges don’t take too kindly to rebels.”

Oh, the college talk. Planning for the future when we were on the eve of destruction. (There I go again. I’ll probably do it a couple more times. Don’t hold it against me, my fine reader.)

“Don’t worry about it, Mom.”

“I’m your mom. I’m supposed to worry.”

I rolled my eyes and she did too.

“Well, Dennis should be home, so if you want to leave, you can,” she said, going outside to smoke.

Home . That was a four-letter word. I hadn’t had a “home” since my mom’s illicit affair spread like a forest fire.

Dennis was simultaneously cooking dinner and fixing the broken disposal. Dad never fixed things before. Grandpa would come over and try to fix things, but usually he couldn’t. If Dennis had one good quality, it would be that he was a good handyman. He owned Jennings’s Hardware down on Sixth Street, next to Rudy’s Diner and across the street from Gus’s Garage. We liked our businesses in Griffin Flat to be named by someone. Names were important. Now back to Dennis and his exceptional talent of burning a chicken noodle casserole. “Your mom called and said she’s going to be late, so we should start without her when Terrence gets home.”

Home. That was a funny word. Next to family . That was an equally funny word. I was not bitter—not bitter at all. Dennis tried, and I guess I did too, but it wasn’t exactly an ideal situation. It was ours, though. Part of the problem was how it all went down. And the gossiping. Oh dear God, the gossiping. I was at Brenda Leigh’s Beauty Parlor getting a perm when Terrence’s mom came bursting through the door, calling my mom a tramp, a whore, a bitch, a downright home-wrecker—and then proceeded to tell the entire salon the story in dramatic detail. She had seen Dennis’s truck (it had a logo on the side for goodness’ sake) at the Flat Inn. She’d marched right through the front doors and into the lobby. Scared Paula to death. She demanded to see her husband. Demanded the room number and a key. Poor Paula probably almost peed her pants. She said over and over again, “Ma’am, I’m sorry, but I cannot do that without a supervisor’s approval.” Mrs. Dianne Wilcox-Jennings, now Ms. Dianne Wilcox. She reverted back to her maiden name after she caught her husband tugging on his belt rounding the corner with my mom, who was clipping an earring on her right ear, an earring that Dad gave her for their anniversary.