Tim O'Brien - The Nuclear Age

I nodded at him. “All right. Companionship.”

“Fun, William. Get on the phone, line up a date or two. If you need cash, anything, just say the word.”

“Will do.”

“Fun.”

“Fun,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

He smiled and gave me a bashful pat on the shoulder. For a second I was afraid he might lean in for a hug, but he had the good sense to fold his arms and wink and back off.

He took two steps and then hesitated.

“One other thing,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I—we love you. Love, got it?”

“Got it,” I said.

I loved him, too. Which is why I didn’t blurt out the facts. To protect him, to beef up his confidence. Say what you want about honesty and trust, but there isn’t a father in the world who wants to hear that his kid has turned into a slightly warped ding-a-ling. All I wanted, really, was to give him the son he deserved.

So I kept the wraps on. A few fibs here and there. Quite a few, in fact.

Once or twice a week, for instance, I’d do a little trick with the telephone, dialing a random number, quietly breaking the connection, then carrying on fake conversations with fake friends. It was strictly a parental morale booster. Eyes closed, leaning back, I’d pretend I was calling up one of Fort Derry High’s hot-dog cheerleaders, like Sarah Strouch, and I’d make up zippy little bits of dialogue, clucking my tongue, trying to imagine the sort of topics Sarah might want to talk about. There were problems at first, but eventually, once I got the hang of it, I was able to relax and enjoy myself. It was a form of human contact. “So what’s happening?” I’d say, and she’d say, “Nothing much,” and then for an hour or two we’d discuss politics and religion, the nature of cheerleading, anything that popped up. A spooky thing, but there were even times when I’d get the feeling that Sarah was actually on the line—I could almost hear that husky voice of hers, very sexy but also very tough. “You poor, fucked-up guy,” she’d say, and I’d listen while she listed all my problems, then finally I’d say, “Okay, you’re right, but it’s just temporary,” and then I’d hear a snorting sound and she’d say, “I’m all ears, Billy, tell me about it.” So I’d lay it on the line. I’d talk about that alien feeling. How lonely I felt, how disconnected—lost in space.

It might sound strange, but those fake phone calls produced some of the most intelligent conversations I’d ever had. Absolutely no bullshit, no teasing. Sarah Strouch was my closest buddy.

A game, that’s all.

And what was the harm?

On weekends I’d sometimes go out on trumped-up dates. I’d do my phone trick with Sarah and splash on some Old Spice and bum money from my dad and then head down to Jig’s Confectionery for an evening of pinball and cherry phosphates and do-it-yourself fun.

It was a double life. Normal, but also shaky, and there were times when all the pressures took a toll. A weighed-down feeling: I couldn’t function. Lying in bed at night, I’d hold my breath and pretend I was stone dead, no more troubles, a nice thick coffin to keep out the worms.

Other times I’d imagine a yacht bobbing in the South Pacific. Waves and sun and gentle winds. Sarah Strouch sunbathing on a teak deck, those tight muscles, all that smooth brown skin.

Or a tree house made of steel.

A concrete igloo in Alaska.

A snug spaceship heading for the stars.

In the middle of the night I’d get up and wander out to the living room and shake dice or play solitaire. I’d roam from room to room. I’d fill the bathtub with hot water and ease myself in and practice floating.

Once, around four in the morning, my mother found me there. I was half asleep, waterlogged.

“Darling,” she whispered, “what’s wrong? ”

“Nothing,” I said.

“William, please, it’s almost daylight.”

I smiled.

“No problem,” I said. “I need a bath.”

October 1962, and things got ticklish.

I looked at my father and said, “There, you see?” I wasn’t being a smart aleck. It was a serious question: Did he finally see?

How did we survive?

We were civilized. We observed the traditional courtesies, waving at neighbors, making polite conversation in supermarkets. People counted their change. Vacations were planned and promises were made. We pursued the future as though it might still be caught.

My mother vacuumed the living-room rug, dusted furniture, washed windows, told me to buckle down to my schoolwork—there was college to think about.

“College?” I said, and my mother fluffed her hair and said, “We have to trust,” so I buckled down.

We carried on.

By looking loved ones in the eye. By not blinking when Kennedy said: The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are .

And we were brave. We went to church. We paid attention to our bodies—the in-and-out movement of lungs, the sweet pulse of a toothache. We masturbated. We slept. We found pleasure in the autumn foliage. There was much kissing and touching, and the name of the Lord was invoked at Kiwanis meetings.

My father made me get a haircut. “Shaggy-waggy,” he said, playfully, but he meant it.

Birthdays were celebrated. Clocks were wound.

One evening, at twilight, my mother and father and I sat in plastic lawn chairs in the backyard, scanning the sky, a peaceful pinkish sky rimmed with violet. No words were spoken. We were simply waiting. When darkness came, my mother took my hand, and my father’s hand, pressing them together. A modest gesture: Did she finally see? We just sat and waited. Later my father covered his eyes and yawned and stood up.

“Oh, well,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

I didn’t dream. I felt some fear, of course, or the memory of fear, but I had the advantage of having been there before, a kind of knowledge.

At school we practiced evacuation drills. There was bravado and squealing.

A convocation in the school gym. The principal delivered a speech about the need for courage and calm. The pep band played fight songs. Sarah Strouch led us in the Pledge of Allegiance, guileless and solemn, her hand teasing the breast beneath her letter sweater. The pastor of the First Baptist Church offered a punchy prayer, then we filed back to the classrooms to pursue the study of math and physics.

How?

By rolling dice. By playing solitaire. By adding up assets, smoking cigarettes, getting ready for Halloween, touching bases, treading water.

A dream, wasn’t it?

Jets scrambled over Miami Beach and warships cruised through the warm turquoise waters off St. Thomas.

“How’s tricks?” my dad asked.

“Fine.”

“Flashes?”

“What flashes?”

He grinned. “That’s the ticket. What flashes?”

We held together.

By pretending.

By issuing declarations of faith.

“They aren’t madmen,” my mother said.

“Exactly,” said my father.

So we played Scrabble at the kitchen table, quibbling over proper nouns and secondary spellings.

“They know better.”

“Of course.”

“Even the Russians—they don’t want it—politics, that’s all it is. True? Isn’t that true?”

“Oh, Christ,” my father said.

I wasn’t haunted by the nuclear stuff, I didn’t lose control, and if it hadn’t been for the headaches and constipation, I would’ve come through in good shape. Problem was, I couldn’t shit. Which brought on the headaches, which led to other problems.

In any case, I spent the Cuban missile crisis squatting on a toilet. It was painful business, and embarrassing, so one morning on the sly I slipped down to Elf’s Drug Store on Main Street and swiped the laxatives. Except nothing much happened. A slight bellyache, a throbbing at my temples. I doubled the dose and drank a couple of Cokes and dragged myself off to school.