American Decameron

by Mark Dunn

  “I think you look for things to worry about. The bomb didn’t have nuclear capability. Do you know what the odds are that something like that could happen again? Give me a kiss. I’m late.”

  BEFORE THAT:

  1558, 02/05/58

  An Air Force B-47 Stratojet leaves Hunter Air Force base and shortly thereafter collides with an F-86 Sabre. The B-47 is carrying a Mark 15 hydrogen bomb. The pilot of the crippled bomber (the fighter’s pilot ejects as his plane goes down) makes three attempts to land the plane at Hunter, with its nuclear bomb on board. A safe landing cannot be assured, given the condition of the craft. It is decided that the bomb, its nuclear explosion triggering capsule believed to be safely absent, should be released to allow the compromised craft to land. The weapon is jettisoned in the Wassaw Sound off Tybee Island and doesn’t detonate upon impact with the water. The plane lands safely.

  MANY YEARS AFTER THAT:

  In 2004 there will be renewed interest in finding the exact location of the ejected bomb. High levels of radiation and unusual magnetometer readings will pinpoint a spot just off the southern tip of “Little Tybee.” This will indicate the possibility that the bomb contained a nuclear capsule after all. On the other hand, the Air Force will report in 2005 that the high radiation reading could most likely be attributed to monazite, a kind of radioactive sand.

  One hundred and seventy miles away in South Carolina, a different, terrestrial bombsite exists now only as a shallow depression in the ground, overgrown with vegetation. There were once hand-lettered signs that directed the curious to the spot, but they have been stolen.

  Perhaps they were taken as souvenirs.

  1959

  TIGHT IN NEW YORK

  “You’re starting early,” said Janice, turning around so her husband could zip her up in the back.

  Cliff set his highball glass down upon the blonde-wood buffet next to him. “No earlier than usual.”

  “It’s going to be a long evening, Cliff. No one goes to a New Year’s Eve party with any expectation of leaving before one or two in the morning—even when the party is as boring as Marilyn and Gilbert’s parties usually are.” Janice glanced up at the aluminum sunray clock hanging from the dining room’s grass cloth wall. Its rays were spiny and looked like something that lived at the bottom of the ocean. “It will be 1960 in less than five hours. I cannot even imagine it. 1960. We met in 1949. We’re entering a third decade together.”

  Cliff finished with his wife’s zipper and retrieved his glass. “So what are you suggesting?”

  “That you don’t show up at the Powells’ drunk. How will that look? Aren’t you expecting Gilbert to move all his business over to you next year?”

  Cliff nodded. Then he sighed. “I’ll stop. It’s seven fifteen. I should go pick up Miss Stillwell. Has Rosalie left yet?”

  “She’s clearing the children’s dinner plates and then she’ll be off.”

  “Why couldn’t she babysit Judy and Dicky tonight?”

  Janice rolled her eyes, annoyed. “It’s New Year’s Eve, Cliff. Rosalie’s going into the city. That would have been mean, don’t you think—making Rosalie stay home on a night like this?”

  “I wouldn’t have minded it—I mean, if it meant we didn’t have to go to Powells’. Pop open a bottle of bubbly, snuggle up on the couch with Guy Lombar—”

  “You can’t snuggle on that couch. I hate that couch. I hate Danish Modern. I don’t know what I was thinking. It’s so sterile.”

  “That’s your bailiwick, baby. I’m quite content with my Herbert Hoover armchair in the study.”

  “You’re sloshing,” said Janice, pointing to Cliff’s glass. “You’re very drunk. Now what are we going to do about Miss Stillwell? We can’t get her a taxi. Not tonight of all nights.”

  “I’m fine. I’ve driven far more intoxicated than this.”

  “That’s supposed to set my mind at ease?”

  “You need to learn to drive, Janice. It’s almost 1960, as you’ve already noted. Women drive these days, maybe you’ve heard.”

  “I’ve told you already that learning to drive is my New Year’s resolution. Go on. Be careful. Westchester County is probably swarming with highway patrol officers just looking for people like you to give tickets to. Or worse.”

  “I’ll go slow. Miss Stillwell’s only ten minutes away.”

  Janice Fredericks had called Miss Stillwell, whom she knew from their work together on the Tarrytown Library Committee, in early December to make sure that she would be available for New Year’s Eve. Janice knew that babysitters in Westchester County were a valuable commodity on the last night of the year, and even more so on this particular New Year’s Eve. The 1950s were about to bow out, to have their place taken by a decade that held great promise. At least this is what Americans were told. Wasn’t the New York World’s Fair’s “Futurama” exhibit, which Janice had seen as a girl in 1940—wasn’t it all about 1960, about that portal year to all the glories and wonders of an enterprising, utopian future?

  Janice thought about this as she watched her husband go out to the garage. She thought about all the little model cars she’d seen in the World’s Fair exhibit. She wondered if there had been any tiny drunk drivers in any of those tiny cars—especially drivers like her husband, who seemed to do a fairly competent job of keeping his Eldorado on the pavement, despite obvious mental impairment.

  Miss Stillwell answered the door. She was a little more smartly dressed than Cliff anticipated. It was New Year’s Eve, after all, even though she expected she’d be spending it first playing Candy Land with a five-year-old and seven-year-old, and then sitting alone in front of the TV and watching the crowds make noise at Times Square thirty miles away.

  Miss Adelaide Stillwell used to be a schoolteacher. She was retired now, but she still enjoyed being around children. Adelaide volunteered at the library; she read storybooks aloud during story hour. And, of course, she babysat. Adelaide had made her peace with spinsterhood a long time ago. (Although she would forever detest the designation “old maid.”)

  “How are you tonight, Miss Stillwell?” Cliff affably inquired.

  “I’m doing just fine. Let me get my purse and my snacks.”

  Cliff waited on Adelaide’s porch while she fetched her purse and tray of snacks and then locked the front door. He let her go ahead of him down the brick walk that bisected the neatly trimmed front lawn of her small, fairytale stone cottage. Halfway down the walk, she heard a scraping, scuffing sound, an “oof!” and then a “damn!” She stopped and turned.

  “I’m okay,” Cliff said, tipping slightly to the left. “I just got tripped up by one of your bricks.”

  “I don’t see how that’s possible. My bricks are all fairly even.”

  “Well, at least one of them wasn’t. But it’s all right. I don’t think I did any damage. Not to me or to the bricks.”

  “Have you been drinking?” Adelaide moved in closer so she could smell the air in the vicinity of Cliff’s mouth.

  “A cocktail before I left the house.”

  “You’ve had more than a single cocktail, Mr. Fredericks.”

  “Does it matter? I’m a better driver tight than most men are sober. I’ve been behind the wheel since I was twelve.”

  “A drunk man praising his driving skills.” Adelaide whistled her disbelief. Then she folded her arms and straightened up her lower back to show resolution. “You’ve been drinking. I have a hard and fast rule about not being driven by people who’ve been drinking.”

  Cliff frowned, his brow narrowing. “Is this a new rule? Because I can name at least a half-dozen times I drove you home after you babysat for us when I was nowhere near sober and you clearly knew it. And may I add, Miss Stillwell, that I got you home in one piece each and every time.”

  “It’s a recent rule, I’ll admit, but I’m sticking to it.”

  “Why this rule all of the sudden?”

  “Apparently you don’t read the local papers, Mr. Fredericks. That
young woman who was killed right before Christmas—the man who put that car right through the trunk of that tree—he’d been drinking too, and drinking heavily. He’d been to a party—just as you are going to a party. She was his children’s babysitter, Mr. Fredericks. Just as I am your children’s babysitter.”

  “Miss Stillwell, it isn’t necessary for you to speak to me as if I’m still in the third grade.”

  “I’m simply trying to make you understand. I won’t brook it. Not ever again. It’s irresponsible for a man to get behind the wheel of a car when his eyesight and his reflexes are encumbered by strong drink. I sincerely hope, Mr. Fredericks, that you are not in the habit of endangering your wife and children in this manner.”

  Cliff sighed and slumped. “I assure you, madam, that I do not. I generally only drink during that one hour that conveniently falls between ‘Hi honey, I’m home,’ and ‘Dinner looks great!’ Oh, and I have a few beers on the weekend. I’m not the dipsomaniac that you paint me.”

  “I wasn’t painting you in any such way! I was merely asking if you would in the future—”

  “All well and good, Miss Stillwell. All well and good, but what about tonight? I am taking my wife and myself to a New Year’s party given by a very important potential client. It isn’t a party that we can afford to miss. I believe that Janice secured your services for this evening several weeks ago. That’s how important it is that we have someone to babysit our children tonight. If you decline, you’ll be putting me in a terrible bind. And you’ll be in breach of our oral agreement.”

  “Every agreement carries certain unspoken expectations, Mr. Fredericks. One of these expectations is that both parties will act in good faith. This isn’t good faith. You tripped on my front walk because you’re sozzled. I will not ride with you. I’ll be very sorry if you happen to miss your party, but you should have used better judgment before you left the house.”

  Cliff thought for a moment. “May I come in and use your phone? I’ll see if I can get you a cab.”

  “Certainly.”

  Cliff knew before he began to dial the various cab companies that covered this section of Westchester County that it would be a lost cause. But he still had to try on the outside chance that he might get very lucky. He didn’t even care if the companies wanted to gouge him. He’d pay whatever they asked. This was an important party. He had told Gilbert Powell that he and his wife were looking forward to it. He cursed Janice now for never having learned to drive. And why didn’t Miss Stillwell drive? Did she just sit around like royalty and expect people to ferry her to wherever she needed to go? It was infuriating. But he tried his best to keep calm. Keeping calm might help Adelaide Stillwell to change her mind.

  After striking out with the fifth cab company he phoned, Cliff turned to look up at Adelaide, who was standing next to the little phone table. It was a heavy table—Stickley maybe. Miss Stillwell wouldn’t be caught dead with a house filled with Heywood-Wakefield’s Contessa Danish Modern, thought Cliff. She was practical. She was sensible. Miss Stillwell didn’t even get into a car unless she knew that the ride would be safe. “No dice,” he said.

  Adelaide tutted. Forever the school marm, thought Cliff.

  “Any chance you might reconsi—?”

  “Absolutely not.”

  “May I have some coffee?”

  “I’ll be happy to make you a cup of coffee, Mr. Fredericks, but studies have shown that simply drinking a cup or two of coffee doesn’t magically sober a person up.” She cleared some phlegm from her throat. “If that’s what you’re aiming at here.”

  “And just how long do you think it will take for me to sober up, Miss Stillwell?”

  “It depends on how many drinks you’ve had. Will you be honest and tell me that, Mr. Fredericks? And would you also take a guess at how strong you made each one of them? Or was it Janice who made them?”

  “No, no. I mix my own drinks. I think I had two. I got home a little late and I had to shower and dress for the party. Two. I’m sure that was it.”

  “It smells like more.”

  “I can’t help what it smells like. I’m telling you two. How long for two drinks, Miss Stillwell? How long before you think I’ll be clearheaded enough to drive you the six or seven miles to my house?”

  “Two hours, I should think. One hour for each drink. Yes, I’m fairly certain I’d be comfortable riding with you after I was sure that you hadn’t been drinking for two hours.”

  “I suppose we could be late. I could just say that something came up with one of the kids. Yes. That might be doable. Can I use your phone to call Janice and tell her?”

  “Of course.”

  Cliff called Janice and explained where things stood. “So, I’ll come on home and wait there and then in a couple of hours—”

  Adelaide interrupted. “Not acceptable. How do I know that you aren’t going to treat yourself to another drink once you get home?”

  Cliff snorted. It was actually a half-snort, half growl. He spoke into the phone’s mouthpiece: “She doesn’t trust me.”

  “Yes, I heard her,” said Janice.

  “Can’t you promise her that you’ll keep me on the straight and narrow?”

  “I can try.”

  Cliff handed the phone to Adelaide. “Hello, Adelaide,” said Janice.

  “Hello, Janice. I hate to be so difficult, but you know what happened to Dot Sparrell last week.”

  “Yes, I do. It was so tragic. She was going to be a nurse.”

  “Janice, I would certainly trust you to keep an eye on Cliff, but that isn’t the only issue. When he drives in this condition he puts other people at risk besides himself and whomever happens to be in the car with him—other motorists, other passengers, innocent pedestrians. It’s best, I think, that he stay here with me until he sobers up.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Janice. “Maybe you could feed him while he’s there. He didn’t eat much for dinner. It’s no wonder the alcohol went straight to his head.”

  “The alcohol went straight to his head because there was a great lot of it, Janice. Let’s not kid ourselves. I made myself a little New Year’s Eve hors d’oeuvres platter to take with me to your house tonight. He can have some of that. Do you want me to put your husband back on the line?”

  As Janice was saying that it wasn’t necessary, Cliff was shaking his head as well. Adelaide returned the phone receiver to its cradle and placed her hands on her hips.

  “Well, little man, let’s get you some coffee. I have Eight O’Clock coffee. That’s the A&P brand. Would that be all right?”

  “It’ll be eight o’clock soon. Why not?”

  Cliff sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee and reading a Red Smith sports column in the New York Herald Tribune. Adelaide sat across from him. She pushed the hors d’oeuvres plate a little closer to him. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like a canapé?”

  “Well, hell, why not?” Cliff picked up a cracker with a thin slice of prosciutto on it and popped it into his mouth.

  “You like it?”

  Cliff nodded.

  “Have another. I can make more.” She sat back in her chair and studied Cliff.

  “What is it? Am I chewing recklessly?”

  She shook her head. “You look like a boy I used to know.”

  “When was this?”

  “Oh, years and years ago. He died in the Spanish flu epidemic. We were engaged to be married.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “It wouldn’t have worked out. He drank.” She looked embarrassed. “That was rude. I’m sorry. I’m sure you aren’t nearly the drinker he was. It’s terribly ironic—the fact that he died so close to the start of Prohibition.”

  “People drank during Prohibition. You should know. You lived through it.”

  “You’re right. You’re quite right. Try one of those little mushroom thingies.”

  “You made all this just for yourself?”

  “I was going to give Judy and Dicky a taste. But m
ost of it is pretty rich, and I didn’t want them to get a tummy ache.”

  “Smart. It’s good. The mushroom thing. It’s all very good. I should pay you for this tray and take it to the party. Never much care for the spread that Marilyn Powell sets out.”

  A silence passed, Cliff turning desultorily through the pages of the newspaper while taking an occasional bite from the hors d’oeuvres tray, Adelaide puttering around the kitchen. “Do you mind if I turn on the radio?”

  “Not at all.”

  Adelaide tuned her kitchen radio to big band music. “I usually can’t find anything but rock and roll these days,” she pronounced.

  Cliff grunted agreement.

  After another couple of minutes, Adelaide turned the music down and said, “Cliff. Is it all right for me to call you Cliff?”

  “You can call me whatever you like, Miss Stillwell. Just don’t call me a cab, because you won’t have any luck.” Cliff’s little joke was chased by a glimmer of a smile.

  “There’s something I haven’t told you. Something that I should have told you.”

  Cliff, whose head had been largely in the paper, now looked up. “What?”

  “I can drive. I even have a car. I let my brother borrow it. He wanted to drive down to Atlantic City for the weekend.”

  “You can drive? Since when can you drive?”

  “Since I finished my lessons last month.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me this? You could have driven my car! Why did you put me through all this?”

  “You shouldn’t drink and drive. I was trying to make a point that would stick.”

  Cliff could feel his face turning red. “You know, Miss Stillwell, this really shouldn’t be any of your business.”

  “I disagree. You’re going to kill somebody one of these days—if not me, then your wife or one of your children, or somebody you meet coming around one of those curves on Highway 119. Or yourself.”

  “So you’ve been teaching me a lesson.”

  “I suppose I have.”

  Cliff got up. “So can we go? You know, of course, that I don’t intend to pay you for all the time that we’ve wasted here.”