The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  Quickly she went into the kitchen where the instruments were kept. She lifted the syringe and inspected it closely. Deciding on the proper level, she plunged the needle through the rubber cap on the bottle.

  By the time she returned to the bedroom, the sweetish odor was detectable from the foot of the bed. The elderly woman breathed heavily, her mouth open as she drew air in between her lips. Althea swiftly injected the insulin. Then, supporting the grey head with her arm, “Here, Mama, try to drink this,” and she poured the water through the parched lips. First her father, and now her mother. How long? How long?

  The old woman complied hungrily, trying to satiate her gnawing thirst.

  “More. Drink a little more for me,” said the daughter.

  On the third glass, the mother refused. “I can’t take anymore, Thea. Wait a minute or two.”

  “You must, Mama. We have to get as much into you as we can.” Obediently Lou Ella took one last swallow.

  Slumping back against the headboard, Althea realized how very tired she was. The trip to the hospital, the lunacy of the man in the car, the people in the field—it had left her virtually a lifeless shell. Added to that was the fact that it was over twenty-four hours since she had taken her last morsel of food. Her hands shook with a palsy that she couldn’t control. A constant dull ache throbbed in her brain. She glimpsed the bruised, oozing feet and turned her head aside, surprised that she had been able to ignore the pain while caring for her parents.

  Her thoughts drifted away in a haze of exhaustion. She recalled her youth, the happy times she’d had—and some of the bad ones. To be a school teacher was her childhood desire, but now she wondered if that had really been what she wanted. The job offered security, and to her parents, it had been prestigious. But it wasn’t exciting. There was nothing mentally stimulating about spending five days out of every week with a group of children. Sure, it was gratifying to see them learning, to help mold young minds, but it was mental stagnation for her own active brain.

  She’d suspected her discontent for several years, but hadn’t faced it, hadn’t attempted a new job or given her life a new direction. She’d told herself that at her age it was too late. Well, was thirty-five too late? Now that she was nearing the roller-coaster downhill swing? Or could something be salvaged still? It was a distracting thought—if she made it through this—that she’d give up teaching and do something else she’d wanted to do. It wouldn’t take all that much money to open a shop on a small scale, and with any kind of success, it would provide a livelihood for her mother and herself.

  A weak, plaintive moan escaped Lou Ella. “Althea?”

  The name brought her out of her reverie. “Yes, Mama?”

  “I think I can take some more water now.”

  After drinking greedily, the mother seemed somewhat uplifted in spirit. The abnormal thirst, as in diabetes, was difficult to assuage, especially when a desire for the water was greater than the stomach’s capacity to hold it. But it was the shot of insulin that was pulling her slowly back from the brink of coma. The small vial was almost empty of its contents. Althea fervently hoped the remaining hormone would not be required today, for going to the hospital while leaving her mother alone in her present condition was a fearsome choice.

  “Thea, do you remember Edward Allsworth?” asked the mother.

  “Mama, I don’t think you have the energy to talk. Why don’t you lie quietly for awhile?”

  The bony, wrinkled hand reached over and patted the daughter gently. “There may not be much time for talking left. Besides, you and I, Thea, we never do seem to sit down and really discuss the things that are between a mother and daughter.”

  “Oh Mama, we’ve always been talkers—you and I.”

  “But about the important things,” said the mother. “We never discuss the important ones, not like others do.”

  Her mother was right, they never really talked.

  “Edward Allsworth wanted to marry you, Thea.”

  Edward. Yes, he’d wanted to marry....and it would have been a good marriage, too, despite what people had said. “I thought you and Papa didn’t like Edward.”

  “He was all right,” answered Lou Ella softly. “He was....he wasn’t a bad sort.”

  What was it, ten years since Edward? Ten years come November 12. And how many times had he crossed her mind in all those years?

  “Thea, did you love him?”

  It was a question neither parent had ever asked; nor had anyone else. Did she love him? “Edward was years ago, Mama. I hardly remember him,” or the way he always wore his clothes, clothes that fit perfectly and never seemed to wrinkle, or the way he always scooted around her so that he walked nearest the street and she was on the inside.

  “But you didn’t answer my question,” reminded her mother.

  Love? He had given her a gold, heart-shaped locket with his picture in it for Valentine’s Day. He’d put it around her neck while they stood in the living room that night. The locket was tucked into the little wooden jewelry chest that she kept on her dresser. For some inexplicable reason, Althea felt a tinge of resentment that now, after all this time, someone would bother to wonder if she had loved Edward.

  “Does it matter whether I loved him or not?”

  For a long while Lou Ella didn’t reply. “But he was white, Althea,” she said in a tone nearly inaudible.

  Yes, and there was no point in rehashing this again—ten years later. Exactly when does a woman become her own person? When does she become strong enough that she’s willing to swim against the tide, to disregard well-intentioned advice and make up her own mind? And when it’s time to quit being afraid of being a disappointment, to quit living through someone else’s eyes. “It may sound strange to you, Mama, but I honestly don’t believe skin color makes a difference to people who are in love.”

  This was wrong, allowing the subject of Edward to be opened. Wishing to stem the tide of old memories, Althea reached for the tumbler. “Here, try some more water. You must be awfully thirsty.”

  Her mother’s thirst was unquenchable as she greedily drank.

  “See, you’ve over-exerted yourself. No more talking for now,” admonished the daughter. “You must save your strength.”

  The aged skin was very dry. Her face felt the warmth of elevated temperature. Gradually, the mother’s breathing became deeper, labored. Effects of the insulin were short-lived.

  Althea watched over her. Within the following hour, the only noticeable change was in the increased demands for water.

  By evening Lou Ella was hungrily sucking air into her mouth. Growing markedly more fatigued, she continued to ask for water, and eagerly drank glass after glass. Without cessation of the diarrhea, the liquid was doing very little toward restoration of the lost body fluids.

  Althea resignedly filled the syringe with the last of the insulin. In the beginning she had been afraid that the extra hormone might prove to be too much for her mother; now she was afraid that it wouldn’t be enough. As long as the woman was conscious, she could have hope. Generally, unconsciousness could take from hours to days to come, according to the brochure, but once it occurred, then only intravenous fluids and large doses of insulin could save her. Searching until she found the right spot on the leg, Althea shoved the needle through the skin and sat back to wait.

  Chapter Twelve

  For the residents of Oakland, life went on as usual. The influx of Los Angelenos from three hundred miles south did little to slow the pace of the bay area people. Richmond, Berkeley, Oakland, Hayward, and San Francisco were sufficiently large cities to absorb their share of evacuees without much confusion. It was quite a contrast for Frank Waring, after the Blythe episode. He still was not accustomed to the idea that just a day’s drive from his father-in-law’s home in Oakland would put him back into one of the most disastrous situations to affect modern mankind.

  At the sound of the door closing, he looked up. Except for Kim playing in her room, he had been alone in the ho
use the entire morning with no knowledge of Paula’s whereabouts. It was time for somebody to arrive. Unfortunately, it was not his wife who entered, but her parents. Mrs. Jorgensen acknowledged his presence with a glance and swept past him into the kitchen. Her action told him that something was in the air, for she was normally a friendly woman. He turned expectantly toward his father-in-law. “Where’s Paula?” he asked.

  Mr. Jorgensen walked over to his armchair and took a seat. “It’s time you and I had a little talk, Franklin.”

  Sighing in exasperation, Frank replied, “Mr. Jorgensen I’m still worn out—physically and emotionally. All I want right now is to know where my wife is.”

  Peering out over his spectacles, Jorgensen answered, “Paula is at Dr. Hellman's.”

  ‘‘Well, all right then,” said Frank, starting to rise.

  “Sit down, Frank. There’s something that needs to be said and I figure this is as good a time as any for saying it.”

  Here we go, Frank thought. Another round with the old blowhard. But not another scene of no-balls, m’boy, that’s for sure. “Okay,” he said, dropping back down, “shoot.” Best to get it over with, finished.

  “Paula has been telling me what it’s like in San Mirado, Franklin. Now understand me, I’m not criticizing you. But Paula’s used to having nice things. She always had everything she wanted when she was living here. She even had her own car when she was too young to legally drive it. Now I know you do the best you can for your family, but I happen to believe they deserve a little more than you have given them.”

  Frank hadn’t moved so much as the tiny muscles that cause his eye-lids to blink.

  His father-in-law continued. “You say you’re an accountant, but what you’re doing is fairly ordinary bookkeeping work, and your salary shows it.”

  “Paula told you how much I made,” said Frank flatly.

  “Of course she did. She’s interested in getting ahead, my boy. But what bothers me is that you’re planning to move them to Arizona so you can bide your time with your brother. He’s never made it, if what Paula says is true, and I can’t see how you hope to do any better.”

  “Billy Joe gets along.”

  “That’s not good enough, Frank. A man has responsibilities to himself and his family. Why, you’ll be forty years old before long, and you still don’t have anything. Not even a job, now, though that’s a blessing in disguise, in my opinion.”

  “Paula and I were doing okay. Maybe I didn’t make a fortune at Calmar, but I never had to ask anyone for help.”

  “But you weren’t getting anywhere. If you’d taken my advice when you two first married, you could have worked your way up in the company. To an executive position by now, Frank. But no, you had to do it your own way and look what you’ve achieved. Nothing.”

  “What else did Paula tell you, Mr. Jorgensen? She’s apparently felt free to discuss things with you that she won’t with me,” he said with bitterness.

  “Well, that’s natural, Franklin. She was always a daddy’s girl. You know, she’s in a position to inherit quite a large sum of money should anything happen to me. I want to make certain that. she handles it wisely, that’s all.”

  “And you believe she could do that, if I worked for the family company,” said Frank.

  “Let me put it this way. Paula and I have talked it over. She knows my feelings on the subject and she’s inclined to agree with me, to the point where she has already said that she’s not going with you to your brother’s.”

  The old man’s statement caught Frank by surprise. “When did she say that?” he quickly asked.

  “Just this morning, while we were downtown.”

  So that’s why they had all left together—Paula and her parents—they couldn’t talk with him in the house. “Well, she’s going whether she wants to or not.”

  “Now, Franklin, be sensible about it. This is her home. She’s happy here, and she doesn’t want to leave it. She never did, not even after her marriage when you dragged her off to a one- bedroom apartment in that dumpy housing development full of destitute Mexicans. Given her choice, she’s going to stay this time. And she’ll want you to stay with her.”

  How could he argue with her father until he was sure of Paula’s feelings? “Maybe we’ll be going back to San Mirado,” Frank answered lamely. “She mentioned wanting a new house there.”

  “When will that be? You don’t know when the danger will pass, much less whether you’ll have a job or not. No, it’s time you decided to play it smart. For once, do it my way, Frank.”

  Frank felt his temper rise. “Why should I do it your way? Paula knew I would be an accountant when she married me, and she also knew that I didn’t want to become another cog in the family wheel. I just don’t happen to see licking your boots as leaving me much self-respect, Mr. Jorgensen. Furthermore....”

  “Hell fire,” snapped the older man. “When are you going to get some sense in that head of yours? Here I am trying to set you up in business—a break you’re not going to get anywhere else— and all I get in return is a slap in the face. Christ alive, I told Paula years ago that you’d never amount to anything!”

  His hands knotted into balls as Frank worked his anger down. Of all the things Paula’s father could say, the offer of a job was the least expected. It was too bad that the old man couldn’t have made it without any strings attached, and without the derision he seemed to feel he had to cast on his son-in-law. “Not amount to anything, Mr. Jorgensen? Well, maybe not, by your standards. But I’ve always been my own man, by God!”

  “And it pleases you to say that—when you don’t even have the money to pay your son’s hospital bills?”

  “Who said I don’t have the money?” Frank snarled.

  “You did....when you checked the boy in you told admittance that you didn’t have the money... .that you’d get it together somehow.”

  “My God,” he said, “the people at the hospital know what’s happened to us. They know I have insurance and I’ll pay the rest when I can get the money out of my bank. I don't know why it won't work with an ATM but it doesn't. I guess because no one is at the place and there's no electricity there. And my credit card won't work either.”

  Jorgensen smiled benignly behind his glasses. “Well, my grandson’s bill is taken care of....you don’t have to be bothered by that.”

  Frank jumped from his chair and began pacing the floor. “You went over there to that hospital and stuck your nose into my business....what a presumptuous old ass you are!”

  “Now you listen to me, Frank Waring! You can’t talk to me like that in my own house. No sir! I took you and your family in because you had no place to go.”

  “Bull! You took us in because you’ve never been able to let go of Paula. You never did want her to leave this house, did you?”

  “I want my daughter to have a good life....and it may interest you to know that I had hoped that I would find a son in the man she married.”

  “A son?” asked Frank, incredulously.

  ‘‘Yes, a son.’’

  Frank laughed. “Shit. Lucky the son who gets manipulated by you.”

  Jorgensen lowered his voice. “I can see now that it’s impossible. You’d never fit into my company, Frank. Never. We need bright, ambitious men and you simply don’t fill the bill.”

  Frank felt a hot flush rush to his skin. He ached to hit out at the smugness on the other’s face. “We’re leaving here as soon as I can get Jerry out of the hospital.”

  “Paula and the children are not going with you.”

  “No? Well, we’ll see.”

  “They’re not leaving with you, Frank,” said the father-in-law. “I’ll place money on that.”

  He sounded so positive that Frank was momentarily uncertain. Had the old man failed to tell him something? “My wife and my kids go with me.”

  “Nope,” answered Jorgensen. “Not this time. Not with the baby.”

  That single word caught Frank off guard. “What?�
��

  “The baby. Didn’t you know Paula is expecting? She got the doctor’s confirmation on it before you left San Mirado.”

  Frank mumbled, “She didn’t mention it to me.”

  “You’re not very informed, my boy. But then you never were.”

  Frank was paying the taxi driver when he saw her descending the steps. She had that determined march-time walk that clued him in to her mood. The thick glass door of the hospital cast her reflection after her, outlining the purposeful swing of her body.

  “Paula! Wait!” he shouted, running after her.

  She paused only long enough to allow him to fall into step with her. “We’ve got to have this out, Paula. Your old man has been hammering at me ever since you left the house.”

  “I’m in a hurry, Frank. Jerry needs some pajamas and other stuff.” She started off across the street.

  He grabbed her by the arm, spinning her around to face him. “Jerry can wait until we finish this,” he said angrily.

  She shook him loose. “Not here in the parking lot, for God’s sake. I don’t want everybody staring at us.”

  Together they walked on toward the car and slid into the seat from opposite sides; he, brimming with anger, she, collected.

  “I want you to explain to me why you’ve done this... .“ Frank began, “pouring our private affairs out to your father. It’s getting where everything he says ends up humiliating me, Paula. Jesus, don’t you think it’s time you acted like an adult and quit crying on his shoulder?”

  Paula drew back and glared at him as she spoke. “You’re a fantastic snot, Frank, did you know that? I’ve spent the best part of my life watching you crawl around in a rut, and I’m fed up to my chin with it.”

  “All right. All right! But tell me, not that old bastard. Damn, I can’t believe you even told him how much money I was making.”

  Paula shrugged. “Why should that concern you, anyway? He’d help us if you weren’t such a prick. He’d set you up in the business and we could begin living like we should.”