The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  Cecil had arrived with Althea. In the three days that they had been in the nation’s capitol, the chemist and school teacher had become steady companions. While Althea spent the morning with Senator McCauley, Cecil sat waiting patiently in the rental car for her return. They saw the sights together, and dined quietly in out- of-the-way restaurants. He had become adept at whipping out the wheel chair and helping her slide into it for strolls through historic sites. Inexplicably, he had become very attentive, very protective of her welfare. She, in turn, willingly allowed him to care for her so that their relationship was becoming a symbiotic one for their mutual benefit. His gain was in having, for the first time ever, the knowledge that a woman not only needed him, but relied on him. Hers was in being cared for.

  They had been deftly separated by a matron of good intentions. While Althea was being regaled with mundane conversation about the ‘better universities,’ Cecil stood with a martini in his hand, talking with Senator Tanaka, but keeping Althea in constant view.

  The junior senator from California remarked, “As a chemist, Mr. Yeager, you must have some concrete opinions as to how this business of nuclear energy can be resolved.”

  Cecil watched Althea take a proffered drink before replying to the others' comment. “Not really, Senator. Right now my chief concern is getting my life back together again.”

  “Sure. I understand that. Very well, in fact. You see, although I’m an American-born Japanese, relatives on my father’s side were in Nagasaki in 1945. After the big bomb ended the war, Father began trying to get them into this country. For years his hands were tied, but finally he did manage to bring his brother over. My grandparents were killed during the A-bomb blast on Nagasaki, Mr. Yeager.”

  Cecil was only partially listening, he realized. Finally he turned his attention fully to the speaker. “What were you saying, Senator?” he asked. “Something about Nagasaki?”

  “That life goes on,” answered Tanaka thinly. “That was all.” Looking at the yellow skin, the oriental expression, Cecil was annoyed at himself for having wanted to elude the conversation. Besides, when would he ever meet so many influential men again, all in one room? Taking a sip of the drink, he said, “There was a time, just a couple years ago, Mr. Tanaka, when it was blasphemous to even question the civil use of nuclear power. The proof of that is in the billions of dollars poured into nuclear research while solar, geothermal and other power sources are given sums that are embarrassingly small in comparison.”

  “Ah ha, you do have ideas,” said the Senator. “I couldn’t imagine that anyone could go through what you people did without coming out with strong opinions on nuclear energy.”

  “Oh yes,” said Cecil. “I have ideas, hundreds of them.” He paused thoughtfully. “But does it really do any good, Senator; does it really forward any cause by my standing here telling you what I think about nuclear power?”

  Tanaka seemed perplexed. “I beg your pardon....I don’t seem to follow you, Mr. Yeager.”

  For a split second Cecil sensed that he was bordering on hostility toward the politician. Why Tanaka, a man he’d never met before and would doubtlessly not see again? “Wouldn’t you agree, Senator, that we had been amply warned about nuclear energy, that as a nation—public and politicians alike—we should have expected that somewhere, nuclear power would turn against us?”

  The Senator replied slowly, nodding. “Yes....I see.”

  At that moment announcement was made that dinner was to be served. Cecil suspected Tanaka was eager to end their exchange. The man quickly excused himself to join his wife in the dining room.

  Cecil was disappointed to discover that his seat was not next to Althea’s. He glanced down the table at her, and smiled reassuringly as a gentleman slipped the chair in under her.

  “How do you do, Mr. Waring,” said a high, nervously feminine voice. “We didn’t meet earlier. I’m Mrs. Algernon Jackson, Senator Jackson’s wife.”

  He accepted her introduction with a trace of amusement. “How do you do. I’m not Mr. Waring, Mrs. Jackson. I’m Cecil Yeager,” he said to the slight, fragile-appearing woman.

  “Huh? My goodness, I could have sworn you were pointed out to me as Mr. Waring.” As though to reassure herself that he told the truth, she leaned over to see his place card. “Well, my goodness. How could I have made a mistake like that?”

  He smiled at her half-heartedly as he held her chair. “People are always getting me mixed up with someone else.” That was the truth. He had always been a shy, nondescript person who was never remembered by name, but other than being a giddy young wife, there didn’t seem to be much about Mrs. Jackson that would be memorable, either.

  “You must tell me all about your experience, Mr. Yeager. It must have been terribly interesting,” she said absently.

  “I....we..., there isn’t much....”

  She leaned beyond him and talked with animation to the lady on his left, her fluttering hands accenting her remarks.

  Near the head of the long table sat Sara Harrington next to Senator Tanaka. Anne McCauley had evidently given some thought to the placement of her guests. In Cecil’s case the order was less to his liking than he had wished.

  “Now what were you saying Mr., uh... .Yeager?” asked Mrs. Jackson. “My husband made me promise not to monopolize the conversation, but gracious, every time I meet new people I just can’t hush until I find out everything about them. We have only been here over a year, you know. Before that, Mr. Jackson was very big in our home state, and we were always, always having to entertain. Why, you were one of the men who discovered that the entire Russian exhibition of paintings was stolen. How exciting that must have been for you, Mr. Yeager.”

  He wondered how he could respond to a comment like that. “Exciting, Mrs. Jackson? Actually, I considered the discovery to have been rather sobering. After all....”

  “Oh yes, yes. My husband says the Russians are in a positive dither about it. They seem to think we staged the whole thing just to steal their valuable works of art—which is sooo silly. As I told Algernon, if we Americans had wanted any paintings, we could have bought our own. We have far more money than the Russians, anyway.”

  To Cecil’s immense relief, the soup was served. His appetite was suddenly ravenous as he bent forward, enjoying the broth.

  Mrs. Jackson dipped her spoon in and out of the bowl, swishing the greenish liquid around, but never pausing in her monologue. “You just won’t believe the problems of living in Washington.”

  Cecil now understood why she was such a frail, delicate-looking woman. She never ate.

  “We have had the most difficulty in finding a good school,” she continued. “Private, of course. We wouldn’t consider sending our children to public school. I always attended a private school, as did my husband, Senator Jackson. Algernon told me that if we couldn’t find an acceptable institution, we’d just have to send the children to English boarding schools. They’re very posh, you know, very posh.”

  The soup dishes were removed and huge platters of baked salmon were brought in.

  “As I was saying,” continued Mrs. Jackson, “there is nothing....”

  Cecil shut her out.

  Paula Waring was far removed from Frank, to his irritation. They had arrived at the dinner together, having spent very little time with each other over the past three days, and now, this evening, she seemed to be avoiding him completely. He grew sullen as he watched her with the other guests. She was excited by the affair, and at times almost flirtatious—to his great annoyance. How could she do this, when there was so much left unsaid between them?

  Across from Frank, near the host, sat the regal Sara Harrington.

  “Is it true, Mrs. Harrington,” asked the member of the House of Representatives who sat on Sara’s left, “what they say about convertibles?”

  “I beg your pardon?” she replied, “I’m afraid I didn’t catch your question.” She wondered briefly if she’d lost the art of chitchat.

  “Th
at the natives don’t drive convertibles in southern California,” said the man bending nearer to her.

  She smiled pleasantly at him. His comment was a mark of the guests’ attitudes toward her—stick to inane comments, don’t refer to unpleasantness. “As a matter of fact,” she answered, “my husband and I moved there with the idea of taking long drives in the evening with the top of our convertible down. When we arrived, we quickly learned that virtually no one drives such cars.”

  “Why is that?” he asked with seriousness. “The terrible smog?”

  “Oh, our smog is really not as bad as New York City’s,” said Sara. Then she continued disinterestedly, “Southern California was originally desert and it gets very cool in the evenings. Other than that I don’t suppose I’ve ever given any thought as to why convertibles aren’t popular cars in California.” She smiled again at him. “But they aren’t.”

  The food was excellent and the dinner was progressing nicely. Sara was surprised that she could be briefly lured away from morbid thoughts and caught up in some rather satisfying exchanges with a few of the guests.

  She had turned slightly toward the gentleman seated next to her and was listening with interest, when the waiter presented the platter to the diner on her right. She heard the clatter of the serving spoon as it rebounded from the table, and was aware that the waiter was frantically scrambling to keep the platter from dropping. What occurred in the next instant was a total shock, however. The waiter, in his haste to hold the dish upright, had pulled his arm into her, into her hair. She felt the tug, and quickly reached up to prevent further damage, when the cold draft swept across her scalp.

  Her wig was off her head, and hooked onto a button on the waiter’s sleeve, dangling like a platinum animal in a trap.

  “Ahhhh!” Murmurs arose from the throats of the diners.

  “Oh my!”

  “The poor dear.”

  Suddenly the room was as quiet as a tomb. The exclamations quickly died as the guests sat there, stunned, by the bald, slightly shiny pate of the beautiful Sara Harrington. There was nothing so incongruous as this lovely woman suddenly without a single hair on her head.

  The waiter made strangulated sounds as he futilely blended profuse apologies with clumsy efforts to remove the platinum hair piece from his cuff.

  Mouths were agape at her dilemma, shocked by the unveiling.

  Sara reached out and took the waiter by the arm. She expertly untangled the silver strands from the button until she had it completely free of the cuff. Holding the hairpiece in her hand, she said, “You will excuse me, please.” And with that, without great hurry, she walked from the room, the wig resting on her palm.

  Blinded by beginning tears, she broke into a run once she reached the hall. Without direction, she rushed unseeing along the corridor.

  “Miss… Miss. In here,” called a quick thinking maid.

  She heard the invitation and saw the maid motioning to her. Following the beckoning arm, at last she was secure within the flocked walls of a tiny dressing lounge. Thankfully, she collapsed.

  She was alone as tears of humiliation poured down her cheeks. How could she ever face those people again? How could they ever forget the glossy bare scalp that she saw reflecting back to her each day? Doctors had assured her that losing the hair was often a consequence of exposure to radiation, that it often happened to persons undergoing medical radiation therapy, and that it would grow in, eventually. As a blond, they said, she was more susceptible to hair loss after exposure to radiation than someone with darker hair color would be. Sara had carefully observed Althea’s hair. She hadn’t lost hers, it seemed. At long last Sara moved to the vanity. Sitting before the mirror, she saw the tear streaked make-up, the filmy black dress that she had thought was perfect for the occasion. What must they be thinking of her, she wondered.

  Minutes passed before the diners retrieved their forks and began slowly, dispiritedly picking at their food. Any real or superficial cheerfulness was gone from the affair. For many, the sight of Sara’s hairless scalp was the closest inkling they had of the horrendous episode in the woman’s life. No woman, barely thirty years old, is bald-headed without a very traumatic reason. It was one thing to be told that her husband had died, and she had survived one of the world’s most critical accidents, but it was quite another matter for them to see, with shocking clarity, a result of that accident.

  There was hardly a sound heard in the dining room. The waiter, aghast at his awkwardness, asked to be relieved. Anne McCauley decided to go to her guest, but only after giving the poor woman a chance to recover. She expected Sara to want to leave immediately, and she could not blame her.

  Every woman momentarily thanked the Supreme Being that what she had just witnessed had not happened to her. Every man felt a fleeting desire to place a protective arm around the chiffon shoulder and make a pledge to the lady that all was well. The spirit of the affair was dead—indubitably dead.

  Eventually, near the end of the now interminable meal, a soft rustle from the doorway caught their attention. There stood Sara, every bit as striking in her platinum hair and black dress as the moment she had first entered the house.

  There was a scraping of chair legs against the floor as the men, all of the men, got to their feet in obeisance as she returned to the table and hesitated beside her seat.

  Sara inclined her head in a short, courteous nod to them.

  She hadn’t chosen to leave, thought Anne McCauley. What guts! She shoved her own chair back, and in one swift motion, the men and the women were all standing, waiting, until Sara reclaimed her seat.

  “Ladies and gentlemen,” announced McCauley, “I propose a toast—a toast to the most beautiful, gracious lady of the evening—to Mrs. Sara Harrington.” He lifted his glass to her.

  In unison, wine glasses were hefted above in a tribute to Ben Harrington’s courageous wife.

  The remainder of the dinner went smoothly.

  Upon its completion, the women met in small groups to praise the act, one that they were sure they could not have performed. More than a few suppressed a desire to plainly ask Sara how she had done it, had returned to the dinner.

  Off in the corner, being introspective, Orin McCauley wondered at the deeds that impressed man. Had these people heard Sara’s own account of the events following White Water, or Althea’s, would they have been more impressed than they had been by the sight of Sara’s bare head? It was impossible to explain, but this was a society that measured a woman’s value by her degree of beauty, and by little else. In this case, each woman present had inadvertently put herself in Sara’s place, and was shamed by being uncovered. But the men? Maybe it was their male egos that reminded them that there was a defenseless woman, one that they had somehow failed.

  As the evening was drawing to a close, cars were summoned, and farewells given. Despite attempts at gaiety it ended on a somber note.

  Since they occupied rooms at the same hotel, Paula and Frank had ridden in the same car. The chauffeur held the door as they slid onto the seat.

  “Paula,” said Frank, “I’d like to talk to you. There are not many days left here, but I think that if we try, maybe we can work something out before we leave Washington.”

  “Frank, listen to me,” answered his wife.

  He peered at her through the darkness of the night.

  “There is nothing to be worked out between us. It’s over. Finished. Done.”

  “That’s not so, Paula. Because you want something that you didn’t find in our marriage doesn’t mean the marriage was a failure,” he said, still straining to see her.

  “No. But if I didn’t find it satisfying then, there is no reason to believe that it will be now. Nothing has changed, Frank, except that we were forced out of our rut,” she replied.

  “For the sake of the kids, I want to give it another chance. They deserve that much, don’t you think?”

  “The children don’t have anything to say about it. They know. They’ve alr
eady been told that we’ll be applying for a dissolution of our marriage. They’re not the first kids a divorce has happened to.” She looked out the window at the night.

  “But it’s unnecessary, Paula. We can’t throw away fifteen years of our lives,” he pleaded. “That would be foolish.”

  “That’s not the point. We’re not throwing away anything. We’re just putting a stop to a relationship that has gone cold and indifferent.”

  “I don’t feel that way about you,” said Frank.

  The car stopped in front of the hotel and discharged them. They walked silently up to their floor.

  “Did you hear what I said?” he asked. “I said I don’t feel cold and indifferent toward you.”

  She unlocked her door, refusing to look at him.

  “Paula, please. Can’t we try?” His voice was soft, pleading.

  She was inside and was starting to close the door when he put his hand against it, holding it back. “Wait, Paula. Let me come in for awhile and talk. Just for awhile.”

  “Frank, I..... If you come in you’ll want to stay the night,” she said.

  “Yes,” he answered. “Yes, I will.”

  His hang-dog expression was hard to resist. Paula stepped aside and allowed the door to be opened.

  The meetings with Senator McCauley had gone much more smoothly than had been expected. He had been courteous and sympathetic, keeping them before his recorder no longer than absolutely necessary. His staff had met their obligations to the Californians with consideration and helpfulness. But for all that, they were anxious to be leaving Washington. Sara had immediately embarked on her return trip to her family’s home in Connecticut. Paula and Frank had caught separate flights shortly after their last conference with the Senator. And now, the last of the group struggled into the air terminal with an assortment of packages and hand luggage.

  For Cecil and Althea, the trip had been a combination of business and pleasure, the latter having become more acute because of their time together. Having fulfilled his plan for seeing the historic capitol once more, Cecil was perfectly willing to get back to the warm, winter days of southern California. Standing before her, his collar up against the chilly breeze that swept in each time the big doors opened, Cecil shivered slightly.