Shadows

by Peter J Manos

  “Come on, let’s go,” said the brunette and turning to Edna, “You’re wasting your time. Her father’s a sergeant at the air force base. It’s like trying to take a peanut from an elephant. Oh, that didn’t come out right. Sorry, Karen.”

  Edna and Will watched as the two girls walked away. The brunette took the flyer from her friend and her friend took it back again. Flyer now again firmly in hand, Karen Haugen looked back for a moment, shaking her head, as if to have the final unspoken word.

  A while later two stocky boys in football jerseys came over. The same two she’d spoken with in front of the ice cream parlor: number 9 with the crew cut and number 15 with the skateboard.

  “You still peddling that crap?” said number 15, the taller, a baby-faced boy whose nose had been broken. His friend unabashedly gave a middle finger salute. They walked off, laughing. She could not easily dismiss the feeling of being threatened.

  Only a few more people came by, none of whom took a flyer, and at noon Edna was sweating and disheartened.

  Unaccountably, Will had stood beside her the whole time, but it was time for him to go.

  “You sure you can get home?” he asked.

  “I’m sure. Thank you for your help.”

  “I didn’t do anything. Thanks for getting my car out of the rut.”

  She took his hand and shook it. He left.

  By 12:30 she’d eaten her sandwich and drunk her water. She was exhausted and depressed. Oh, why, oh, why hadn’t she asked Will to drive her home? Now she’d have to spend money on an Uber or a Lyft.

  Chapter Six

  Demoralized by the lack of any interest in her protest and more so by her apparent inability to stoke an interest, she also worried about hostility that might be more deep-seated than a little nastiness and red graffiti on her truck indicated. Now burdened with a bag, a sign, and a folding chair whose portage she had not planned for, she could have kicked herself for not thinking this through.

  She was about to call for a ride when she wondered if she might be so bold as to call Amy Haugen, not necessarily for a ride, but just to talk. In her grief and preoccupation with her futile attempt to do anything effective, she’d lost contact with most of her friends. They had called, asked to see her, but she had demurred.

  She and her sister were still in touch, but Fiona felt obligated to justify Earnest’s worry that Grumman might take some of its business to Grand Forks, as little sense as this made.

  Now in a bit of a bind, Edna reached out, her friendship with Amy’s mother counting for something, she thought.

  Diligent Amy Haugen, trim and fit at forty, had been working on a story from home today but was glad to have a break.

  “Yes,” she said. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

  Edna O’Hare had not been far away. Minot stretched only five miles from north to south, three from east to west. Nor had Amy any objection to driving her home. Indeed, she herself suggested it.

  They sat on opposite ends of Edna’s blue sofa, the coffee table before them.

  “I understand how you feel about it. How James felt,” said Amy. “Everybody did, but no one I know agreed with him, and with his background he couldn’t possibly be objective, now could he? So, you can’t really expect anyone to agree with you. And frankly, I don’t either. We’re all proud of doing our part in the national defense.”

  “The reason no one, or hardly anyone, agrees with me,” said O’Hare, “is that no one has heard me. I’ve probably reached only twenty or thirty people with my flyers.”

  They sipped coffee.

  “You know what you need,” said Amy. “You need a public relations firm. No, don’t get me wrong. I don’t think you’d convince anybody, but you’d reach a lot more people.”

  Edna put her cup down and smiled at her friend, for she must be a friend given her helpfulness.

  “Are you saying,” said Edna, “that although you disagree with me you wouldn’t object if I got my message out to a lot more people.”

  “Why would I object?”

  “Because you think I’m wrong.” Before Amy could reply, Edna added, “If I did something dramatic, something newsworthy, would you write about it?”

  “I tried writing about your protest at the missile site. Wilburn wasn’t interested.”

  “But you’d still write if…if I…I don’t know. Did something?”

  Chapter Seven

  Acoustic panels, punctuated by recessed lights, covered the ceiling of the conference room. A slice of lemon rested at the bottom of each of two carafes of ice water, at either end of the long narrow table. Each of six place settings was marked by a glass, a napkin, a pad of paper, and a pen.

  North Dakota senator William Hennings, in royal blue suit and red tie, was so tall he could reach out and almost touch the paneled ceiling and occasionally did so for reasons of his own. No staff member dared to ask why. He did so again today as he entered the room ahead of retired Air Force General Sam Clayton, silver haired and distinguished looking, a former ICBM missile wing Commander, retired, now working for Northrup Grumman, who subtly shook his head at Henning’s little demonstration of who knows what. The two waited at the far end of the table as the rest of the entourage filed in, two more on either side of the table. The last person to enter, sixty-nine-year-old Defense Department physicist Zach Mann, closed the door.

  Among the attendees were Henning’s legislative assistant, efficient as scissors, Sylvia Wong in rhinestone-framed designer eyeglasses; Grumman’s GBSD public relations manager, vivacious Claudia Cummings, glossy black hair to her shoulders; and Vice President of the GBSD program at Grumman, serene Ellen Conklin.

  “As you know some members of the House Armed Services Subcommittee on Strategic Forces have raised the possibility of reducing or cancelling the GBSD program,” began Hennings. “I’m here as the chairman of the Senate ICBM coalition to host a little discussion about this so you won’t be blind-sided by questions when you go out to Minot for your visit.”

  “These well-meaning but misguided individuals not only question the cost of the modernization but even its necessity for deterrence. Some argue that the very existence of four hundred and fifty land-based ICBMs is destabilizing. As untenable as these positions are, they are being seriously discussed. I’d like to hear your thoughts.”

  “As regards the need to replace the old Minuteman missiles, no one will deny that they’re age is worrisome,” said General Clayton. “We can’t rely on rusty rockets.”

  “Indeed, we cannot,” said Hennings.

  Rusty rockets, sparks from sockets, popped involuntarily into Zach Mann’s head. He had been struggling for some time with his conscience about the program, expressed silently by spontaneous silly rhymes. God forbid he say aloud anything that might be construed as an attempt at humor. He would be seen as a dotty old man.

  “Counterforce strategy,” continued Clayton, “the targeting of one’s enemies’ weapons, is common policy among nuclear armed states, usually with two warheads designated for each target. So, given ICBM silos spread across North Dakota, Montana, Wyoming, Colorado, and Nebraska, a force of nine hundred warheads would be used to destroy these targets. So, in addition to being a deterrent, our land-based ICBMs are sometimes referred to as a warhead sink or sponge, costing the Russians a lot of money to cover and utilizing many of their warheads. An additional justification.”

  Mann had to speak up.

  “And what about the argument that because they are literally sitting targets they encourage a use-them-or-lose-them mentality risking the start of a nuclear war if they’re launched on a false warning of a Russian first strike?”

  “If the president is so eager to fire our land-based missiles before they are eliminated, that is, even risking a mistake,” said Clayton, “then he must consider them crucial for us to reach our objectives. It makes no sense, then, to eliminate them if they’re crucial.”

  Clayton’s argument was a non sequitur but Mann still wondered how many peo
ple in this room believed, as most of the American public believed, that only the president could launch a nuclear attack. Were that the case and everyone in Washington died in a Russian decapitation, there would be no one left to counter-attack. But of course, there would be. Around the country and even out at sea and in the air certain military commanders, under certain conditions, had authority to launch a nuclear attack. Mann thought of Brigadier General Jack D. Ripper from the movie Dr. Strangelove who triggered a nuclear war because he could not tolerate “…the international communist conspiracy to sap and impurify all of our precious bodily fluids.” Jesus H. Christ.

  “I don’t think the public is going to be moved by sophisticated arguments,” said Claudia Cummings. “We need to keep emphasizing that these land-based missiles along with the other two legs of the triad have protected us from a nuclear attack since the 1940’s.”

  “Also, that neither the Chinese nor the North Koreans could ever hope to eliminate all our land-based missiles,” said Clayton. “They just don’t have enough warheads.”

  Mann again spoke, addressing Clayton.

  “General, forgive me for not understanding,” said Mann, “but if the president mistakenly thinks the Russians have launched a first strike, then the ICBMs are no longer a deterrent. Why then rush to fire them off to kill millions of innocent people.

  “I think discussion of nuclear policy is important,” said Hennings frowning, “but making sure we have public support is what we should be talking about here.”

  Mann nodded and was again still.

  Claudia Cummings thought it important to talk about how much more dependable, flexible, and accurate the new missiles would be.

  “The public needs to know that GBSD will completely overhaul the ICBM system,” she said. “The missiles will be new. The launch control buildings will be new. And the logistical and communications infrastructure will be new. This will be expensive, but the public is getting its money’s worth. The Minuteman III fleet still needs eight-inch floppy discs to work.”

  Hennings thanked the group. This delegation from Northrup Grumman would be visiting Minot to meet with business leaders and contractors about the GBSD replacement of the Minuteman. The chamber of commerce would be one of the biggest boosters of the program. Hennings would pass on the points of this discussion to the other member of the Senate ICBM coalition, the senators from states with interest in missiles: North Dakota, Wyoming, Montana, and Utah.

  Perdition coalition thought Mann.

  Chapter Eight

  On his way to Grand Forks along US-2E, large swatches of green and brown farmland carpeted the ground to the horizon, the occasional trees clumped together as if, lonely, they’d sought each other out. Minuteman missiles, on the other hand, abhorring the proximity of others, were spaced widely apart over thousands of square miles in the upper Midwest.

  Sparse traffic on the road, made his erratic driving—his speeding and then stomping the brake pedal when he frightened himself—less dangerous than it would have been had there been cars around him.

  He was not a knight errant traveling the highways looking for adventure, but that would be nice, he thought. Instead he was again giving into his mother’s demands that he help her extricate herself from a sticky web of her own weaving. Oh, no, he must not think of his mother as a spastic spider, but he resented being called again. Why didn’t she call his brother? Why always him? He knew damn well why. Because his brother wouldn’t do anything.

  The speedometer read ninety-five. Oooh! His foot hit the brake pedal and withdrew in an inkling. He was thrown against the steering wheel, recovered quickly, and reduced his speed.

  The funny thing was that he felt in no hurry. He was just keyed up, that was all. Keyed up like his mother. He put the thought out of his head.

  Pleasant memories of her. He needed some. He sang the first verse of Brahms’s Lullaby, as the car again accelerated.

  Lullaby and good night, with roses bedight

  With lilies o'er spread is baby's wee bed

  Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed

  Lay thee down now and rest, may thy slumber be blessed.

  She would sing, and he would fall asleep. But then his parents’ arguments woke him up. He’d pad into the living room. They’d reassure him that everything was alright—lies—and usually were quiet for the rest of the night. But still, she did sing him lullabies through toddlerhood. A definite plus.

  What else? When the family went to the beach in the summer, she swam with him in the ocean. Another plus.

  He remembered a time when he was sick that she read him stories from Mad Magazine, now defunct. Three pluses should earn her something.

  He had only two memories of his father taking the kids anywhere: once to a park to play three flies up and once to a pier in Huntington Beach to fish.

  He was jolted when a car passed him, the driver beeping wildly, as if encountering a kindergarten class that had wandered onto the highway. His speedometer read twenty-five. There had been plenty of room to pass. Some people are just idiots. He pushed down the gas pedal accelerating, overtaking his temporary nemesis, and passing her. He didn’t beep. He just left the horn on continuously until he was several car lengths ahead of her and moving away rapidly. She reminded him of his mother. Domineering.

  She had controlled her children, not by education, persuasion, reasoning, or even punishment. No. She used intimidation, with a scowl that would cow any rational person, biting her fist as the same time, a gesture that suggested she was at her limit. What were the offenses? Wandering away from her in the supermarket to look at the seductive cereal boxes up there on the shelf with their smiling tigers, Olympic champions, and dancing cartoon figures. They never touched the boxes nor did more than suggest she look at them.

  Or if they dallied after school, coming home a little later than expected.

  “You’re to come straight home after school. I’m not joking,” she said as if warning them away from an electrified fence.

  Of course, she wasn’t joking.

  Friends were never allowed in the house. In her inimitable, silent fashion, she enforced this stricture as strictly as if their friends were crawling with bedbugs, tucked away in all the right places. Right places for bedbugs, that is. She would not have gone so far as to accuse them of purposefully bringing in bed bugs. Though, now that he thought about it, she believed that a dentist, on purpose, had poisoned her teeth, explaining her premature toothlessness.

  She feared that their friends might see or hear something. Might observe her. Might tell their parents what they observed.

  “Hey, Mom, Mrs. Larrabee’s closets are filled with broken lamps and shoes and toasters and things.”

  Was that the sort of thing she would allow no children, other than hers, to see? Her children knew, that under penalty of her withering anger, that they must not discuss anything about the family with anyone else.

  Her attitude toward the girl he had a crush on in high school also infuriated him, though that girl always had a boyfriend other than him.

  “Will, you’ve been on the phone now for half an hour.”

  It was usually only a few minutes. She acted as if the girl were a magical slut somehow projecting her tits over the phone for her spell-bound son to ogle. But his mother was an equal opportunity girlfriend hater. His brother had the same experience. Keeping her sons out of trouble might have been the way she would have explained her behavior, if at sixteen he’d had the wisdom, experience, and battle-readiness necessary to ask her about it.

  And here he was again, heeding her call for help. Several times she had asked for money, which he didn’t have on hand, but which she needed immediately. She wouldn’t say why, nor did he waste time trying to pry it out of her for which he would have required a crowbar. However, it is disrespectful to use a crowbar on your mother. And he was nothing if not respectful. Sort of.

  Or when she insisted he drop whatever he was doing—“Will, I’m
your mother and I need help”—to rush to her side to explain that the new neighbor was not listening in on her phone calls. That came to nothing, of course. She just had to learn to watch what she said.

  Or the time she was arrested for shop lifting something so inexpensive she could have bought a wheelbarrow full of them. He couldn’t even remember what it was. Later he understood, of course, that the drama, excitement and especially the distraction of getting arrested, was her way of coping with the death of her daughter at age thirteen, when Will was sixteen. A death that she kept from her other children for a couple of months.

  The siren screamed, “You’re in trouble, bean brain.” And the red and blue flashing lights swiveled in agreement, “Big trouble.” He slowed down and pulled over.

  In blue, short sleeve shirt, dark pants, and white helmet, the highway patrolman sauntered over to the car.

  “Show me your hands.”

  They’d been resting on Will’s lap.

  “They’re clean, officer.”

  “Wise guy, huh?”

  Thank goodness I’m not black, he thought.

  “I’m sorry, officer, I’m not myself. I’m going to see my mother who’s dying and I’m thinking about my dead sister and… Never mind. I’ll show you my driver’s license.”

  “Do you know how fast you were going?”

  “Probably around ninety, officer. I’m sorry. I wasn’t paying attention.”

  Holding Will’s driver’s license, the patrolman walked a few paces away from the car and made a phone call. He returned to the car.

  “What did your sister die from?”