by Brandon Dean
“Poor bastard,” Riley muttered. “We better get going. Gonna be late if we don’t put a little pep in our step,” he added after a short pause.
We left our small, tucked-away cul-de-sac of Ashford Heights and walked into a more rural area. Homes were far too expensive for a steelworker in the heart of the city, so we were located in a small town just outside of Cleveland by the name of Mayfield. It had never made a difference to me, though. It was what I was used to, and it was nice not having to be burdened by the claustrophobia that came with crowded city streets.
We were just a few hundred feet away from our daily dose of imprisonment. “West Hills High School: Home of the Chiefs,” declared the sign decorated in our school colors of blue and yellow.
Riley reached into his pocket and looked down at the gold-plated pocket watch his father had passed on to him. “Yeah, we made it. Barely, but we made it,” he said, relieved.
“If you didn’t have twelve tardies, you wouldn’t have to sweat it so bad,” I said.
“Thanks for the advice, Pop,” he replied. Riley was a smart-ass, but that was probably what made us such good friends, because so was I.
We stopped at locker 112—Riley’s. He reached inside to grab a pencil, which he used more to scribble notes to every bombshell he laid his eyes on than he did actually doing schoolwork.
“I’ll meet you in class,” I said before walking to room fourteen, Mrs. Cunningham’s homeroom math.
Most of my peers were already seated, exchanging pleasantries with one another or sharing the traditional high school gossip. I took my usual spot in the second desk on the far left of the room, next to the window. Looking outside was peaceful, in a way, but at times, I found myself envious of the freedom possessed by the little squirrels and birds on the other side of that glass.
I pulled my unfinished work from my folder and took Riley’s from my pocket. I began to copy the answers before Mrs. Cunningham came into class. Riley came in as the bell started to ring and took his seat directly behind me, and I passed his homework to him behind my back as stealthily as I could. Mrs. Cunningham wasn’t in class yet, but there were a couple of brown-nosers in our midst. Especially Peter Gale, your typical poindexter, who weighed all of 120 pounds soaking wet. When a teacher called on the class to answer a question, you could rest assured that the little kiss-ass would have his hand up faster than anyone else in the room. Needless to say, he wouldn’t have hesitated to rat me out.
“Good morning, class,” Mrs. Cunningham said in her usual monotone as she entered the room with her customary mug of coffee in hand. She took a seat behind her desk, then sipped her piping-hot black coffee, her lips puckering at its bitter flavor. Mrs. Cunningham was probably as old as dirt; I never understood why she refused to retire. Maybe some people were just so obsessed with their work that it was all they could think about, and the very thought of not punching in and out seemed more of a punishment than a reward.
The loud speakers blared to life for our usual morning announcements. “This is Principal Bowen. Today is Monday, May third, 1943. All students in the senior class should be reminded that class photos will be taken after school on Thursday, the sixth. Now please stand for the Pledge of Allegiance.”
My classmates and I all stood for the pledge, then followed it with a moment of silence.
As we reclaimed our seats, Mrs. Cunningham spoke up: “I’m sure you’ve all completed the work you were assigned on Friday, so now I would like for each of you to pass it to the front of your row.”
“Yes, Mrs. Cunningham!” Peter yelped in response.
I snickered.
“Yes, Mrs. Cunningham,” Riley mimicked. Somehow, I managed not to burst out laughing.
Mrs. Cunningham collected the papers from each row and placed them on her desk before taking another sip of her disgusting coffee. “Okay, class, since I’m sure you’ve all done so well on your homework, I’ve decided to test you on it today.”
Every student in the room—except Peter, of course—groaned at the thought of taking a test with no time to prepare. Our groans, however, were interrupted by a faint, high-pitched screeching in the distance.
Sirens blared from outside. There was an overpass just in view of the window I sat next to, and I counted five police cars zooming down the road with a convoy of no fewer than twelve sage-green trucks following. Each truck had the same star painted on the side as the vehicle at Milo’s house, and I could spot what appeared to be unmanned machine guns above the cabins of the trucks. Everyone in the classroom, including Mrs. Cunningham, rose to their feet and huddled around the window. When the sirens stopped and the vehicles were out of sight, everyone began to buzz with questions.
“Was that the army?” one of the girls asked.
“No shit, it was the army. Who else could it be?” one of the boys growled back in reply.
Mrs. Cunningham cleared her throat. “Take your seats, please,” she said fruitlessly. The class was still huddled around the window, in awe of what they had just witnessed. “Take your seats! Now!” Mrs. Cunningham shouted, louder than the sirens themselves had been. The class fell silent; I could sense the impatience in Mrs. Cunningham’s voice, intensified by the dead stare she gave us. A vein protruded above her brow, which, in most cases, would have been intimidating. But given that she was a frail, old woman whose stature barely hit five feet, it was mostly just hysterical.
Peter was the first to reclaim his seat, of course. Slowly, the rest of us followed suit.
Mrs. Cunningham passed out a quiz to each member of the class, and I immediately hated myself for cheating on the homework instead of learning the material.
“You have fifteen minutes, starting now,” Mrs. Cunningham said before taking yet another slurp of coffee.
I glanced at the clock; minutes felt like seconds. I was on question four of fifteen, with six minutes remaining, so I opted to blindly guess on the remainder. Knowing I had just failed my test, I waited until everyone else had theirs turned in, as well.
Mrs. Cunningham valued silence, and we usually spent the second half of the period sitting quietly while she had her radio at a volume between ambient and audible. Loud enough for the room to hear if we were silent, but soft enough that even the faintest whisper would drown out the noise. On the radio played a classical melody—Mozart, if I was guessing right—a song one would typically listen to while trying to sleep or what an expectant mother would play for her child in utero.
The tune was interrupted. “This is Wilmer Foster, with a news update on the war in Europe. We have just received news from high-ranking US officials that the Soviet Union has surrendered. Some details have been withheld, but what we can confirm is that the cities of Moscow and Saint Petersburg have taken a devastating blow. The number of casualties as of now is unknown. The Department of Defense has advised all US citizens to proceed with their daily lives but to do so with a heightened sense of caution and preparation. More information will be revealed when available. Have a blessed morning.”
The air in the classroom grew heavy; it was hard to breathe for a moment. I could see a few beads of sweat on Riley’s forehead as he stared off, at no particular person or object, with concern, no doubt thinking about his father.
The entire class was nearly silent, apart from some nervous whispers.
“Does this mean we’re next?”
“I thought the Soviets had this under control.”
“How did they kill so many people?”
I didn’t know what to think. Perhaps my father’s paranoia had been justified all along. Maybe that old man at Vicky’s knew what he was talking about, after all. All of us were just high school kids—we didn’t know how the world worked; we didn’t know the significance of atomic weapons. What we did know was that shit had just hit the fan. I looked around at the other students in the class. Nearly all of them were perplexed and confused, includ
ing Peter—even the brainiac who always had all the answers was at a loss for words at this one. The thing that kept repeating in my head was, This is real. It’s serious now.
Chapter 3
No sense in worrying about it right now,” Riley said, taking a deep breath. “What are you gonna do, you know? Can’t change the world—not two kids from Mayfield, at least.”
I nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Yep, well, we best get on home. See you tomorrow, bud,” Riley said before walking down his driveway and going into his house.
School had been different that day, for obvious reasons. The talk in the hallways between classes wasn’t of how everyone had spent their weekend or about after-school activities, like it usually was. There was a spectrum of emotion I’d never seen before. Some students seemed to be on the verge of tears, while others looked unfazed. I couldn’t really blame them, though, the more I thought about it. It was like Riley had said: What could we do about it now? The only option we had was to carry on and hope it didn’t bite us in the ass.
I walked up the steps to my house after taking a quick look at the driveway. Dad was home. Admittedly, I had been so busy thinking of myself that I hadn’t even considered how Dad might feel about the news. I sighed and opened the front door.
Mom was just inside, sitting with a sewing needle in hand on our old, worn-out couch. Years of use had started to turn the cushions into a color more gray than its original white.
“Hey, Mom,” I said.
She immediately waved me off with a “Shh! Just a second!” She had a look of unbreakable focus; she loved to sew. The only problem was, as much as she loved it, she never seemed to get the hang of it.
“Almost done,” Mom muttered to herself. “Voila! What do you think?” she asked, sounding pleased with herself. Mom was holding up a white blanket with frilly, sea-green trim. The accents were so uneven that even a blind man could have spotted the errors from a mile away.
The side of my mouth curled into a slight smile. “Looks great, Mom. Always does.”
Mom’s face lit up with pride.
I took a seat next to her and asked where Dad was.
“In that lousy cellar again,” Mom said, sounding agitated.
“I take it you heard the news update?” I asked.
“Yes, I did. But I already told you: this will pass, and it will all be okay,” she insisted.
I wanted to believe her, I really did, but I knew that she knew about as much about the situation as I did, which was almost nothing.
Dad came in through the back door, wiping sweat from his brow. Another fake smile; another fake, upbeat greeting. “Hey, champ, how was school today?” he asked.
“It was good. So I’m guessing you’ve heard?” I asked.
Dad barked out a phony laugh. “Oh, boy, that’s Wilmer for you. Knowing him, he made the whole thing up just to get noticed.”
I was growing tired of Dad’s charade and the macho façade that really did nothing to hide his fear. “Stop, Dad,” I said.
The smile slipped from Dad’s face. “Stop what?” he asked, his voice taking on a more serious tone.
“I know you’re not okay right now. I know there’s a lot on your mind, and I know that this is hard for you,” I said, trying to let him know he didn’t have to put on a front for my mother and me.
Dad didn’t respond right away. His face was shadowed with sorrow, but there was a tinge of relief, as well. He didn’t have to hide it anymore. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want you two to see me like this. I’m supposed to protect you, not the other way around.”
I placed a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “We’re all supposed to protect the ones we love, Dad. But you don’t have to be ashamed of being afraid. There’s a lot going on in the world that’s nuts, and we’re all trying to figure out what to be afraid of and what not to be.”
I gave him a hug with one arm, pulling Mom in with the other.
Dad gently rested a hand on Mom’s belly, and said, “You know what? I think I like Violet, too.” He let out, for the first time in days, a genuine smile. Despite the worry, despite the possibility of impending doom that lingered in the back of our minds, I was overcome with joy at seeing the peace in him at that moment, now that he wasn’t keeping that secret.
“Who wants to watch a movie?” Dad asked, wiping away the last remaining tear from his eye.
Both Mom and I were ecstatic at the idea; Mom, because she loved getting out of the house—it didn’t matter the reason. Slaving over a hot stove and cleaning the house like a typical Midwestern housewife were things she didn’t mind doing, but she always appreciated a change of pace. I, however, was excited because I had heard talk about the new Mickey Rooney film, A Human Comedy. I was always one who could appreciate a good laugh, and the fact that Marsha Hunt was also in the film—well, let’s just say I could appreciate that, too.
I also loved that we were going to the drive-in, instead of an actual theater. Watching a movie with my family, out in nature, was something I loved. For me, it was the epitome of relaxation. The fact that the drive-in was only an eight-minute drive made it more convenient than the theaters in the middle of the city, anyway.
I looked out the window as we drove. Mom and Dad were talking about the baby; they were both so happy. I tried my best not to feel like chopped liver, but I guessed it was inevitable; there were things bigger than me now, and that was okay. I couldn’t wait any more than they could; I’d always wanted to be a big brother. And seeing my parents light up when the baby was mentioned gave me a warm feeling I couldn’t describe.
The car came to a stop at a red light about a mile from home. On the left-hand side of the road was Mayfield Grocery, an older place where my parents were regulars. Nearly all of my mom’s weekly grocery runs were to this small hole-in-the-wall that doubled as a Mayfield landmark. On the right side, attached to the town’s pharmacy, was Charlie’s Liquor Store, a newer place where my dad sometimes stopped. My dad wasn’t a heavy drinker, but he had his days when, after a long day at work, he wanted nothing more than a couple of ice-cold beers. Just in front of the liquor store was something—or, more specifically, someone—I’d never seen before and didn’t have much interest in seeing at that very moment. I wasn’t in the mood for it, nor was anyone else in the car.
A gaunt old man stood atop an inverted milk crate. The look on his face was a mixture of disdain and insanity. A Bible was gripped in his hand as he preached his sermon of the end times. There was no clear path in his ramblings, no rhyme or reason in his method of speech—only a random spouting of verses. My father turned the radio on to its fullest volume, tuning him out. I looked to see some people pass him by, wanting no association with him, while others stood by him, clapping as he preached his gospel.
The light turned green, and my father peeled out like a bat out of hell. Seconds passed, and he turned the volume back down to where it had been before. He glanced around the car at my mom and me. “Sorry,” he said, then redirected his focus to the road ahead.
A short while later, we arrived at Full Moon Drive-In.
“Three, please,” my dad said to the attendant at the ticket booth. We drove inside and got a good spot—a perfect spot, actually; it always paid off to get there as early as possible to avoid the gargantuan lines to get inside and to keep from having to park a mile away. My father opened the trunk of the car, revealing our gloves and a baseball that had seen its fair share of fields as well as bat barrels. He lit a cigarette and signaled me to follow him as he headed toward a plot of grass a few feet in front of the movie screen. I grabbed my glove and ambled after him without a second thought.
Dad took one last drag of his cigarette and threw the butt to the ground as he slid his glove over his left hand. He made a weak throw in my direction. The trajectory the ball took was as if it had a mind of its own—three feet to my left and a foot ab
ove my head. The ball settled on the edge of some weeds several feet behind me. I laughed aloud, as did Dad.
“I guess I’m pretty rusty, huh?” he asked through his chuckles.
“Hey, look at it this way: I don’t think Spud Chandler could throw like that even if he tried,” I said to him through an ear-to-ear smile.
Dad waved me off. “Yeah, yeah, how about you put your money where your mouth is and show me what you got?”
I picked up the ball from the weeds, feeling dampness from a thin layer of dew from where it had settled. I threw as hard I could, with what I believed to be impressive speed. It landed in the middle of Dad’s glove with a satisfying smack.
“Ain’t nothin’ but luck. You know, you should go to Puerto Rico and play that lottery thing I keep hearing about,” Dad joked.
The sun eventually descended, and the sky grew dark. Cicadas began their nightly patrols along the branches of trees, emitting their indescribable sound, a song of nature. The projector screen lit up white, with a countdown from ten. Everyone, us included, tuned their ears to the loudspeakers set up around the grounds of the drive-in.
My parents sat in the front of the car, with me in the back. Mom gave Dad a kiss and wrapped her hand around his, resting her head on his shoulder. It made it a little hard to see the screen from where I was, but I adjusted my own position—I could hardly interrupt the two lovebirds, could I?
The movie began, and while it had its funny moments, it wasn’t the comedic masterpiece I had been anticipating. I wasn’t sure if it had something to do with my own mood, but overall, I was pretty disappointed in the movie. Maybe I’d had my hopes set too high. It eventually became more of a chore to watch than a pleasure, even to the point where seeing Marsha Hunt plastered on a thirty-foot screen couldn’t reclaim my interest.
By the time the film had about ten minutes remaining, the predictability of the punch lines had actually gotten so repetitive that I had begun to cringe at the cheesy humor. Mickey Rooney opened his goofy little mouth one more time, and I waited to endure yet another half-witted joke.
