Oh, Artie! "You mean a bomb shelter?"
"No. Maybe. What's a bomb?"
"Well, it's like a big metal can filled with dynamite and people take it in an airplane and drop it on other people, and it blows them up."
He picked up his stuffed bear and crawled over until he was leaning against my side. "Is someone going to drop one on us? Will it be the end of the world? Will we all die? Will Chester Bear die?"
Those were good questions, and the very ones I had been thinking about ever since President Truman's speech, but I didn't tell Artie that. "No, I'm sure not. No one would do such a thing, drop bombs on other people. No, I'm sure not." I held Artie and Chester tightly.
23. April 1950
The End of the Bum Shelter
The soft summerlike air woke me up early in the morning. I stretched and reached for Mr. Roberts. It was taking me a very long time to read the book because I couldn't let my family see it. I was sure it wouldn't be approved at home, either.
I thought parts of the book were funny, like when one sailor got drunk and tried to bring a goat on board, but much of it was boring. The sailors stood around a lot, looking out to sea. Ensign Pulver was one of the engineering officers. He mostly stayed in his bunk reading and drinking liquor. He always said he was going to pull this trick or that trick on the captain, but he was too afraid of getting into trouble so he never did, although once by accident he made an explosion.
I felt uncomfortable. It was clear that the writer of the book and Mr. Roberts and the other sailors didn't think much of Ensign Pulver, and I was afraid I was just like him. Where were those unplumbed depths Mr. Bowman said I had?
I put the book under my pillow, got myself a glass of orange juice, and went outside into the spring morning. There was Artie, in his cowboy pajamas, kicking dirt into the Buick-sized hole my father was digging so industriously every evening.
"Stop it, Artie! What are you doing?"
He looked up at me, his glasses all fogged up from his efforts. "Joey Manila says if you dig deep enough, you can get all the way to China. Is that true?"
"Maybe. I guess. It would have to be an awful deep hole."
"Deeper than this?" He kicked more dirt into our fathers hole.
"Much deeper. Why do you want to go to China?"
"I don't. It's the commanisks. Daddy says there are commanisks in China. They could come right up this hole into our backyard and kill us." He began to kick dirt furiously into the hole again. "What's commanisks, Francine?"
I wished I could answer that for myself as well as Artie. What exactly was a communist? "Well, Artie," I said, "some people think communists are bad men who want to kill us. Others say they are just people who think differently from us. Or care about poor people, or like Russia or China, or refuse to say whether or not they are communists."
"Why do they want to kill us?" Artie asked. He shoved dirt into the hole with both hands. "How long will it take them to get here?"
"Oh, Artie, don't worry. Dad will never get this hole dug all the way to China." I looked at his scared little face. "Especially if we keep filling it up every morning." I joined Artie in kicking dirt into the hole. Then we sat on the edge, dangling our feet over, and ate Puce Krispies as we watched the sun rise higher in the sky.
And we did this for the next four mornings, until Artie forgot to be scared and I got tired of getting up so early.
On Saturday afternoon we met around the kitchen table again. My mother and Dolores gave my father their lists. He stretched out his hand for mine. 1 cleared my throat. I hadn't made a list. I doubted a bomb shelter would be of any help at all, even if we actually got around to building one, and I had decided to say so. I was going to speak up. I knew I could do it. After all, I had skipped school and spent a day of tomfoolery in Hollywood, hadn't I? I could do this.
"I don't have a list," I told him. "I think ... maybe ... I mean, a bomb shelter won't really do any good." His face was getting red, and my hands started to sweat. "I mean, how will five days in a hole help us if someone drops a bomb on Los Angeles?"
If this were a cartoon before the double feature, smoke would have been coming out of my father's nose. "Francine Louise Green, did you read those pamphlets I gave you on surviving the bomb?"
I nodded. The pamphlets from the government said that if a bomb fell while we were outside, we should proceed immediately to our bomb shelter. If we couldn't get there, we should hide in a building or jump into any handy ditch or gutter. In the house, we should close the windows, pull the drapes, and not use the telephone. You'd think they were being ironic—"Don't worry if an atomic bomb falls. Just jump in a ditch"—but I was pretty sure they weren't. "Yes, but—"
My father leaned toward me. "Are you telling me you know more than the government and the president?"
"No, of course not, but—"
"Are you telling me that they are wrong and you are right?"
I thought that actually I was, but I couldn't say so out loud. "No" was all I said.
"Then be quiet and let us get on with making plans for our safety in case the worst happens and a bomb is dropped. Is that all right with your know-it-all self?"
I nodded. Tomfoolery was one thing; arguing with my father was clearly another. Obviously I didn't have that kind of bravery.
He studied the lists he had, then wrote down columns of numbers and added them, subtracted them, turned the paper over, and started again. His face was all shiny with sweat.
Finally he said, "This may take longer to finance than I thought." He looked at Dolores and me. "Have the nuns taught you to 'duck and cover'?"
We nodded. At school we had practiced crawling under our desks and covering our heads with our hands. That way the atomic blast wouldn't harm us, the nuns said. From what I'd seen in photos and newsreels, even fifty-story buildings didn't protect people. Our little wooden desks wouldn't last a second.
"Well, that'll have to do for a while, then," my father said, wiping the sweat off his face with his handkerchief. He leaned back in his chair. "What kind of world is this, with communists threatening, spies in the government, A-bombs and H-bombs? How's a man to keep his family safe? One hour in the house with the blinds drawn. Five days in an atomic safety shelter. The government tells us that's the thing to do. But then why do they recommend radiation suits and Geiger counters? I don't know. I just don't know." His shoulders drooped, and he shook his head a few times. "How's about a martooni, Lorraine?"
I couldn't sleep that night. I kept tossing and turning, imagining President Truman and my father and even the nuns with their noses growing, like Pinocchio's. If I knew bombs were more dangerous than they were telling us, surely they knew. If they would lie about this, what else might they lie about? Maybe I was adopted....
An airplane flew overhead, so close my windows rattled. My whole body tensed, waiting for the boom or bright light or blast of heat from a bomb. Was this how the people of Hiroshima felt? Or did they sleep peacefully not knowing what was coming?
No bombs fell. I put my pillow over my head and tried to sleep.
24
An Imaginary Dinner at the Greens'
I was awakened by the sound of the bedroom door opening, little bare feet shuffling across the floor, and the whoosh of a small hose being turned on.
"Mother!" I shouted. "He's doing it again!"
"What? Who?" Dolores mumbled as she turned over, but she didn't wake up.
"Come on, Arthur," my mother whispered from the doorway. "This is the girls' room. The bathroom is down that way."
I jumped out of bed and turned on the light. My black flats—$2.88 at Sears in November—sat on the floor of the closet, wet and shiny. "Mother, look! Does he have to use my shoes as a toilet? Can't you make him stop?"
"Don't carry on so, Francine," she said. "Wash them out with soapy water and bleach, and dry them in the sun. They'll be good as new in no time." She put her arm around the still-sleeping Artie and walked him back to his room.
I took a penci
l from my dresser, picked up the shoes with it, one at a time, and dropped them into the waste-basket. I would deal with them in the morning.
My mother looked in on her way back to bed. "Go back to sleep now, Francine," she said.
"Why is he peeing in our closet? It's disgusting," I said. "Having Artie for a brother is like having a life-sized Betsy Wetsy doll."
"It's not his fault. He's sleepwalking."
"Mother, if my flats are ruined and I have to get a new pair, can they be red? I'd love to have a pair of red shoes."
"Nonsense. Red shoes would be very impractical. Black you can wear with most everything. And I'm sure they'll be fine after you wash them." She stood silent a moment, then said, "I know Artie's doing this more often now, Francine. But be patient with him. I think something's bothering him."
Of course something was bothering him. Bombs and communists and creepy Joey Manila. He wasn't even six yet. He shouldn't have to be worried about such things.
After all that, I naturally couldn't go back to sleep. What a family. What did I ever do wrong to deserve such a family? If I had my way, I thought, the Dinner at the Greens' movie would have a scene like this:
MOTHER (coming in from the kitchen with a big platter): Here we are, family: T-bone steaks, corn on the cob, raisin bread, and chocolate cream pie.
Be sure to take seconds. There is plenty.
FRANCINE: Thank you, Mother. But tell me, where is Dolores? I do not see her here at the table.
FATHER: We have decided to send Dolores to boarding school at the North Pole. After she graduates, she will go straight to her job on a llama farm in Bolivia. The bedroom is all yours now.
MOTHER: Yes, we thought we'd remodel it any way you like, dear, just tell us.
FATHER: And we are hiring a nanny for Arthur so you don't have to watch him all the time. We know you have more important things to do.
MOTHER: We're getting him a bedpan and a lock for his door. You will have no more visits in the night.
FATHER: Now we'd like to know more about you. Tell us, Francine, who is your favorite singer?
MOTHER: What will fashions be like next year? We value your opinion.
FATHER: And what do you think of the world situation now that Joseph Stalin has decided Russia will not make a bomb and has called all communists home?
MOTHER: Yes, tell us.
FATHER: Speak up, Francine.
MOTHER: By the way, Montgomery Clift just moved in next door.
FATHER: And your hair looks lovely.
MOTHER: More pie, Francine?
Fade out
I fell asleep smiling.
25
Class-Visit Day at the Sinless Academy for the Maidenly
"You gotta hear this," boomed Jacob Mandelbaum, pounding into the Bowmans' living room, where Sophie and 1 were playing checkers. "Harry, come. You just gotta hear this." He sat down on one end of the sofa and stuck a big black cigar into his mouth.
Mr. Bowman came in with cups of coffee for himself and Mr. Mandelbaum and Cokes for us. Mr. Mandelbaum took a big sip, lit his cigar, and said, "I went to the baseball game yesterday—the home opener, Stars versus the Portland Beavers. Got my beer and my foot-long and started looking around to see who's in the stands. I see George Burns and Gracie Allen, Clark Gable, Gary Cooper, Elizabeth Taylor, even. Lots of Hollywood big shots.
"Suddenly a cheer goes up. They're comin' out, Kelleher, Stevens, Woods, Sauer, all the guys. Our Hollywood Stars, winners of the Pacific Coast League pennant in 1949, rah-rah and ready to go, and—ya gotta listen to this...." He puffed furiously on his cigar, and smoke wreathed his head. "They're in shorts, like Cub Scouts or chorus girls. Short pants and knee socks. Ya shoulda seen it, Harry.
"Everybody was yelling 'Nice legs ya got, Frankie,' and 'Ain't ya cold, sweetheart?' One guy stood on his seat and hollered, 'What's next? Shavin' your legs?'" Mr. Mandelbaum laughed for a minute and then slapped the side of his head. "First cheerleaders, now short pants. What Joe Knucklehead in the Stars organization makes these decisions?"
Shorts made me think of bathing suits and bathing beauties, so I blurted out, "Miss America."
They all looked at me in silent surprise and then burst into laughter. "Miss America!" Mr. Mandelbaum shouted. "The girl's a comedian, a regular Jack Benny."
My face grew hot at all the attention, but I have to admit I kind of liked it. After all, I would have to get used to such things if 1 was going to be a movie star.
The next day was class-visit day at All Saints School for Girls, when students spent time in the classrooms they'd be in next year. Except for us eighth graders, who would be freshmen in high school and have a different nun and a different room for each subject. I'd still be going to All Saints, but the high school was in the new building, connected to the old one by a corridor with locked doors on both sides. Like the Iron Curtain that divided Eastern Europe from the West, that corridor kept us strictly separate. I don't know if that was to protect the younger students from the high school girls or vice versa.
It was a little scary to think about next year—not just having a new building and new teachers, but being so old. Being a little girl was much easier. I never had to worry about things like bombs and communists, like my expanding chest, like boys. I'd been scared, sure, by fireworks and loud music and clowns. Especially clowns. Clowns have weird painted faces and are noisy and like people looking at them. There must be something very wrong with clowns. But I never had to worry about being blown up by someone with a bomb who hates America.
"Welcome, seventh graders," Sister Basil said as we eighth graders scootched over to make room for the visitors. She began to pair us up. "No," she said to a redheaded girl who was about to sit with Sophie, "not there. We don't want you to pick up bad habits."
So some of the seventh graders stood at the back of the classroom because there were no more desks to share, and Sophie, alone of all the eighth graders, sat by herself. She pushed her hair back behind her ears and sat up straight and tall.
The girl who shared my desk smelled like moth balls and the onion sandwiches she ate for lunch. Her hair was tightly braided and, even on this warm spring day, her sweater tightly buttoned. I'd seen her around the playground, sitting by herself, kicking in the dirt. Nobody liked her. Still, I thought I would be friendly and tell her things and help her adjust to eighth grade and Sister Basil, but she looked down at her desk and not at me even once.
"Let's see how well you new girls know your catechism," Sister said. "You," she said, pointing to a girl behind me. "What do we mean when we say God is eternal?"
The girl stood. "When we say God is eternal," she said, "we mean that He always was and always will be and always remains the same."
Sister Basil nodded. "What do we mean by the Blessed Trinity?" she asked a girl standing in the back.
"When we say the Blessed Trinity, we mean one and the same God in three divine persons."
Sister looked slowly around the room. "You," she said to my desk mate. "What is your name?"
"Mumble, mumble," said the girl, looking down at the desk.
"Stand up," I whispered to her. She shuffled to her feet and rubbed her runny nose but still did not look up.
"What is your name?" repeated Sister Basil.
"Mumble mumble Patsy mumble," the girl said.
"Well, Patsy, tell us what holy chrism is."
Patsy said nothing.
We'd been asked these same questions for eight years now. I knew all the correct responses. I wrote the answer on a piece of paper and shoved it toward her. "Psst, Patsy," I whispered, "look." But she just stared down at her feet.
Sister continued. "What do we mean by the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ? How does the Church remit the temporal punishment due to sins?" Her voice got louder. "What is the superabundant satisfaction of the Blessed Virgin Mary and the saints?"
I was afraid to "Psst" any louder, because it might attract Sister's attention, so I just sat there. Patsy d
idn't move a muscle. I could see tears hit the floor at her feet. "I dunno," she said.
Sister Basil's face shone red with irritation, and then she smiled. It appeared she and her trash can had already found next year's victim. She didn't even have to wait until September. Lucky Sister Basil. Poor Patsy.
"What do we mean by the Passion of Our Lord Jesus Christ?" Sophie asked on the way home. "What kind of passion?"
It hadn't occurred to me that someone might not know. "Passion as in suffering and dying," I said. "Like Jesus did. Or martyrs. Or really strong religious feelings like saints have."
"I always thought saints were meek, obedient, and quiet, above it all. The opposite of passionate."
"Are you kidding? Think about martyrs who got burned at the stake because they loved God so much. Or worried about Jesus until they bled or fainted or foamed at the mouth." I got up to pull the cord for our stop.
"Yuck," Sophie said. "Would you ever do that?"
"I'm not a saint."
"But can you imagine feeling something so deeply that you'd do something that strange?"
"Not me. I might get into trouble." I couldn't imagine caring about anything so much that I wouldn't worry about trouble. Not me. Joan of Arc, maybe—so passionate and brave and un-Francine-like. But not me.
I was invited for Chinese takeout at the Bowmans' on Sunday. My mother says it's a waste of money to pay a restaurant for food when she can cook perfectly well, and my father won't have anything Chinese in the house because of communism, so I'd never eaten Chinese food before. This was quite an occasion for me.
"Chop suey Francine?" said Sophie as she passed me something in brown gravy. "Egg foo yung?" Something else in brown gravy.
Actually, both dishes tasted a lot like something my mother would cook. I didn't say that to Sophie. She would know it wasn't a compliment.