Full Body Burden

by Kristen Iversen

  Carl Johnson didn’t get an easy start in life. Diagnosed with tuberculosis at age twelve, he changed his diet and began a strict weightlifting regimen to work himself back to health. In 1946 he joined the army, and after serving three years, he decided to go to medical school. An epidemiologist and radiation specialist, he was hired at the University of Colorado as an associate clinical professor, and in the fall of 1973 Johnson is appointed director of the Health Department of Jefferson County.

  Johnson is familiar with some of the problems at Rocky Flats. Still, it’s a surprise when a newspaper article crosses his desk revealing that yet another radioactive element is quietly in use at the plant: curium, which is three hundred times more toxic than plutonium. Al Hazle notes in the article that “curium is hazardous, and when they have significant amounts of it at Rocky Flats, we would like to know about it. We’re kind of upset when we find out about things [in the newspaper], without the plant letting us know.”

  One day Johnson is approached by the Jefferson County commissioners, who seek his approval for a new housing development about to break ground just three miles from Rocky Flats, expected to house approximately ten thousand new residents. Johnson checks the state’s radiation surveys and discovers the land is contaminated with plutonium. He’s shocked that anyone would want to build houses on contaminated land, but he proceeds cautiously. He tells the county commissioners that further study must be done before any development begins, and he gains their approval to go ahead with a study to be conducted by himself and soil scientists from the U.S. Geological Survey, working with scientists from the Colorado Department of Health and the Colorado School of Mines. The study will measure levels of radioactivity in breathable dust on the surface of the soil.

  The results are worse than he anticipated. Tests show plutonium concentrations forty-four times greater than what had been measured at the same locations by the Colorado Department of Health method of sampling whole soil, not surface dust. Several of the readings exceed earlier ones by one hundred times or more, one by a remarkable 285 times. The readings are much higher than what Martell and the CCEI found in their study.

  Further, he takes issue with the state standard for soil contaminated with plutonium (two disintegrations per minute per gram of soil), which does not take into consideration the size of particles that can be suspended in the air and inhaled into the lungs. Developers typically plow contaminated soil beneath the surface, and while this may bury the soil, it also creates breathable dust. Studies show that concentrations of plutonium are much higher in dust than in soil and that the particles are easily carried and dispersed by wind. Johnson feels this creates a potential hazard for children playing outdoors and that, even for adults, ordinary activities like gardening could be risky.

  Johnson presents the results to the local planning board. The board vetoes the proposed development. It’s decided that no more subdivisions will be approved near Rocky Flats until further studies are done.

  The response from Rocky Flats—and local homebuilders—is swift. In an interview with the New York Times the following day, Dr. Robert Yoder, in charge of safety at Rocky Flats, states that Dr. Johnson’s plutonium sampling techniques are questionable and that he has vastly overstated the amount of plutonium in the soil. “We don’t think he’s shown an increased hazard,” Yoder says. “He is just measuring it [plutonium] differently.”

  Harold Anderson, chairman of the Jefferson County commissioners who originally approved the housing subdivision, sides with local home builders and believes there is no hard evidence that the plant is a hazard. “If it were,” he says, “I’d be the first to get it moved.”

  Others aren’t so sure. Local rancher Marcus Church owns some of the land for the proposed development. Ranching is the family business. His family homesteaded the land, bringing the first Hereford cattle to Colorado in 1869. They grew hay, raised cattle, and gradually expanded their landholdings. Church’s Crossing was a popular stop on the Overland Stage Route for bullwhackers and stagecoaches on the two-day ride between Denver and Boulder.

  Marcus Church’s nephew, Charlie McKay, wants to be a rancher like his uncle and the two generations that came before him. The family feels deeply connected to the land. Charlie’s been coming to the family ranch at Rocky Flats since he was two, spending summers riding out to Standley Lake to count calves and check fences.

  In 1951, when Charlie was nine, the federal government approached the Church family to buy roughly 1,400 acres of their land at Rocky Flats, along with land owned by two other families. Only the price was negotiable: the federal government can take private land for roads, dams, or national security through eminent domain. Landowners were originally offered eighteen dollars an acre and refused the price. Four years later the government agreed to fifty-six dollars an acre. Marcus Church wasn’t happy with the price, and a deal was reached only when the government threatened to condemn the property.

  The government moved in with guards and fences, and Marcus fought to maintain access to the irrigation and mineral rights he still owned. He grew accustomed to throwing hay to his cattle under the close scrutiny of armed guards with binoculars.

  Marcus knew little about what went on inside Rocky Flats. But as the years went by and information about the plant’s rumored activities began to surface in the media, he started to worry about the value of his property. The family had big plans for eventual development of homes, business parks, and a shopping mall, but after reports of plutonium in the soil and no clear determination of how much plutonium was “safe,” Marcus could no longer get building permits. Charlie watched as his uncle grew increasingly frustrated.

  In 1973, Marcus Church decides to sue the government. He contacts the head of a local law firm, who puts a young attorney, Howard Holme, on the case. “It’s really gone too far here,” Marcus tells Howard.

  Church family members aren’t the only ones who are unhappy. Builders and developers are angry about falling land values. The city of Broomfield wants the AEC to divert Walnut Creek, which is contaminating the city drinking water with tritium, and wants a new wastewater reprocessing plant to keep radioactive material out of the city water supply.

  The same year Church files his lawsuit for property contamination, Dow Chemical awards its employees cash rewards in recognition of “superior performance in safety, environmental control, production and energy use reduction.” Soon, however, the situation changes. Dow Chemical has been the AEC’s contractor at Rocky Flats for twenty-two years. To the early employees of Rocky Flats, the corporation was known fondly as “Mother Dow.” To the early activists, Dow Chemical was known not only as the producer of plutonium detonators, but as the manufacturer of napalm during the Vietnam War. But Dow has grown tired of ongoing accidents, leaks, protests, media scrutiny, and its relationship to the AEC. And its reputation in Washington is suffering. Employee Jim Kelly, now president of the Steelworkers Union at Rocky Flats, tells a congressional committee that Dow is not operating the facility safely. The company decides not to renew its contract, and the AEC requests bids from private contractors for a new company to run the plant.

  Dr. Carl Johnson finds himself facing a growing storm.

  ONE DAY, years in the future, Randy Sullivan will tell his children how lucky he is to have grown up in Meadowgate Farms. The world feels wide open. Kids run free in the neighborhood, and most boys and girls have a horse or dirt bike. In the winter all the kids skate on the frozen pond. Sometimes there are as many as thirty or forty kids on skates, twirling and chasing hockey pucks, and some of the older kids like to spin donuts on the ice with their motorcycles and dirt bikes, even though it’s been strictly forbidden. Summer days are for floating on inner tubes along the network of streams and irrigation canals that flow to and around Standley Lake. He has a host of pets—turtles, hamsters, dogs, and whatever he can trap and domesticate. Randy remembers days in high school when he and his friends would ditch their afternoon classes and drive down to the local groc
ery store and dare each other to shoplift a six-pack of beer. They would then head out to Standley Lake and take turns jumping off the pipe.

  The cycles of snow in Colorado are punctuated with days of clear, clean sunshine, when the snow melts and the air turns as warm as summer. The setting sun burns the sky peach and then brilliant orange and the mountains turn from gray to cobalt blue. In his house in Meadowgate, Randy looks out the window of his room to a house on a hill a few blocks away in Bridledale. He has a straight view. He watches a second-floor window to see if the lights come on. They do. He goes out back to the horse pen behind the house and bridles Cocoa, his creamy-colored palomino. He loves to ride. His father has given him a beautiful saddle, but he prefers bareback. He calls to his Labrador and the three of them clop along in the half-dark. He rides down the quiet streets, turns left on 82nd Avenue, and trots to the end of her driveway. He pauses for a long moment. If his friends found out what he was about to do, they would tease him mercilessly. But he does it anyway. “Hey, Kris!” he yells. He waits for a response. There is none. He yells again. “I love you!” Silence. Suddenly embarrassed, he turns and sets his heels to Cocoa and gallops back up the street.

  IT’S A Saturday morning, early, and Karma and I are getting the horses ready to go to the county fairgrounds for a gymkhana, one of the first equestrian competitions of the summer. Karma loves pole bending, a timed race that involves weaving your horse in and out of a line of tall poles without knocking one down. My love is the barrel race. Tonka loves it, too. My knees are scarred from taking the barrels too close—you can skim them as long as you don’t knock them over—and more than once I’ve had a rein break or slip from my fingers as Tonka races across the finish line on his own with my hands twisted in his mane. Our best time is just over seventeen seconds, nearly as good as the pros. There are other contests as well: the keyhole, the goat rope, calf wrestling. Sometimes there’s a greased-pig contest. It costs two dollars to enter each event, and if you’re lucky you get a ribbon or a plastic trophy.

  With a round wire brush I rhythmically rake Tonka’s coat to tease out the last of his winter hair, and then use a soft brush to stroke his coat into a high sheen. Karma works over Comanche in the same manner. The bridles and saddles are oiled. My hair is in pigtails to keep it out of my eyes, and my white cowboy hat waits on the backseat of my dad’s Blazer. Karma, never one for frills, doesn’t wear a cowboy hat. None of those fancy cowgirl shirts for her, either, just boots and jeans and a quiet determination that serves her well in the arena.

  My mother usually drives us to the fairgrounds, but this morning my father emerges from the house, looking unshaven and unkempt from spending the night in his recliner. He’s heavier now and seems disconnected from his body, his clothes loose and flapping. Let’s go, he says. The familiar scent of bourbon is on his breath, and I find it almost as comforting as the scent of cigarettes and aftershave that clings to his body. He’ll drive us to the fairgrounds and drop us off, leaving the horse trailer, and then head to his office until the end of the day, when he will return to pick us up. He backs the Blazer up to the trailer and drops the hitch over the ball. We load the horses, first Comanche, then Tonka. They’ve had their breakfast, but there’s a cup or two of Omolene in the feed bin to keep them busy. Tonka presses his face to the little window at the front of the trailer. He likes to watch the road. Trains and loud noises make him nervous. We don’t tie either horse to the front of the trailer because sometimes, when spooked by a locomotive or motorcycle, Tonka will jump feet-first into the hay bin and tangle his feet in the rope.

  We pull out of the driveway. Karma sits in the backseat and rolls the window up. The air smells like rain. I sit in the front, my legs tucked up, hugging my ankles. None of us wears a seatbelt.

  The neighborhood is quiet. There’s no one on the road. We don’t speak, but it’s a comfortable silence. Or comfortable enough. We turn onto 80th Avenue and then left on Simms, to go past the junior high school. We pick up speed.

  “Dad,” I say cautiously. It’s not uncommon for him to drive fast, but this is faster than usual. He doesn’t like backseat drivers.

  The road rises slightly and we hit the railroad tracks, the same tracks where my sisters and I laid pennies. Then the road dips. Suddenly the Blazer feels like it’s flying. The trailer begins to fishtail, and the car swerves sharply to compensate. My thoughts freeze as my body seems to rise in slow motion, up toward the roof of the car.

  Later my father will say he swerved to avoid an oncoming car. He will mention the rain and the slick pavement. He will say he saved us from a head-on collision.

  My sister and I never saw another car.

  The car and the horse trailer separate after the first roll. My father swears. The car rolls again and again and then everything tumbles into an explosion of glass and grass and bodies. The rain comes in. I feel a sharp, crushing blow to the top of my head. Then I find myself lying flat in the back of the Blazer, surrounded by metal and glass, facing the back window, curiously open. My head and neck feel wrong.

  “We have to get out,” Karma says. Her voice is calm and seems to be coming from a long distance away. “Are you okay?”

  “I think I have glass in my eyes.” I’m afraid to turn my head.

  “Can you see?”

  “Yes.”

  We crawl across what used to be the roof of the car and out the back window. The window itself is gone. The Blazer is upside down in a dry irrigation ditch, flattened, the roof and hood pressed into the ground and the belly of the car facing the sky. My father’s door is partially open. I can see his shoulder pressed against the window glass. After a moment the gap in the door widens and he pushes out. There is blood on his cheek, and his voice is thick. “I’ll flag someone down.” He stands. “I think I’ve hurt my back,” he says.

  I feel the cool rain on my cheek. There are no tears. Karma and I walk over to the horse trailer, which has rolled and then lodged in the ditch a few yards back from the Blazer. Tonka and Comanche lie on the floor of the trailer. They look like they’re asleep. I’m glad we didn’t tie their heads, I think. Unlike the car, the interior of the trailer is nearly intact.

  A man appears, slim, blue-jeaned, wearing a straw cowboy hat. Who is this angel? A passerby or a neighbor. He stoops down and puts a hand on Tonka’s warm flank. There is a shudder in the flesh. I look over to Karma, who has moved to Comanche’s head. “They’re alive,” she says.

  “They’ve just been knocked unconscious,” the man says. “It’s probably what saved them.” He tells us to sit on the grass. He crouches next to their heads, stroking their cheeks, and then he rises and kicks open the trailer door. The horses scramble awkwardly to their feet and he backs them out, blinking and shivering, into the rain. “They seem to be okay,” he says. He ties them to the fence. “Do you live far?”

  “No,” we say.

  “You should walk them home,” he says. “They probably won’t want to get in a trailer again.”

  “Okay,” Karma says.

  “Are you two sure you’re all right?”

  “We’re fine,” we say in unison. We never see him again. We brush the crumbled glass and bits of dirt and grass from our arms and faces. No blood. No tears. I can’t stop shaking. It’s the cold rain, now steadily streaming.

  An officer arrives and agrees to drive up to our house and inform our mother. “Tell her everything’s okay,” we say. My father agrees. “Tell her we’re all fine.”

  My mother takes the news calmly—it’s not the first accident my father has been involved in. She hopes the neighbors don’t notice the police car in the driveway.

  There is minimal fuss and no ambulance. The Blazer is towed away. Karma and I walk the horses home and I lie on the couch until I stop shaking. I have a headache and I feel afraid to turn my head. My parents do not take us to the doctor. “I’m fine,” I say. Karma says she’s fine, too. We’re Norwegian. Norwegians are tough. Or so we think.

  Besides, we all a
gree this is something the neighbors don’t need to know, especially since my father’s practice has been a little shaky lately. He needs his clients—many of whom, ironically, are fighting DUIs. He’s the best in the business. Neighbors, clients, family, friends: no one needs to know about the accident.

  Weeks later, when my father can no longer sit in his office chair, he goes to a doctor and discovers he has a fractured vertebra in his lower back. He wears a brace for a few weeks and then tires of it and throws it out. Years later, after ongoing headaches and pain, I learn I have a broken neck, two fractured vertebrae that have fused together over time. A quarter-inch higher or lower and I would have been severely disabled. You’re lucky you didn’t end up like Christopher Reeve, a doctor will say.

  We never speak of the accident again. Silence is an easy habit for a family or a community. This is just for us to know. Eventually we’ll forget this ever happened.

  Before long the entire incident is, indeed, forgotten.

  A painting hangs in our living room, a blur of blue and gray with a woman’s face in the center, her body mostly obscured. A long lock of dark hair falls across her eyes and only her mouth is visible, a pouty smear that’s sullen or seductive, it’s hard to tell. My mother doesn’t like the painting—our uncertain budget has curtailed her home decorating impulses—but it’s a gift from one of my dad’s clients, a payment, and he says it’s art.

  My father’s law practice is, as my mother likes to say, going down the tubes. It’s feast or famine. From time to time the electricity at our house is shut off. My grandfather, a stern man who worked as a banker during the Depression—traveling from bank to bank, looking at balance statements, and determining whether or not an institution should remain open—swoops in to oversee my dad’s office. He and my grandmother Claire sell their home, drive west, and move into an apartment in Arvada. Grandma Claire is a retired schoolteacher. She dotes on my father, her only child, and now she dotes on us kids. She wears round, dark-rimmed glasses that make her look intellectual despite her flowery dresses and plump arms. My grandfather is as impenetrable as my father.