Sputnik's Children

by Terri Favro

  Kendal looked over our heads in all directions. “Where the hell is Duff? He should be out here, keeping people from freaking out.”

  “There’s room for all of us in my car,” shouted Rocco. “But where the fuck should we go?”

  “Our new house has a fallout shelter,” said Judy-Garland. “Mom keeps her canned tomatoes inside it.”

  Sandy hugged herself, shivering with fear. “I want to go home and be with my parents.”

  “I’ve got Duff’s keys. I’ll take you in his car while Rocco takes the rest of them to the Donatos,” said Kendal, turning to look at me. “Debbie, go with Rocco. I’ll check on my mom and your folks and be there as fast as I can.”

  I tried to protest but he kissed me, said “I love you,” pushed me into Bum Bum’s arms and got into the Cutlass, a few more kids from Sandy’s block hopping into the back seat. Kendal peeled out of the parking lot just as Rocco popped the trunk of his car to carry more passengers.

  The Donatos had moved into a sprawling split-level with a weeping willow on the front lawn. A jungle gym stood in the backyard, like the last cage in a zoo from which the animals had all escaped. Their subdivision was a tangle of dead-end streets and culs-de-sac, turning back on themselves like snakes eating their own tails. Piles of dirt and yawning pits, waiting to be filled by brand-new bungalows, made the neighbourhood look like a war zone.

  As we ran up the front walk, Claudia Donato opened the door, a martini glass almost toppling out of one manicured hand, her hair backcombed into a brilliant dark dome, crowned by a rhinestone tiara. The sounds of party music and laughter spilled out of the house.

  “You all look adorable!” she slurred, kissing me on both cheeks as she slopped her drink on the wall-to-wall. “You’re so sweet — I could just gobble you right up. Come in!”

  Inside the foyer, I noticed a goldfish bowl full of key chains — Mickey Mouse, Playboy bunny ears, War Amps of Canada, rabbits’ feet, peace signs.

  “Mom, didn’t anyone tell you . . .” Judy-Garland started to say.

  Claudia waved off the warning. “Honey, it’s the usual malfunction. We turned on the TV and all we saw was Hollywood Squares. Daddy even called ShipCo Security. They said it was a Halloween prank; someone’s jiggered the siren so they can’t turn it off. Relax and have a drink, kids.”

  We trailed Claudia through a living room packed with middle-aged princesses, ballet dancers and movie stars. A few men were wrinkled hippies in bell-bottoms and silly wigs, or cowboys in Stetsons, their beer bellies flopping over the belts of toy holsters. Dusty Springfield’s deep voice oozed suggestively out of the hi-fi.

  Looking like they belonged in a gangster movie, Rocco and Bum Bum stood in the living room in their 1950s suits, sipping beer. The siren continued to rise and fall, rise and fall. Al Donato dealt with it by turning up the hi-fi. I drifted into the kitchen, where the twins had started arranging platters of Ritz crackers topped with slimy canned oysters. The stench of hot Gruyère cheese floated out of a ceramic pot.

  “Don’t scald the fondue, honey,” Claudia told Judy-Garland as she leaned down to sniff the pungent goo.

  Claudia handed me a tray. “Manhattans, martinis and White Russians. Would you mind taking this around, love? There’s a girl.”

  I weaved my way through the crowd, past Elizabeth Taylors and Bette Davises and Rosemary’s Baby–era Mia Farrows sipping martinis and laughing loudly at the men’s dirty jokes. Princess Graces plucked White Russians off the tray with dainty pink-lacquered nails and Claudia Cardinales spoke in breathy, fake French accents. Sailors and cowboys ogled the ballerinas and go-go dancers while sucking beer straight from the bottle.

  On the other side of the room, smoking a pipe and nursing a Manhattan, stood the Shark, a Playboy medallion nestled in the thicket of chest hair bristling out of the top of his shiny black bathrobe. Next to him, an emaciated, balloon-breasted blonde, predictably costumed as a sexy Bunny, teetered on spike heels with one knobby knee cocked like a pony striking a pose. It took me a few seconds to recognize her. The blonde was Angie Petrone, or an inflated, sculpted and ruthlessly exfoliated version of her former self; she looked like a cross between an android from a pornographic sci-fi novel and some type of mad scientist’s comic book chemistry experiment gone wrong. Her curly black hair had been bleached and straightened, her dark eyes turned acid green, her eyelashes curled and lengthened so that they brushed her forehead. Her waist was cinched tightly in a metal corset, from which hung a thin silver chain. The Shark had one end looped tightly around his wrist.

  When the Shark noticed me, he whispered a word in Angie’s ear, then clipped her corset chain to a little hook on the wall, as if leashing up a very expensive dog. The type of animal valuable enough to steal, but too stupid to ever find its way home, like an Afghan hound. Angie looked at the Shark dully and sipped a cocktail the colour of congealed blood. She never shifted from that stilted cock-kneed pose.

  Holding his highball glass over the heads of the crowd, the Shark pushed his way to me, his eyes eating me up, just like that day in the Falls.

  “I know you from somewhere,” he said.

  I couldn’t believe it. He’d torn away my virginity and left me with a summer’s worth of ridiculous fantasies and he didn’t even remember who I was?

  “I met you at Table Rock House with the Holubs,” I said, setting down my tray.

  I could see recognition in his eyes. “Oh, yeah! You’re so skinny, I didn’t recognize you, is all. Those nice big boobs of yours are practically gone. Still cute as hell, though. And we can give you back the boobs easy enough. Let me pour you a drink.”

  He took me by the elbow and guided me to a shimmering castle of liquor bottles on the bar where a tipsy tramp leaned on a dimly lit lampstand, against a background of flecked gold wallpaper with a pattern of naked women in silhouette. The Shark’s face and mine were reflected in a mirror that said CINZANO.

  “Whaddya want? Tequila Sunrise? Rye and ginger? Sex on the Beach? Plonk?”

  My eyes caught on a candy-coloured bottle that looked like the brandy cherries we drank in shot glasses at Christmas.

  “That.”

  He picked up the bottle. “Dubonnet. French! You got taste. Rocks?”

  “Uh — sure.”

  He grabbed a handful of ice cubes out of a bucket, dropped them into a highball glass and filled it to the brim with the thick red aperitif. Then he reached into the pocket of his robe and fished out a tiny white pill, holding it up between thumb and forefinger before plopping it into my drink.

  “What’s that?”

  “Spoonful of sugar to make the medicine go down.” He clicked my glass with his and said, “Here’s to chemistry, little girl.”

  I tasted it. Sweet and sour at the same time, like my grandfather’s wine cut with 7-Up. Blechh. I swallowed my first sip, then let the next one dribble back into the glass.

  Across the room, Judy-Garland and Jayne-Mansfield were go-go dancing on the living room rug, surrounded by a gyrating posse of TV cowboys. The starlets and ballerinas looked on with crossed arms, their Virginia Slims smouldering angrily between sharpened fingernails. Meanwhile, Claudia pushed backwards through the swinging Dutch door, a roiling fondue pot balanced between pink piglet-shaped oven mitts. I had a vision of her tripping and spewing hot cheese all over the guests, but she staggered safely to the buffet table.

  “I didn’t know old people had Halloween parties,” I tried to say, but it came out I dunguhswun’s dress luk Haween, as if someone else’s tongue had been stuffed between my teeth.

  “You never heard of a key party?” The Shark slid his satiny arm around my waist, his fingers strumming my breast like a Spanish guitar.

  I shook my head. That one little sip of candy-coloured booze was making me feel warm and loose and jangly, as if my shoulders and legs had been detached from my body. The Shark took the pipe out of
his mouth and grinned at me.

  “All the guys throw their keys in a bowl. At the end of the night, the chicks reach in and pick out a set. Whatever guy’s keys they get, they gotta go home with him. No one knows who slept with who.” He leaned in close to whisper in my ear, “You look so sexy dressed like that, you could be a Snugglegirl, know that? I can arrange an audition for you. ShipCo’d hire you in a flash. You’ll love it. Parties, clothes, cruises. All the drugs and booze you want. And I get to show you the ropes so you know what the guys want. You’ll love that, too.”

  Through the murk of my aperitif-and-unknown-drug-addled brain, light dawned. The Shark wasn’t in love with me. He was a ShipCo recruiter.

  “I’m not innerrested in being a Snug’girl. My boyfriend John Kendal will be here soon,” I said, trying to be careful to pronounce every syllable.

  The Shark burst out laughing. “You’re dating a Kendal? That kid who looks like Meadowlark Lemon, used to date Angel? Oh lawdy, lawdy! If I knowed you liked that type, I’d’ve got myself a tan.”

  I threw the rest of my Dubonnet into his face. The red drink dripped from his nose as his leer turned into a snarl.

  “You little fucking bitch, I’m gonna kill you.” He tried to grab my arm, but I moved out of reach too fast.

  “Go to hell,” I said and pushed my way through the crowd.

  Behind me, one of the Liz Taylors brayed a laugh. “A party isn’t a party ’til Larry gets a drink thrown at him.”

  The Shark started to follow me down the hallway, but Rocco blocked his way. Bum Bum tried to catch me in a hug but I brushed past him in embarrassment. I searched for a bathroom where I could lock myself in, but the powder room off the front hall was occupied. I ran upstairs where I suspected I’d find a big master bathroom. Bingo: hot pink walls and a giant shower stall, the vanity covered in Claudia’s makeup and shampoos and perfumes. I locked the door and lifted the fuzzy pink toilet seat, lowered my tights and plopped down to pee. Suddenly dizzy, I bent over, closed my eyes and rested my head between my knees. I wasn’t sure whether the wooziness was because of the booze or the Shark’s little white pill.

  I still had my head between my knees when I felt a tap on my shoulder. I opened my eyes without lifting my head — had the Shark found me?

  No. Worse than the Shark. Much worse: legs in white support hose ending in a pair of white crepe-soled Oxfords.

  A familiar voice said, “I’ve had just about enough out of you, missy. Time to start coughing up what you know about a certain anarchist.”

  I lifted my head. Nurse Dotty was holding up a hypodermic needle in one latex-gloved hand and gripping my arm with the other. I tried to get up off the toilet seat but I seemed frozen in place.

  As she reached down to angle the needle into my bicep, she said, “Larry’s an asshole. He should’ve known better than to try to recruit a Normal like you. ShipCo prefers scraping the bottoms of barrels for their Snugglegirls. But his seduction pill was a useful coincidence. As you can no doubt already feel, it causes temporary paralysis. Very effective when you prefer your victim helpless.”

  I watched, horrified, as the tip of the needle pricked my skin. But something didn’t make sense — I felt pain. If I were actually paralyzed, I wouldn’t be feeling anything at all.

  Taking a deep breath to summon all my strength, I slammed one knee straight up into the nurse’s chest — a move I’d seen the Contessina do many times in Agents of V.E.N.G.E.A.N.C.E. while tied into a chair, to some beefy Russian henchman with an eye patch. Bringing down Florence Nightingale’s evil twin sister was a piece of cake by comparison.

  With a grunt of surprise — I could almost see the “OOF!” floating in a speech bubble over her head — the nurse collapsed like a broken bag of white PEI potatoes, the glass needle shattering into itsy bitsy shards on the marble floor. Whatever hellish serum she was trying to pump into me formed a nasty little puddle. As if some drunk party guest had mistaken a floor tile for the toilet.

  I yanked up my tights and snapped up the crotch of my leotard while the nurse moaned and writhed among the splinters of glass. Blood trails were forming on her white support hose.

  “I’d pre-treat those bloodstains, if I were you, Nurse,” I said. “Didn’t anyone tell you not to wear white after Labour Day?”

  “You little bitch!” seethed the white witch, trying to stand. Putting my foot into what I judged to be the centre of her I Can’t Believe It’s a Girdle foundation garment, I thrust her back into the shower stall and turned the tap marked COLD on full blast. It was hard to distinguish her screams from the wailing of the air-raid siren. This was starting to feel like fun.

  The doorknob of the bathroom rattled, followed by a sharp knock.

  “Go away, it’s occupied,” I called out.

  “Debbie?” It was Bum Bum’s voice.

  I opened the door and fell into him. Bum Bum wrapped his arms around me and kissed my forehead.

  “Not sure Kendal would be happy to see us like this,” said Bum Bum.

  “Or Rocco,” I said.

  The rumble of Bum Bum’s laugh reached my ear through his chest.

  He led me down the hallway past a paunchy cowboy backing up a giggling starlet against the flocked gold wallpaper. As we descended the circular staircase to where Rocco waited for us, Bum Bum explained that Kendal had called with news that the air raid was a prank, but Duff and Linda had disappeared, along with Dad’s truck. Now Mrs. Kendal was driving Dad all over Shipman’s Corners looking for them.

  Before we left, I glimpsed the Shark with one arm around Angie and the other around Judy-Garland, his voice booming over the party noises. “You look like you really could be a Pan Am stewardess, darlin’. Ever hear of the Mile High Club? I’m a member.”

  Bum Bum and Rocco shot their cuffs and adjusted their ties as I pulled on my crime-fighter boots.

  “What now?” I asked, zipping up.

  “We meet Kendal and track down that asshole, Duff,” answered Rocco. “Looks like it’s gonna be a long night, Contessina.”

  thirteen

  Break and Enter

  Gripping a crowbar, Bum Bum ran his hand along the edge of the crumbling wooden window frame above our heads.

  “Broke in here once when I was ten. Wasn’t too hard.”

  “Where’s the window lead to?” Kendal asked.

  “A shitter. And from there, Cressie’s storeroom.”

  Bum Bum steadied himself on Rocco’s shoulder, who knitted his fingers into a step for Bum Bum’s foot. They counted together, one, two, three, and Rocco boosted Bum Bum high enough to lever the crowbar between the window frame and the ledge. One quick motion and the window groaned open, ancient paint chips flaying away like dead skin under a rasp. Bum Bum pumped the crowbar to widen the space, then slithered through headfirst. Next, Kendal jumped up, grabbed the sill with his good hand while Bum Bum caught the other, and scrambled in easily, his feet kicking the air behind him. My turn. One, two, three, and Rocco boosted me, but I didn’t have the strength to pull myself over the sill and ended up dangling by my fingertips. Kendal and Bum Bum grabbed my hands and hauled me through the window, my arms shrieking with pain.

  “You hardly weigh nothing,” whispered Bum Bum, giving Rocco a thumbs-up. The deal was, Rocco would remain at his post in the alley and raise the alarm if Cressie — or anyone else — showed up at the back of the store.

  “Ready?” asked Bum Bum. Kendal nodded yes for us both. I heard the squeak of hinges, and the space ahead of us yawned like a vast, windy black hole.

  “I’m going to chance a light ’til we see where we’re going,” whispered Bum Bum. “Knowing Cressie, he could’ve set bear traps.”

  A wild, staring eye sprang up out of the darkness, startling me; Kendal grabbed my arm to steady me.

  “Just a horse’s head,” he whispered. “From that broken-down old carousel in t
he park.”

  The flashlight raked the room, illuminating a stampede of horses, legs flexed, heads thrown back and nostrils flaring, some lying on the floor impaled on their poles, others slumped against the walls, flank to flank.

  He angled the flashlight at the floor as we picked our way past upturned hooves and charging legs. Then he cut the light and gently pushed open the door leading into the store.

  Streetlights illuminated Cresswell’s Collectibles just enough for us to make our way to the wall of cubbyholes behind the cash. Kendal pointed up at the Florsheim shoebox on the top shelf, stepping on a footstool to slide it out.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here,” he whispered, the box under his arm.

  As we turned to retrace our steps, a supernova exploded inside Cresswell’s, the light so intense that I was blinded for a few seconds. I spun in every direction until hands grabbed my shoulders and pushed me to the floor, a body — Bum Bum’s — squashing mine. Grit on the floor ground into my face as voices shouted and glass shattered all around us. Someone or something was coming through the front window of Cressie’s store. Eyes squeezed shut, arms over my head in duck-and-cover position, I heard the sound of boots hitting the floor planks.

  I opened my eyes to bloody rose petals floating in the air, bouncing in the light of cherry tops rotating on the roofs of squad cars parked outside the front window. White circles, like the end of a reel of a Super 8 home movie, exploded in my field of vision, but I could still make out Bum Bum scrabbling at the floorboards with his fingers, yanking one up. A trap door. He swung his legs into the hole and dropped over the side, disappearing from view. Kendal pushed me after him. I fell onto soft, stinking earth, Kendal landing on top of me. We were inside a pit, maybe four feet below floor level. The odours of oil and mould and something I couldn’t identify, and didn’t want to, hung heavily in the air. Bum Bum pulled a chain to close the trapdoor and all was dark.

  “Where are we?” I whispered. The smell was gagging me.