The Nuclear Age

by Tim O'Brien

  Clutching my pillow, I watched the moon float away.

  And then the flashes came. I almost smiled—here it was. Continent to continent: red flashes and silver flashes and brilliant un-colored flashes, raw energy, the blinding laws of physics, green and gold flashes, slippery yellow flashes that fuzzed like heat lightning, black flashes in a chrome sky, neutrons, protons, a high pop fly that never quite came down, a boy in a baseball cap shielding his eyes, circling, waiting forever, pink flashes, orange and blue, powdery puffs of maroon and turquoise opening up like flowers, a housewife running for the telephone, a poet puzzling over a final line, a grounded submarine, a silent schoolhouse, a farmer frozen on his tractor, cobalt flashes, bronze and copper and diamond-white, and it was raining upside down—but the rain was burning, it wasn’t really rain, it was wet and burning—loud noises, electricity, burning mountains and rivers and forests, and those flashes, all colors, the melted elements of nature coursing into a single molten stream that roared outward into the very center of the universe—everything—man and animal—everything—the great genetic pool, everything, all swallowed up by a huge black hole.

  The world wasn’t safe.

  I grabbed my pillow and ran for the basement. No time to think. It was cold down there, mildewy and damp, silent as outer space, but I crawled under the Ping-Pong table and hugged myself and waited.

  “Yo-yo,” I whispered. “You poor sick yo-yo.”

  But even then I couldn’t leave the fragile safety of my shelter. I tried but I couldn’t.

  “Crazy,” I said.

  I said it loud. Maybe I even shouted it. Because right away my father was there, he was there with me, under the table.

  “William,” he was saying, “it’s okay, it’s okay.”

  He held me tight, cradling me, arms around my shoulders. I could smell the heat of his armpits.

  “It’s okay now,” he purred, “no problem, you can keep the shelter, honest, you can fix it up like a fortress—why not, why not? Better than nothing, right? Right? Take it slow, now.”

  All the while he was massaging my neck and shoulders and chest, cooing in that soft voice, warming me, holding me close. We lay under the table for a long time.

  Later, he led me over to the stairs and sat beside me. He was wearing undershorts and slippers, and he looked silly, but I didn’t say anything. I just rocked against him.

  “No kidding,” he said, “I think it’s a terrific shelter. Absolutely terrific.”

  Then the embarrassment hit me.

  To cover up, I began jabbering away about the flashes, the pigeons, the sizzling sounds, whatever came to mind, and my father held me close and kept saying, “Sure, sure,” and after a time things got very quiet.

  “Well, now,” he said.

  But neither of us moved.

  Like the very first men on earth, or the very last, we gazed at my puny shelter as if it were fire, peering at it and inside it and far beyond it, forward and backward: a cave, a few hairy apes with clubs, scribblings on a wall.

  “Well, partner,” he said. “Sleepy?”

  I wasn’t, but I nodded, and he clapped me on the back and laughed.

  Then he did a funny thing.

  As we were moving up the stairs, he stopped and said, “How about a quick game? Two out of three?”

  He seemed excited.

  “Just you and me,” he said. “No mercy.”

  I knew what he was up to but I couldn’t say no. I loved that man. I did, I loved him, so I said, “Okay, no mercy.”

  We unloaded the bricks and charcoal and pencils, set up the net, and went at it.

  And they were good, tough games. My dad had a wicked backhand, quick and accurate, but I gradually wore him down with my forehand slams. Boom, point. Boom, point. A couple of times it almost seemed that he was setting me up, lobbing those high easy ones for me to smash back at him. But it felt good. I couldn’t miss.

  “Good grief,” he said, “you could be a pro.”

  Afterward he offered to help me rig up the shelter again, but I shrugged and said I’d get to it in the morning. My father nodded soberly.

  It was close to dawn when we went upstairs. He brewed some hot chocolate, and we drank it and talked about the different kinds of spin you can put on a Ping-Pong ball, and he showed me how to grip the paddle Chinese style, and then he tucked me into bed. He said we’d have to start playing Ping-Pong every day, and I said, “It sure beats chemistry sets,” and my father laughed and kissed me on the forehead and said it sure did.

  I slept well.

  And for the next decade my dreams were clean and flashless. The world was stable. The balance of power held. It wasn’t until after college, on a late-night plane ride from New York to Miami, that those wee-hour firestorms returned. The jet dipped, bounced, and woke me up. I pushed the call button. By then I was a mature adult and it really didn’t matter. The stewardess brought me a martini, wiped my brow, and then held my hand for a while.

  3

  Chain Reactions

  I WAS ON FIRM GROUND. The nights were calm, and those crazy flashes disappeared, and the end of the world was a fantasy. Things were fine.

  All through seventh and eighth grades, that most vulnerable time in a kid’s life, I carved out a comfortable slot for myself at the dead center of the Bell-Shaped Curve. I wore blue jeans and sneakers. I played shortstop for the Rural Electric Association Little League team; I batted a smooth .270—not great, but respectable. I was popular. People liked me. At school I pulled down solid grades, A’s and B’s, mostly B’s, which was exactly how I wanted it. I devoted long hours to the practice of a normal smile, a normal posture, a normal way of walking and talking. God knows, I worked at it. During the autumn of my freshman year, I hiked down to the junior high every Thursday night for dancing lessons—fox-trot and tango, the whole ballroom routine. I went out on hayrides with the Methodist Youth Fellowship. It didn’t matter that I hated hayrides, or that I wasn’t a Methodist, it was a question of locking in with the small-town conventions, hugging the happy medium.

  So what went wrong?

  Genetics, probably. Or a malfunction somewhere in the internal dynamics.

  The problem was this: I didn’t fit.

  It’s a hard thing to explain, but for some reason I felt different from all the others. Like an alien, sort of, an outsider. I couldn’t open up. I couldn’t tell jokes or clown around or slide gracefully into the usual banter and horseplay. At times I wondered if those midnight flashes hadn’t short-circuited the wiring that connected me to the rest of the world. I wasn’t shy, just skittish and tense; very tight inside; I couldn’t deal with girls; I avoided crowds; I had trouble figuring out when to laugh and where to put my hands and how to make simple conversations.

  I did have problems, obviously, but they weren’t the kind a shrink can solve. That’s the key point. They were real problems.

  I gave up dancing lessons.

  I also gave up hayrides and MYF.

  By the time I reached high school, 1960 or so, I’d turned into something of a loner. A tough skin, almost a shell. I steered clear of parties and pep rallies and all the rah-rah stuff. I zipped myself into a nice cozy cocoon, a private world, and that’s where I lived. Like a hermit: William Cowling, the Lone Ranger. On the surface it might’ve looked unwholesome, but I honestly preferred it that way. I was above it all. A little arrogant, a little belligerent. I despised the whole corrupt high school system: the phys-ed teachers, the jocks, the endless pranks and gossip, the teasing, the tight little self-serving cliques. Everything. Top to bottom—real hate.

  And who needed it?

  Who needed homecoming?

  Who needed cheerleaders and football and proms and giggly-ass majorettes?

  Who needed friends?

  I was well adjusted, actually, in a screwed-up sort of way. During the summers I’d hike up into the mountains above town, all alone, no tension or tightness, just enjoying the immense solitude of those purply cliffs
and canyons, exploring, poking around, collecting chunks of quartz and feldspar and granite. I felt an affinity for rocks. They were safe; they never gave me any lip. In the evenings, locked in my bedroom, I’d spend hours polishing a single slice of mica, shaving away the imperfections, rubbing the tips of my fingers across those smooth, oily surfaces. There was something reassuring about it, just me and the elements.

  My parents, of course, didn’t see it that way.

  “Look,” my dad said one evening, “rocks are fine, but what about people? You can’t talk to rocks. Human contact, William, it’s important.” He stood nervously for a moment, jingling the loose change in his pockets. “Thing is, you seem cut off from the world. Maybe I’m way off base but I get the feeling that you’re—I don’t know. Unhappy.”

  I smiled at him. “No,” I said, “I’m fine.”

  My father nodded and ran a hand along his jaw.

  “What about—you know—what about girls?”

  “Girls how?”

  “Just girls,” he said. He studied the palms of his hands. “This isn’t a criticism, it really isn’t, but I haven’t noticed you out there burning up the old social circuit, no dates or anything, no fun.”

  “Rocks are fun,” I told him.

  “Yes, but what I’m driving at … I’m saying, hey, there’s more to life than locking yourself up with a bunch of stones. It’s bad for the mental gyroscope. Things start wobbling, they get out of synch. Just a question of companionship.”

  I nodded at him. “All right. Companionship.”

  “Fun, William. Get on the phone, line up a date or two. If you need cash, anything, just say the word.”

  “Will do.”

  “Fun.”

  “Fun,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”

  He smiled and gave me a bashful pat on the shoulder. For a second I was afraid he might lean in for a hug, but he had the good sense to fold his arms and wink and back off.

  He took two steps and then hesitated.

  “One other thing,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I—we love you. Love, got it?”

  “Got it,” I said.

  I loved him, too. Which is why I didn’t blurt out the facts. To protect him, to beef up his confidence. Say what you want about honesty and trust, but there isn’t a father in the world who wants to hear that his kid has turned into a slightly warped ding-a-ling. All I wanted, really, was to give him the son he deserved.

  So I kept the wraps on. A few fibs here and there. Quite a few, in fact.

  Once or twice a week, for instance, I’d do a little trick with the telephone, dialing a random number, quietly breaking the connection, then carrying on fake conversations with fake friends. It was strictly a parental morale booster. Eyes closed, leaning back, I’d pretend I was calling up one of Fort Derry High’s hot-dog cheerleaders, like Sarah Strouch, and I’d make up zippy little bits of dialogue, clucking my tongue, trying to imagine the sort of topics Sarah might want to talk about. There were problems at first, but eventually, once I got the hang of it, I was able to relax and enjoy myself. It was a form of human contact. “So what’s happening?” I’d say, and she’d say, “Nothing much,” and then for an hour or two we’d discuss politics and religion, the nature of cheerleading, anything that popped up. A spooky thing, but there were even times when I’d get the feeling that Sarah was actually on the line—I could almost hear that husky voice of hers, very sexy but also very tough. “You poor, fucked-up guy,” she’d say, and I’d listen while she listed all my problems, then finally I’d say, “Okay, you’re right, but it’s just temporary,” and then I’d hear a snorting sound and she’d say, “I’m all ears, Billy, tell me about it.” So I’d lay it on the line. I’d talk about that alien feeling. How lonely I felt, how disconnected—lost in space.

  It might sound strange, but those fake phone calls produced some of the most intelligent conversations I’d ever had. Absolutely no bullshit, no teasing. Sarah Strouch was my closest buddy.

  A game, that’s all.

  And what was the harm?

  On weekends I’d sometimes go out on trumped-up dates. I’d do my phone trick with Sarah and splash on some Old Spice and bum money from my dad and then head down to Jig’s Confectionery for an evening of pinball and cherry phosphates and do-it-yourself fun.

  It was a double life. Normal, but also shaky, and there were times when all the pressures took a toll. A weighed-down feeling: I couldn’t function. Lying in bed at night, I’d hold my breath and pretend I was stone dead, no more troubles, a nice thick coffin to keep out the worms.

  Other times I’d imagine a yacht bobbing in the South Pacific. Waves and sun and gentle winds. Sarah Strouch sunbathing on a teak deck, those tight muscles, all that smooth brown skin.

  Or a tree house made of steel.

  A concrete igloo in Alaska.

  A snug spaceship heading for the stars.

  In the middle of the night I’d get up and wander out to the living room and shake dice or play solitaire. I’d roam from room to room. I’d fill the bathtub with hot water and ease myself in and practice floating.

  Once, around four in the morning, my mother found me there. I was half asleep, waterlogged.

  “Darling,” she whispered, “what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “William, please, it’s almost daylight.”

  I smiled.

  “No problem,” I said. “I need a bath.”

  October 1962, and things got ticklish.

  I looked at my father and said, “There, you see?” I wasn’t being a smart aleck. It was a serious question: Did he finally see?

  How did we survive?

  We were civilized. We observed the traditional courtesies, waving at neighbors, making polite conversation in supermarkets. People counted their change. Vacations were planned and promises were made. We pursued the future as though it might still be caught.

  My mother vacuumed the living-room rug, dusted furniture, washed windows, told me to buckle down to my schoolwork—there was college to think about.

  “College?” I said, and my mother fluffed her hair and said, “We have to trust,” so I buckled down.

  We carried on.

  By looking loved ones in the eye. By not blinking when Kennedy said: The path we have chosen for the present is full of hazards, as all paths are.

  And we were brave. We went to church. We paid attention to our bodies—the in-and-out movement of lungs, the sweet pulse of a toothache. We masturbated. We slept. We found pleasure in the autumn foliage. There was much kissing and touching, and the name of the Lord was invoked at Kiwanis meetings.

  My father made me get a haircut. “Shaggy-waggy,” he said, playfully, but he meant it.

  Birthdays were celebrated. Clocks were wound.

  One evening, at twilight, my mother and father and I sat in plastic lawn chairs in the backyard, scanning the sky, a peaceful pinkish sky rimmed with violet. No words were spoken. We were simply waiting. When darkness came, my mother took my hand, and my father’s hand, pressing them together. A modest gesture: Did she finally see? We just sat and waited. Later my father covered his eyes and yawned and stood up.

  “Oh, well,” he said. “Tomorrow’s another day.”

  I didn’t dream. I felt some fear, of course, or the memory of fear, but I had the advantage of having been there before, a kind of knowledge.

  At school we practiced evacuation drills. There was bravado and squealing.

  Hey, hey!

  What do you say?

  Nikita plans

  To blow us away.

  A convocation in the school gym. The principal delivered a speech about the need for courage and calm. The pep band played fight songs. Sarah Strouch led us in the Pledge of Allegiance, guileless and solemn, her hand teasing the breast beneath her letter sweater. The pastor of the First Baptist Church offered a punchy prayer, then we filed back to the classrooms to pursue the study of math and physics.

  How?<
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  By rolling dice. By playing solitaire. By adding up assets, smoking cigarettes, getting ready for Halloween, touching bases, treading water.

  A dream, wasn’t it?

  Jets scrambled over Miami Beach and warships cruised through the warm turquoise waters off St. Thomas.

  “How’s tricks?” my dad asked.

  “Fine.”

  “Flashes?”

  “What flashes?”

  He grinned. “That’s the ticket. What flashes?”

  We held together.

  By pretending.

  By issuing declarations of faith.

  “They aren’t madmen,” my mother said.

  “Exactly,” said my father.

  So we played Scrabble at the kitchen table, quibbling over proper nouns and secondary spellings.

  “They know better.”

  “Of course.”

  “Even the Russians—they don’t want it—politics, that’s all it is. True? Isn’t that true?”

  “Oh, Christ,” my father said.

  I wasn’t haunted by the nuclear stuff, I didn’t lose control, and if it hadn’t been for the headaches and constipation, I would’ve come through in good shape. Problem was, I couldn’t shit. Which brought on the headaches, which led to other problems.

  In any case, I spent the Cuban missile crisis squatting on a toilet. It was painful business, and embarrassing, so one morning on the sly I slipped down to Elf’s Drug Store on Main Street and swiped the laxatives. Except nothing much happened. A slight bellyache, a throbbing at my temples. I doubled the dose and drank a couple of Cokes and dragged myself off to school.

  That’s where it hit me.

  One minute I was sitting quietly in study hall, finishing up some geometry problems, then a dizzy-scrambly feeling came over me. A fun-house experience—topsy-turvy, no traction. In a way I felt very loose and relaxed, letting things spin, lying there on the floor while everybody yelled, “Give him air.”