The Nuclear Catastrophe (a fiction novel of survival)

by Billig, Barbara C. Griffin

  A cluster of fucus lay in the sand. The tough, leathery ribbon-like thallus of seaweed was tangled and knotted from its beating by the surf. Walnut-sized air bladders were present among the sticky thongs. Cecil dropped his foot on one of the bulbs and pressed down until he heard the popping sound under his shoe. Tiny gnats swarmed around the mess, forming a dark screen as he pushed the pile aside. As an afterthought, he stooped down and separated the thick filaments, searching for fragile brittle stars cloistered within. The delicate pink and orange marine animals were nowhere to be seen. Sadly, he walked on.

  Ahead of him were large dark boulders, normally submerged by the tide and invariably coated with dense layers of barnacles. Today they stood dry for the tide was low, one of the lowest of the year. Jumping from stone to stone, he edged out to the most distant rock and climbed atop it. From there he felt above the ills of his world. Damp air soaked through his blue windbreaker, causing him to shiver. Rather than seeking shelter from the dampness, Cecil sat down on the big rock.

  A few gulls floated in the gray sky. There was little food to be scavenged from the shoreline—evidence of the destructiveness of the radiation on marine life. Colorful, flower-like anemones and starfish, common tideline inhabitants, were absent, leaving tiny crabs alone and isolated. Cecil watched the fiddler crabs scurrying about in empty snail shells, oblivious to the big man towering above them.

  He sat there in solitude for over an hour. At last, he realized that evening was drawing near, and since he didn’t wish to be late for visiting hours, he hunched deeper into the jacket, and trekked the lonely trip back along the beach, then to his car.

  It was a distressing concern that had gradually encroached on his peaceful existence. Thoughts of Althea kept taunting him, distracting him. He missed the proper exit from the freeway, as the nagging, persistent thoughts continually interfered with his concentration, reminding him of his vulnerability. Again he exited onto the wrong street.

  Out of patience, he swung the car into a sharp U-turn in the middle of the block, and headed toward a flat, sprawling complex of medical buildings. A white, square sign identified the facility by its new name, Beckman Radiation Treatment Center.

  Her room was in the south wing overlooking a field of parched yellow grass. She had been awaiting him throughout the day even though he wouldn’t arrive until visiting hours. He was that kind of man—prompt, precise.

  Two empty paper cups rested on the aluminum bed tray, an indication that medication had been given.

  “Hello, Althea.” He glanced at her fine features, crowned by thick dark hair. This was the first time he had seen her tresses loose, and not done up in the chignon. A gray streak had appeared among the darker strands.

  “Cecil. I’m glad you’re here. It has been so long.”

  He seated himself across the room. “Not since we met in Washington,” he said. “Exactly four months ago.” He shifted about uneasily. Was it going to be hard to find things to say now? In Washington, and until he had left the plane, they’d had a steady running conversation.

  “You’re thinner. You’ve lost some weight,” she remarked.

  “Yes,” he replied. “I have.”

  “Come closer and let me get a good look at you.”

  Obediently he walked over to the bed.

  “I like you in those clothes. They’re very casual. Do you know I always picture you in a suit and tie?”

  He colored slightly. “I decided it was time I started enjoying life a little more, Thea. So I began a new image, I guess you’d say.” She seemed tired and weary to him, although he could not have expected anything else. “Your eyes look tired. You’re not sleeping well, are you?” he asked.

  She presented a flicker of a smile. “Not very. But you—I want to hear about you. What business do you have in Los Angeles?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing. At least it’s nothing important. It can wait until you tell me why you were transferred to Beckman.”

  Her large black eyes dropped to the sheet, avoiding his stare.

  “Althea, what’s wrong?” he asked.

  She tore a tissue from its box and it was then that he saw the tiny pools of tears that had collected in the corners of her eyes. Her tears moved him, he wanted to touch her, but he refrained. “Tell me. Maybe I can help, Thea. I did once before, remember?”

  “No, no. It’s not that. I’m not expecting you to help. There is nothing you can do,” she answered despondently.

  “But you emailed me. You said that you did want to see me again,” he began. “You said....”

  “Maybe I was wrong. I probably shouldn’t have contacted you— not after all this time.”

  “Nonsense. It was you who had said that we shouldn’t see each other, not me,” said Cecil.

  “You were too serious, Cecil. You wanted—well, you want something that I’m not sure I can give,” she said, blotting at the tears.

  “What? Friendship, companionship? Look, we’re not senile. There’s plenty of time for us to enjoy living.” His words had come out harshly, something he hadn’t meant. He wanted to be tender and gentle, but wasn’t sure how.

  The tears had dried. She was composed as she searched his face for some hidden meaning. “I have missed our conversations—our long talks, Cecil. What do you do with your free hours now?” she asked innocuously.

  “Read. Sleep. Putter in my garage. Play on the computer. Search out new places to take interesting photos.” At the mention of the photography his face brightened. “I work with digital material. I have some fabulous photoshop programs. They do everything. Some of my photos have been published in magazines, Thea.”

  “Haven’t you made new friends—friends at Calmar? Around your apartment?” she asked.

  He idly toyed with a snap on his jacket. “People don’t interest me all that much. You know that.”

  “They should, though. You are such a strong man. Kind. Considerate. You have so much to offer to friends.”

  He looked past her, out at the darkening night. “I’ve never had close friends—not before you. When I’m with them I don’t know what to say. I can’t make small talk like other people do.”

  “We talked,” she said. “For nearly five solid days you and I talked about everything under the sun. Didn’t we?”

  He nodded. “And that’s just it. You’re the only person I’ve ever known that I could really communicate with.”

  “But that doesn’t mean there aren’t others around with whom you can share your interests.”

  Shrugging, he said, “I haven’t looked for them, though, and actually, I don’t really need anyone.” It was a cold, hard assertion, put in such a way that no further discussion was invited. Suddenly the room was too small, choking him. “Why did you contact me, Althea? Why? Or are you sorry that you did?”

  “When I wrote the email I wanted to see you, Cecil. I know now that it was unfair of me—selfish of me—but I was so far down, so depressed. I felt that if I could just talk with someone for a few minutes, someone who really understood my aloneness, that I’d be heartened, and could face the days before me.”

  He laid his hand across hers. “You’ve been through a lot, Thea. Much too much. What is it, Thea? Tell me.”

  “Dr. Parsons, my surgeon, is going to amputate my left foot, Cecil. He said that there was no other alternative. Not after six months.”

  Instinctively he drew his hand back. “Amputate? Your foot? But why?”

  “The blisters—the radiation. It won’t heal. There is nothing else to do but remove it,” she choked. “I... it’s.…oh, it’s horrible!” she cried out.

  “Well, but my God, Althea, an amputation, it’s bad, of course, but....” He hesitated, reluctant to say anything that could be misconstrued, misinterpreted. “It could be....” and he stopped short of saying the word worse. “Could it be the surgeon made a mistake? Maybe you should consult someone else—get another opinion.”

  She was suddenly strangely quiet; there were no outbursts af
ter that one admission to being frightened.

  “Doctors have made errors before, Althea. Perhaps another method of treatment by someone new...another doctor....”

  “Dr. Parsons only confirmed the opinion of the physicians who have treated me over the past six months, Cecil. It’s very definite to these men that allowing the condition to remain would be further damaging to my body.”

  “The other foot—what about it? Isn’t it healing?” he asked.

  “Yes. Slowly. They think.”

  “Then, I can’t believe they won’t give this more time.”

  “No. The decision has been made,” she said with finality.

  He walked around to the window and stood, staring out into the darkness. He was shaken by the news. Althea was almost reconciled to the amputation, but to Cecil, the prospect had jolted his system. He wanted to weep for her, but how could he do that if she wasn’t crying for herself? Little did he know that her sobbing had lasted half the day that the decision to amputate was made. By now her tears were gone and left in their place were visions of her future without the aid of one limb—a bleak empty future, it must have seemed to her. Still turned toward the night he asked, “How can you accept this with such calmness?”

  “I’ve known for several days. I’ve had some time to make mental adjustments. In a way, I suppose I’m lucky. While thousands have died, I survived to lose a foot.”

  “It could be worse,” he said quietly.

  “Once I didn’t think so. Once I thought I’d rather die than be left a permanent cripple. But the desire to live can’t be shoved aside that easily.”

  The man was silent, his back to her.

  Noises from the hall seeped through the closed door.

  “When is it to be done?” he asked.

  “Tomorrow. In the morning.”

  A metal cart was being pushed by the room, causing a rattle of wheels against tile flooring.

  “What time?” asked Cecil.

  “Ten o’clock.”

  A voice, muffled by the walls, its words indistinctive, permeated the room from the hallway.

  “I... Will any of your family....Will your Aunt Bertha be here?” It seemed important that someone be waiting for her. There must be someone who would welcome her out of the anesthesia, welcome her return to the world.

  “I haven’t bothered telling my aunt and uncle. There is nothing they could do. Not now.” She recalled the last time she had spoken with her aunt, that day, in her parents’ living room, while her mother and father listened.

  Finally he turned to face her. “I’ll be here. I’ll be right here in this room after the surgery.” Reassuringly he stepped over to the bedside, and touched her gently on the shoulder.

  She grabbed his hand and pressed it to the side of her face, grateful for his concern.

  “Later we can discuss what must be done after you leave here.” He pulled the chair up and sat down. A single light shone from the head board, casting a dim circle on the floor. He stretched his legs out until they were illuminated, leaving the rest of his torso in semi-darkness.

  “There was one chore that I’d hoped to complete before— before this,” she said. “My parents’ house. I asked to be driven by there on the way to Beckman—it’s in such disrepair.”

  “You surely don’t intend to go there, Althea.”

  “No. But it needs to be boarded against intruders. The old neighborhood was in shambles, and it’s just a matter of time until everything inside the house is stolen.”

  Cecil hadn’t the courage to tell her that looting happened long ago, and there was probably nothing left in the old place. “Someday property in that area will be worth something again. If you can hang onto it, you might eventually sell it for what it’s worth,” he said.

  “Oh, I’m not even worried about whether or not to sell it. But I shudder to think that my parents’ personal things will all be gone before I can get to them. Cecil, have many of the people stayed? What’s it like in the city now?”

  “Many stayed, mainly because they’d lose everything—efforts of a lifetime—if they left.”

  For awhile, her financial position had been overwhelmingly depressive. “The government’s insurance doesn’t pay for the losses, not a fraction of the losses. I used to worry myself sick about it, until I decided that if the insurance doesn’t cover it, it just doesn’t,” she replied sadly.

  “No. It couldn’t possibly. Lots of folks just dropped everything and left, though, just cut themselves loose from houses, possessions, like they didn’t care. I couldn’t believe it, driving in this morning. Acres and acres of farm land, all full of weeds, shells of commercial and industrial buildings where thriving businesses once operated. It’s ghostly, Althea. Yes, like an immature ghost town of the west.”

  “It’ll snap back, won’t it, Cecil? Los Angeles can’t die. It has to revive!”

  “Oh yeah, I suppose. But it’ll take a while.”

  “Senator McCauley has announced that the formal investigation will begin next week,” she said.

  “Really? When did you hear that?” he asked.

  “On the radio, this morning. I liked him, didn’t you, Cecil? Didn’t you think he was sincere at getting to the bottom of this?”

  “He’s sincere, all right. And smart. I hope we see some drastic changes resulting from that little man’s efforts.”

  The door opened a crack and a nurse peered in. “Althea, can I get you something?” Noticing Cecil, she continued, “Ah well, I see you have company. How nice.”

  “Thank you, no. Everything is....fine,” answered the patient.

  “Are those pills taking effect, yet?”

  “Some. I’m beginning to get drowsy.”

  “Remember to buzz me if you have any trouble falling asleep. We want you rested, you know.”

  After the nurse had gone, Cecil began digging for his car keys. “I guess I’d better not keep you awake, then,” he said and rose.

  “You didn’t tell me why you’re in Los Angeles—what brought you here,” Althea said. “Some sort of business?”

  “It was nothing,” he answered.

  “But you emailed me that you had important business here.”

  “Well, it wasn’t very important, after all.”

  “Oh, I see. Cecil, will you really be here tomorrow?” she asked.

  “Of course I will. Right here in this spot.” He tugged the blanket up under her chin. “I’ll be waiting right here.”

  “Then I’ll see you tomorrow?”

  “Yes. You will. And by the way, I’ll go to the house and have someone nail boards over the doors and windows for you.”

  “I....I... How often have I thanked you for something you’ve done for me?”

  “Don’t worry, Althea. Everything will be all right. You’ll see.”

  The night had been endless for Cecil. He had tossed around, failing to find sleep, until he’d finally given up, and dressed for the coming day. In street clothes, he sat in a chair, holding a book in his hand, but not reading. He wished he were at his apartment. This strangeness of a motel room—well, he had trouble sleeping in any bed not his own, and he just wished he were back in San Diego. The sooner, the better.

  But of course that wouldn’t really resolve his problems, to ignore them. He had come here planning to ask Althea Carr to marry him, and now he was acutely aware that the situation had changed. Not his fondness for the woman—that was still there. Fondness, though, was hardly a proper reason for marriage. There was supposed to be love, that intangible state of emotion that Cecil was not sure he had ever experienced. He felt elated and proud when he had fulfilled her need, but, that wasn’t love. Encountering a burst of gratitude from her after he had performed some menial, masculine function always inflated his self-importance and left him more determined than ever to have the pleasurable experience repeated. Perhaps the feeling was akin to those same desires he had sought to satisfy from his parents when he was a small boy. When the rewards had be
en gratifying, he had continued his infantile stunts until admonished by his parents to quit fooling around and go out to play. Their admonishments had crushed him, but he’d never failed to do their bidding. And here, years later, when the memories of his parents were faint, he was still seeking approval.

  He slammed the book shut in disgust. Self-examination wasn’t a practice that he particularly enjoyed. But marriage? He needed that....he needed her. That she was black meant nothing, for after all they had been through, such a minor factor as skin color was easily transcended.

  The night air was cold and wet. Some thinkers sit quietly to meditate, but he walked. He walked down the block, past the coffee shop, and on toward the single neon sign that emitted an eerie glow in the fog. A year ago he’d have hesitated before taking a midnight stroll anywhere in Los Angeles; in fact, he probably wouldn’t have done it at all. Now, after White Water, he no longer feared the darkness of a big city. Tonight, and for many to come, these empty streets would be safe for a lone pedestrian. He grimaced at the thought of how base some men could become, sinking to unparalleled depths to forward their own gains under the cover of darkness.

  Shrubs had become overgrown forests around the tired-looking shop fronts. Cecil felt irritated that the tenants who had moved back in to resume business didn’t take greater pains to get their places tidy and trim. They seemed not to care about external appearances anymore—a completely opposite attitude from that before the incident at White Water. Los Angeles and its daughter cities had become outcasts, anathemas, to visitors and tourists, and as such, had lost their spirit, their verve, almost their desire to recover. Lacking physically demolished structures to satisfy the curiosity of the morbid, the towns had nothing to charm the people in from far away. Furthermore, a constant fear of radiation hung over the area even yet.

  He was anxious to be gone from here. It was foolish for him to have come. Primping like a high school boy, he’d rushed up to Los Angeles, intending to declare his devotion to the woman and make her his own. Silly fool! A near helpless woman who’d have to be carefully treated for months, who’d be nothing but a burden until she’d mastered the art of handling a synthetic limb—he didn’t need a woman like that. On the other hand, she made him feel like a giant. She listened to him. She shared his ideas. She knew what was happening in the world.