Warhead

by Jeff Henigson

  “Hi, everyone. Sean here, if we haven’t met.” He was tall and thin, with a gentle smile. I’d never actually spoken to him. “I know it’s really hard to hear news like this, especially if Julie is a friend of yours. If you’re hurting over what happened and need to talk, or if you’re feeling down yourself or if you just need a sympathetic ear, please feel free to drop by my office anytime.”

  He lifted a stack of papers from the mic stand. “The faculty and I are going to pass around these information sheets on depression. Please make sure to take one before you go to your first class. It has questions that can help you determine whether you’re experiencing depression.”

  A guy standing across from me rubbed his neck. Cara fiddled with her ring. Sean sensed the uncertainty. “People with depression aren’t always aware of what they’re experiencing. This sheet really can help. Anyway, I’m just asking—okay, I’m demanding—that you read this. And again, if you want to talk, my door’s open.”

  Sean stepped back. Just as Mrs. Hager was returning to the mic, the stack of papers reached me. I grabbed one, took a quick look, and put it into my backpack.

  “Okay, everyone,” Mrs. Hager said. “I’m sorry to start your day like this. I’m also really sorry for Julie. There’s a card for her in Mrs. Fox’s office if you’d like to show Julie your support.” She stepped back from the mic, thought for a second, and then returned. “Please,” she said in a voice that was pleading, “be good to yourselves.”

  * * *

  •

  I got home from school that day and Mom waved at me from her office. She grabbed a portable phone and walked it over to me, saying, “He’s right here.” She had a smile on her face.

  The lady on the other end was from the Starlight Children’s Foundation. “This is just a preliminary call,” she explained as I sat down in the old playroom. She told me about the organization, and when she finished she asked if I had any questions.

  I only had one. “Who called you?” Because I hadn’t.

  “The notes here say your mom was in touch.”

  I turned around and saw Mom standing behind me, pretending to clean up the already perfectly clean kitchen. The smile on her face had gotten bigger.

  “We’ll be sending you an application,” the lady from Starlight said. “If it’s approved, some of our volunteers will interview you about your wish. Do you happen to have one in mind?”

  “Not exactly,” I said. “Maybe something related to NASA and outer space.”

  “That sounds very nice. No need to decide on anything until you’ve been approved and have the interview. If you don’t have any questions, I’d like to speak to your mother.”

  I thanked her and walked the phone over to Mom, who eagerly took it, and then I headed downstairs.

  For a few minutes, I thought about Julie trying to commit suicide. But it wasn’t long before my mind shifted to something else: daydreaming about my wish. As soon as I realized that, I felt a little selfish.

  My backpack was next to me. I figured I’d better get to my homework. I unclipped the top and pulled out my math textbook. Some papers fluttered to the floor. I bent over to pick them up, and a moment later I was reading about depression.

  * * *

  •

  Almost to my surprise, I made it through sophomore year. My third round of chemo had really laid me out—to the point where my oncologist said I’d have to do my final three rounds in the hospital—but despite falling way behind at times, I somehow managed to get myself caught up. The fact that I didn’t have a car—mine turned out to be a lemon and there was a waiting list for a replacement—ended up helping me, because I spent more time around the house. Even though homework was boring, it was better than watching a bunch of reruns or doing nothing at all.

  The week classes finished, Dave, an old friend of mine, called out of the blue. He and his buddy Ryan were headed to a movie, and Dave was calling to see if I wanted to join them. I told him sure, but I needed a ride, and he said they were actually hoping to get one from me. “Let me call you back in a sec,” I said.

  Mom was in her office. “How are you doing, my dear?” she asked.

  I told her I’d just been invited to a movie, but that none of us had a car.

  “I’d give you a ride, honey, but I wouldn’t be able to pick you up. I’ve got something this evening.”

  I sighed. “There is the Jeep, you know.”

  “Dad doesn’t want anyone to use it. It only has that one kind of insurance on it.”

  “Liability. I know. But all we’d be doing is going to a movie. That’s it.”

  “He’s at the office. You can call him and ask.”

  There was no way I was going to do that. He’d get irritated. I decided to play the sympathy card.

  “Mom, I’ve got another round of chemo in the hospital in just a couple of days.”

  “I know you do, honey.”

  “I’d really like to have a little fun. I promise I’ll be super careful. Can I please use the Jeep this one time?”

  She looked at me for several seconds, and when I put on my best puppy-dog eyes she finally gave in.

  “Please don’t get into an accident.”

  “I promise I won’t,” I said, planting a big kiss on her cheek after she handed me the key. I called Dave to let him know that I’d come up with a set of wheels.

  We got to the theater, which was in the crappy part of Pasadena they were trying to revive as “Old Town,” with just a few minutes to spare.

  “If you give me some money, I can grab tickets while you guys park,” Ryan offered.

  We handed over six bucks and he hopped out. Dave and I drove around to the new lot.

  “Holy crap,” I said to Dave, pointing at a sign showing the parking fee. It cost as much as the matinee did.

  “Let’s park on the street,” Dave said.

  We found a spot and I swung open my door. Just as I was about to step out, a man wearing a ski mask shoved a machine gun into my stomach. The look of it jolted me. An actual machine gun. I was so stunned it took me a second to understand what the guy was saying. “I said put your keys back in the ignition! Put your wallets on the dashboard!”

  With shaking hands, I followed his instructions. I looked over at Dave, who was pale and had a dark stain growing on his pants, and nudged him for his wallet. I slid out of the front seat with my hands up and yelled at Dave to get out of the car. The guy told us to run or he’d kill us, that if we were slow, he’d kill us, and it didn’t take anything more. We were already twenty feet away when the doors slammed shut and the engine started, and it was only when we heard the screeching of tires that we looked back, catching a glimpse of the Jeep as it raced around the corner and disappeared.

  Two hours later, we were at the Pasadena police station. We had all called our parents. Ryan had nothing to add to the police report, so he left the moment his mom showed up. Dave and I sat with an officer for a while, answering all the questions he asked in his monotone voice. Dave had his legs crossed tight, the dry one over the wet one. I was fidgeting away, my fingernails scratching at my thumbs, thinking how I wasn’t supposed to have used that car. Dad was going to be upset.

  Dave’s dad showed up. He ran to his son, leaning over and wrapping his arms around him, holding him for several seconds the way my mom did when I came back from summer camp. He kissed him on his forehead. “Are you okay?” he asked.

  Dave nodded a yes.

  His dad pulled him against his chest and said, “Praise God, praise God.”

  The officer finished with his questions and pushed forward some paperwork to sign. Dave’s dad asked me if I’d like them to wait for my parents to arrive, but I saw Dave look down at his pants, and I told his dad I’d be fine.

  After they left, I found a seat near the entrance and focused my eyes on the door.
My fingers kept fidgeting away, picking the dead skin from my cuticles. I kept shifting in my seat, my mind flipping between seeing the machine gun in my gut and visualizing Dad’s arrival.

  After another fifteen minutes went by, I saw my father on the building steps. He pushed the door open vigorously and walked directly to me.

  I quickly stood.

  “Are you injured?” he asked.

  “No,” I told him. I hoped he would hug me, like Dave’s dad had hugged him.

  Dad pressed his lips together. He drew in a deep breath, slowly, but then blew it out fast enough to make his nostrils flare. “Do you realize,” he said, his voice deeper now, “the motor vehicle you insisted on borrowing was insured only for accident liability since, as Mother turns out to have incorrectly stated, it was never being used? That amounts to a loss of thirteen thousand dollars.”

  For several seconds, I felt like my legs were going to give out. I did everything I could not to collapse. My eyes welled up, like I was pleading with Dad for something, but he just stared at me with his jaw clenched, his own eyes flinty and cold.

  He finally stepped away to talk with the officer. I told myself he’d be calmer when he came back, that he’d tell me he was grateful I survived, that either the look on his face or the words that came out of his mouth would steady me. The thought of it got my shaking to stop.

  Dad signed some paperwork. He shook the officer’s hand. Then he stood, turned, and walked past me toward the door. He didn’t hold it open. He didn’t look back to see if I was following.

  It felt pretty ironic that the follow-up to nearly being killed by a machine gun was being admitted to Huntington Hospital so chemo could get injected into my veins. The idea of chemo was ironic enough on its own—toxic poisons kill off parts of you so the whole of you doesn’t otherwise die. But add to it that the nurses were shooting me up just after a guy nearly shot me down. Life, at least mine, felt strange.

  For four days, I was stuck in a room that was totally depressing. The brownish-yellow walls matched the smog outside. The only view was of a parking lot. There were no pictures or paintings or anything interesting to look at, just the tall metal pole next to me where nurses would step in periodically to hang a new bag full of poison. It was like the room was designed to reflect the dual dejection of chemo and carjacking.

  Dad didn’t visit the first day, and on the second morning Mom told me he’d called to say he was stuck in the office.

  “It’s because I got his Jeep stolen,” I said to Mom.

  She shook her head. “He’s just on overload with his case, honey.” She patted my arm but I looked away.

  I slept most of the day, waking up that afternoon to find Loretta sitting in the recliner where Mom normally planted herself. She was flipping through a magazine—Cosmopolitan.

  “I thought that was for teenage girls,” I said.

  “God knows I’ve got three of them,” Loretta said. She set the magazine on the side table. “Your mom’s out running some errands. How are you feeling?”

  “A little nauseous. Not as bad as usual. I guess it’s a little easier when they inject the poisons directly instead of my having to swallow all those disgusting pills.”

  “I’m just happy you’re less likely to puke on me,” Loretta said with a wink.

  “Be careful there. I still managed to puke once. Keep talking and I might again.”

  We chatted about all the usual stuff, like her daughters, one of whom had a skinhead boyfriend, and how Ted had gotten a lot nicer, probably because he was getting ready to go off to college, just like Loretta’s oldest daughter. Then I told her about Dad’s car.

  “Your mother shared that with me, honey,” Loretta said. Her eyes turned toward the ceiling. “I’m just grateful to God that you’re alive.”

  “I wish my father felt that way. Seriously, Loretta, from the look on his face when he came to the police station, I think he would’ve preferred his Jeep survive over me.”

  Loretta’s face crumpled into a frown. “How can you say that, Jeff? Of course he wouldn’t have.”

  “You weren’t there, Loretta. He was furious. He hasn’t visited me once. It’s like he’s moved into his office downtown.”

  “Maybe he’s just overwhelmed with work.”

  “Maybe he just hates his son.”

  Loretta reached across the bed for my right hand. The one closer to her had a bunch of tubes going into it. I gave it to her and she kissed it.

  “Okay, on to brighter things. What’s up with the wish?”

  “Well, I had a phone chat with someone from the Starlight Foundation, but they haven’t accepted me yet.”

  “Have you come up with a wish?”

  “Not exactly. I mean, I’d love to do something space-related, but I’m not sure what my options would be, given the state of my body. Plus, Dad thinks wishes are stupid.”

  “Did he actually say that?”

  “Well, not exactly. He said they were for kids.”

  “Look, Jeff, if you’re no longer a kid, then I’m an old hag! You’re definitely a kid.” Loretta started laughing. I rolled my eyes and sighed. Her laughing stopped. “Seriously, maybe this wish could be a way for you to connect with your father.”

  I sat up a bit. “How’s that?”

  “I’m just thinking of this world we’re in, and everything that’s happening. Your father actually fought in a war. He’s concerned whenever there’s conflict. And you, sweetie, you’re very mature for your age. I remember how much you worried last year about that nuclear reactor that blew up in the Soviet Union—”

  “Chernobyl.”

  “Yes, that one. And also how you wish the U.S. and the Soviets would collaborate more in outer space.”

  “We could do amazing things.”

  “I’m sure we could. My point is, as different as you are from your father, there are things in this world that are important to both of you. Maybe your wish could be about that.”

  I looked over to the window, thinking about what she’d said. It was so different from what normally came out of her mouth—jokes and laughter and much less serious stuff. But it felt like she’d landed on something.

  “What are you thinking?” she asked.

  I didn’t say anything for a moment.

  “Tell me.”

  I looked at her and chuckled. “I’m just surprised that you managed to say something that truly makes sense.”

  * * *

  •

  Not long after getting out of the hospital, as soon as my energy came back, I headed down to the South Pasadena Public Library to do a little research. Ever since that conversation with Loretta, I’d been thinking about something that did actually connect me with my father: nuclear weapons and the Cold War.

  In no time at all, the librarian and I had pulled out a ton of books. I parked myself at one of the reading tables, neatly stacked everything in front of me, and dug in.

  Almost every book had something that blew my mind. The first one talked about nuclear yields—the amount of energy that came out of nuclear weapons. I mean, I’d already heard they were insanely powerful. Dad had told me that the bomb we dropped on Hiroshima in 1945 was equivalent to fifteen thousand tons of TNT, and that it killed something like seventy-five thousand people in an instant. I knew the bombs we had now were even larger, but I couldn’t have been further from grasping the extent of it.

  What this first book said was that by the early 1960s we’d developed a nuclear bomb, the B-41, that was equivalent to at least fifteen hundred Hiroshima bombs. The Soviets responded by building—and actually blowing up over an island in the Arctic Ocean—one that was twice as powerful as ours, the Tsar Bomba. Everything within a radius of forty miles was completely destroyed.

  I sat back for a second, scratching my head. What if the Soviets dropped just o
ne of those bombs on downtown L.A.? The whole city would be flattened. That sent a shiver down my spine. And our house was just ten miles to the north. All the beaches we ever went to, like Santa Monica and Long Beach and Marina del Rey, where I’d launched my rocket, were within that forty-mile stretch. Heck, with the exception of some cousins in New York and San Francisco, my whole family, and certainly all my friends, were within that radius. That single bomb could kill everyone I knew.

  And that was what just one Soviet bomb could do. I quickly learned that they had stockpiled something like thirty thousand nuclear weapons—of all different sizes—which could be delivered by bombers, by missiles, by submarines. And we had at least thirty thousand of our own. If we actually got into a nuclear war with the Soviets, the outcome wouldn’t look like The Day After. There would be no story to tell. Human beings would no longer exist.

  I didn’t stop reading. I was scared at first—to the point where I almost got up and walked out—but I kept at it. A boring book about the price tag of nuclear weapons helped, at least at first. It had all these statistics about what it cost to develop new weapons, maintain existing ones, come up with new ways to deliver them, and develop systems—like Reagan’s Star Wars program—in the hope of preventing the Soviet missiles from blowing us up. The total cost could be as high as four trillion dollars.

  That didn’t mean much to me—the numbers were so huge—until an author said it was also hard for him to understand. We should think in terms of what that money could be spent on instead—the opportunities we lost, the things that were stolen from us. My mind went straight to cancer. What if some of that money was spent on research? There might be better ways to treat people. I felt my jaw tightening. Maybe Dr. Egan wouldn’t have had to carve my head open. Maybe some of my friends in the cancer support group would be living normal lives.