Fallout by Todd Strasser Page B

neighborhood one lawn blended into the next, and no one had a fence. Some Negro boys around my age were playing baseball in the street, and inside a gated yard, some girls were playing teatime with dolls around a small table. The boys eyed us warily as we passed. When my friends and I played on the street, we rarely looked to see who was in the cars that went by.
    â€œThere.” Janet pointed to the right. “The one with the sunflowers.”
    Mom pulled to the curb. Parked in the driveway was the dented green car with the cracked windshield. The hood was raised, and tools were scattered on the ground. Tall yellow sunflowers lined the yard. A tricycle lay on the grass.
    Janet gathered her things. “Thank you so much for driving me home, Mrs. Porter.”
    â€œIt was no bother, Janet.” Mom looked at the flowers. “How pretty.”
    â€œThank you, Mrs. Porter,” Janet said as she got out. “Elmore loves to roast the seeds, but he better pick them quick before the birds get ’em.”
    The kids in the street were still watching us. It was hard to imagine how they could play when the balls must have constantly rolled under the parked cars that lined the curb.
    Then I noticed that two small faces had come to a window in Janet’s house. It felt like
High Noon
when the bad men rode into town and everyone peeked from behind curtains.
    Mom started back the way we came. When we passed the Esso station, the man in the dark green coveralls was pumping gas.
    â€œWhy did he ask if everything was okay?” Sparky said.
    I expected Mom to say she didn’t know, but instead she said, “That’s just the way some people are, Edward.”
    â€œThey don’t like Negroes sitting in the same car as white people?” I asked.
    Mom nodded.
    â€œI thought that was only in the South,” I said.
    â€œI think there’s a little bit of it everywhere.”

Dad tries the radio again: nothing.
    â€œCould it mean the Russians won?” Ronnie asks.
    â€œNobody won,” mutters Mr. Shaw. “We destroyed them, and they destroyed us.”
    â€œMaybe not,” Dad says. “Maybe Kennedy ordered our side not to retaliate.”
    â€œWhat are you talking about?” asks Mr. McGovern.
    â€œThere’s no sense in destroying everything,” says Dad.
    Paula’s father laughs contemptuously. “Ridiculous. He’d never let the Russians win.”
    â€œHow do you know?”
    â€œIt’s obvious you’re no student of history, Richard.” Mr. McGovern sounds like he thinks he’s so smart and Dad’s so dumb. Now I know where Paula gets it. “Great men think of their place in history. They think about what they’ll be remembered for. You really believe Kennedy would risk being remembered as the leader of the free world who refused to fight back? As the coward who allowed the Communists to take over? You actually think the president is hiding in a bunker somewhere waiting to surrender?”
    I hate the way Mr. McGovern talks to Dad, but what I hate almost as much is how what he says sounds right. When Dad doesn’t reply, I wonder if he also thinks Mr. McGovern is right.
    â€œIf the Russians did win, would we be their prisoners?” Ronnie asks.
    Mr. McGovern snorts. “Just what they need. More mouths to feed. I suppose they’d need men and women for work camps, but they’re no strangers to atrocities. Anyone who’s familiar with their actions during the war would know that.”
    Sparky tugs at Dad. “What’s he mean?”
    â€œNothing.” Dad shushes him.
    â€œFar from it,” says Mr. McGovern.
    Dad gets to his feet and steps toward Mr. McGovern, who is sitting with Paula. You can feel everyone grow tense. “That’s it, Herb,” Dad growls. “If you know what’s good for you.”
    But Mr. McGovern doesn’t look afraid. Maybe because he knows Dad would never do