When Helen called, they sat down to a dinner table that, under the circumstances, seemed incongruous. The meal was only soup, salad, and sandwiches, but Helen had laid the table as meticulously as if Dan Gunn had agreed to stay for a late supper on an ordinary evening. When Ben Franklin sat down Helen said, “Did you wash your hands?”
“No, ma’am.” “Well, do so.”
And Ben disappeared and returned with his hands washed and hair combed. They listened to the radio as they ate, hearing only the local broadcasts from San Marco at two-minute intervals. Their ears had become dulled to the repetitive, unimportant announcements and warnings, as those who live on the seashore fail to hear the sea. But any fresh news, or break in the routine, instantly alerted and silenced them.
Several times they heard a brief bulletin: “County Civil Defense authorities warn everyone not to drink fresh milk which may have been exposed to fallout. Canned milk, or milk delivered this morning prior to the attack, can be presumed safe.”
Dan Gunn explained that this precaution was probably a little premature. It was designed primarily for the protection of children. Strontium 90, probably the most dangerous of all fallout materials, collected in calcium. It caused bone cancer and leukemia. “In a week or so it can be a real hazard,” he said. “It can’t be a hazard yet, because the cows haven’t had time to ingest strontium 90 in their fodder. Still, the quicker these dangers are broadcast, the more people will be aware of them.”
Helen asked, “What happens to babies?”
“Evaporated or condensed canned milk is the answer-while it lasts. After that, it’s mother’s milk.”
“That will be old-fashioned, won’t it?”
Dan nodded and smiled. “But the mothers will have to be careful of what they eat.” He looked down at the lettuce. “For instance, no greens, or lettuce, if your garden has received fallout. Trouble is, you won’t know, really, whether your ground, or your food, is safe or not. Not without a Geiger counter. We’ll all have to live as best we can, from day to day.”
Ben Franklin looked up at the ceiling, listening. He said, “Listen!”
The others heard it, very faintly.
“A jet,” Ben said. “A fighter, I think.”
The sound faded away. Randy discovered he had been holding his breath. He said, “I guess it’s still going on.”
Helen laid her salad fork on the plate. She had eaten very little. She said, “I have to know what’s happening-I just have to. Can’t we go over to see your retired admiral tonight, Randy?”
“Sure, we can see him. But what about Peyton? We can’t leave her alone.”
Helen looked at Ben Franklin and Ben said, “Is this what I’m going to be-a professional baby-sitter?”
Dan Gunn rose. “I’ve got to get back to town. I’ve got to check in at the clinic and then I’ve got to get some sleep.” “Why don’t you stay here for the night, Dan?” Randy said. “I can’t. They’re expecting me at the clinic. And Randy, I brought the emergency kit for you.” He turned to Helen. “It was a wonderful supper. Thanks. I was so hungry I was weak. I didn’t realize it.”
Randy walked him to his car. Dan said, “That poor girl.” “Peyton?”
“No. Helen. Uncertainty is the worst. She’d be better off if she knew Mark was dead. See you tomorrow, Randy.”
“Yes. Tomorrow.” He walked back to the house and paused on the porch to look at the thermometer and barometer. The barometer was steady, very high. Temperature was down to fifty five. It would get colder tonight. It might go to forty before morning. From across the river, far off, he heard a string of shots.
In this stillness, at night, and across water, the sound of shots carried for miles. He could not tell from whence the sound came, or guess why, but the shots reminded him of a nervous sentry on post cutting loose with his carbine. It sounded like a carbine, or an automatic pistol.
He walked into the house, head down, and went up to his bedroom and pulled on a sweater. He called Ben Franklin to the living room and Ben came in, his mother following. “Ben,” Randy said, “ever shoot a pistol?”
“Only once, on the range at Offutt.” “What about a rifle?”
“I’ve shot a twenty-two. I’m pretty good with a twenty two.”
“Okay,” Randy said, “I’m going to give you what you’re good at.”
He walked to the gunrack. The Mossberg was fitted with a sixpower scope, and a scope was not good for snap shooting, and hard to use at night. He took down the Remington pump, a weapon with open sights, a present from his father on his thirteenth birthday. He handed it to Ben.
The boy took it, pleased, worked the action and peered into the chamber.
“It’s not loaded now,” Randy said, “but from now on every gun in this house is going to be loaded. I hope we never have to use them but if we do there probably won’t be any time to load up.”
Helen said, “I forgot to tell you, Randy. I couldn’t get ten boxes of the ammunition you wanted but I did get three. They’re somewhere in the kitchen. I’ll find them later.”
“Thanks,” Randy said. He took a package of cartridges out of his ammunition case and handed it to Ben. “You load up your gun, Ben,” he said. “It’s yours now. Never point it at a man unless you intend to shoot him, and never shoot unless you mean to kill. You understand that?”
Ben’s eyes were round and his face sober. “Yes, sir.”
“Okay, Ben. You can baby-sit now. We should be back in an hour.”
When Rear Admiral Hazzard retired he embarked upon what he liked to call “my second life.” He and his wife had prepared carefully for retirement. They had wanted an orange grove to supplement his pension and a body of water upon which he could look and in which he could fish. While still a four-striper he had located this spot on the Timucuan, and bought it for a surprisingly reasonable sum. The real estate agent had carefully explained that the low price included “niggers for neighbors,” meaning the Henrys. At the same time the agent had grumbled at the Braggs, who had allowed the Henrys to buy water-front property in the first place, thereby lowering values along the entire river, or so he said.
The Hazzards first had planted a grove. A few years later they built a comfortable six-room rambler and started landscaping the grounds. Thereafter they lived in the house one month each year, when Sam took his annual leave, trying it and wearing it until it fitted perfectly.
On his sixty-second birthday Sam Hazzard retired, to the relief of a number of his fellow admirals. There were rivalries within, as well as between, the armed services. In the Navy, the rivalry had once been between the battleship and carrier admirals. When it became a rivalry between atomic subs and super-carriers, Hazzard had outspokenly favored the submarines. Since he once had commanded a carrier task force, and never had been a submariner, the carrier admirals regarded his stand as just short of treason. Worse, for years he had claimed that Russia’s most dangerous threat was the terrible combination of submarines equipped with missiles armed with nuclear warheads. Such a theory, if unchallenged, would force the Navy to spend a greater part of its energy and money on anti-submarine warfare. Since this, per se, was defense, and since the Navy’s whole tradition was to take the offensive, Hazzard spent his final years of duty conning a desk.
Two days after his retirement his wife died, so she never really lived in the house on the Timucuan, and she never physically shared his second life. Yet often she seemed close, when he trimmed a shrub she had planted, or when in the evenings he sat alone on the patio, and reached to touch the arm of the chair at his side.