A blue-clad policeman leaped down into the cellar. Behind him two white-clad figures jumped. A group of neighbors collected outside, peering anxiously to see.
“I’m okay,” Tim said. He helped Judy and Virginia up. "I think we’re all okay.” “What happened?” The
policeman pushed boards aside, coming over. "A bomb? Some kind of a bomb?"
“The house is a shambles,” one of the white-clad interns said. “You sure nobody’s hurt?”
“We were down here. In the basement.”
"You all right, Tim?” Mrs. Hendricks called, stepping down gingerly into the cellar.
“What happened?” Frank Foley shouted. He leaped down with a crash. “God, Tim! What the hell were you doing?”
The two white-clad interns poked suspiciously around the ruins. “You’re lucky, mister. Damn lucky. There’s nothing left upstairs.”
Foley came over beside Tim. “Damn it, man! I told you to have that hot water heater looked at!"
“What?” Tim muttered.
"The hot water heater! I told you there was something wrong with the cut-off. It must’ve kept heating up, not turned off.” Foley winked nervously. “But I won’t say anything, Tim. The insurance. You can count on me.” Tim opened his mouth. But the words didn’t come. What could he say? —No, it wasn’t a defective, hot water heater that I forgot to have repaired. No, it wasn’t a faulty connection in the stove. It wasn’t any of those things. It wasn’t a leaky gas line, it wasn’t a plugged furnace, it wasn’t a pressure cooker we forgot to turn off.
It’s war. Total war. And not just war for me. For my family. For just my house.
It’s for your house, too. Your house and my house and all the houses. Here and in the next block, in the next town, the next state and country and continent. The whole world, like this. Shambles and ruins. Fog and dank weeds growing in the rusting slag. War for all of us. For everybody crowding down into the basement, whitefaced, frightened, somehow sensing something terrible.
And when it really came, when the five years were up, there’d be no escape. No going back, tipping back into the past, away from it. When it came for them all, it would have them for eternity; there would be no one climbing back out, as he had.
Mary was watching him. The policeman, the neighbors, the white-clad interns —all of them were watching him. Waiting for him to explain. To tell them what it was.
"Was it the hot water heater?” Mrs. Hendricks asked timidly. “That was it, wasn’t it, Tim? Things like that do happen. You can’t be sure ..
“Maybe it was home brew," a neighbor suggested, in a feeble attempt at humor. “Was that it?"
He couldn’t tell them. They wouldn’t understand, because they didn’t want to understand. They didn’t want to know. They needed reassurance. He could see it in their eyes. Pitiful, pathetic fear. They sensed something terrible—and they were afraid. They were searching his face, seeking his help. Words of comfort. Words to banish their fear.
“Yeah,” Tim said heavily. “It was the hot water heater.”
“I thought so!” Foley breathed. A sigh of relief swept through them all. Murmurs, shaky laughs. Nods, grins.
“I should have got it fixed,” Tim went on. “I should have had it looked at a long time ago. Before it got in such bad shape." Tim looked around at the circle of anxious people, hanging on his words. “I should have had it looked at. Before it was too late.”
THE END