Confidential to Distressed in Detroit: The body behind the pool house and the other one beneath the gazebo are strong indicators that he may have buried carved-up corpses all over the bloomin’ property! You’d do best to get a steam shovel to help you decide if this is the kind of man you want for a husband and future father of your children. And I’d keep the cutlery on a high shelf when next he comes a’ callin’.
17. This was followed by another death in the Dandy D family. Reinhold, The Story of Dandy-de-odor-o, 245-47. Sadly, Arnold Haverty died before he could even begin his retirement. Addicus Andrew, while trying not to dishonor his father’s venerable lieutenants by kicking them out the corporate door, nonetheless gave none-too-subtle nudgings here and there, sweetened by offers of enticing severance packages. Arnold took the bait, but never reached the fishing boat. As the company clown, he would be missed. His departure also signaled the commencement of a new era at Dandy D — one in which young turks would replace the old guard — a passing of the baton, as it were, that to many of the old-timers (most of them handpicked by Jonathan himself) seemed more like theft.
18. He was waggish in life, impish in death. Ibid. Arnold Haverty’s unique funeral wishes were honored by his wife Constance to the letter. Not only did they include a burial at sea, but Jonathan’s director of product planning had also requested that several hours prior to the ocean drop he be propped up in a deck chair, holding a good book. (“Give me something that’ll have ’em all slapping their sides, like maybe something by Camus. I also thought, Connie, that this might be a nice way to remind you of that great cruise we took to the Bahamas. I sat in my deck chair and slept like ol’ Van Winkle while you did the cha-cha-cha with that Caesar Romero look-alike from Tampa. You said you’ve never been happier.”) Constance kept her word, even whispering private comments to her Hawaiian-shirted exanimate husband as friends and family lined up to pay their respects, and only occasionally addressing mourners to say, “Please don’t shake his hand. It’s cold and stiff. You won’t like it.”
19. Sacco missed the funeral. A false alarm had sent the Sacco family underground for two weeks. Dandy-de-odor-o’s Vice President for Packaging had taken a television civil defense test for the real thing. Thinking the U.S. was under nuclear attack, he had hurried wife Elsie and their three children into the backyard bomb shelter he’d built from a kit only a few months before. Here the nuclear family remained for the next thirteen days. While underground, they were totally cut off from the rest of the world, due in large part to the fact that Sandron Sacco had forgotten to put batteries in the shelter’s transistor radio. Neighbors, friends, and family debated over whether to inform them of their error. Except for one neighbor’s unsuccessful renegade attempt to end the needless entombment, the Saccos were left to discover their mistake on their own. Embarrassment, it was thought, would be ameliorated somewhat if their emergence went unmonitored. Perhaps this way they could move more rapidly toward getting their lives back to normal and this humiliating chapter behind them. Which is exactly what Sandron, Elsie and their three children attempted to do. For all the years that followed, the couple never once mentioned their two weeks in the family bunker (although oldest daughter Lucy was finally able to laugh about it years later in her “My Turn” submission to Newsweek.) Therefore, I considered myself quite fortunate to discover not only that Sandron Sacco had kept a “log,” but also that it was never destroyed. Lucy was happy to give me access. Selected entries follow.
Day 2: A peaceful, uneventful night. I was first to rise this morning. I checked on the children for any signs of nuclear contamination. They seem fine. I have a rash but it does not appear to be related to fallout. The children are playing Candy Land. Spirits are fairly good considering what awaits us when we open that door. Elsie continues to believe that what I saw was a test pattern. I asked her, “Where was the Indian head, Elsie? Did you see an Indian head?” It will be a trial to make it through two weeks in the same room with this woman, although she is making a peace offering by preparing scrambled eggs. They are powdered but an egg is an egg. And I love eggs.
Day 5: I’m gagging. I can’t get down another forkful of those powdered scrambled eggs. The children are in their corners after some misbehavior. They are obviously tired of Candy Land and Parcheesi. I don’t blame them but look, I’m not the one who decided to drop bombs on the Tri-State Area, all right? Elsie and I are not speaking. She pushed me off the cot last night. She said that she was going stark-raving mad being cooped up this way and was thinking of taking her chances with the mutants out there.
Day 7: We had a real scare today. I was trying to teach the children how to play Seven Card Stud (Elsie and I have stopped speaking since I refuse to give up the Lucky Strikes and she is making a federal case out of the lack of ventilation. Look, lady, I, if anyone, should know if there isn’t proper ventilation in here! I built this shelter! Built it with my own two hands, while you were lounging around eating Whitmans in your silk Capri pants!) when we hear a knock at the door. I’m thrown into a panic trying to remember how well I secured that door. I move quickly to it and find the crossbar still in place. There is another knock. Elsie’s a basket case and the cards and poker chips are flying all over the place as the children scramble under the card table. “Who is it?” I ask. I hear a muffled voice. It could be human. I am not sure. I can’t tell what is said. I yell, “WHO IS IT?” as loud as I am able, hoping that whatever mutant creature outside that heavy metal door will identify himself and state his purpose. I hear — or think I hear: “Come out. It’s all right. Come out.” Elsie relaxes. She seems to think this is a good thing. “Don’t you see, woman?” I cry. “It’s a trick. Someone out there wants our foodstuffs — or, or our precious medical supplies.” Elsie laughs in that way that always makes me want to smack her: “Supplies, Sandron? Band-Aids, Rolaids, and Mercurochrome! Yeah, we’re a regular Mayo Clinic in here. Open the Goddamned door.” “Over my dead body, woman,” I say. “We may need them to barter with on the outside. It’s every man for himself in this post-apocalyptic world!”
Day 9: No one is speaking. We spend the whole day not speaking. I read a Mickey Spillane pocketbook. Elsie sews. The children stare at the walls. They all must think I’m the most heartless father on the planet. And yet don’t they see that I do this because I love them? Because I want to protect their young lives?
Day 11: Lucy tried to get out of the shelter last night. I woke up and there she was fumbling with the crossbar. “Oh, no you don’t! Two weeks, young lady! It takes two weeks for the fallout to settle. Go back to bed.” I pull her away from the door and she goes back to her pallet and sits down. She gives me the eye. “Better sleep lightly, old man,” her eyes seem to be saying.
Day 12: Everybody hates me. I’ve never seen such animosity in one family. I’m going to open the door tomorrow. A day early. What can it hurt? A few blisters maybe? I’m going to open that door. A desolate, fetid, war-torn landscape is better than these narrow four walls and a family that doesn’t appreciate you. I’ll take the blisters.