Wednesday, September 12, 1962
Tallahassee, Florida
He had taught an early class, was home by three, in time to greet the school bus. The walk up his driveway was short, but he didn’t mind escorting the two of them, the thirteen-year-old, Danny reacting with pure embarrassment that his father felt the need to lead him up the drive. His daughter, Becky, was a different story, bright blue eyes, always a smile, happy to see her daddy. For a second grader, she was unusually bright and gave her father the kind of pride he embraced with a combination of love and fear. The fear was there always, every day when they left the house, that today would be the horrible day, that something bad would happen to one of them. It was ridiculous and irrational, and he kept it to himself, knew his wife thought he was a lunatic for harboring such morbid fear for the safety of his children. But meeting the bus was a help, if only temporary, removing them from one kind of caretaker, the schools, to the more loving caretaker at home.
He glanced back toward the house, the driveway empty but for his own car, his wife, Margaret, still at work. She was a social worker, a benign job description that hid the most urgent kind of duty, the need to help those whose lives were truly in need, the disabled, or those families on the outskirts of town whose jobs, if there were any, didn’t provide. She wouldn’t be home until after five, and again, he felt the fear. Her job took her out into the countryside, low hills and piney woods, to the rough shacks and clapboard houses where her clients lived. He feared for her safety every day, and she knew of his anxiety, laughed about it, tried to disarm him, convincing him that those people, no matter how poor or desperate for life’s basic needs, weren’t really a threat. He never quite believed her.
From the bus, Danny came out first, always, no chivalry in the thirteen-year-old, bounding down ahead of his sister. She made her way down carefully, a slow step at a time, the bus driver offering a short wave to Russo as he waited. What’s that fellow really about, he thought. Bus drivers can’t make all that much money. Maybe he just loves children. I just hope like hell he drives with some sanity.
“Daddy.”
She ran up to him, a brief hug, but the teenager kept his distance, rules of masculinity, aware of the eyes watching him from the bus.
“Hi, Pop.”
“Okay, you two, into the house. Lots of homework?”
Becky held up her pink notebook, said, “Just one lesson.”
He looked toward Danny, was surprised to see the boy looking away, toward the house.
“Hey, Pop. Do you have to have that thing on the car?”
Russo followed his look, saw the bumper sticker: Kennedy for President.
“Why? He won, you know.”
“Yeah, well, I just don’t like it.”
This was something new, and Russo led them to the house, held the door, both children now inside.
“What’s up, Dan-o?”
“I mean … people make fun, you know?”
“What kind of fun? What are you talking about?”
Danny stared down, obvious reluctance.
“A few of the boys … older guys. Some in my class. They say that anybody who voted for Kennedy is a … I can’t say it. You told me never to use that word. They say you love the Negroes. Only they’re a lot meaner about how they say it. They know that Mom’s job … that she helps the Negroes with food and stuff. They talk about that too, like she should stay home, spend her time right here.”
Russo let out a breath, watched as Becky disappeared into her room.
“Listen, Dan-o. You can’t avoid stupid, and that’s what you’re hearing. Kennedy is a good man, and so far, I think he’s a really good president. Negroes have had it rough for a long time, and he’s doing something to straighten that out. No matter what anyone says to you, we’re in the right. Just ignore it.”
He knew it was dumb advice, that no thirteen-year-old could ignore anything tossed at him in school.
“I’m kinda worried about Halloween.”
“Good lord, why?”
“Some of the boys say they might teach us a lesson, do something to the house. Unless you get rid of that bumper sticker.”
He was angry now, tried to hold it down.
“Ignore that. I’ll keep a sharp eye out on Halloween. That’s a month away. They’ll forget all about it in time. Just try not to pay attention to them. Maybe I should have a talk with some of the parents.”
Danny seemed to flinch.
“Please don’t do that, Pop.”
Russo nodded, accepted a small defeat.
“No, that’s where your friends are learning that stuff. I’d just make it worse.”
“They say they don’t like the Black people because they’re Communists.”
“What?”
“Martin Luther King … they say he’s a Russian at heart. Trying to overthrow our country. The Communists are behind him.”
“Oh, good God.” He fought for the right words. “They’re ignorant, Dan-o. That’s all. They don’t understand what this country is going through, so they blame everything on the Communists. It was the same when I was younger. People said the government was packed full of Communists, that we were fighting a red menace that was going to bring us down. It hasn’t happened yet. All the Negroes want is to be able to enjoy the same basic things we take for granted, like sitting at a lunch counter or going to the movies. Why shouldn’t a Black man drink out of the same water fountain as you and me or use the same door into the grocery store? It’s pure silliness. No, that’s not right. It’s more than silly. It’s dangerous. It’s making those people angrier every day. Black people have the same rights we do. But there’re just some people who live in the past, like they wish slavery was still here, keep the Negroes in their place, second-class citizens. It’s awful, and stupid. Just try to ignore it.”
The boy nodded, still not believing. A new thought seemed to jump in, and Danny said, “Did I tell you about my scout meeting? Monday, you know, Jimmy Hanks? He writes up the column that goes into the newspaper, all sorts of news what’s going on with the scout troops around town. He wrote up something he got from the Black troops, and the scoutmaster told him to get rid of that. Said the paper wouldn’t print it. That don’t seem right to me, Pop.”
“No. It’s not. Jesus.” He thought of the scoutmaster, an enormously fat man named Earle. Idiot. He searched himself for answers, something that the boy could take to heart. “Keep in mind, there’re a lot of good people who don’t believe what those ignorant boys are feeding you. Over at the college, good people, who know better. It’s not just the junk you’re hearing at school. Remember that. And no matter what anybody says, that Kennedy bumper sticker is staying put.”
THE TV WAS turned off, and he stared at the blank screen, thought, Does CBS News ever have something good to say? At the far end of the table, Margaret said, “Well, what did you think?”
“About what?”
“The TV dinners. Honestly, where’s your head?”
“Oh, they were okay. The Salisbury steak was pretty good.”
To one side, Danny said, “I like the applesauce.”
Margaret stood, moved around the table, scooping up the aluminum trays.
“See how easy? You just chuck all this in the trash. No dishes to wash. Makes my life a whole lot easier after working all day.”
Danny spoke up again.
“Can we try the fried chicken next?”
“Tomorrow night. I bought a dozen. They’re less than a dollar each, and you just toss ’em in the oven, and, in a few minutes, dinner is served.”
Russo scanned the aluminum dish as she pulled it away, said, “Modern technology. Amazing.”
Danny said, “Hey, Pop. Can I stay up to nine thirty? The Beverly Hillbillies is coming on tonight.”
Russo braced himself for the inevitable argument. Across the table, Becky said, “Hey, what about me? I wanna stay up too.”
Margaret came to the rescue.
“Nobody stays up tonight. School tomorrow. It’s Wednesday, for Pete’s sake.”
The groans were entirely expected, and he smiled at her, then said to both, “Your mother rules the house. Besides, it’s classroom night. My students will be here at eight.”
Danny said, “Can I stay up for that? They just tell stories.”
“It’s called Creative Writing, and it’s harder than it looks. They’re reading stories they’ve written themselves. It’s still school, even right here.”
As she rose from her chair, Becky said, “Daddy, why do you have school at home?”
“Well, I could use a real classroom, but then I’d have to go back over to the college. The kids seem to like coming here. And besides, your mother serves them great snacks.”
Another groan, and Margaret said, “Okay, one cookie for each of you. Then bed. But do your homework first. The Beverly Hillbillies can wait.”
HE LAY IN bed beside her, stared at the ceiling. It had been another good class, twenty of the brightest and most creative students he had taught. Their stories had been all over the map, from the romantic to the bizarre, each story beginning with the phrase he had assigned them: He came around the corner and saw three of them down by the river. The students took it from there, and the results were as varied as the kids themselves.
“Thanks for being the good hostess.”
She rolled toward him, said, “They appreciate it. It’s fun. You’d think college students never get a treat or a decent cup of coffee.”
He laughed. “They’re privileged. Coming to the prof’s home is a treat all by itself. It’s like a night off from prison.”
“I doubt that. College was never like a prison, for either one of us.”
He was serious now.
“I’m not sure about that. Outside those gates, there’s a town here with a lot of ugly. The students are insulated from it all, as long as they stay on campus. They call it town versus gown. Just listen to your son. He’s being told Kennedy and the Negroes are Communists. I hear it myself. The Russians are everywhere, spies and infiltrators, mostly in the government. I know for certain we have neighbors, right across the street, who think we’re teaching those college students nothing but Communist propaganda. It’s a little scary. How do you fight raw ignorance? How do we protect Danny from being bullied about that stuff at school?”
She didn’t respond, and he felt guilty now.
“Sorry. I preach too much. Let’s go to sleep.”
She faced him now.
“You won’t sleep. You worry about too many things. Your children are doing just fine. They’ll learn to think for themselves, to know what right from what’s plain stupid. Have faith.”
“It’s hard to have faith, when you’re surrounded by stupidity.”
HE HAD SEEN the equipment, a tractor and backhoe, the noisy work ongoing behind the neighbor’s house. He assumed it was a swimming pool, a welcome addition for the children in the neighborhood, that family’s two children roughly the same age as his own. He walked down the sidewalk, the front-end loader belching black smoke as it dug at the widening abyss in the backyard. He saw the neighbor now, blue jeans and a blue flannel shirt, observing the work with hands on hips.
“Jerry! What’s up? The kids say you’re putting in a pool.”
The man looked at him, no smile, never much cordiality between them.
“Hardly. I’m putting in a fallout shelter.”
The words hung between them, and Russo fought through the surprise.
“Why?”
Jerry looked at him again, still no smile.
“I’m protecting my family. It’s coming, you know. Matter of time. I’m intending to survive.”
“A nuclear attack?”
“You better believe it, pal. I’ve been reading up on it. These shelters will hold a family safe, until the radiation clears away. We can live in there for weeks, if we have to, maybe longer.”
Russo had read the same details, a concrete box buried in backyards, stocked with all manner of food and survival gear, water, radios and other supplies, keeping a family alive until, somehow, they learned it was safe to emerge. The concept seemed simple enough, though Russo had long pondered the questions asked by others. An entire family is to stay below ground in a small block box, sleeping, eating, living, for some length of time? And, then there was the question of sewage, other waste. The illogic seemed overwhelming and ridiculous, but people, including his own neighbors, were reacting with what seemed to be panic, constructing these concrete tombs as though it was their lifeline through World War Three.
“You really think this will work?”
The look on his neighbor’s face said it all.
“Damn right, Professor. It’s a fool who doesn’t take the Commies seriously. I’ll not be caught, and I’m protecting my family. Guns and ammo too. If the Russians come, I’m ready to hold ’em off, best I can. Others around here, we’re talking about it.” He paused, eyed Russo with narrowing eyes. “There’s room for my family. That’s it. I’ll protect them against neighbors too, anybody gets an idea they can crowd in. You’d be good to put in your own. I’ll not cotton to trespassers.”
Russo put up both hands, took a step back.
“Wouldn’t think of it. Good luck.”
“I’m telling you, Professor. You’d be smart to build one yourself. The war’s coming. You can be sure of that.”
HE WAITED FOR them again, the school bus screeching to a halt, the door swinging open, Danny leading the way down. They repeated the routine, Danny keeping his discreet distance, a short greeting, Becky offering the hug. He led them again up the driveway, and Becky held his hand, said, “Daddy, what’s an A-bomb?”