We continued to do normal stuff at school, but it felt like a shadow hung over everything. You couldn’t forget about the Russians for long. A teacher would pull down a shade, and you’d think about how Puddin’ Belly was supposed to do that if we were attacked. Or a kid would slam a locker, and everyone in the hall would jump.

On the news, they talked about the Russian ships sailing toward Cuba and the American blockade around the island. The moment of confrontation was nearing.

At dinnertime, Sparky and I went into the kitchen and found Mom sitting at the table, gazing out at the backyard.

“Where’s Dad?” Sparky asked.

“Working late.”

“Because there might be a war?” I asked.

Mom puffed on her cigarette. “I don’t know.”

“Is there any news?” I asked.

She blinked, and I could see that she wasn’t certain what I meant.

“About the Russians?” I added.

“I haven’t been listening.”

That seemed strange. Why wasn’t she following the news like everyone else?

“What’s for dinner?” Sparky asked. Mom glanced at the kitchen clock, then got up and looked in the refrigerator. She said dinner would be ready soon and we should go watch TV.

While Sparky watched and Mom cooked, I snuck into my parents’ bedroom. Inside the top drawer of Dad’s dresser was a felt-lined tray with compartments for cuff links, tie tacks, and tie bars. Dad had a miniature gold tennis-racket tie bar and a silver one that was a pair of crossed skis. Another compartment held the small brass stays he inserted into his shirt collars so that they would keep their shape all day.

The next drawer contained Dad’s shirts, each one folded over a piece of cardboard and held in place by a paper band. The mixed scents of Dad’s body smell and chemicals from the dry cleaner wafted up as I slid my hands under the stacks of shirts and felt around. The drawer below that one contained underwear — white V-necked T-shirts and boxers. The bottom drawer was for sweaters.

I tried his closet next. Here amid the hanging suits and slacks, the scent of feet and leather filled my nostrils. Two shelves held shoes, each pair kept in its proper shape by wooden shoe trees. A small chest of drawers contained Dad’s wool socks, tennis clothes, and sweatshirts. I slid my hands under the contents. Nothing. So Ronnie was wrong. Not every father hid Playboy in his dresser drawers.

Now I looked up. Above the rod where Dad’s suits hung was a shelf, and from the floor I could see the corners of things like boxes and maybe a book. I climbed up on the chest of drawers. The shelf was still mostly out of reach, but if I stretched on my tiptoes, there was one green box I was able to work toward the edge until it tipped and fell into my hands. It was the size of a cereal box but heavy, and I was lucky that it didn’t slip through my fingers and crash to the floor.

The box had the shiny, slick feel of newness. Still standing on the chest of drawers, I opened it curiously.

Inside was a gun.

Other than on a policeman’s belt, it was the first real gun I’d ever seen. The metal had a vague sheen of oil, and I was afraid to touch it, afraid that it might go off accidentally in my hands.

Then Mom called: “Scott? Edward? Dinner!”

I inched the box back up on the shelf. There was only one reason why Dad would have a gun: for war.

In the kitchen, instead of setting the table, Mom had placed two plates of spaghetti and meatballs on a tray, along with napkins, forks, and glasses of milk.

She said, “They’re for you and Edward. Go eat in the den.”

“Dad said we’re not allowed.”

“I say you can,” Mom said.

I carried the tray into the den, where Sparky was watching Quick Draw McGraw, and placed the food between us.

Sparky touched the spaghetti with his fork, then stared at the TV. I felt my insides tighten anxiously. Dad had a gun. Mom was letting us eat in the den. Could there be any clearer signs that the end of the world was approaching?