A Place We Knew Well (28 page)

Avery turned toward her, astonished to discover she'd taken his arm.

“Him,” she repeated insistently, and darted her eyes toward Emilio.

The crowd was applauding the first blonde, whose pretty face was frozen in a cheerful loser's smile.

Avery leaned in to Kitty's ear. “Good boy, fine family; works for me.”

Another drumroll. This time Lund was headed toward Barbara Everly, but at the last minute—relishing the tension he was creating—he zigzagged toward another blonde, the thin one with big teeth.

In the applause that followed, Avery was aware that Kitty was eyeing him, clearly wondering,
How much do you know?

The thought occurred to him:
Is it possible she's here to
protect
Charlotte? To make sure what happened to her doesn't…

It was the third drumroll, and Lund was headed straight for Charlotte. Without zigzagging this time, he pivoted abruptly toward the third blonde. Only Charlotte and Barbara, the two brunettes standing side by side, remained without flowers.

At the final drumroll, Kitty's fingers squeezed his elbow in anticipation. Greg Lund carried two bouquets, one small white, one large red. He walked slowly to stand midway between Barbara on his right and Charlotte on his left. The crowd murmured: Was it significant that the white bouquet was in his right hand and the large red one on his left? Had Barbara lost? Was Charlotte the winner?

Avery watched his daughter's smile wobble. Win or lose, he decided, she's still the prettiest girl in the room.

Milking the drama to its final drops, Lund raised both bouquets. He handed Charlotte the white one and Barbara the winner's red roses. The crowd roared. Lund's cheerleader helpers moved in to place the crowns upon the new queen and king.

Charlotte grinned, her face flushing.

Beside him, Kitty huffed disappointment.

“It's okay,” Avery told her. “She didn't want to win.”

Kitty cocked a lip corner in disbelief.

“No, really. Look at her.” There was nothing fake about Charlotte's dazzlingly happy smile.

The Shades switched tunes. Now they were playing that song from
West Side Story
—
“There's a place for us, somewhere a place for us”
—with an outer-space Telstar spin. The principal announced the Royal Dance and invited the king and queen and the rest of the court to begin the ceremonial first waltz. After a brief few bars, the principal invited the rest of the crowd to join them.

Greg Lund cut in on Barbara's partner, and Emilio, apparently as instructed, did the same with Charlotte's.

Kitty nudged his arm. “You should cut in,” she urged him.

“I should?”

“You wouldn't be the first.” She pointed out one of the cheerleaders' dads, already waltzing with his daughter. “And when you're done, you can bring her over here and introduce me.”

Avery turned to face her, keeping his back to Steve and Lilly so they couldn't hear. “No, I can't.” He said it quietly.

Anger flared in her eyes like an artillery shell. “Why the hell not?”

“This is Charlotte's night. Not yours, not mine or Sarah's. The thing is…” He paused, needing to get it right. “The most important thing about parenting is…you put the kid's needs ahead of your own. Do you…Can you understand that? Charlotte doesn't
need
to have old history rehashed tonight. She
needs
to have the time of her life because, quite frankly, who knows if she'll get another chance?”

He watched her take it in, absorbing not just his words but his resolve. He saw her cast a hungry glance toward Charlotte, saw her calculate her chances of getting past him, saw her decide, long before she said the words, “All right, Wes,” and held up her hands in temporary surrender. “For now, all right. So
go,
” she insisted, giving him a not-so-subtle push. “Dance with your daughter while you still can.”

Avery felt the flush of triumph, and relished his first taste of empowerment all this awful week. He tapped Emilio on the shoulder. “Borrow my girl for a minute?” he asked.

“Of course.” Emilio stepped back.

And Charlotte smiled; her heart in her eyes.

“You look beautiful, Ki—” He stopped himself. The evidence before him was incontrovertible. She was no kitten anymore.

“Thanks, Dad.”

“Sorry you didn't win.”

“I never cared about winning. I'm just happy to be here.”

The band was done with “Somewhere” and jumped immediately into “C'mon, baby, let's do the twist!”

Avery laughed—“That's it for me!”—and escorted her back to Emilio.

“We won't be late, Dad.”

“Enjoy yourselves,” he called, waving them off.

Steve stood where he'd left him, hands in the pockets of the navy-blue serge he called his funeral suit.

Avery looked around. “Where'd Kitty go?”

“She took off, said to tell you she'd be in touch. Lilly's gone to find the ladies' room.”

They watched the gyrating dancers for a moment. Then Steve turned to face him.

“Look here, Cap,” he said earnestly. “My plan is to follow Lilly over to the coast, stick with her whatever comes. I…Well, look…I wanta thank you.” He thrust out his hand. “You been nothin' but first-rate.”

Avery's throat clamped with a sudden sense of loss.
He's my best friend. And he's telling me good-bye.
His own hand shot out to grasp Steve's, which was considerably smaller and heavily callused. But as always, the other man's grip was a steel vise.

“Taught me everything I know, partner,” Avery said quietly. Then, swept up with emotion, he threw his arm around Steve's shoulder, pulled him into a hard hug, and whispered, his throat closing on the words: “Good luck.”

N
ANCY
M
ARTELL WAS AT
the punch bowl when Avery told her he was leaving, and that: “Mike should be here soon.”

“If he can tear himself away from the game, y'mean,” the doctor's wife snorted.

He made his way back to the truck and home. He parked in the carport, picked the forgotten flyer off the seat, and carried it into the house, vaguely curious which
Eight Simple Rules
might mitigate a nuclear disaster.

Martell stood up, disgusted.

“Damn Tigers. The Gators haven't stopped 'em once all night. Hell of a thing—just as we're heading into Amen Corner!”

“Amen Corner?” Was that doctor-talk for World War III?

“Don't you know, Wes? The part of the season where we play Auburn and Georgia back-to-back?”

“No, I didn't know that.” Avery glanced toward the hall. “Heard anything out of Sarah?”

“Not a thing. I doubt she even felt the shot I gave her. Looked in about three punts ago—realized I was yelling at Coach Graves to get something going and might have disturbed her—but apparently she's dead to the world till tomorrow.”

“Nice way of putting it, Doc.”

“Sorry.” Martell shrugged. “You know what I mean. Chlorpromazine works like a charm.”

“Any word on Florida San?”

“Not yet. My guess is my buddy's either at the game or watching it. Don't worry, though. We'll get her in tomorrow. First thing, I hope.”

“Will we have to drive her over there?”

“With any luck, he'll send an ambulance—without the siren, of course. I'll meet 'em here. It'll be easier on everyone that way.”

Avery couldn't imagine how sending Sarah off to the sanitarium would be easy on anyone.

“Well, I suppose Nancy's looking for me. I promised her one dance,” Martell said, turning toward the door. “Oh,” he added, turning back, “did Charlotte win?”

“No. But she didn't expect to. Said she was happy just to be there.”

“Too bad,” Martell pronounced, with a final grimace at the game. “See you tomorrow,” he said and was out the door.

“Thanks, Doc,” Avery called from the stoop.

Martell acknowledged him with a brusque backward wave of his hand.

Football. Avery felt the twinge of envy. The world's on the brink and all he's got on his mind is football.

Avery closed the door, switched off the television, checked on Sarah—who was indeed sleeping soundly—and returned to his chair with the flyer from the church in hand.

EIGHT SIMPLE AIR RAID RULES,
the heading read above two columns of type. Each of the four rules in the left column began with the word ALWAYS in capital letters.

ALWAYS
shut windows and doors. If the warning comes in time, shut all doors and windows and pull down the shades or blinds. Turn off all pilot lights, and close all stove and furnace
doors.

And if it doesn't come in time? Avery recalled the moonscape of Hiroshima.

ALWAYS
seek shelter. If there's time, go below ground, into a subway, into the basement of a large building or in the cellar of your home.

Obviously, whoever wrote this thing knew nothing about Florida's high water table.

If you haven't time to get to the shelter, at least duck under a bed or table. If you're caught out of doors, flatten out against the base of a wall or dive into a ditch or a doorway.

Only two rules down and he was already irritated.

Number three was

ALWAYS
drop flat on your stomach. Even if you only have a few seconds' warning, wherever you are, drop flat on your stomach and put your face in your folded arms. Even if you've seen the flash, do the same thing right away.

Sure. It's probably better than standing out on the street, watching the whole thing, but…

ALWAYS
follow instructions. Instructions will come to you after a raid by radio, sound truck, or some other way.

How's that? Telepathy?

Follow them exactly.

Roger that.

The remaining four rules in the right column each began with the word NEVER.

NEVER
look up. To avoid temporary blinding by the flash, never look up to see what's coming. When you drop to the floor or the ground, keep your face in your folded arms for at least 20 seconds after the explosion in order to keep flying glass out of your eyes.

Yup, Avery thought. Never mind the massive five-mile-wide fireball of pulverizing heat and radiation.

NEVER
rush outside after a bombing. A second bomb may follow the first. Besides, the longer you wait, the more chance there will be for lingering radioactivity to die down.

Who in the world came up with this crap? He checked the line at the bottom of the sheet. Richard Gerstell, PhD, Consultant, Civil Defense Office, National Security Resources Board. Unbelievable.

NEVER
take chances with food or water. Whenever there is any reason to suspect that lingering radioactivity is around, don't take chances on open food or water. Stick to canned and bottled things that have not yet been opened, things in a closed refrigerator, and the water in covered pails or bottles or jars which you have filled before the attack.

Covered with what?

The eighth and shortest rule was

NEVER
start rumors. A single wild rumor could start a panic that might cost you your life.

Avery, now outraged, crumpled the flyer into a ball, crushed it tightly inside his fist. Isn't the worst rumor the false hope that you could actually survive one of these things? Or that, honestly, you'd
want
to?

Launching himself out of his chair, he dropped the ball of crap into the trash, tugged at his tie, and wrenched open his collar. Craving fresh air, he strode onto the porch. He was bound toward the bench on the dock but a small movement, a puzzling spot of bright color, stopped him.

He froze, wishing he'd thought to bring a flashlight, when the thing, whatever it was, hopped like a giant grasshopper in his direction. Another hop brought it into the rectangle of light falling out of the window and across the grass. It was…one of Sarah's parakeets?

“Well, hey, fella, hey,” Avery called gently. It was the blue one. He'd never gotten their names straight but knew them by color: yellow, blue, and green. “Here, boy, Blue Boy.” Avery dropped to one knee, offered the bird his index finger as a friendly perch.

The bird cocked a cautious eye at him but hopped closer. The light from the kitchen lit up his white speckled head, his mottled gray wings, and the bright blue puff of his chest.

“Had enough of the wild life, guy?”

The bird chortled a still-wary response.

“Want your old one back? Me, too.”

The bird chortled again and hopped, then stepped one careful foot, and then the other, onto Avery's finger. Something about its small tentative movements, its fragile little feet, its shiny black trusting eye tore the too tight lid off Avery's pent-up emotions. He looked at the small bird now settled on his own big ham and something inside him shattered.

With raw, coughing sobs, Avery wept. He slumped down on the wet grass, heedless of his suit, cradling the blue bird in both hands, and cried—for the simple, sweet life he'd believed he had, little more than a week ago; for Sarah's misery, her rejection of their life as “a living death”; for Charlotte's growing up so fast, right before his eyes; for his best friend's quiet good-bye; for the airmen roaring by high overhead; for his country, his beleaguered President, his dangling-by-a-thread world. And for his own inability to do anything,
any thing,
about any of it.

Stripped of all sense of safety or security, he felt lost, helpless, and utterly overwhelmed by a crushing sense of failure. His only hope was that when the end came, it would be fast. Better by far to be pulverized, reduced to radioactive dust by the fiery blast following the blinding flash of light, than to lose a limb and bleed out in the dirt (as his father had) or to endure the lingering, flesh-eating horror of radiation poisoning like the cancer that took its terrible time with his mother.