What Follows After: A Novel (9 page)

Scott decided to make one more stop before heading back to their house on Seaview Avenue. He hadn’t found the boys or even a trace of them. But then, he hadn’t really expected to. There was at least a chance he could have been successful, and it had gotten him out of the house for a while. The tension between him and Gina was too much to bear.

He had stopped and asked several children playing throughout the neighborhood if any of them had seen Colt or Timmy. None had. He wasn’t looking forward to this last stop and didn’t really expect to find the boys here. But there was a chance, so he had to make the effort.

Old Weldon lived four doors down from them, and Scott had always considered him something of a wacko. An overly talkative, thoroughly boring wacko. But Scott knew the boys—particularly Colt—loved to play in Weldon’s bomb shelter. Weldon didn’t allow it, but Colt and his friends occasionally snuck in his backyard when he wasn’t home to use it as a fort when they played army.

The last time they had—at least, the last time Scott knew about—was a month ago. Weldon had found Colt, Murph from across the street, and one other boy whose name Scott had forgotten, hiding
inside. He had about blown his stack. The boys’ moms, including Gina, heard him yelling at them from inside their homes. They wouldn’t put it past old Weldon to take it upon himself to start spanking them with a paddle. So the three moms had run over there to rescue the boys.

Colt had told Scott about this the following weekend when he picked the boys up. He had to laugh as Colt mimicked his mother’s part in the shouting match that ensued. Weldon considered his bomb shelter to be serious business, life or death serious. He’d spent almost fifteen hundred dollars having it built two years ago and wasn’t about to let it become some kind of playhouse for a bunch of spoiled brats running loose all over the neighborhood.

Scott pulled into Weldon’s driveway to find him unloading boxes from the back of his station wagon. Weldon lived on the corner lot, so his garage faced the adjoining street. And Weldon’s home was the only one on the street that actually had a real hill. The entire east coast of Florida was notoriously flat. But in Daytona Beach, a handful of homes built within a block of the ocean had sand dunes on their property. Weldon’s was one of them. It was a matter of some pride for him, since it allowed him to save tons of dirt being shipped in when they’d built his bomb shelter. He used the savings to add an additional three feet of living space to the dungeon he and his aging wife planned to live in, all alone, should the “big one” come.

Gina had said she’d rather be vaporized by an atom bomb than face that fate.

As Scott got out of the car, Weldon turned to face him, his arms still filled with boxes. He snarled a moment before shifting to a fake smile.

“Afternoon, Mr. Weldon. Could I talk to you a moment?”

“Can I set these boxes down first?”

“Sure, can I give you a hand?”

“Not with these, but there’s three more just like them in the back of the car there. Could you get those for me?”

“Sure, I can do that. You want me to bring them into the house?”

“Not the house, the fallout shelter.”

“Really?” Scott said as he opened the back door of the station wagon. “That’s actually what I’m here to talk to you about.”

Weldon stopped walking, set the boxes on the hood of his car. “Finally gonna take my advice and put one in? Afraid it’s too late, my friend. I think the big one’s just around the corner now. I’m sure you’re seeing all these military trucks and tanks driving through toward south Florida.”

Scott stood up behind the car, the boxes stacked, ready to be picked up. “You think we’re going to war with Cuba?”

“Not Cuba,” Weldon said. “We could crush them like a bug if we wanted to. That Bay of Pigs fiasco last year, Castro only won that ’cause he was fighting a bunch of other Cubans. Our Marines had gone in there, or even just a few of our jet fighters, Castro would be gone by now. I think we’re about ready to go to war with the Russkies.”

“The Russians?”

“Don’t you read the papers?” Weldon pulled the cigar out of his mouth, flicked the inch-long ash on the driveway. “That’s what Kennedy’s gonna be talking about when he gets on TV tonight. Mark my words, it’s the Soviets. They’ve been sending all kinds of weapons to Castro ever since we invaded the Bay of Pigs. It’s all about to hit the fan, my friend. That’s why I’m stocking up supplies in the shelter. The big one could come any day now. When it does, Sarah and me will be ready. Looks like we’ll be the only ones, at least on this block.”

“I would have liked to put one in,” Scott said. “We just didn’t have the money. I think that’s why most of the people on the street
don’t have one. President Kennedy urged everyone to get one last summer.”

“That’s because he knows secret things they never talk about on the news,” Weldon said. “Classified things. He wouldn’t tell everyone to build shelters unless he thought we needed ’em. He said the same thing in
Life
magazine.
Life
magazine,” he repeated, as if that made it more official. “The big one’s coming, and that’s a fact.”

“Maybe so,” Scott said, “but everyone can’t afford to have one built like you did. And the do-it-yourself versions they’re selling are just junk. I checked them out. I’m an engineer. People who get them don’t stand a chance in a nuclear attack.”

“You might be right,” Weldon said. “But I think it’s a matter of priorities. People spend money on what they think is most important. You got money for a car, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but—”

“A good shelter costs about the same. What good’s a car in a nuclear attack? Can’t take shelter in that.”

Scott realized this conversation was going nowhere. He needed to change the subject. “Mind if I take these boxes into the shelter ahead of you?” He picked them up and started walking toward Weldon.

“Mind if I ask why?”

“Well, it’s just . . . there’s a slim chance my boys are hiding out in your shelter again.”

“What?”

“I’m not saying they are, just saying they might be. They played hooky from school today, and we haven’t found them yet. I’ve been all over the neighborhood, talked to all their friends. No one seems to know where they are. I know the boys liked to use your shelter for a fort.”

“They better not be in there. They know they’re not supposed to—”

“They’re probably not,” Scott said. “I just thought if they were, it might be better if I go down there first. And believe me, if they are down there, they’ll be severely punished. You have my word on that.”

“Well,” Weldon said, “I suppose that’s okay. You know your way?”

“I think so. It’s in the backyard, right? In that hill beside the pool?”

“That’s it.” He leaned against the fender to let Scott pass by. “You said you’re an engineer, right?”

“That’s right. I work at GE.”

“Engineers travel a lot?”

“Some do, why?”

“It’s just I never see you around anymore. Used to see you all the time. Thought maybe you became one of those, you know, traveling salesmen.”

“I did change jobs,” Scott said, “but I stayed within the company.” That’s about all he was going to say on the subject. He’d been promoted recently, but it didn’t involve more travel. Weldon was just fishing for gossip. Turning around, Scott headed toward the backyard. The boxes were fairly heavy, sounded like they were full of cans. He followed the walkway around the side of the house, then set the boxes down for a moment to open the wooden gate that led to the pool area.

There was the pool to the left and the rising grassy mound to the right. The sand dune had been re-formed into a makeshift fallout shelter. As he got closer, Scott saw the door that led down a short set of cement stairs. He set the boxes beside it. Should he knock or just walk right in?

He hoped they were there, even at the cost of sitting through Weldon’s angry outburst.

They were making good time heading toward Daytona Beach. At the moment, and for at least twelve more miles, Vic and his partner Nate were sailing down a section of the new interstate highway called I-95. It wasn’t completed yet, not even close. The plan was for it to stretch all the way from Maine to Miami someday.

Today, well . . . even twelve miles was something. No red lights, no traffic jams, no getting stuck behind someone driving half the speed limit and being unable to pass. Just a straight shot traveling at eighty miles an hour (an FBI perk). Then it was off the interstate near Flagler and back on US-1 for the rest of the journey. Vic adjusted his rearview mirror to check on the boy in the backseat. Colt hadn’t said a word the last fifteen minutes.

He wasn’t asleep, just sitting there staring out the window.

The last thing he’d said was a question, asking if he could roll the window down a few inches to get some fresh air. Nate’s cigarette smoke had been gathering like a small cloud in the backseat. Vic had quit last year, to make his wife happy. He’d been after Nate to quit the last few months. Partly to be free of the temptation but also to be free of the smell, especially in close quarters. It had never bothered him all the years he smoked, but now he couldn’t stand it.

“Did you ever smoke those?” Nate said.

Vic looked to where Nate was pointing out the window. It was a billboard for Tareyton cigarettes showing a bald guy with a fake black eye, smiling and smoking. Next to him, the caption read “Tareyton smokers would rather fight than switch.”

“I tried ’em once,” Nate said. “Hated ’em. I’d fight anybody who tried to make me switch.” He smiled at his own clever play on words. Nate smoked Camels, nothing fancy. No high-tech carbon filters, no menthol. The same cigarette he’d smoked since they started working together during World War II.

“My mom smokes Tareytons,” Colt said.

Vic looked back at him through the rearview mirror. Colt was still looking out the window.

“She just started smoking this year, after my dad left,” he said. “I hate it. I used to sit close to her on the couch watching TV, but now I can’t. The smoke from her cigarette always finds me. It can be going in any direction, but as soon as I sit down, it turns and comes right after me. Gets me right in the eyes.” He let out a sigh. “So now we can’t sit together.”

“I know what you mean, Colt,” Vic said. “Nate’s cigarettes do that to me sometimes.”

Nate turned around, looked at Colt over his shoulder. “But kid, we never cuddle on the couch.”

Colt laughed out loud. Vic almost did. What a revolting thought. Vic wondered if he could keep the boy talking. “When did your folks split up?”

“They haven’t split up,” Colt said. “They’re just separated, that’s what my mom said.”

“I know. So when did they separate?”

“Around New Year’s. First my mom moved out, then a few days later she came back and my dad moved out. And he’s been gone ever since.”

“You mind me asking what you hoped to gain by running away?”

Colt wasn’t smiling anymore. “It was a dumb idea. I know that now. But I thought it might work.”

“What do you mean . . .
work
?” Vic said.

“I thought it might get my parents back together.” He was looking out the window again. “They’ve been hiding it all this time from everyone. And making us lie and pretend everything is fine. Lying’s a sin, you know. A big one. One of the Ten Commandments, even.”

“I know.”

“So’s the seventh commandment,” Nate added. “Know which one that is, kid?”

“Nate,” Vic scolded. “Never mind, Colt.”

“What?” Nate said.

“You know what.”
Thou shalt not commit adultery
. That was the commandment Nate was referring to. They had both already figured out that was probably the reason why Colt’s parents had split up. Usually was. And seeing as it happened right after New Year’s, Vic guessed Colt’s mom had caught his dad cheating on her over the holidays.

“That’s all right,” Colt said. “I don’t know all the commandments, not all ten of them. And I don’t remember them all in order.”

“That’s a good thing to work on, Colt. Memorizing the Ten Commandments. It’ll keep you out of lots of trouble.” Vic still remembered them from when he was a kid in Sunday school. He’d never figured Nate to be one who’d remember them, though. “You ever go to church? Your folks ever take you?”

“We used to go most of the time when my parents were together. We still go sometimes with just my mom, but not every Sunday. Sometimes she’s too tired. That’s what she says anyway.”

“So how did you think getting your aunt and uncle in Savannah involved would help your parents get back together?”

“I don’t know,” Colt said. “I thought maybe the shock of us running away would get them to start paying attention to us. Maybe they’d listen if other adults talked to them. They sure won’t listen when I try, either one of them. They say things like it’s too complicated, or I just wouldn’t understand, or maybe I’ll understand when I’m older. Sometimes they say they just don’t want to talk about it, and they look away like . . .
end of discussion
. But I know what they’re really saying is they don’t want to talk about it to me, ’cause I’m a kid.”

“That’s gotta be hard,” Vic said.

“It is . . . hard.”

Vic could hear his voice breaking up.

“I do understand, a little, why they want to hide it,” Colt continued. “I see how people treat you different when you’re divorced, like there’s something wrong with you. Not just adults, but kids do it too. There’s only one kid in my whole class whose folks are divorced, and everybody treats him different. He’s always getting into fights. People say he steals from stores. Some parents won’t even let their kids play with him. I don’t want to be like that kid. Why should I get punished because of something my parents did?”

Vic wanted to keep asking Colt more and deeper questions before they reached Daytona. Kids often just didn’t know better and would answer a lot more honestly than adults. Once Colt’s parents were in the picture, honest information would be a lot harder to come by. People who had been living a lie for ten months were all about hiding things, and they’d probably become very skilled at making up phony answers to curious questions.

But he had to be careful. Colt was in a vulnerable state right now, and he didn’t want to exploit that. Especially if this thing turned sour and they weren’t able to find his little brother alive, or at all.