THE TIME FOR TALK
A Short Story by Tim McMullen
The glass sparkled as he held it up to the
light. He poked the towel into the mouth with his fingers and wiped
it again; then he reached up and placed it on the shelf beside the
other glasses. He quickly picked up a fork and began to rub it.
"Sure," he said, scratching with his
fingernail at some unidentifiable crust of food, "I know
everybody's making a big deal about it, but it's mostly just bull."
"What do you mean by that?" the woman
said as she lifted her hands out of the water and rinsed the soap off
a saucepan.
"I just mean that we've been through it
all before. The scare stories…the tests ...the drills. You
remember, when we were kids, the plan we had to follow?"
She placed a newly rinsed spatula in the drain
rack and raised a quizzical eyebrow.
"You know the rule ...but then, maybe you
don't ...being a hick and all," he grinned and then ducked the
water which he knew would be flicked in his direction. "All us
city kids learned the four magic rules: When you see the light,"
he chanted, "turn your back to the windows, get under your desk,
put your head between your legs, and KISS YOUR ASS GOODBYE!"
"That's disgusting," she giggled and
flicked both water-drenched hands in his direction. He caught one
stream on the right cheek before he grabbed her hands and pulled her
to him. He clasped both her wrists in his left hand and lifted them
above her head as he encircled her waist with his right arm.
"AH-AH-AH! You'll lose your kitchen help,"
he said.
He kissed her playfully. She kissed him back,
saying: "Hmph! Some help you are." She wrinkled her
forehead and looked into his face.
He looked back at her for a second and then
peered intently at the fistful of forks in his hand, inspecting each
one carefully as he placed it in its proper slot in the drawer.
"I'm catching up!" he laughed as he
reached for the last item in the drain rack. The muffled clank of
pans rose from the dishwater as she submerged her hands.
"Besides," he said finally, "What
do you want from me? It's just not that big a deal. I mean we've been
through it before. Everybody gets all stirred up for nothing.
Nobody's stupid enough to start something ... Not even the Russians.
Gimme a break! They know we'd blow hell out of 'em if they ever tried
to hit us ...and we're never gonna' start it, so why get all
excited?"
"How do you know we'll never start it?"
Her fine, brown hair flipped from her face as she looked at him over
her shoulder.
"We just don't do that kind of thing. We
stop wars...We don't start them. That's a fact."
"Maybe, but there's only one country
that's ever used an atomic bomb on people."
He looked at her, slightly puzzled, then
mumbled, "Oh." Then he brightened. "But, like I said,
we didn't start that one ...we finished it!"
"All the same ... " she muttered and
pulled the stopper out of the basin. She watched the swirling vortex
whirl down the drain. The sink sucked loudly as the last of the soapy
water disappeared. With a faint but reassuring smile on his lips, he
dried his hands on the dishtowel, folded it neatly in thirds, and
threaded it through the handle of the stove.
He put his arm around her shoulders, and they
walked into the living room. She watched him settle down in the new
armchair and fold his hands across his stomach. She stood at the end
table, idly riffling the pages of a magazine with her right hand.
"You know," she said finally, "we're
less than ten miles from downtown."
"Huh?"
"We're sandwiched between the oil fields,
naval base and a huge metropolitan area." "Yeah, so?"
"We're a target. It would hit us before we
even knew it. Don't you ever wonder what you'd do.... what it would
feel like ...really?"
"You mean what it would feel like? Yeah, I
suppose . . . " He spoke hesitantly, his voice and eyes raised
unison. "Well, no. I guess I haven't really wondered. A bit too
morbid for my taste. But we have Civil Defense. We'd know ahead of
time ... We'd
be prepared." He shrugged his outstretched palms upwardly in a
"you-know-what-I-mean" gesture.
She gazed over his head through the hazy, lace
curtains, at the darkening sky. This view out her living room window
was her favorite. Her sudden reverie was so deep that she was
startled to hear his voice again. But it was his voice, the voice she
loved, and she pulled herself back to hear him finish his sentence.
"...to worry about," he said. "What
good does it do? You only scare yourself. Wondering what an atomic
explosion feels like is like asking what it’s like to be dead. Who
knows?”
She shrugged her shoulders and smiled slightly.
Having won her tacit agreement, he continued enthusiastically. “I
mean, one second you’re sitting here talking, and
©1985 T. McMullen
All
Rights Reserved
