Mangrove Squeeze(71)

They walked. Part of this land was federal, and part was state, and part was city, and no one seemed to care enough to mark down where the bounds were. Bums slept and kids partied sometimes on the bigger chunks of higher land. Rusted cans and broken bottles collected on the edges of those places; underpants and condoms and shreds of torn-up blankets wrapped themselves around the scaly stems of mangrove.

"They took us down the basement," Piney said. "Remember? Down the stairs with that big horn blowing. Kids dragged their hand along the banister, the varnish was worn off. Got colder every step you took."

Fred lit a cigarette. They walked. Off to their right there was a quarter-acre of cracked cement behind a rusted fence, its gate gradually collapsing on corroded hinges. Here and there the cement was raised into little platforms; here and there the earth was hollowed. In 1962, Nike missiles had been standing on those platforms, their scaffolds anchored in the hollows, their warheads pointed at Havana. In Havana, missiles overseen by Russian scientists had been pointed at Key West.

"Was crowded down the basement," Piney said. "Walls were cinder block with like some rubber paint. Freezing cold, the walls. We all sat down, the floor was cold and gritty. And they told us to put our arms up to protect our heads. Fred, remember how skinny your arms were as a kid?"

Fred didn't answer, just smoked. They skirted puddles, kicked at porous rocks. Ahead, by far the highest land in sight though it wasn't very high, loomed a ragged flat- topped pyramid. It was made of crumbled rock which the years had ground almost into powder. Tufts of coarse gray grass sprouted up through it. Stunted shrubs clung to its flanks.

"You sat there and your butt was cold, and your arms got tired being held up in the air, and you got this milky feeling in your stomach. Remember, Fred?"

Fred picked tobacco off his lip, finally spoke. "Where we goin' with this, Piney?"

They walked close to the pyramid. The pyramid had a doorway and it used to have a door. The door had been sheathed in lead to keep the radiation out. When the bombs from Cuba started falling, people were supposed to go inside this low, small, scrubby pyramid and wait. In 1962 there were lights inside, and drinking water, and cans of tuna fish.

Piney said, "Those drills. They said we did 'em so we'd know just what to do, so we'd feel safe."

He was standing in front of the pyramid's vacant doorway. Slanting sunlight squeezed through a little ways, then stalled. People slept in there sometimes. Trash built up and there were rats.

"Thing is though," Pineapple went on, "they didn't make us feel safe, they made us more scared. That horn. The cold."

Fred flicked his stub of cigarette through the doorway, it glowed against the shadowed ground.

"And they had to know that all along," said Piney. "They were grown-ups. We were kids. They had to know it'd only make us more afraid."

Fred had turned to walk away. Piney stood there at the black entrance to the pyramid.

"They wanted us to be afraid," he said. "You think about it, that's the only explanation. But why would they do that, Fred? Why would they want us to grow up afraid?"





Chapter 37


"Sam," said Bert the Shirt. "About this gay stuff. We really don't have to make it point one of what we say to people."

It was an hour before sunset, and they were sitting on their tile patio. They'd laid in groceries, made up beds. It was a lot for two old men to do and they were happy to sit down. But Sam was not just sitting there. He'd taken the casing off his yellow Walkman, and with a tiny screwdriver meant for fixing glasses, he was fiddling with the guts of it.

A little stung by Bert's comment, even though Bert had said it as gently as he could, he looked up and said, "I thought that was our cover."

"It is, it is," said Bert. "But like, how many people you meet where, right off, first thing they tell you is they're gay? It doesn't sound, like, normal. It should be just, ya know, inna background."

Trying not to whine, Sam said, "I was just rehearsing. Getting into character."

The table at which the two men sat had a mosaic on the top, and Bert's chihuahua was laid out on the tiles like a meat loaf. Bert stroked the dog with one hand, and with the other he patted Sam's wrist. "No harm done, Sam. No harm."

They sat in silence for a while. Bert sipped a beer, Sam went back to his fiddling. He cheered up right away. A good thing about his slippage was that he didn't remember annoyances or slights long enough to sulk or hold a grudge. "Pleasant here," he said.

Bert didn't care for it but held his tongue. Disagreeing, contradicting—it too easily got to be a bad habit with a couple. But, a city guy at heart, Bert liked more activity around him. The Paradiso—people were always jumping in the pool, practicing their putting, playing cards. Here it was all fences, hedges...