Read The Nuclear Age for Free Online Page B

“I’m fine.”
    My father nodded and ran a hand along his jaw.
    “What about—you know—what about girls?”
    “Girls how?”
    “Just
girls
,” he said. He studied the palms of his hands. “This isn’t a criticism, it really isn’t, but I haven’t noticed you out there burning up the old social circuit, no dates or anything, no fun.”
    “Rocks are fun,” I told him.
    “Yes, but what I’m driving at … I’m saying, hey, there’s more to life than locking yourself up with a bunch of
stones
. It’s bad for the mental gyroscope. Things start wobbling, they get out of synch. Just a question of companionship.”
    I nodded at him. “All right. Companionship.”
    “Fun, William. Get on the phone, line up a date or two. If you need cash, anything, just say the word.”
    “Will do.”
    “Fun.”
    “Fun,” I said. “I’ll get right on it.”
    He smiled and gave me a bashful pat on the shoulder. For a second I was afraid he might lean in for a hug, but he had the good sense to fold his arms and wink and back off.
    He took two steps and then hesitated.
    “One other thing,” he said quietly. “Your mother and I—we love you. Love, got it?”
    “Got it,” I said.
    I loved him, too. Which is why I didn’t blurt out the facts. To protect him, to beef up his confidence. Say what you want about honestyand trust, but there isn’t a father in the world who wants to hear that his kid has turned into a slightly warped ding-a-ling. All I wanted, really, was to give him the son he deserved.
    So I kept the wraps on. A few fibs here and there. Quite a few, in fact.
    Once or twice a week, for instance, I’d do a little trick with the telephone, dialing a random number, quietly breaking the connection, then carrying on fake conversations with fake friends. It was strictly a parental morale booster. Eyes closed, leaning back, I’d pretend I was calling up one of Fort Derry High’s hot-dog cheerleaders, like Sarah Strouch, and I’d make up zippy little bits of dialogue, clucking my tongue, trying to imagine the sort of topics Sarah might want to talk about. There were problems at first, but eventually, once I got the hang of it, I was able to relax and enjoy myself. It was a form of human contact. “So what’s happening?” I’d say, and she’d say, “Nothing much,” and then for an hour or two we’d discuss politics and religion, the nature of cheerleading, anything that popped up. A spooky thing, but there were even times when I’d get the feeling that Sarah was actually on the line—I could almost hear that husky voice of hers, very sexy but also very tough. “You poor, fucked-up guy,” she’d say, and I’d listen while she listed all my problems, then finally I’d say, “Okay, you’re right, but it’s just temporary,” and then I’d hear a snorting sound and she’d say, “I’m all ears, Billy, tell me about it.” So I’d lay it on the line. I’d talk about that alien feeling. How lonely I felt, how disconnected—lost in space.
    It might sound strange, but those fake phone calls produced some of the most intelligent conversations I’d ever had. Absolutely no bullshit, no teasing. Sarah Strouch was my closest buddy.
    A game, that’s all.
    And what was the harm?
    On weekends I’d sometimes go out on trumped-up dates. I’d do my phone trick with Sarah and splash on some Old Spice and bum money from my dad and then head down to Jig’s Confectionery for an evening of pinball and cherry phosphates and do-it-yourself fun.
    It was a double life. Normal, but also shaky, and there weretimes when all the pressures took a toll. A weighed-down feeling: I couldn’t function. Lying in bed at night, I’d hold my breath and pretend I was stone dead, no more troubles, a nice thick coffin to keep out the worms.
    Other times I’d imagine a yacht bobbing in the South Pacific. Waves and sun and gentle winds. Sarah Strouch sunbathing on a teak deck, those tight muscles, all that smooth brown