Shelter: Capacity 203

Prologue

Fallout Shelter Hidden in the Hills of Iowa

By Glenn Johnson-Des Moines Daily News

I am standing in a mid-century fall-out shelter, shrouded in history. The air is still, yet heavy. I look up and down, sweeping my flashlight around the large room and deep into all the corners. Musty cement surrounds me in greenish, garish stains, and cobwebs cling to me. I step around broken glass, through rusted tin cans … and back in time.

Remnants of moldy cloth and life gone by fill the crevices of this underground fortress, a place where life sustained itself in simpler days. One hundred and three spirits glare back at me wearing poodle skirts and tight denim jeans as Bobby Darrin sings the blues.

Welcome to Windsor, a sleepy little village in Iowa where time lags behind the rest of the world like an aftershock. At daybreak it stirs, comes to life, its heartbeat pulsing in the village epicenter, the Hot Spot Cafe. When day ends, moments before dusk, the village closes up … closes in, disappearing into a starless night.

Tucked deep into the castled rocks and wooded, rolling hills of the Mississippi valley, Windsor is a well-kept secret. There is only one way into the village, noted by a hand-painted sign in weathered rosemaling, swinging on crude wooden legs. Fifty miles away, they couldn’t tell you where Windsor is … exactly.

Swift running streams like Bloody Run and Sny McGill cut through the shadowy forests and well-groomed farms, converging under the village’s century-old, stone bridge which links the downtown to the quiet residential area. Breathtaking views of the entire valley of rugged bluffs and rolling hills can be seen from midpoint on the bridge. Deep ravines and dry gorges cut by gushing torrents of prehistoric waters are now just remnants of a distant past.

From the little village, you can smell the essence of the Father of Waters, the Old Mississippi, as it meanders from the last century into the next, changing course gradually, unnoticed, with time its only sculptor. If Windsor vanished, lifted off in a stormy night, swept away by the thundering currents of an angry, over-burdened river, no one would notice. No one ventures down the twisting, narrow road that leads to Main Street, Windsor. No one ever reads the hand-painted ‘welcome’ sign that peeks out of the thicket of ivy and the bramble of wild Iowa roses.

The village boasts a white clapboard Norwegian Lutheran Church, a small corner grocer, a filling station, a two-teller bank, a meat locker, an opera house that doubles as a library, twenty-three wood-frame houses, and one mansion of natural limestone. And, oh yes … a state-of-the-art, nuclear-bomb fallout shelter … built to accommodate two hundred and three judgmental, quirky, and … above all … forgiving Windsor citizens.

ONE

Friday, June 29, 1962

The President sucks swamp water. Farmer Cliff More pointed with dirt-stained fingers at the headlines in the newspaper. He’s gonna fry us all and send us to hell in a mushroom cloud.

The man next to him at the diner counter shifted on his stool and looked in the farmer’s direction through thick, horn-rimmed glasses. Now, Clifford, that’s no way to talk about the President. The man’s soft, gentle voice was barely audible over the rock-and-roll music seeping in from the diner’s kitchen. He should have our respect and trust.

Cliff dropped the newspaper down low enough to see over it. Why? Just ’cause he got elected to the highest office in the land? The farmer leaned closer to the man dressed in black and watched him drain the last of his coffee from a cracked, white mug. Say, you didn’t vote for him, did ya, preacher?

Well, you know, Clifford, I’d never tell you how I voted. That’s a private matter. Reverend Carl patted his mouth and chin with his white paper napkin. But you know how I feel about authority, and he’s practically considered a saint among the Catholic faithful.

He ain’t no saint, I betcha. He’s a man, ain’t he? Didn’t ya see Marilyn’s happy birthday song to him? She was making those googly eyes at him, and they looked on very familiar terms, if you know what I mean.

The Hot Spot Café became uncomfortably silent except for the music and the slurping of hot coffee as the two men became enveloped in the same fantasy … Cliff with pleasure on his face and the pastor clearly struggling with the same mental vision against his mortal will.

Finally, Reverend Carl spoke. I saw you leaving Stella’s place late last night.

Cliff lifted his eyes from the newspaper and turned to his accuser. Now he was fidgeting uncomfortably. I … brung her home. So what?

Reverend Carl stood slowly. What does Isbelle think about that?

Don’t know. Reckon she wouldn’t like it much. But Stella is just a friend … who happens to be a girl.

Cliff picked up the last piece of toast and started to spread orange marmalade generously across the middle, scraping the knife on the dark edges. His foot was thumping against the rung of the stool in time to Elvis’ warbling Jailhouse Rock on radio station KRIB. Cliff would have preferred Connie Francis, with her sweet rendition of Who’s Sorry Now?

The reverend dropped two quarters on the counter. They twirled and landed in unison. He smiled at the luck of that happening. Thanks, Donna, he called toward the kitchen. Breakfast was divine as usual. He turned and looked at Cliff’s back for a moment before patting the farmer’s thick arm.

When you and Isbelle get back from your vacation, come see me, will you, Clifford?

Cliff stiffened, his eyes focused on the mirror behind the counter just above the water-stained coffee pot. Sure nuf, Reverend. He watched the young, thin, balding minister walk ramrod straight with a steady gait toward the diner door and down the street.

How the hell does he know everything, Cliff wondered. He clanked his fork on his water glass, and the waitress, Donna Rose, came from the kitchen, wiping her hands on her clean, white apron. She picked up the coffee pot and filled his cup without either of them saying a word. He winked at her, appreciating her fine hands as they slipped him another tiny pitcher of cream. Her nails were pale pink like her lips, which glistened when her tongue dashed between them.

Heard you were going on vacation, Cliff. Taking all seven kids?

He nodded. And the little woman if she gets her chores done ’fore I get back, he said, with another wink. Yeah, first we’re visiting her parents in Minnesota. Then she’s got us goin’ all over the Dakotas. He poured a generous amount of cream in his coffee. Same path that some gang of thievin’ cowboys took back in the old days. You know, she’s a real history buff.

Donna smiled.

Cliff reddened. Maybe she didn’t get her diploma, but she still likes readin’ … history novels mostly, and, well, that’s what she calls herself. He shrugged his shoulders and gulped his steaming coffee.

How’s Maggie? he asked, lifting taller on the stool and pulling his broad shoulders back. I’ll bet you’re missing her help here at the diner, now that she’s confined for the last days.

Donna busied herself washing water glasses in a dishpan by the counter. She’s just fine, Cliff, just fine. Bigger than a house. My grand-baby should be here by the end of the month.

Cliff knew he had the upper hand now. He figured that as much as Donna loved her daughter, Maggie, she still had to be embarrassed by the girl being in the family way with no husband in sight. The girl didn’t even seem to know the name of the father, or never let on who it was. His Isbelle would be sick to death if one of their five daughters found themselves in that sorry predicament. And he’d be obliged to kill the son-of-a-bitch who done it to his little girl, unless he was a pretty damn good wage earner. But poor old Donna was on her own. Her husband, Maggie’s daddy, was long gone. Left her high and dry, nearly ten years ago.

Yup, talking about Donna’s bastard grandchild always put her in her place. She might a been smarter than he was in high school, but now, thanks to Maggie, she was a rung beneath him on the Windsor social ladder. That’s just where he’d like her in bed, too, but that would never happen. She wouldn’t even let him into her house when he’d stopped by a few months ago, maybe just a little drunk. She’d pushed him off balance, and he’d fallen from her porch stoop. Lucky for him it was a short fall.

He stared at her as she worked. She was a pleasure to look at, and there was nothin’ wrong in him doin’ just that. Shoulder length brown hair that was soft and silky. Nice teeth. It always made his day when he could get her to slave over him for just a few quarters … filling his coffee cup, runnin’ to the kitchen for an extra muffin if he felt like having one, or just getting him a glass of water.

Donna folded the sports section of the Daily News and tucked it under the napkin holder by Cliff’s coffee cup. We’ll miss you Sunday in church, she said, followed by, After all, your family makes up half the congregation.

They both smiled at the same time.

When are you leaving? she asked as he stood, stretching and filling his lungs with her perfume.

Before sunup. Got a man comin’ in from Prairie to see to the milking. Cliff took off his John Deere cap and pulled his fingers through his thick, black hair. Not too many men nearing the age of forty had all their hair. He smiled when Donna turned back towards him, and their eyes met. Such pretty blue eyes.

Hope you have a great time, Donna said, as she cleared his breakfast dishes from the counter. Cliff didn’t hear her. His mind had wandered from his cows to Stella, just like that. It was a natural connection, since Stella was a little bit like his dairy cows. She had them big, brown eyes that begged for attention. All the menfolk of Windsor agreed.

Feed her, and she delivers, one of them had said. Cliff suspected most of them had shared Stella’s bed at one time or another after a good steak at Bob’s Roadside Cafe. She didn’t have no fee. She just liked havin’ someone in her bed, since she’d lived alone most of her life. And his indiscretions were, after all, Isbelle’s fault. She even suggested it after he got her knocked up the last time. She said she was tired of havin’ babies, and he admitted he was tired of it, too. They kept him up all hours of the night, and he still had to be up before dawn to milk the cows.

He wondered how come Stella never got herself pregnant. Maybe she was gettin’ that new birth control pill Isbelle mentioned a few times. Well, Issy’d talk till she was blue in the face, but he’d hear none of it. She wasn’t changin’ her womanly time with a pill. It might make her more like a man, and that idea made him queasy. He didn’t want his soft little Isbelle going manly on him. Besides it’d give her the freedom to chase around, if she was so inclined.

But Stella, that was a different story. Although he had enjoyed himself with Stella, he didn’t love her. She was always there when he needed her, and he didn’t mind waitin’ in line for the dispensing of her herbal teas and affection. He could confirm that Stella soothed the wildest beast. That’s what she boasted every time they’d shared a cup of her elderberry tea concoction, just before she started unbuttoning her blouse. He sighed. The phone in the diner rang, bringing Cliff back from his daydream of Stella’s soft, perfumed skin.

Issy’s on the phone. Wants you to hurry home and load the car. She thinks maybe you should get on the road today before the storm hits.

Cliff shook his head and snorted. Maybe she’d gotten hold of some of those pills. It sounded like she was wearin’ the pants in the family. Tell her I’ll be there when I get there. He got up and thrust his hand in his pocket. And tell her we ain’t goin’ till mornin’.

He studied Donna openly as she talked to Isbelle. Her white cotton uniform was too tight and had seen better days, washed one too many times. Worn shoes covered her narrow feet, and wide runs went up the back of both legs, like seams. He followed them up to the hem of her skirt. His imagination took over for just a moment as he pictured the dark top of her stockings.

Breakfast at the diner always refreshed him and made him feel young again. He sauntered to the diner door just as Donna hung up the phone with Issy. Teddy Bear was playing softly on the kitchen radio. He stepped back to drop two quarters next to Donna’s order pad and cleared his throat to get her attention.

Issy says she’s going without you if you aren’t back in an hour. She’s going to leave the two older girls.

We’ll see about that, Cliff muttered.

Donna smiled at him when she saw the two quarters.

Have a good day, Dee, he said, waiting for her to pick up the quarters and thank him. She always hugged him when he left, her tiny fingers drummin’ his biceps provocatively. It all started the day she had complained about her money situation, and how hard it was for her to pay her bills on her meager salary. He had an extra dollar with him that day and dug it out of his wallet to give to her. It would have bought him a few packs of cigarettes, but it had been worth it when she hugged him, squeezing him tightly. It was a pretty cheap thrill, he decided, sharing a good tip and a hug with her after every visit.

Yup, Donna and Stella were too pretty to be caged in a small, hick town. And then there was Judy Kettman. She was a looker, too, kinda like Sandra Dee … all perky nose, blonde curly hair, and big, sad eyes. He never did know the color since she squinted a lot. All three girls were inseparable in high school. Stella was younger than Donna but older than Judy. He never understood why old Mrs. Kettman insisted Stella be included in everything. Out a pity, no doubt, since the girl had no mother. The three girls parted company when Stella’s immoral practices came to light with the persistent rumors … a stream of unfamiliar men coming out of her screen door in the early morning hours.

At about the same time, Cliff’s dalliances with Stella came to a screeching halt, too. Like a dummy, and after way too many beers in the dimly lit filling station, he’d suggested to the mechanic, Dwayne Harms, that they go over to a friend’s place for some food. He wanted to show off his girlfriend, Stella. Be the big man with a wife and a lover. He’d promised Dwayne, new to town, that he would drool when he saw Stella in her boudoir outfit. Boy did he see her. She was wrapped up pretty cozy on her narrow bed with two pillars of Windsor society … the principal and the high school football coach after the only big win the team had that year.

The two men that had been tangled up in the perverted scene moved out of town soon after, but Stella stayed to face the music. She actually enjoyed the celebrity. He’d been so angry at Stella that night that he quit seeing her, and Dwayne had gladly taken over where he left off. When the reverend saw him drop Stella off the night before, it had been a fluke. No hanky-panky, just a ride home from the tavern after a few beers.

Cliff walked out of the diner, just as George Dobbs and his yes-sir boy, Boyd Stanton, walked in. Mutt and Jeff, Cliff thought. Stanton stood short, thick like the football player he’d been, and Dobbs loomed tall and stately like the gentleman he was. The three men shook hands.

Mr. Dobbs. Cliff acknowledged the town’s biggest wheel, a self-made man in highway construction and generous benefactor to all who lived in Windsor. But he ignored Boyd Stanton with obvious disregard as the boot licker he was.

Heard you’re going to the Dakotas, Cliff, Dobbs said. Your family will love it there. Randy has said it was the most memorable trip of his lifetime. Of course, he was five when we went. Dobbs laughed.

Is he coming home for the big Fourth of July doings, sir? Cliff asked, pleased with Dobb’s attention. Everybody in town owed Dobbs for something, including Cliff. Dobbs had helped him buy his farm. He’d lent him the down payment, no contract, just a handshake, and no interest.

No, Dobbs said, shaking his head and frowning. And his mother is quite upset. We think he found a new girlfriend at the end of spring term, a local girl in Collegeville. He’s never asked to go to summer classes before.

Good for him, sir, Cliff said. I mean, he’s a real go-getter.

Dobbs smiled. He needs to become more independent. I guess this is one way. Dobbs patted Cliff’s shoulder. Have a good one, Cliff. Give Isbelle my best.

Cliff nodded and headed for his pickup. He thought Dobbs sure spent a lot of time at the diner when he lived less than a block away and had an office across the street. And Dobbs looked all sheepish and bumbling when Donna was around.

Cliff turned the engine over and dropped the truck into neutral, plunging the gas pedal to the floorboards several times. Donna usually looked out the window and waved at him, but not today. She was busy setting up Dobbs’ table and gushing over him. She owed him, too, since he did own the diner. Cliff knew a crush when he saw one, and it looked like they were sweet on each other.

The gas gauge read empty, so Cliff stopped at the corner filling station and started pumping his own gas before the two lazy good-for-nothin’ mechanics came strolling out in no hurry at all.

Hey, John ... Dwayne, Cliff said without looking up. These two were another Mutt and Jeff, only in the looks department. The owner of the filling station, John True, was tall and good-looking like Elvis, and Dwayne, he had bad skin, a bad flat-top … bad everything. Both men raised their right hands like they were swearin’ on a stack of Bibles.

What’s new?

Nothin’, Cliff. Want to play some cards? Dwayne asked. I just got me some new ones. These are even better’n the last ones, more stuff to see.

Yeah? Let’s see.

Dwayne dug a deck of cards out of his pocket. They were already mixed up pretty good. See. It’s different ladies this time, instead of the same one in different poses.

It might be easier to tell what you’re holdin’, John said."

Cliff and Dwayne both looked at him. We know what we’s holdin, John-o. If you don’t, I suggest you get yourself a lady friend. Dwayne snickered, and Cliff laughed, too. Guess you ain’t been to Stella’s yet. After a few minutes with her there ain’t no questions left.

John ignored them.

How’s Issy? John asked, a slight smirk on his pouty lips. She pregnant yet?

That’s no concern of yours, John, Cliff said, But she’s just fine. She’s gonna start a diet real soon and get back into her old shape, if your referrin’ to her big belly.

Dwayne laughed. Her usual shape is melon, ain’t it? Hope she’s got somethin’ different in mind.

You boys don’t have enough to do around here, Cliff said. Maybe one of you ought to get a real job.

Sorry, men, John said. I gotta break this up, get to the bank to make a deposit with all the money I took in this week … working. John flapped a stack of bills in Cliff’s direction and headed for his T-bird convertible, jumping in without opening the door. He gunned the engine, and his tires sprayed dust back at Cliff and Dwayne, who chased after his car with raised fists. A few choice obscenities were lost in the engine’s roar. Ass was the only word John recognized.

TWO

John drove out of Windsor on the narrow country road that swept into a big curve leading right back into town. He always drove the long way to the bank to make his daily deposit, taking the rare opportunity to see the countryside in daylight and enjoy his car. It was running like a dream … just needed a little paint touch-up, and it would be like new, except for the stained carpet. He was thinking about installing a radio in it, too, but that would have to come later, when he could afford it. Yes siree, he was doing pretty good.

He had his own business, thanks to Mr. Dobbs, and he had the car of his dreams. Now if he only had a girlfriend. He’d had his sights set on Maggie Rose until she’d gotten pregnant, breaking his heart. The town was a little short on girls his age, but there were several young ones coming up the ranks of womanhood.