On ‘Plainview 2’ This is where things start to go a little strange for Marty. I remember lying in bed, listening to adults’ voices downstairs. I can’t honestly say I paid much attention to them – just kept an ear out in case someone caught me reading when I should have been sleeping. I used to get sack-loads of SF novels from jumble sales. I couldn’t believe people would actually throw books out. I still can’t.   Plainview 2 – August 2002   Dad was late home from the plant. I could see my Mom grow more worried even as I could see the dumplings rise and swell through the glass door of the oven. I thought it was crazy, having a stew in August, but I knew better than to say anything; things had been sort of strained at home for the last month, and Mom was losing the plot a little. It had got so bad that I was actually looking forward to school. The school board had moved the start date forward a week from the traditional Labour Day, and all the other kids were grumbling, but not me. The previous year we’d lost twenty snow days and another half-dozen tornado days, and the graduating class didn’t get out till July. I couldn’t work out the friction between Mom and Dad. I guess he was working late more often, was quieter than usual, spent more time in the den. Perhaps Mom thought he was seeing another woman. That was the kind of thing that drove moms into screaming fits. On the TV they usually threw the cookware around and cut up their husband’s clothes. Mom didn’t seem to be that sort. I couldn’t remember the last time she’d paddled my behind. I didn’t see my dad as that sort, either, one to go round messing with another man’s wife. I thought him so dull that no one else but Mom would want him. Except for that drawing book of his, and I’d all but erased that from the memory banks. My sister was drawing at the kitchen table, her tongue stuck out with the concentration of colouring in more pink flowers. Pete Mayer didn’t know how lucky he was, not having a eight-year old sister. Me and him, we’d hung out a lot over the vacation, more than I thought I would. Too small still to take up the lucrative caddying jobs that went to the older boys, we’d scavenged stray golf balls and sold them on for practice. It meant I’d got to hang out with Pete’s dad too, which was way less strange than it sounded. He still wouldn’t let me drive the John Deere, but he’d let me start her up and rev the engine hard enough to make acrid clouds of blue smoke. The pick-up rumbled into the drive, and the look of relief on Mom’s face gave me a sudden, gut-tightening insight into adult life. It made me all the more determined not to grow up. "Charlotte, hon? Pack up your things. Marty, can you get the napkins out?" I drifted around with the heavy cloth napkins, dropping one on my tardy sister’s drawing. "Hey," she said, and brushed it aside. Like I cared. "Dinosaur brain," I sang, and started moving as slowly as I could without coming to a stand-still. "You know how big their brains were, Charlie? Size of a sneeze. Took like, forever to think of anything. Remind you of anyone?" "Mom!" "Marty, that’s enough. I’ve given you a chore and you’re only half done." "That’s because Charlie’s in the way. Should have told her to move ten minutes ago; takes that long for the words to get through." "I didn’t know what time your father was coming home." Mom’s voice had that edge to it, just one step removed from a shout. I let it drop. I wasn’t going to have Dad come in and find Mom yelling at me. I’d be in for double trouble. The front door slammed, and after a while, a jacketless Dad came through to the kitchen. He kissed Mom on the cheek and put his hand on Charlie’s head. He’d stopped doing that with me, but we hadn’t progressed to shaking hands, or any other sign of greeting. It was almost like we were going to have to grunt at each other like cavemen. "Son." "Hey, Dad." I was going to look like him one day. Thinning straw-blond hair, pale skin with age-lines just starting around the eyes, square jaw and long straight nose. A belly that got rounder every year, like a balloon with a little more air puffed in. I can’t say I was filled with joy at the prospect. I dealt out the cutlery like a Las Vegas card-shark and sat down on my chair. Mom brought the stew pot over and carefully placed it on the mat in the middle of the table, and lifted the lid. Steam erupted out, and for a moment, roiled and curled into the shape of a mushroom cloud before it broke on the ceiling and dissipated. It was the first time I realised I could make that effect for myself. I was transfixed. Eventually I heard my dad calling my name. "Sorry," I said, and looked down. My plate had magically filled with food whilst I’d been away. "As I was trying to say," he continued, fixing me with a sceptical eye, "I’ve got something to discuss with you all." I glanced at Mom. She paused briefly with the ladle, then carried on serving herself. Dad waited for her to replace the lid on the stew and sit down. "I’m going to run for mayor." My spoon remained untouched. "Geez, Dad. They’re going to kill me at school." "That sort of attitude is precisely why I’ve been persuaded to run. It’s going to mean some changes around here, I’m afraid. We’ll be doing a few things differently from now on." I really didn’t like the sound of that. The conversation was going whoosh some six feet over Charlie’s head, but Mom was open-mouthed. Her husband didn’t have another woman; he had politics. "You on a party ticket, Dad?" "Yes, son. The Reconstruction Party." "The… what?" I’d never heard of this outfit before. They had to be tiny at best, a joke at worst. "There’s some of us who think that the world’s taking a turn for the worse. Americans are going to have to rely on themselves, and that means looking after ourselves, too. If we’re not strong, how are we going to help our friends?" "Sure. I guess so." I toyed with a dumpling. "Is there more?" "Plenty more. It’s all been thought out, son. Like I said, things are going to have to change. We’re going to have to be a stronger family, take better care of each other." He watched my expression tighten. "That includes your sister." I didn’t trust myself to say anything nice, so I kept my trap shut. Silence descended over the table like a collapsing tent. Mom picked up her spoon and fork. "Eat it while it’s hot. There’s plenty of poor folk who’re going hungry tonight."     Later, I was in my pyjamas, sitting half way down the stairs. I was eavesdropping on Mom and Dad, straining every fibre to catch what they were saying. Concentrating so much that I didn’t hear the creaky third stair from the top. "I’ll tell." I nearly fell down the rest of the stairs. I must have taken off, straight up, and landed with what sounded like an almighty thump. Clutching the banister rail with both hands, I steadied myself and listened out for any sign that I’d been heard. I couldn’t hear much over the thudding of my heart, but the conversation carried on without interruption. I turned on her and hissed: "Get back to bed, Charlie. Now!" "Or you’ll do what?" she whispered. "Burn your Barbies." She looked taken aback, and I filed that one for later, but she had the measure of me. She sat down on the stair behind me and leaned in close. "What you doing?" "Trying to overhear, so shush." It was difficult. I should have been closer, and I figured I’d have to pay more attention in Science class so I could build a bug of some sort. I guess it was rough on Mom, having something like running for mayor suddenly sprung on her. She sounded hurt and upset, even if I couldn’t make out all the words she was using. I’d hoped that they’d be shouting by now, but they were both talking in quiet, measured tones. "What are they saying?" "I can’t tell with you yakking in my ear." "Is it true you’re going to have to be nice to me from now on?" "Fat chance." "Dad said so. You want to call a truce?" I wasn’t sure. Taunting her was just too much fun, but it might be advisable to cool the hostilities until the crisis was over and Dad came to his senses. He was never going to be mayor and it was going to be humiliating watching him lose. Just paint a big ‘L’ on his forehead now and have done with it. "Yeah, okay. Truce." Someone moved downstairs, and we bolted like prairie dogs spotting an eagle. We both ended up in my room, the closer of the two. "So what did you hear?" I threw myself on the bed, rolling the duvet around me. Charlie hunkered down on a bean bag and sat with her head resting on her hands. "He says he’s going to do it. Someone came round the plant and gave a soap-box rally, a while back I guess. He’s been thinking about it, and some of the other men, too. They formed a local branch of this Reconstruction Party, and Dad got voted leader." "Will we get to live in a different house?" "Geez, no. The current mayor’s got a kid in the eighth grade and they live on Pilcher in a regular place. Anyhows, Dad’s never going to win. He’s going to crash and burn, and bet you five bucks they’re going to be laughing at us all over town." She shifted, and made the beans crunch under her. "I dunno. I reckon Dad would make a great mayor. He’s got as much right as anyone else’s dad." "So why doesn’t someone else’s dad stand for this wiener party, and if they win, our dad can stand the next time?" "Someone’s got to be first, I suppose." I buried my head in pillow and moaned. "But why ours? What the hell is this Reconstruction anyway?" "You shouldn’t say ‘hell’. Mom’ll have conniptions if she hears that." I knew plenty of other words that would make my little sister’s ears not just burn, but burst into flame. She’d find them out in good time. "Whatever. But Dad’s suddenly got this political thing like some religion. Least those hell-fire preachers put up a big tent and get everyone to come, so we can see what they’re all about. This Reconstruction guy just sneaked in, and sneaked out, and you had to work at the plant to hear him." "Yeah," said Charlie. "Sneaking’s always wrong." "That’s different. I’m just a kid. You kind of expect better of grown-ups." "Suppose so." She yawned and struggled to her feet. "G’night, Marty." "Yeah. Ask your friends tomorrow, will you? See if their dads are in on this, or whether it’s just ours that’s gone loco." She’d gone, and forgotten to close the door. Born in a barn. I turned over and looked up at the slanted ceiling, where my bed was tucked up under the eaves of the house. I’d pinned a world map up there, right above my head. There were two golden pins in it, piercing the black dots associated with Dublin and Belfast. Actually, I’d debated with myself whether to use six pins for Belfast, since there’d been six bombs, but I had a strange premonition that I might need those pins for somewhere else.