Chapter six: The thief

"You know it's just a matter of time," Jeff Henderson said, "before the Russians drop the bomb."

Randall Peterson, his best friend, removed a newspaper from the canvas sack hanging off his shoulder and lobbed the afternoon Chronicle onto Mrs. Waite's front porch. "They're sure not going to drop it on Tennyson. I don't know what you're so worried about."

"Because you can bet they're gonna drop one on Wilford Air Force Base. We'll get fallout from that, dumbbell."

"You're full of it."

"Yeah?" Jeff countered.

"Well, President Kennedy isn't."

Randall stuffed a paper into the Brittinghams' mailbox.

"My dad says, 'A bomb's got your name on it, ain't nothing you can do about it.' "

"When the bomb turns your family into French fries, don't say I didn't warn you."

"Gross. I'd never say that about your family."

"You can't. We'll be in our bomb shelter."

"Root cellar, you mean."

Randall hit the Millers' front door with a Chronicle.

"Not for long." Jeff punched Randall's arm.

"Ouch! Watch my throwing arm."

The boys sauntered along Main Street. Jeff transferred Randall's now-empty bag to his own shoulder.

"What gives?" Randall said.

"Nothing. Just seeing what it feels like."

Randall shrugged. "You never want to carry it when there are papers in it."

Jeff halted in front of Swiggett's. "Let's see if the new Superman's in."

Norman Rockwell could have painted the general store, a white clapboard building with a single gas pump out front. Inside, in the corner near the cash register, was a potbellied stove, brass spittoon and a circle of cane chairs where white-haired regulars swapped tales. In back, beyond the dairy locker, a stairway led to Fred Swiggett's mezzanine office, which featured a one-way mirror he installed to keep an eye on things.

Jeff held the door for a customer carrying a bag of groceries and a plastic Christmas wreath. Inside, he stopped at a display of artificial decorations by the cash register, a puzzled frown on his face.

"Hey, Mabel," he greeted the cashier.

"Aren't you selling any of Pop's wreaths?"

Mabel looked up from the new Photoplay. "Sure, hon. Fred's keeping them in the dairy freezer, so they stay fresh."

"Oh," Jeff said. "Is he around?"

"No, hon. Fred's gone up to Wilford."

Seeing the boys head for the comics, she warned, "Don't bend the pages now. You know how he gets."

Jeff left Randall reading Batman and headed down the canned goods aisle. Keeping his back to Mabel, he flicked a can of pears into the sack, then a can of beans, and turned the corner into baking goods.

The front door opened and Fred Swiggett entered, carrying a stack of mail.

"Mabel, what'd I say about reading the merchandise?"

In front of the sugar display, Jeff froze.

Fred stopped at the cash register and handed her a manila envelope. "It's the Labor Department's new minimum wage poster. Put it up out back."

"Where?"

"I don't care. By the dairy locker's fine. I'll be in my office," Fred said. Jeff heard Fred's footsteps in the next aisle. Jeff swiped a sack of sugar into the bag, just as Fred rounded the corner.

"Hey, boy," Fred said, "What you up to?"

"Nothing."

Fred eyed the newspaper bag. "I thought you were working with Pop."

Jeff clamped the sack shut. "I'm helping Randall today." After an awkward silence, he said, "So, you taking my mom out tonight?"

"I might be," Fred said, smoothing back his hair. Walking on, he said over his shoulder, "Stay out of trouble, hear?"

Outside the store, Randall retrieved his sack. Surprised by the weight, he looked inside. "What the heck is this? You didn't buy this stuff."

"So?"

"That's stealing, Jeff. Are you nuts?"

"No," Jeff whispered. "It's for the fallout shelter. You need at least enough food for a month." He pulled Randall into the alley alongside Swiggett's. "I've been taking food from home, but my mom's getting suspicious," he said, reaching into the bag.

Jeff plucked out the cans and put them in the pockets of his jacket. "Once my mom marries Fred, everything in the store will be ours anyway," he said, sounding like he was trying to convince himself. He zipped the sugar inside the front, securing the booty by folding his arms across his waist.

"I still think you're crazy."

"Just keep your mouth shut."

Randall snorted. "You think I want people knowing my best friend's a thief?"

Next chapter: Proposal