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Archive name: duck.txt
Authors name: Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)
Story title : Duck and Cover

--------------------------------------------------------
This work is copyrighted to the author © 2004.  Please
don't remove the author information or make any changes
to this story.  You may post freely to non-commercial
"free" sites, or in the "free" area of commercial sites.
Thank you for your consideration.
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Duck and Cover
by Holly Rennick (jlrennick@yahoo.com)

***

A three-part tale of survival in the Nuclear War of 
1961. Survival means meeting each other’s needs. If the 
post-cataclysmic world isn’t too apocalyptic, leave it 
to the Kaffee Klatsches to sort out. (Fm, inc, bi, sci-
fi)

***

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

"Come on, let's twist again like we did last summer."

"Yea, let's twist again like we did last year."

"Do you remember when things were really hummin'?"

"Yea, let's twist again, twistin' time is here."

Listening to:
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Lets_T
wist_Again.mp3, who gives a cracked hula-hoop if "last 
summer" was 1960? "Come on everybody, clap your hands. 
Now you're looking good!" Chubby Checker's still on the 
road, but I'm betting he can't do the Limbo Rock any 
more. If you're confusing this with the band Twisted 
Sister, what follows will be really dull. Chubby would 
never have cross-dressed.

If you've forgotten why twistin' time was a strange 
era, look at this farewell picture of your hometown, 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Cloud.
jpg, then, 
http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Shelte
r.jpg and measure your back yard. Life Magazine 
featured a newlywed couple who honeymooned in a steel-
and-concrete cube 12 feet underground. "Fallout can be 
fun," the article said.

Listen to these radio spots.

http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/Fallou
t.mp3. What's radioactive fallout, where it comes from 
and why it's dangerous. "You might have to use a 
fallout shelter for up to two weeks."

http://www.asstr.org/files/Authors/Holly_Rennick/In_the
_Open.mp3. The basic "Duck and Cover" drill when you 
notice a "brilliant nuclear flash." Just "curl up in a 
ball and cover your head with your arms." (What's 
sometimes added is, "And kiss your ass goodbye.")

1959's On the Beach (set in far-off 1964) features 
"Waltzing Matilda" played sometimes with nationalistic 
fanfare; other times, funereal. When Ava Gardner takes 
Gregory Peck trout fishing before arrival of the 
nuclear cloud, they find drunken Aussies, increasingly 
annoying until a tenor solos the final verse.

How might Duck and Cover's 1964 music have sounded? 
Well, the Beatles wouldn't have appeared on Ed 
Sullivan, for a start: "All My Loving", "Till There Was 
You", "I Saw Her Standing There", and "I Want to Hold 
Your Hand". But best of all, "She Loves You".

Chubby Checker never would have even done the Limbo 
Rock.

PART I

LET'S DO THE TWIST

So why in the Lord's name does Howard want to build us 
a bomb shelter, Susan wondered? Married to the man 16 
years and he still gets these ideas. The Reds nuke us 
and everybody's gone anyway. If Nixon had won, at least 
the Commies would know whom they're up against. 
Kennedy, being Catholic, might let his religion get in 
the way of pushing the retaliate button fast enough. 
Parade Magazine had shown our missile silos in the 
Dakotas, but the article just said, "undisclosed 
location."

She had come home from Coffee Club and there was 
Howard, already home from the office, pointing the 
contractor to where the jungle gym stood in the side 
yard. The jungle gym was a project requiring diagrams 
spread over the kitchen table while Howard calculated 
the proper foundation for playground equipment. Can't 
have it topple over on a neighborhood child, he'd 
declared. As if their own Ronald didn't count? And now 
a bomb shelter!

Howard was explaining, "Not too close to the fence. 
Your backhoe will fit by the garage. I measured." The 
man was taking notes.

Ronald was inside with his friend Sandy. The two got 
along so well together, thought Susan. Lots of 15-year-
olds just roughhouse around.

"Hey, Mom," Ronald greeted her return. "We used up the 
Root-Beer Fizzies."

"That's fine, dear. Hello, Sandy."

"Hello, Mrs. Mumford." Sandy was such a polite child, 
she thought. So grown up for his age. Such curly red 
hair!

Noting her purloined Aluminum foil, "So what are you 
boys making?" more to the neighbor than to her own.

"A rocket to ray-gun the Russian satellites!" Sandy 
grinned. "Is Mr. Mumford really building a bomb 
shelter?"

"I think he's decided to, just for safety's sake. You 
boys can see how."

"Cool! With a transistor radio and everything?"

"I'm sure."

"Maybe it can be our hangout," wondered her son.

"I think it's just for emergencies, but maybe." They 
probably wanted some place to try smoking, she guessed. 
Maybe they should just get it our of their system, 
coughing in a cement room/

"Duck and Cover!" yelled Ronald and both boys dived 
under the coffee table, laughing and pushing one 
another back into the fallout.

Well, Susan realized, maybe they're not totally past 
the roughhouse stage.

*****

It was in provisioning the Mumford bomb shelter, warmer 
below ground than the January afternoon above, that the 
neighbor boy touched her breast.

The two boys were helping her stock the foodstuffs, 
mostly tinned goods she'd never serve guests. Howard's 
shelving design ran deep and high and access to the 
upper items required both boost and balance. A ladder 
would be forthcoming, he'd assured, filing the 
improvement to his to-acquire list.

The boys had found the radio. Howard didn't want the 
battery run down, but Susan rather liked the music and 
her husband had stocked extra Ray-O-Vacs. The bunker 
was wired to the house, but Howard said that the bomb 
would decimate the grid.

"Come on baby. Let's do the twist."

"Come on baby. Let's do the twist."

"Take me by my little hand,"

"And go like this."

Susan rather liked Negro music. This Chubby Checker was 
nothing in comparison to Nat King Cole, but the music 
was fun. She'd seen the youngsters dancing the twist at 
the Elk's Club, but Howard didn't want to learn. He was 
pretty good with the more standard steps, he judged; no 
reason to hop onto every fad the kids saw on their 
American Bandstand.

Ronald was showing Sandy the three-tier bunk bed, Dad's 
carpentry design. Susan had fabricated the narrow foam 
mattress covers.

To arrange the Spam reserve (48 cans, Howard's 
recommendation), Susan had to ascend a footstool 
perched on a chair, stable enough if nothing slipped. A 
skirt wasn't what she'd want to wear during a Soviet 
attack, she decided, but at least she had her slip on. 
"One of you come over to steady this stool."

Ronald dodged the interruption, but Sandy complied. 
Maybe he's just a kid, Susan noted, but at least he's 
tall enough. Balanced now, she was glad for Sandy's 
proximity.

"Just stand there and let me put my hand on your 
shoulder." But if she reached to steady herself on him, 
she then couldn't access far enough into shelf.

"No, how about you just hold my waist?" patting her 
side.

Sandy complied, but to steady her better, put one hand 
on the small of her back, the other on her stomach, 
disquieting to Susan, but prudent. He was just a boy 
and she was doing a precarious task.

"Just be a minute, Sandy," she assured.

Leaning forward as she had to, the bottom edge of her 
brassiere pressed the side of his thumb. His not 
pulling his thumb away surprised her, but then maybe 
touching the edge of a brassiere didn't mean anything 
to him.

Realizing how her bending made her stomach roll into a 
fleshy fold, she sucked in so at least he wouldn't 
think of her as fat. She wished she'd worn her girdle, 
but why would you think to put one on to work in the 
bomb shelter? Not totally sure of the propriety, 
though, she glanced over her shoulder at Ronald, who 
was facing the other way, reading a Civil Defense 
pamphlet on radioactivity.

She almost had the tins ordered when the stool slipped 
a fraction, not enough to collapse her platform, but 
enough to warrant emergency stabilization. Sandy's 
steadying shifted, now supporting her balance from the 
underside of her bosom.

"Thanks," she offered, glad not to be the impending 
war's first casualty and again glancing toward Ronald. 
Fortunately, he'd not turned. Susan figured that had 
she crashed to the floor, he might have asked if she 
were OK, but probably wouldn't have stopped reading.

When Sandy didn't drop his grasp, she didn't know how 
to suggest doing so without sounding prissy. In any 
case, her coned, missile-like cups assured that he felt 
nothing of her. But even still, his hand was where it 
was, undeniably cradling a breast. Well, so what? They 
were working.

She completed her task judiciously. It's not wrong to 
have somebody accidentally touch your chest. She 
remembered when she was about the boy's age, how Tommy 
Lee had reached around from behind when they were 
playing Ollie, Ollie, Oxen Free.

Descending required forethought. "OK, down to the 
chair," she determined. She swung a foot back, knowing 
it not far down to the chair's seat. With Sandy there, 
she'd not tumble.

Maybe she'd not adequately warned her assistant, she 
wondered as her foot found its mark. He should have 
dropped his hold with her and not let her slip partway 
through his arm, dropping her breast fully into Sandy's 
palm. My God!

But even in her astonishment, she again looked back at 
Ronald, mercifully still engrossed. Susan instinctively 
sensed that she shouldn't look at the boy whose hand 
was still on her.

Does he even realize? flashed through her mind. He must 
have seen my check on Ronald! Why doesn't he move his 
hand?

It wasn't until Susan was safely on the concrete that 
Sandy let go. When he did, it seemed to Susan that he'd 
registered nothing. Maybe there was nothing to it.

"Safe landing," he offered, always one to smile.

That night, Susan made love to Howard. He was 
considerate, something she always appreciated. But 
after he rolled away, she took her breast in her own 
hand, the way the boy had held her. She didn't think 
her nipple had been hard when he'd touched her, but in 
any case, he'd not have been able to tell. But it was 
hardening now.

*****

Sandy was such a nice friend for Ronald, so easy to 
have around. Susan was always glad when he'd come over. 
She'd chided him for calling her, "Mrs. Mumford".

"You're grown up enough to call me Susan," she noted, 
when her husband wasn't present, but it was still "Mrs. 
Mumford" when both were there.

She wondered if he even remembered helping her in the 
bomb shelter? Probably not, of course.

But again and again over the spring, he again touched 
her breasts. They were all accidental.

The Mumford house, 431 N. Elmwood, was an already-dated 
product of the post-war boom: VA financed, three 
bedroom, full and half bath, garage, modern kitchen. A 
modern kitchen, at least until General Electric took 
over from General Eisenhower. 

Appliances of the 60's were larger, more consumer-
orientated. As the space allocated for an old 
Frigidaire was a bit small for a refrigerator with a 
full freezer above, their new appliance stuck out, 
blocking "just a little, just temporarily", according 
to Howard, of the kitchen-dining room passage. The 
constricted doorway was no longer two-persons wide.

The second time that Sandy touched her breasts (and 
this time it was both), she'd been entering the kitchen 
while he was leaving. She'd backed against the jam and 
his arm had brushed. She'd had no time to turn another 
direction. This following occasion was accidental, too, 
the only difference being their directions and that 
he'd been saying something to Ronald ahead of him. Her 
son hadn't brushed her.

The next occasion was again accidental on Sandy's part, 
she assured herself, but she'd removed her apron and 
moved toward the doorway upon hearing the boys on the 
back steps. She'd have gone that direction anyway, she 
told herself, to return the frozen lima beans. Sandy 
entered the kitchen first, but let Ronald pass him as 
the two passed the sink. 

When Sandy passed Susan, she was sure he'd leaned her 
way. But maybe she was leaning, also. Her sweater had 
hardly been drawn sideways, but the wool's slip over 
the synthetic fiber below left her heart pounding.

Why did I let myself get in the doorway like that, she 
asked herself?

And there were more, not always in the kitchen doorway, 
sometimes in spaces where she could have backed away 
more. Any words exchanged would be either as a greeting 
before or as adieu afterwards. Never in the passing.

And there were incidents inadvertently proximate for 
other reasons. Once she drove Ronald's Scout patrol to 
a parade. Seven boys, four in the sedan's back, three 
plus herself in the front. Fortunately, it wasn't far, 
as the ones in the back were cracking up over an ill-
disguised joke about farting.

Sandy had ended up next to the driver. She'd plenty of 
room, their Plymouth being an automatic, but Sandy was 
definitely against her shoulder. As the other boys 
exited, she turned slightly and he'd rested against 
her. She'd not planned it that way, but wondering if 
she'd felt soft or hard.

And there was the good-natured horseplay. She would of 
course never push around with one of Ronald's friends, 
but with Sandy anyway, moments might get a bit 
juvenile.

"Here you go, Sandy, a scarf so you don't catch cold," 
making as if to loop it over his neck.

"Not my color, ma'am," he'd protest, dodging, but not 
too far.

"Tell it to the doctor," she'd lasso him. Somehow in 
the exchange, they'd have bumped. Or maybe it was the 
moment when she was adjusting it from the back, her 
blouse against his shoulder.

And then there were the times they'd not even touched, 
but it felt as if they had. Ronald thought it was 
absurdly uncouth, his own mother asking how the kids 
did the twist. Why'd she want to learn? But Sandy, to 
her son's good-natured derision, agreed to show her. 
Learning how was part of the fun, even if you'd never 
dance it in public. Sandy's explanation that you're 
holding a towel and drying your buns, she found so 
funny.

"Yeah, you should see my little sis."

"You should see my, my little sis."

"She really knows how to rock."

"She knows how to twist."

Susan was, as they called it, "rocking and rolling," 
laughing at her antics. Only when the 45 was completed 
did she realize that she was excited, but it didn't 
matter with her bra's industrial-grade construction. It 
was if Sandy had been toweling her backside.

But there was also the encounter she couldn't even 
think of how to excuse. She'd been saving coffee cans; 
Howard had said such containers would have a multitude 
of uses in war's aftermath. She knew just where the MJB 
cans would go, top shelf, by the Spam.

Ronald and Sandy were doing homework. Even when they 
had different classes, she liked Ronald's studying with 
a friend who buckled down. Maybe something would rub 
off.

"One of you give me a hand a minute and I'll bake some 
Toll House cookies," adjusting her apron, knowing who'd 
help out.

Sandy and Susan hauled the empty cans to the shelter, 
opened the bunker hatch ("Plate steel, counterweighted 
like a feather," Howard boasted) and descended the 
steep and narrow stairs.

Without comment, Susan balanced the stool and motioned 
Sandy where to stand. As she arranged the cans, one by 
one, he massaged her bosom through cotton, gingham and 
nylon. She had no way to explain it, shy of admitting 
that she'd made herself accessible and he'd acquiesced.

Only when her task was done did she look at her breast, 
his hand still attending to it. When he realized she 
was watching, he ceased. Knowing that he was confused 
(as if she weren't also, but she was the adult), she 
swung her foot backwards to signal her descent. By the 
time she reached the floor, he wasn't holding her at 
all.

Actually, she realized, she'd known he'd let go. If 
she'd feared he wouldn't (as she might have expected 
from an adult male), she'd not have induced him into 
the bomb shelter.

Returning chair and stool to their assigned positions, 
the two ascended and shut the cover, a word never 
spoken, yet everything communicated.

*****

Susan knew she'd been taking the easy route, lettings 
things happen, finding hints of forbidden delight, 
supposing nothing in the longer haul.

At first she'd not have confessed to anything being a 
"forbidden delight", but with time, she'd acquiesced to 
the "delight" part, looking forward to being by the 
doorway when the boys rushed by. She'd not asked Sandy 
to sit by her in the car, but she'd been motionless 
when he'd leaned back. The first time in the bomb 
shelter, she'd been surprised. The next time, affirmed.

The "forbidden" she knew to be true, not because 
anybody had said no, but because she would never let it 
happen without ensuring against observation. The 
"forbidden" came from herself. But what was forbidden? 
Liking her son's friend? Everybody liked Sandy.

The fact that they'd bumped, not that many times, in 
the course of household activities? Well, it wasn't 
lewd or anything. They were all short-time encounters, 
weren't they? Things that were nobody's fault.

It was hardly even sexual, though in mentally 
countering such assertion, she realized that element. A 
woman's body just does things, sometimes. Not that any 
of her Coffee Club friends had affairs, but if they 
did, that would be what people meant by "sexual".

It was a little different when Sandy had deliberately 
fondled her, but it was just one time. Teenagers get 
confused. It would have been rude to antagonize the 
moment. Besides, he'd only touched the outside.

She'd of course been a virgin when she'd married, but 
she'd let Howard rest his hand on her thigh when they 
dated. It wasn't as if with Sandy, she'd been very far.

She didn't dwell on what Sandy, tentative as he was, 
did to her. She'd been glad Howard hadn't snuggled up 
the evening after Sandy had massaged her. Once her 
spouse was breathing evenly, she feigned getting up to 
read.

She looked around the darkened den. Everything a modern 
family would want. Her life lay out like the new 
Interstate Highways, cruise control like the new 
Pontiacs. Of course she wasn't going to detour. She 
just wasn't going to walk away from being her own self, 
she argued. She'd not do anything stupid, anything that 
would carry over. It was just that Sandy's hand had 
felt nice on her apron, there in the bomb shelter.

So in Howard's Lazy Boy she did what she never thought 
she'd do again. Her orgasm was about a pretend 
boyfriend taking off her apron, blouse, slip and 
brassiere

She'd never tell them, but the girls in Coffee Club 
would understand about a good husband who worked too 
much, had too many answers, spent too much time 
planning bomb shelters and never just reached over and 
felt his wife's breasts.

She'd have not said she was frustrated with Howard, for 
how can you be frustrated with one who's just what he 
is? To Susan, it was more about needing just a little 
something extra, something maybe a boy might offer.

LET'S TWIST AGAIN LIKE WE DID LAST SUMMER

Susan had known from the start that the Camelot media 
blitz didn't mean that JFK had what's needed to take 
care of a pip-squeak dictator in cahoots the Russians. 
Nixon would have rescued the Bay of Pigs patriots.

Howard had reseeded over the shelter's earthen cover, 
so by June the construction wasn't so obvious. If 
strangers knew the Mumfords had one, they might try to 
force their way in.

The kids, maybe two dozen, were in the back yard, 
grilling hamburgers, gulping A&W and listening to 
Chubby Checker.

Howard was strict that the bomb shelter wasn't to be a 
clubhouse (there were too many things that might get 
moved out of place), but he was a good sport about 
opening it up for inspection. "Duck and Cover" wasn't 
enough. If they had any questions about nuclear safety, 
they could ask him.

It was the kind of summer evening that you remember 
years later, Susan reflected. Friends, food, music, 
flirtatious fun. Most of the vault visitors seemed to 
be couples, she noted, but wasn't worried. These were 
good kids. Maybe some girl would get her first kiss, 
right there by the air vent.

"Come on, let's twist again like we did last summer."

"Yea, let's twist again like we did last year."

"Do you remember when things were really hummin'?"

"Yea, let's twist again, twistin' time is here."

Did she remember when things began hummin'? Yes she 
did. In the bomb shelter, stacking Spam. Susan wondered 
what might be their relationship if she'd turned to him 
and put his hand back on her? She was glad she hadn't, 
but on her back on the Lazy Boy, as she now did 
frequently, she wondered.

"Come on, Mrs. Mumford! You know how." It was Sandy 
from the midst of the twisters. "You don't even need a 
partner, just crowd in the middle."

Howard was discussing something about emergency sirens 
with a couple of the boys. He'd be pleased to see her 
also interacting with the youth. Sliding into the 
throng of imaginary-towel holders, she gave herself a 
few backside swipes.

"Mrs. Mumford's looking good!" somebody hollered and 
she wasn't almost 40 any more.

After the party wound down, Sandy stayed to help put 
things back in order. Howard made sure that the 
charcoal was extinguished. Ronald had the lawn chairs 
to reposition.

Howard's guarantee that the Mumford bunker was rodent 
proof didn't convince Susan. She'd never seen a place 
that survived against determined gnawers and didn't 
want any abandoned hamburgers inviting a mouse 
invasion.

There wasn't evidence of hamburgers in the bunker, but 
there was a folded blanket on the bench. Probably some 
girl got smooched, Susan smiled. More? Well, maybe 
petted a little, but the blanket's not being on the 
bunk suggested affections moderated.

Susan was still absently tidying up when she realized 
someone had descended the steps behind her. She was 
facing away, but knew whom. Husband or son would have 
said something.

She stood quietly as Sandy reached an arm under hers 
and crossed to her chest to her other shoulder. When he 
pulled her back the few inches to fit her body to his, 
she realized he was trying to tell her something.

"Sandy, I don't think..." she managed, doing nothing to 
free herself.

"You want me to," he tried to explain. Susan could tell 
by his voice that he, like her, wasn't sure where this 
was going.

"If you want to, I mean," he suggested.

It's not about what I want, she told herself, but 
didn't answer.

He moved his other hand to her belly and slipped it 
under her pullover.

Susan's knees wanted to buckle, but Sandy was holding 
her up. She didn't even know why she reached behind to 
disconnect her strap and again leaned back into him, 
her knees now strong, her hands cocked behind her on 
his hipbones. She knew without a bra, she felt soft.

Her nipples were like the frozen lima beans in her 
freezer and she bit her lip to keep from saying, yes. 
Turning, she gave the boy a kiss, not a long one, but 
on his lips. They weren't the only couple who'd kissed 
down here that evening, she told herself. Probably she 
wasn't the only girl who'd been fondled bare skin.

Sandy acted almost surprised, but didn't object to the 
kissing while she backed him to the bench and straddled 
him, a knee on either side. His hardness was not 
explicit, but recognizable to her press against his 
fly. He surely knew what she was feeling.

But it was better that he be the initiator. "We gotta' 
go up, Sandy," was hard to say, but the right thing to 
do.

Sandy went up the stairs first, carrying the war-
surplus fold-up shovel. If anyone asks, whispered 
Susan, say that you're going to throw the barbeque 
ashes on the flower garden. They have lots of 
potassium.

She re-did her top and when Sandy gave three tiny taps 
with the shovel handle, she ascended and slipped into 
the safety of her kitchen.

What does that boy think of me, Susan asked herself? A 
grown woman who wants to pet? Surely he wouldn't think 
that I wanted him to.

She delayed finishing the dishes until Howard was 
asleep and returned to the bomb shelter. The hatch felt 
feather-light and she wasn't scared about the steepness 
of the stairs. Flashlight extinguished, she lay on the 
bunk and finished what Sandy started.

*****

Susan didn't see her son's friend for several days, and 
even then, it was just in passing. If, Susan realized, 
he turned shy, or worse yet, glum, she'd have to accept 
that she had overstepped his own bounds, a boundary she 
couldn't set.

But picking Ronald up from the Municipal Pool with his 
buddy was positive. Instead of piling in the back with 
Ronald, Sandy slid into the front seat. Not close, like 
on the Scout trip, but up there beside her. When she 
dropped him off, he said for both to hear, "See you 
around."

And she did see him around, the next afternoon when 
Ronald was bagging at the Piggly Wiggly. Sandy's 
mumbled, "Is Ronald here?" told Susan that he knew he 
wasn't.

"No, he's working, but come on in."

The fact that Sandy followed confirmed why he'd come. 
"About the other night..." she began. It was silly on 
her part; it didn't mean anything.

But he pre-empted her excuse. "I just wasn't thinking," 
he suggested. "I'm sorry."

She looked at him. Teenagers can't lie that well. 
"You're sorry?"

"I mean I shouldn't have." He looked downward.

She put a palm on each side of his face. "You're not 
sorry at all," and kissed him. When he reached his 
hands around her back, she pulled his shoulders against 
hers. He may have not been quite ready for the next 
move, she realized, but then he's just a boy.

"Come on," she whispered, as if others were at home. 
Where they stood, anybody at the front door could see. 
The kitchen was too aluminum and Formica. It didn't 
occur to her to think about the bedroom.

The shelter was their sanctuary. She closed the iron 
lid after them, leaving them subterranean, incandescent 
light their sun. The bunk was just wide enough for two 
to lie side by side. He'd seemed surprised how promptly 
she'd stretched out, but had little choice but to join.

Sandy was at first content with her blouse, but after a 
few moments in which the kisses took deeper root, she 
knew. She let him open her blouse and push her bra up 
under her armpits to ponder her white breasts, maroon 
areole and ready nipples. Had he seen those of girls 
his own age? Lots of girls' breasts, she knew, were as 
big and most stood higher on their torsos. Hers hadn't 
suffered unduly from motherhood, she'd been pleased to 
find, but even if they had lost some of their tone, 
that was OK.

"Wow, Mrs. Mumford, Susan, I mean. They're really 
pretty," pushing one a little toward the other.

Susan giggled. He was trying to act so grown up; she 
was feeling so girlish.

"You don't mind?" he wondered.

She shook her head emphatically, guiding his chin 
toward her breastbone.

He kissed her chest with more confidence as Susan 
raised her hands so he could bare her top completely. 
At first, he seemed reluctant, but once she pulled his 
tee-shirt over his head, he became less self-conscious.

"Let tryst again, trysting time is here," she thought, 
the lyric modification making her happy.

It took Sandy little time to assume the advantage of 
being on top, and Susan, no time at all to spread 
herself beneath. Maybe she could lift against his 
thighs just a little, she decided. She grinned inwardly 
as she increasingly made her pelvis his counterpoint, 
his ridge of pro-offered manhood against her mound of 
knowing femininity. He wasn't that little of a kid.

She had only to wait.

When Sandy at last climaxed, she held him like it was 
the most normal interaction in the world. When he was 
slow to dismount, she slipped out from under him and 
extinguished the light to not see what she expected was 
the wetness on his pants. Boys need their not-so-secret 
secrets, sometimes.

*****

The following afternoon (she'd been counting the 
hours), after the two again together descended into 
their secret shelter, she stripped to her white panties 
and suggested that he do the same, "So there'll be less 
in the way." The electric bulb shadowed her underwear's 
crease.

When he hesitated, she turned again off the light and 
in pitch-blackness heard his zipper. When he climbed 
upon her, she felt cylindrical flesh against her 
abdomen.

He'd known that it would be yet better without 
underpants. While they kissed, she pushed off her 
panties to match his nakedness. She wondered if his 
hair was red, too, like her brother's. She still 
remembered plating Doctor and Nurse, pushing and 
pulling on Rusty until he squirted white pee.

Sandy's hand migrated downward, first rolling his 
fingertips in her tangle, at last, cupping her skin. A 
single finger ventured further, cascading almost 
accidentally, she wondered, into her vagina. She wasn't 
sure if he realized the full meaning of her wetness. 
Maybe he thought it was normal. His probing was a bit 
pedestrian, but she knew it was new territory for him.

Sandy pulled toward her enough to lay his penis, rigid, 
circumcised and warm, in her palm. She cradled his 
testicles, but his erection was what she wanted, 
lubricating his crown up and down her labia.

She'd have masturbated him, what she thought a 15-year-
old might want, but he pushed himself downward to be 
aimed into her. The fact that he was foregoing manual 
climax told her that this evening was of his design. He 
was on top, the boss.

Rather than the creeping insertion she'd prefer, he 
impaled her with one mighty thrust. Not an unwelcome 
thrust, just a hurried one. Maybe he thought that he'd 
be impeded, she wondered afterward.

Once penetrated, however, Susan took control, her 
pelvis moderating his enthusiasm. Smaller than Howard, 
Sandy didn't afford as much friction, but plenty enough 
to make each stroke better than the last. Lovers, one 
within the other, make things work.

She knew she'd not have much time, but even if Sandy 
ejaculated quickly, she'd harvest his waning moments.

She knew that Sandy was climaxing not from his penis, 
its habits yet unknown to her, but from his breathing. 
Hearing his gasps so close to her ear, she pulled his 
shoulder blades to drive him to her cervix. Sandy 
momentarily paused when she begin to shudder, but 
realizing that it was in excitement, pushed inward 
until he was spent.

Susan, all of a sudden both weak and strong, held him 
to her until her own contractions expelled his slicked 
limpness.

"That felt so nice, Sandy," after the two were closer 
to normal respiration.

"You're OK?" Susan sensed that he wasn't too sure how 
good sex, brief as it might be, leaves a woman.

"I'm really OK, every bit of me."

"I wasn't planning to," demurred the boy, as if 
culpability need be established.

"Me neither," lied Susan. Well, it was true; when 
they'd entered the bomb shelter, she'd no specific 
plan. Even when they stripped, she'd not thought 
through what to do next. But maybe, she realized, the 
back of her mind had anticipated the eventuality. 
"Maybe just being down in this hole makes us want to. 
Like we're the last survivors," turning on the light 
quickly enough to confirm the totality of his red hair.

*****

The nearest the two came to disaster was later that 
summer when Ronald came home early from the Piggly 
Wiggly. She'd left the metal hatch propped for fresh 
air. Susan was straddling Sandy on the floor, the bunk 
too low for imaginative eros. She'd successfully worked 
him up inside for her orgasm and afterwards they'd 
rotate, never disconnecting, and he'd come.

"Hey, Mom, you down there?" the voice from above.

"Just a min, Hun," only after a brief pause and in what 
she hoped was a normal tone. "There was this dust 
devil," hoping to explain the cover's status and 
praying that Ronald wouldn't come looking. Fortunately, 
they'd left the light on.

Susan was dismounted before the metal cover's opening 
creek and had skirt on and top closed before the fourth 
step on the stairs.

Sandy was grabbing her under-things off the floor and 
ducking behind the water barrel.

"Need some ice cream?" Susan uncharacteristically 
suggested, blocking Ronald before his eyes adjusted. "I 
got some Hershey's," simultaneously searching to 
explain of why the mattress was on the cement, but 
Ronald didn't ask.

When Ronald finally headed from the kitchen to his 
room, she found the bunker vacated, her paramour 
apparently having made his escape over the fence. The 
whereabouts of her undergarments remained a mystery 
until after dinner, when Sandy stopped by to pick up 
Ronald to walk to the American Legion double header and 
dumped the items in the laundry hamper.

Smart boy, she thought.

*****

Coffee Club was delighted with Susan's announcement. A 
crib, high-chair and stroller were offered before the 
hubbub subsided. A 16-year gap between pregnancies made 
you young all over, they all agreed. Everyone had a 
story about women even in their 40's. Of course you get 
a new baby shower, the agreed. We'll plan it.

Howard was pleased as well. Maybe the guys at work 
thought he wasn't virile, so he'd showed them. Ronald 
would be off to college in a few years, so a sibling 
didn't really impact him.

The practical problem, Susan realized, would be if 
little baby bumpkins were a flaming carrot top. 
Fortunately, Rusty spoke to such genes in her family 
tree, though from where no one had a clue. Susan had 
always taken Rusty's mop as a fluke of nature, but 
maybe, just maybe, she now wondered, their mother might 
have been more of a flapper than Daddy ever realized.

Susan thought of Ronald's Civil Defense comic book, 
Bert the Turtle demonstrating how, in the event of an 
attack, "You duck to avoid the things flying through 
the air and cover to keep from getting cut or even 
badly burned."

Duck and cover? Well, Sandy had ducked behind the water 
barrel and she'd covered her tracks.

They'd need more supplies for the Mumford bomb shelter, 
of course. A year's supply of formula, for one, since 
nobody breastfed any more.

America's future might depend upon it.

END OF PART I

PART II

THURSDAY, SEPTEMBER 14, 1961

Probably no one will ever know the complete chronology. 
The decision-makers on both sides were killed and much 
of the corroborating evidence was vaporized. The best 
way to leave it might be that Khrushchev and Kennedy 
equally stood their ground and too many ICBM's had 
their safeties off.

In any case, it was quick and both sides could claim 
that they'd punished the aggressor, the other. An 
aftermath with neither ground invasion nor aerial mop-
up speaks to warfare resources exhausted.

It would be a cold winter in the Northern Hemisphere.

Howard had been in St. Louis on business, better than 
saying he'd probably been incinerated in the brilliant 
flashes. Susan had been watching Huntley-Brinkley when 
the emergency warning interrupted. She'd hardly time to 
grab Ronald, Sandy and Darlene from the den where 
they'd been working on their Science Fair project 
(something about a photographic telescope, she'd been 
explained). 

Sandy, she'd made love with just the afternoon before 
and Darlene she hardly knew, other than that her father 
was on the School Board. She may be 16, too, thought 
Susan, but any cop seeing her behind the wheel would 
probably doubt it.

The four were in the bomb shelter wondering if it was 
just another test when they felt the tremors. Even with 
the hatch secured, they could hear the winds the 
followed.

Then it was black silence, the transistor radio just 
crackles. Susan lit a candle and saw her own terror 
mirrored in the faces of her three charges. There 
wasn't anything to say. Just sit in fear.

Ronald was the first to move. "I'll look out," as if 
maybe they'd been misled.

"No, I don't think we'd better. There might be more and 
maybe there's radioactivity," his mom cautioned in her 
adult voice. The radio spot warned about sand-like 
particles.

"Just a quick peek," argued her son. Boys, she 
realized, would always the first to look, the first to 
fight, the first to die.

She didn't have the energy for further protest.

Ronald un-cinched the crossbar and cracked the lid. 
Then, "Oh, Jesus," re-engaging the lock.

It didn't occur to Susan to object to the profanity.

No one wanted to ask, but he told. "It's just gone 
except for some trees and parts of buildings. There's 
too much smoke to see much. And dust."

So this was what it had come too. Win the War, as 
American always did, but lose the world. Was anybody 
else still alive?

She searched for another thought. "We're better down 
here. Pretty soon somebody will come to rescue us." 
Probably nobody believed it, herself included, but 
waiting gave them purpose. The radio spots said that 
after two weeks it would be safe. Anyway, where would 
they to go if they ventured out?

Where was Howard? Maybe they'd only rocketed here and 
every other place was OK. She looked at the supplies so 
diligently sequestered and realized that he'd made this 
place very well. But he'd never even know.

The kid's classmates who'd dutifully ducked under their 
dining-room tables and covered their heads? Just blown 
away.

At Coffee Club, they'd been designing summer vacations. 
Disneyland, with its Magic Kingdom, looked so fun. 
Probably ashes.

All three kids were crying. Should she try to comfort 
them, assure them that things would get better? But she 
knew they wouldn't, that they were in a hole in the 
ground with lots of food and nothing above.

Susan cried too.

Nobody wanted to eat, just to lie on the bunks. Susan 
didn't mind if Darlene squeezed in with her, at least a 
touch of companionship. Unlike the boys in the two 
berths above, neither slept.

*****

It was the second day before they begin to establish a 
semblance of logistical enforced proximity. The toilet 
was under the stairs and private. The lime seemed to 
keep it tolerable. Changing clothes could happen there, 
or just wait till the evening's candle was 
extinguished. Clothes-wise, the boys had Ronald and 
Howard's stock to share. Darlene and Susan just had 
Susan's, most of it oversized for the girl. At least 
nobody was cold.

They tired to play Rummy by candlelight, but nobody 
tried very hard. When Darlene sat on Susan's lap 
without explanation, the mother in Susan wrapped her 
arms around the youngster and rocked her.

Nighttime settled slowly, Susan realizing by then that 
she wanted the girl close by. She wanted Ronald's 
nearness, for he was hers biologically, but he was 
already entering those years of separation. He would 
kiss her goodnight, his arm around her, even, but not 
lean against her. 

With Sandy, of course, she'd shared what some people 
think is the ultimate nearness. But that was before, 
measurable by the clock in hours, but measurable by the 
soul in eras.

Darlene apparently wanted nearness too. Maybe females 
tend to be first to ask. After the candle, both women 
removed their now-sweaty tops and snuggled full breast 
to small one, Darlene's kiss was what a daughter would 
share.

*****

Darlene didn't even bother to put on her bra the next 
morning. She hardly needed it and was wearing a 
Yellowstone National Park sweatshirt. Would parks 
survive? Susan, of course, slipped back into her 
foundation.

Again Darlene spent hours cradled in Susan's lap, but 
at least by now the four dimness dwellers conversed to 
kill time. Nobody wanted to speculate much about what 
might be above, but Sandy shared his tales of Scouting 
misadventures and Ronald, his opinions on who'd be in 
the World Series, his effort at pretence. Given Whitey 
Ford's fastball, and even despite an injured Mantle, 
the Yankees all the way. He didn't like Roger Maris as 
much, but could that guy belt 'em!

When Darlene wrapped Susan's arms around her and in the 
shadows guided Susan's hand to her breast, hard like a 
half-apple, Susan massaged the girl as she herself 
would have wanted. The girl's head was thrown back on 
Susan's shoulder, her lips brushing below Susan's ear 
as Susan's hand rubbed from one breast to the other.

At bedtime, again early and already one of only a few 
demarcations of bomb shelter time, it seemed natural 
for the girl to push up her shirt for the cooler air 
and then draw Susan's own shirt likewise. Darlene 
backed against Susan, soft flesh now against Darlene's 
shoulders.

In the darkness, Susan and Darlene snuggled closer all 
the time.

It seemed yet natural when the girl pulled Susan's hand 
to her belly, letting Susan first kneed the softness of 
her stomach, then draw downward. The elastic waistband 
was loose enough to slip within.

Why was she doing this? Susan didn't really know. A 
union when all bonds seemed broken? Trashy novels of 
women making love to women excited her not the least. 
We make love with men. Our husbands. Maybe sometimes a 
lover who might even be a boy. But not with your own 
gender. Everybody knew that much!

Darlene spread her knees when Susan touched her pubic 
hair and locked her heel over Susan's thigh when Susan 
parted her fold. But it wasn't about sex, Susan 
justified; it was about sharing where there was really 
nothing else.

Would it be wrong, she asked herself once more? It 
might maybe the girl's only orgasm, ever.

She masturbated Darlene as she would have masturbated 
herself, a single digit back and forth, moistening the 
miniscule protrusion. The two worked silently together, 
making hardly a sound. Susan wondered if the boys above 
could feel the bunk's tremble, but maybe they were 
already asleep.

When Darlene climaxed, Susan felt at least a hint of 
ascension within herself.

The girl turned to caress and was sleeping before Susan 
got them covered. She rested Darlene's hand on the 
inside of her own thigh and reclaimed the mound between 
the girl's legs, softly, as not to waken her.

Susan's pleasure was the first good thought she'd had 
since the emergency warning. You need at least a memory 
of pleasure in the worst of times, most of all. Susan 
had read about Jews who'd survived only by recreating 
the recipe a particular bowl of soup.

The night passed dreamily, Susan drifting between 
girlhood to motherhood. She dreamed of lying naked, 
touching herself, then being touched by another. In 
drowsy alternation between slumber and semi-
consciousness, she was spectator to her own climax. But 
when she regained her thoughts nearer what to would 
have been dawn above, she'd no evidence. Her slip was 
up, but that could have happened accidentally, she 
decided.

She rolled to face Darlene, who, in her own awakening, 
turned to receive her. It seemed so right, molding 
together until their mons were one against the other. 
Susan lazily humped Darlene, not forceful enough for 
orgasms, but with enough friction to drive both their 
heartbeats.

*****

The fourth night, the boys heard.

Maybe they'd wondered about the two holding hands that 
day, but probably not. Bunker existence drives people 
to more noticeable eccentricities, Ronald bouncing his 
tennis ball, for example.

Darlene stripped before slipping under the sheet and 
tugged at Susan until only her panties remained. 
Darlene wanted to be loved again and Susan wanted to 
love her. Maybe love is the only hope left. You 
wouldn't have to remove your clothes to love, but then 
again, maybe that's how it's best acknowledged, Susan 
decided, herself removing her remaining piece of 
attire.

When Susan reached for her lover, Darlene twisted to 
hold Susan in return. And when Susan touched between 
the girl's legs, Darlene slid her hand into Susan's 
crotch and found it already moist.

Susan's first reaction was pull away, but their bed's 
narrowness of afforded no option. Susan could have 
deflected Darlene's hand, but for what end? In a way, 
Darlene's touch even felt familiar. Susan wanted to be 
wanted too. Maybe the climax she'd dreamed last night 
had been real. Maybe Darlene had already freed her.

Maybe from the night before, Susan wondered, the girl 
knew how a woman wanted to be touched. While the top 
arm of each securing the other, the lower hands excited 
each other to impending orgasm and then penetrated with 
single fingers. With guys, Howard and Stanley, for 
Susan anyway, foreplay was so rehearsed. She and this 
girl just seemed to be automatic.

It was only after they'd climaxed did Susan realize 
they'd not been silent.

"What's going on?" from her son far above.

"Shut up, Ronald," from Sandy. "It's none of our 
business."

Oh, Lord!

But Darlene kissed Susan again and maybe it didn't 
matter.

*****

The next morning, Ronald was glum, glum for being stuck 
in a hole in the ground, even.

Should she apologize, say it wouldn't happen again? 
After all, she owed some standard to her own kin. But 
Darlene was again holding her hand and even reached up 
into Susan's blouse when the two were in full 
candlelight. The boys pretended not to notice.

It was later in the afternoon (such solar standards 
becoming less and less pertinent, but evolutionary in 
the human timepiece) that Ronald motioned Darlene to 
the stairs where they could converse in muted voice. 
When they descended, Darlene was looking downward, not 
at Susan.

"Mom," begin Ronald, gathering his fortitude. "Me and 
Darlene were almost going steady."

That was news to her, probably having more to do with 
school hallways than actually going anywhere, she 
suspected.

"So, we're kind of a pair." He paused again. "Not that 
you and Darlene don't have a lot in common, too... But 
we don't know what's out there and we like each other," 
as if that explained things. Another regrouping of 
thoughts. "So can we be together?"

Be together? He's asking me if he can be with Darlene? 
She looked at the girl.

"It's true, Mrs. Mumford. Maybe we shouldn't have, but 
I wanted to. I still want to... But I like Ronald too. 
You understand."

Susan guessed she did. How could she say, no don't go 
with my boy because I want to sleep with you? Ronald 
had even asked her, not just tried to sneak something 
by. But how'd you sneak anything by anyone in this 
environment?

She really didn't have much choice. It wasn't like they 
were sitting in 431 N Elmwood. Things were different. 
"Sure, kids, I understand. There's a future if we're 
lucky."

"I'll still be with you too," Darlene encouraged. "It's 
not like Ronald and I will be really married or 
anything," brightening. "Just going steady."

"It's kind of public, you know?" Susan managed a smile. 
"You better take the bottom bunk."

That night, Susan heard Ronald lose his virginity, 
Darlene whispering suggestions. The girl's cherry Susan 
wasn't sure about, but did it matter like they used to 
think?

*****

The next night, their sixth, Susan knew from the 
comments below that Darlene had assumed command. She 
wanted Ronald to just hold it in her, let her do the 
wiggling.

How long ago it seemed that she'd made love on that 
bottom bunk with a boy so much younger than Ronald. But 
her pregnancy, nearly two months now, proved they did. 
Sandy wasn't that boy; for now he was just someone 
entombed too.

Maybe she and Darlene would deliver each other's 
babies, her child and her grandchild. Survival is not 
just about memories; it's about hope.

*****

When she awoke, she knew it. She knew it as surely as 
she knew her own name, Susan Marquis Mumford. She knew 
how to carry on. It was about not deceiving.

After they finished their water oatmeal, she announced 
it. Maybe she should have told her own son first, or 
maybe she should have told her ex-lover. Or maybe she 
should have told Darlene, as a girl maybe senses things 
boys might discount. It was just better to tell all 
three.

"You kids all know that I'm pregnant, right?" They 
nodded. She'd never told Sandy, but surely Ronald had 
told his buddy and apparently had hinted the same to 
Darlene.

"Well it's maybe not who's it should be." There, she'd 
almost said it.

The three stared in incomprehension, and then disbelief 
as the inference connected.

Ronald's look was pure incredulousness. This was his 
mom!

Darlene seemed equally astonished, though perhaps more 
realistic. Teenagers know about this sort of thing.

Sandy shook his head. Surely he must have wondered if 
it could be his, Susan presumed, but maybe at his age 
he felt no need to know.

"Maybe it's my lover's"

"But Mom!"

"Maybe, Ronald, I don't know. But it's where I am."

Darlene enveloped Susan. And to her maternal surprise, 
Ronald, too, came over to hold her.

"Things are different now, anyway, Mom. We just want it 
to be healthy. And you, too."

Susan wasn't about to pull Sandy down with her. Maybe 
it wasn't his anyway, but Sandy joined them.

"Your mom's a brave woman, Ronald. 'Cause she wouldn't 
have had to say anything. You're really brave, Susan."

"No, I'm not brave. We're just in this different world 
now and can't start off with a bunch of lies."

Sandy nodded, thought, and then nodded again. "No, not 
lies," walking away to face the trio. "I made her do 
it."

"You what?" queried Ronald.

"Do it. Do it with me."

"No!"

"It wasn't her fault."

"No!" Ronald moved forward, white in the flame's 
illumination.

It was Susan who averted violence. "No, Ronald. I 
wanted him to. Was waiting."

Ronald looked back, confused.

"Ronald, you don't understand, but it happened and I 
wanted it. It's not about Dad; it's about me. I loved 
Howard, but still let it happen."

"You slept with Sandy?"

"Yes."

"Oh," the brevity masking un-resolved.

"Don't blame Sandy."

Ronald looked at his mother and sat down. "Maybe it 
doesn't even matter any more," unconvincingly.

Susan went to him. "It matters."

"I mean maybe here we are and Dad's dead and there's 
Sandy still."

"Maybe, I guess." She wasn't looking for vindication.

Darlene looked at Sandy, defying anything but the 
truth. "Did you love Mrs. Mumford? Because I do and if 
you don't, I'm not staying in this hole with you."

"Before we did anything, even. And still."

Darlene weighed the veracity. "I can kill you, you 
know. Fuck you and then kill you."

Ronald re-entered. "Back off, Darlene, he's my friend 
still, whatever happened."

As in their initial subterranean hours, the four clung 
together, the difference being a bond of not just four 
fears, but now the hints of mutuality.

Both couples, Ronald and Darlene, and Sandy and Susan, 
made love in the cramped darkness, neither muting their 
fulfillment.

It had been a week, a week in which millions were dead, 
millions more dying. But the quartet was safe for now, 
a week yet to bide and then maybe to move upwards.

*****

Day eight had purpose. The males hammered and sawed the 
bunk from three tiers to two and the females split the 
third mattress, affixing half to each of the other two. 
Even the bedding they turned three into two.

For supper, Susan made sweet and sour Spam and Darlene 
made biscuits. Before the candle was puffed away, the 
four contemplated their chances.

"We at least have some tools and seeds to start a 
garden," Ronald reminded.

"Plus our library tells lots of stuff about medicine," 
added Sandy.

Labor and delivery, wondered Susan? But she wasn't 
fearful. They'd do the best they could. She'd not 
missed Sandy's use of "our"; this was all four's abode. 
Howard had purchased the volumes he'd deemed useful for 
re-settling American, and as much as he'd not 
anticipated the circumstances, would be glad for their 
use. It's odd, Susan though, how distant he already 
seems.

"It's all about having kids to carry on," Darlene 
pointedly looking at their new sleeping arrangement. 
"But me and Mrs. Mumford still get time together. And 
if we hear any hanky-panky above us, we'll take our 
chances with the mutants who got radio-activated." It 
was the first time the four had laughed, so much so 
that Sandy got a side ache.

"So tonight you two little kids just listen to how," 
Susan surprised herself. Talking about sex to 
teenagers! But why not? "We kept bumping our heads last 
night. Now we have room, don't we, Sandy?"

The neighbor boy may have found such frivolity a bit 
embarrassing, but at least smiled.

"Hey, Mrs. Mumford?" It was Darlene. "Me and Ronald 
aren't the little kids here. It's the two boys."

The boys laughed, but didn't argue.

The males were to their underwear long before lights 
out. Knowing so much about each other, why beg false 
modesty? Susan didn't mind them seeing her bra, but 
waited to pull off her half-slip.

With Sandy the night prior, they'd been hurried, wedged 
together, even a little unsure.

Now in their bigger bed, they played for the two above. 
It had never occurred to Susan that sex was something 
in which you'd find pride, but when she climaxed on top 
and then they'd flipped, his turn, she knew that at 
least Darlene would appreciate the fete.

And sure enough, the next morning, Darlene gave her 
both a thumbs-up and a wink.

*****

Oral sex wasn't at first within Susan's realm. 
Perversities occurred in alleys and under bare light 
bulbs. But when first Darlene and then Sandy moved to 
kiss between her legs, she let them. It couldn't do any 
harm, could it?

Darlene knew where a tiny flick would excite. She 
didn't guide Susan, but when the elder turned to caress 
the younger, the girl's thighs were already next to 
Susan's chin. Darlene would do to Susan what Darlene 
would want done to herself, so it was easy. Susan even 
liked the smell.

Reciprocity with Sandy was less refined, his sloppy 
licks inducing her own ventures. She knew he liked when 
she trailed his penis against her face, but couldn't 
will herself to engulf him. Maybe he wasn't too sure 
either, as he never tried to force her. What worked was 
to roll her gums back over her teeth ("Let Granny give 
you a little kiss," she wanted to murmur.) and lightly 
lock him, her tongue's return play then teasing him to 
orgasm. Usually she'd let him escape in time, but when 
she didn't and caught his first pumps, it was easily 
enough spit out. It didn't really have any taste.

Her first experience anally involved copious Vaseline. 
She'd been on hands and knees, ready vaginally. But 
she'd fallen forward on the mattress, Sandy's chest 
being too heavy on her back. Spread as she toppled, his 
erection wedged her butt. It hadn't occurred to her 
that she'd find it exciting.

He, of course, would have let her regain her position, 
but when she didn't lift herself, his momentum sought 
the nearer cavity. Only then did Susan realize their 
difference in size. She'd never heard of relaxing her 
ass, and even if she had, wouldn't have had the 
confidence.

"Just a minute," reaching for the first aid satchel 
under the bunk. She'd heard how G.I.'s were issued 
petroleum jelly "to coat their gun barrels" and knew 
from the Coffee Club giggles that there was more to 
that story than rifles. She slathered the jell and 
grabbed both sides of the bed frame. She didn't care if 
it hurt, but still might need to steady herself. How 
much of her life had she feared things that "might 
hurt", she wondered.

In fact it hardly hurt at all! Admittedly he'd not 
entered deeply, but as far as he got, he fit. Expecting 
only the novelty on her part, she lay quietly while he 
came. When he withdrew, she felt disquieted, but at the 
same time pleased.

In a bomb shelter, what pleases assumes legitimacy.

*****

Days and nights lost their significance as their wait 
progressed. One pair might be making love, scarcely 
draped with a sheet, while the other attended to 
domestic chores. Darlene seemed to care not at all 
about being bear chested, and though Susan made effort 
to drape something, she wasn't always successful.

Nobody wanted to parade around in full nudity, 
particularly the boys with their erections, but nobody 
ended up making great effort to preclude passing 
exposure of genitalia.

On one occasion, Darlene and Ronald were wearing 
underpants when the girl sat on his lap to read and 
were having sex in the same position not three minutes 
later. Sandy had pulled Susan to the bed, quickly stiff 
and impaled her abruptly. She didn't mind, never 
looking away from the pair fornicating on the chair.

The sheets became uncontrovertibly stained, but as 
water was precious and drying nigh impossible, nothing 
was laundered. There's comfort in familiar smells.

Coffee Club had agreed that while morning sickness 
affords an excuse for perks, maybe something especially 
tasty, perhaps not having to stand at the sink too 
long. In the shelter, Susan's sensed her condition 
mostly as a stomach feeling tipsy and a palate wanting 
ice cream. But of course she'd want ice cream, a 
memory. Morning sickness surely didn't curb her 
appetite for sex, if anything made her want more. 
Howard would never have done her justice.

Susan knew it was ridiculous when the kids wanted to 
squeeze all four onto the lower bunk, "just to see 
what's it like, all together." She'd be just inches 
from her son. Actually, they'd surely touch. But they'd 
be off to the sunlit world, whatever its threats, in 
just a few days.

To Susan it was as if she had three lovers. Sandy was 
the one in her, of course, but she'd locked an arm with 
Darlene and half of what Susan saw and felt was Ronald. 
Her son's attention was appropriately directed toward 
Darlene, but there was no way for Mom not to welcome 
his touch, at the end, even, his full grasp of her 
breast.

Likewise, his penis would at times nuzzle her hip. She 
at first tried not to acknowledge its visitation, but 
as their four bodies lost differentiation, she took it 
in her hand and knew that Ronald knew.

Susan tried to ignore what seemed to be corresponding 
interactions between Sandy and Darlene. They couldn't 
help it any more than could she and Ronald; they were 
all just too together. But it was so hard to be sure.

Releasing Ronald to penetrate Darlene and watching his 
climax, almost of on top or her, Susan's orgasm was 
both confused and consuming. Some of the semen spilled 
on her midsection was surely her son's.

Again she dreamed of lovemaking. And again in the 
fleeting moments of cognizance (Or was she just 
dreaming that she'd come awake?) she felt pleasure.

The next morning, Sandy and Darlene had already slipped 
out, leaving mother and son.

In her yawning stupor, Susan had thought it was Sandy's 
wake-up erection against her backside, his arm 
embracing both breasts. But it was Ronald, surely still 
fast asleep!

Where were the others? A bomb shelter's not where 
people can hide. The vibration told her the two were 
ensconced above and told her in what they were engaged. 
She could tell from the thumps, not sliding sounds, 
that Darlene was on top, already rising and falling on 
Sandy's slick pole. Probably he had a hand on each of 
her breasts. Susan knew the boys erection, the girl's 
vagina, how they'd fit.

Susan played her fingertips against Ronald's knuckles 
while he stroked her nipples, for he too was awake. It 
only took a little push for her to reach behind and 
find Ronald.

She remembered the first time she'd held Sandy's, how 
she'd started masturbation. She slipped Ronald's ready 
skin up and down, Ronald now rolling on his back, 
pushing and pulling in reverse.

She kissed his cheek, pledging to make it good for him, 
and to her surprise, he turned his head until their 
lips locked. They'd never before kissed in other than 
familiar affection, but his mouth was now that of a 
lover. With one hand he found her breast and with the 
other hand, he clenched her grasp tighter around him.

Susan could satisfy her son's need without compromising 
herself.

But given what she and her son had together been 
through, why? Did having sex even matter? He was hers 
and her body, not her grasp, was what she wanted to 
give. Already pregnant, she'd run no risk. The two 
above wouldn't have left them together if they'd 
thought it wrong. If a few days, life would either 
restart or terminate. Until then, sex was good.

Having the whole bed to themselves, turning and pulling 
him above was effortless. He'd come out of her womb and 
now he'd return. Susan wasn't even conscious of his 
moment of entrance as their bodies flowed together.

Ronald was still the offspring, demurring to her pace, 
her breathing, her moisture. His head beside hers, she 
watched his ear as he coupled deeper, not something 
learned from Darlene, she recognized, but a mating 
meter innate in the both of them.

Susan knew when the lovers above ceased in their own 
affections to celebrate that below them. She knew that 
her orgasm must have exceeded whatever hints of 
approach were sensed in the upper bunk. Ronald stayed 
with her the whole apex, not reseeding her until her 
own contractions began to subside.

When she awoke again, Ronald still on her chest, Sandy 
and Darlene were up and dressed, cooking Bisquick 
Spamcakes, Darlene's culinary invention.

After breakfast, the four of them again made love, four 
together on the lower bunk, but this time she was 
Ronald's.

*****

It was Day 13, 24 hours before they'd open the hatch 
the second time. If they saw only dust, they'd at least 
have another few weeks of provisions. There are worse 
ways to perish than while making love.

Twice earlier they'd heard what seemed to be human 
noises, in one case a scratching at the hatch perhaps 
by a crazed refugee. They'd sat silently, Ronald 
holding his father's shotgun should the stranger force 
the door. But whoever he was stole away.

This was the third potential intruder, this time sounds 
of blast-blown dirt scraped to expose the steel plate. 
The four listened.

Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap. Tap-tap-tap-tap, 
tap-tap-tap, tap.

431?

No! It couldn't be 431! Howard had been killed in St. 
Louis! But who else would know the code, their house 
address.

Tap-tap-tap-tap, tap-tap-tap, tap.

Susan put her ear to the metal.

"Susan, it's me! It just took forever to get back here. 
I think we even won, but..." She missed a portion, "And 
don't worry about the lock jamming. I brought a cutting 
torch. Just hold on. Are you two OK?"

Susan looked behind her at the shelter, now a mess of 
opened tins, abandoned clothes, odors. The now-double 
bunk bed looked much too large, but then, she realized, 
it spoke to how they'd survived.

"I'll be in there soon," encouraged the voice, clanking 
something heavy on the steel.

What do I yell, Susan wondered. We're alive? The 
shelter saved us? I fucked my brains out?

Overriding the stale smell of unfettered intercourse 
and protracted mutual masturbations came the fumes of 
acetylene parting steel plate.

END OF PART II

PART III

AFTERMATH

They buried Howard in the churchyard. First Methodist 
was gone, of course, but the yard stayed green. Susan 
remembered once telling Sandy that ash contained 
nutrients, but so, so long ago. Was it sodium? 
Phosphorus?

Susan was never sure of what her husband truly knew. He 
had to have recognized that the bomb shelter he'd 
constructed had become a refuge of consolation. But he 
neither asked. More pointedly, he never pursued Susan 
about her own participation. He'd been two weeks in the 
light and had seen things less fathomable.

He'd just hugged the four survivors (he hardly knew 
Darlene, but seemed to accept that she was now his 
ward) and started them planning. The Howard who went to 
St. Louis would himself have done the planning, but 
this new man, already ill from what had rained on him, 
wanted a five-person process. The fact that two of the 
five shouldn't have been in the shelter didn't now 
matter.

Howard couldn't make love ("Must be psychological," 
he'd volunteered. He'd seen males sicker than him rape 
woman after woman, as if mere violence might bring 
cure.), but Susan didn't care. He was back. The three 
kids slept above, to Susan's ear, as chaste as the two 
below. The twilight of relentless orgasms seemed 
transitional.

They were about to move on.

*****

Howard's tale was simple. He'd been searching for a 
yellow-and-black public shelter sign when the bomb hit, 
but while things around him incinerated, he'd been 
spared. Maybe something about how the blast reflected 
down St. Charles St., he wondered? In any case, he was 
hardly burned and, had he found the shelter, might have 
avoided the bulk of the fallout. As it was, though, 
he'd been far too exposed.

Many with like stories were already dead, so it must 
have sheer determination that got Howard back to her, 
walking, cycling ("Just lying on the street, almost 
new.") and rides hitched with refugees, to where, 
they'd not a clue.

He'd come to hold his wife and say goodbye to his boy. 
He'd always known they'd be safe. It's why he built the 
thing. He'd done his part so that they could do theirs.

He would tire quickly, need to lie down. Susan flinched 
the first time Darlene lay beside him, but then 
realized that as sexual as was the girl's need with her 
and the boys, what Darlene most wanted was to comfort. 
Stroking Howard's brow, pressing his palm to her chest, 
wasn't about intercourse. Even Howard seemed to 
understand.

If the girl could have induced Howard, Susan realized, 
she'd have wanted them to make love.

*****

The five provisioned for the bold, but settled for the 
prudent. Howard had heard that the mountain states were 
better off, but with winter's onset and no assurance of 
welcome, emigration held little promise. Howard's 
impression was that some survivors had already united 
into bands, some out to build, others out to pillage. 
The greenback was yet honored in some regions, but 
trade elsewhere was by barter. Wherever they arrived, 
they'd have little with which to establish themselves.

They'd do better where they were, not bunkered down, to 
be sure, but where they knew the lay of the land, might 
find past neighbors. Folks turn homeward when things 
get tough, even to the matchstick remains. The 
building's just the building.

431 N. Elmwood was little more than matchsticks, but 
the garage had simply toppled forward and most of the 
wood was salvageable. Sandy and Ronald could re-erect 
it, insulate, catch rainwater from the roof and they'd 
move their day into the sunlight. If trouble descended, 
they'd still have their bunker.

The Piggly Wiggly was largely flattened and there'd 
been looting, but Ronald guessed where the stocks would 
be less visible. Howard helped them fabricate a 
bicycle-tire pushcart and by night they restocked the 
shelter with so many tins that if the five were again 
forced underground, they joked, they'd have to eat 
themselves space.

They moved the goods nocturnally, shotgun loaded, 
skittish of others. They would see others, usually 
traveling, sometimes sheltering, and sometimes share 
guarded advice and unsubstantiated speculation. 
Mexicans were invading. Eisenhower had resumed the 
Presidency and would send in the Army with field 
hospitals. All the Russians were dead except for a 
cosmonaut stuck in space. San Francisco had an 
earthquake and everybody escaped from Alcatraz.

Howard drilled the boys about the agriculture of his 
childhood. How to milk a cow. Prepare for a labor-
intensive spring. By then, surely, there'd be enough 
government re-established to farm in safety. The boys 
mapped the neighborhood and Howard visited with anybody 
who'd talk (which was everybody), discussing options 
for governance, mutual defense, and (strangely to 
Susan, since he hardly went) a church. "A church is 
what will make us stick," he figured. Perhaps for like 
reason, he raised the Stars and Stripes, "So that 
everybody will know what we stand for."

When Howard died, just before the New Year, neighbors 
Susan had never seen came to pay their respects. "He'd 
have been our first Mayor, if we'd had elections". 
People even brought food. "What we're neighbors for."

*****

Howard's passing made them four again, but without the 
sexual ferocity they'd once shared. Howard himself had 
helped his wife let go, talking of the future, not 
saying what to do, other than reminding her that though 
only one of the four, she'd more than her share of 
experience.

Howard had been as attentive to Sandy's development as 
he was to his own blood. In some ways, even more so. As 
parents, they had a good idea of Ronald's relative 
merits, steering him as best they could since birth. 
Sandy needed more assessment, a crash course at times. 
In Howard's view, the boy didn't appreciate his own 
potential.

Before he died, Howard summarized where he saw things 
heading. "There's a lot more to Darlene than meets the 
eye. The kid just wanted to help me get better. If she 
and Ronald want to pair up, let 'em. He could do a 
whole lot worse. She'll be a good mom." He smiled. 
"Fact is, I think they've already paired, but maybe 
just don't want to upset me. Once we get the church 
going better, it'll be more standardized, but for now, 
just go ahead."

He thought another moment and ventured an opinion. "You 
know, Susan. If anybody could have got me there, it 
would be you, but second to that, that girl knows how 
to do her thing. You ever notice?"

"Me notice? I was cooking?"

"And, boy, did your Chef Boyardee taste good that 
time!" knowing he'd get away with it. He looked at his 
partner, her belly. "But seriously, we got a young one 
ourselves. Wish I'd be here."

Susan started crying and he let her. "You'll do fine. 
The boys know about setting up a clean place and unless 
we get some medics, you've got the neighbor women." He 
caught her eyes. "But don't try to raise him alone. 
They need a dad, too. Maybe one of those dandies who 
came courting before we tied the knot will show up with 
a ring. But if not, Sandy will stick around. He'd want 
to, even."

Would Howard be better off knowing, she asked herself? 
That her future would be with Sandy.

And maybe he answered her question. "You got through 
those first couple of week, the really tough ones 
underground, and were here for me. You couldn't have 
done it better."

Couldn't have done it better? Couldn't have not fallen 
into sex? Couldn't have kept it just with Sandy?

"The thing is, Susan," in the simplicity that dying 
allows, "I slept with a woman five or six nights on the 
road. Alice, but we didn't even have last names. 
Heading the same direction. Kept me going, and I guess 
I kept her going. By the end, I couldn't do it and she 
still stayed with me. Not near as pretty as you. She 
could have robbed me so easily. And you know what? She 
was a Mormon."

Susan curled beside the man she loved. She hoped the 
woman was pregnant so there'd be that of Howard carried 
on. Alice was her name. Probably she was really pretty.

"Howard, you know what? You tell me that story again, 
more of it, and I'll come for you too." She lay 
sidewise across him so that he could watch her hand.

When he again told her that his companion was Catholic, 
Susan's orgasm made him laugh with her.

"So Susan, here's the deal. Dying's about being sad. 
For sure it's sad. But me dead means moving while you 
can. While you can still come that good. Damn near 
broke my ribs, you know?"

"How 'bout some of your favorite, Chef Boyardee? Nobody 
else will hardly eat it."

*****

After the funeral, Susan patted her bedside. "Sandy, 
he'd want you to. We'll send the other two down to the 
shelter."

However Howard had done it, Susan knew that Sandy had 
been prepared. "You're pretty pregnant, so maybe just 
to stay warm," perhaps not totally sure if it should be 
so soon.

She smiled. "We don't get 'pretty pregnant'. We are or 
we're not. Just don't lay on my stomach too hard. I 
didn't need to for a long time and now I really do."

"Me, too," his admission. "Darlene didn't even try 
because maybe she wanted me to wait."

"Probably harder for her than us."

Sandy nodded and Susan continued. "Maybe lie beside me 
for starts and be careful till we see how my breasts 
feel. And not too far in, unless I say. And my feet are 
swollen, so maybe a foot-rub."

"Can I strip you, first?"

"After you lock the door. Don't suppose you have any 
ice cream, do you?"

He looked at her, confused.

"Just kidding. Maybe we can make a nest out of 
pillows?"

*****

The Army had arrived the week before Howard died. No 
battalion with a tent hospital or anything, but it only 
took authority, not imposition, to promote stability. 
The patrol had seen the American flag and had 
methodically interviewed Howard for the local 
perspective on jurisdiction. Howard had already thought 
through pros and cons, and by the end, all were agreed 
that a civilian judiciary was first in order. "We're 
not here to run this place," the Captain was adamant, 
"just to get things rolling," leaving Howard a less-
tattered flag.

"Keep that shotgun for hunting, sir. But you civvies 
will decide that we're not better off with everybody a 
gunslinger. Look where it got us." The Republican in 
Howard didn't concede, but he acknowledged that the 
Constitution might need a few updates.

The soldiers' charge was clearing roadways, installing 
a fundamental gravity water system, equipping a 
temporary school and (likely attributable to advice 
from Howard) prodding the community to pool enough 
resources to support a part-time pastor. Howard would 
have hated the sermons, far too much about Jewish law 
for a Protestant gathering, but would gladly fork over 
his contribution.

Their President, it seems, was Sam Rayburn, in the 
House long before Susan was even born. Everybody said 
the guy was way too old and everybody agreed that he 
knew how to make things happen. Better than some 
novice, agreed Susan. America needed to get to shirt-
sleeve-rolled-up work, not flit around with half-baked 
philosophies. Few in the community mourned Lynden 
Johnson's being on Capitol Hill when Washington was 
flattened. He was just a crook.

Howard would have approved how effectively property 
rights pressed restart. There was no way to process 
claims of missing persons, guarantee mortgages, execute 
wills. You owned what you held when the Army arrived, 
unless, of course you'd gained it deceitfully and were 
endangering others. You were married, so to speak, to 
whomever you'd settled in with. If a lost spouse 
returned, you'd sort it out, and if need be, do a bit 
of sharing until the numbers evened.

Justice wasn't always served equally, but for most 
citizens (for that was more and more their self-
identity), the good outweighed the bad.

The fact that Susan and Sandy were a generation 
separated was of issue to nobody. Sandy served his two-
days-per-month collecting garbage. The men remembered 
Rosie the Riveter, but few really believed public 
service to be women's work. The women didn't mind 
exemption from sanitation duty, for it gave them time 
to edit and mimeograph a community newspaper, just four 
pages, read in every household.

*****

But rights and economics aside, how did the American 
psyche really pull itself upward?

How do 20 million functional citizens spread over 
landscape that once supported nine times that reclaim 
their destiny?

How does any society ultimately self-regulate beneath 
the veneer of legal trimming?

Sex.

American families needed children. American men needed 
something to come home to. American women needed 
refreshment.

So how to promote sex efficiently, humanely, lovingly 
even?

Through coffee clubs.

*****

It was natural to group with other women, happenstance 
at first, regularly later on. They'd drink coffee 
(terrible brew, to be sure, but it was about the idea, 
not bean), talk about the silly topics they all enjoyed 
("All my Tupperware that got left out cracked and they 
won't replace it!"), compare notes on children ("It's 
perfectly normal not to walk by one. Probably you 
didn't get him proper shoes."), compliment each other's 
needlework ("A potholder?"), admit things that would 
never leave the circle ("They've got this pill, so 
someday we can do it whenever!"). Nobody had the 
matching tea sets any more, but it was old times.

Coffee Clubs. Susan's. Others they'd hear about from 
relatives. And much later when things were better 
understood, in the Soviet Union, even.

Coffee Club oversaw the logistics of Susan's pregnancy, 
got her what she'd need, knew about umbilical cords, 
did her vacuuming. As they saw the evidence, most 
presumed the baby to be Sandy's. "You two just got a 
little jump on the schedule, is all." Formulating a 
midwifery team was more complex than pulling a crib 
from the attic, but not fundamentally different from 
where her old club had left off.

Actually, many of the girls had had taken younger 
lovers over the difficult times. "Can't beat an older 
one for technique, but technique, schmecknique, can't 
beat a younger one for duration."

The fact that she'd been with Darlene they'd thought 
entirely reasonable. Again, many had been with other 
women. Pleasuring each other didn't cost America a 
penny. And it wasn't all in past tense. "Just you stay 
out of my sheets, honey, or I'll teach you things that 
kid never dreamed about!"

A few might linger after coffee, pairs wandering toward 
the back. Susan never arrived with that intention, but 
had her first orgasm in a bathtub that way. The week's 
hostess had been heating water since dawn and the girls 
were giddy with anticipation. "Not enough hot water for 
individuals; you'll have to double up," to fits of 
giggles. Susan would have liked the loving even if the 
water had been cold. Hers shampoo ran from her head, 
onto her partner's neck and back onto her own breasts.

But a Club member whose indiscretion wrecked 
relationships rarely survived. She'd not be notified of 
the next gathering, be passed over when knowledge and 
resources were shared. The men she'd been seeing would 
be unavailable. She'd be without community.

And a man who pursued advantage, raped or degraded for 
perverse pleasure, would be lured to defenselessness, 
the Club perhaps wordlessly stripping the tools from 
his shop. They'd reinvented stocks and were not above 
bringing their coffee and chatting while punishment was 
rendered. ("Should he lose it, girls?" A negative vote 
was assured, but not in the anticipation of the 
malfeasant.) Punitive, yes, but never outside the 
Club's oversight.

Sandy, maybe because Coffee Club deemed him both young 
and a leader-to-be, sipped coffee with them sometimes. 
Not of course when they talked girl talk, but when they 
wanted to convey a thought. Coffee Club didn't find it 
threatening when the aware males formed their own "Beer 
Circle", the brew unfortunately just a brew of yeast 
and sugar. The women entirely agreed that it wasn't 
ladylike to have to threaten. A Beer Circle visit 
almost always induced a transgressor to righteousness.

The rotating leadership of both gatherings even went on 
excursions, "socials", they called them. Personal bonds 
might be cemented (the ones that seemed healthy, that 
is) and mutual concerns resolved. "Leadership that lies 
together learns to listen," some said.

Tribal? No, just pragmatic.

America was again thinking of space travel, the booster 
technology having been proven. Tribes don't need 
satellites.

Darlene and Ronald wanted to stay for the delivery, but 
they'd an option on farmable land in Humboldt County, 
far in the forests of California, and needed to 
establish themselves before planting. Coffee Club and 
Beer Circle would be more than adequate community for 
the two (soon to be three) who remained.

The four's last dinner was for both somber reflection 
and enthusiastic expectation. After pie, Ronald looked 
at Sandy and the two exited to inspect the load lashed 
to the Impala convertible.

Darlene claimed her place on Susan's lap (at least as 
much of the location yet vacant) and the two sat by the 
wood stove, Susan's hand once more in Darlene's blouse. 
This nipple may have nourished a kid or two before I 
hold it again, Susan realized.

The two savored the moment and then the younger led the 
elder to the bed. It only took a moment to strip. Side 
by side, knowing fingers found desiring flesh and Susan 
would have come quickly had Darlene not risen to run 
her face over Susan's pelvis, Susan likewise pulling 
Darlene to kiss her cleft. The pair moistened one 
another, teased one another to erection and only as 
will-power dissolved, lipped one another to orgasm.

To Susan, the woman-to-woman smell would always be that 
of the shelter.

"I love you a lot, Darlene. Thanks for getting in my 
lap when I was really scared."

"We'll prove it together again," promised the girl.

After Darlene hugged Susan goodnight, Ronald returned, 
covered his dozing mother with the sheet and assumed 
the place beside.

She didn't tell him that he needn't be so excessively 
careful about her pregnancy. It's good, though to let 
him respect her difference.

Of his touch to her labia, "I take it that's you down 
there, buster? I can't see over my belly."

"He said the Army sent him to check radioactivity," 
Ronald laughing at his comeback. "No, honest, your 
stomach is so pretty to look at," laying his hand on 
her resolutely-protruding belly button.

"Tell him the range might need a look-at, too." 
receiving his cautious penetration.

"OK, Mom, am I done now?" in mock exasperation, "You 
promised I could go out and play"

"You have to smooch your old mom if you want desert," 
as if in maternal exasperation.

"It's not fair. None of my friends have to," laughing 
first and losing the contest.

"You always say that. Sandy has to every night."

"Well, OK, but not because you make him."

Mother on her back and son beside made languid love, 
legs intertwined, her boy motionless within her for 
minutes at a time, until one or the other might give a 
little wiggle.

She boxed him on the ear, then kissed to make it better 
as they prolonged their mating.

"I love you, Mom."

*****

Chubby Checker was probably dead, realized Susan. We'd 
finished doing the twist anyway.

Having no idea what might follow, the survival of four 
Liverpool lassies (Their cute little pigtails, all cut 
alike!) playing their catchy music in Hamburg clubs in 
wouldn't have seemed significant. But give the band a 
couple of years to meld creatively and replace their 
drummer. 

Give the USA a couple of years to re-establish dominant 
network television and refurbish a totally-square 
variety show host whom people remembered. Add a little 
teenage frenzy, and America would be on its feet. (And 
probably all the teenagers would start growing 
pigtails.)

Susan turned up the record player.

"He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"He loves you, yeah, yeah, yeah."

"And with a love like that,"

"You know you should be glad."

Sandy, honey! Got a minute? Little Ruby needs some more 
formula. There's still a ton out in the shelter.

END

HOLLY ON THE WEB

Wherever you found this story on the web, thank you to 
the server. My problem is that I've no systematic way 
to update the various servers. As literary errors (or 
just poor word usages) are made known to me, I'll 
repair that which is salvageable on 
http://www.asstr.org/~Holly_Rennick/. My website's not 
much graphically, I admit, but HTML isn't my native 
language.

You can contact me via the site's message form, that 
HTML code by the smart people at ASSTR.

I won't be changing the story significantly, so if you 
didn't like it before, that much will remain the same. 
But if you did like it, an update may read a bit more 
cleanly.

Holly

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This story was written as an adult fantasy. The author
does not condone the described behavior in real life.

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Kristen's collection - Directory 28