Free Cold War on Maplewood Street by Gayle Rosengren Page A

both impossible!” But she had a smile on her face as she headed to her room.
    Pamela waved a handful of forks. “Hi, Daddy. Hi, Uncle Zach.”
    Mr. Waterman blew her a kiss and waved to Joanna. “Hi, girls.”
    Uncle Zach said, “Hi, sunshine. Who’s your friend?”
    Pamela’s face turned pink. “Oops! I’m sorry. Uncle Zach, this is my best friend, Joanna Maxwell. She lives downstairs. Joanna, this is my uncle Zach.”
    Uncle Zach smiled broadly and extended his hand. “It’s nice to meet you, Joanna Maxwell.”
    Joanna flushed. She’d never shaken hands with a man before, but she put her hand into his bigger, warmer one and stammered, “N-nice to meet you, too.”
    Mrs. Waterman appeared in the dining room doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel. “Oh, good! You’re home. How was rehearsal?”
    â€œEntertaining, right, Zach?” Mr. Waterman said with a laugh.
    Uncle Zach grinned. “Extremely.”
    Mrs. Waterman opened her mouth as if she was going to ask them to tell her more, but Mr. Waterman was already turning away and heading into the living room. “Find a comfortable chair, Zach,” he told his brother. “I’ll tune in the news.”
    â€œMust you?” Mrs. Waterman asked, a pinched look appearing around her eyes.
    Mr. Waterman frowned. “Honestly, Gloria, we can’t just be ostriches and bury our heads in the sand.” But then he added kindly, “Why don’t you go back in the kitchen where you won’t hear anything. I promise you we’ll turn off the TV right after the news.”
    Mrs. Waterman looked at him for a long moment. But in the end she turned and left the room.
    â€œWomen,” Mr. Waterman said with a wave of his hand. “They get so worked up.”
    Joanna stared at him, surprised and a little disappointed he would say such a thing. She was glad when Uncle Zach said, “I don’t know. Seems to me being upset is a pretty reasonable reaction to what’s going on.”
    Mr. Waterman sighed. “You’re right, of course. It’s a mess. I just hate to see Gloria so frightened. Her imagination always runs away with her.”
    â€œShe’s an artist,” Uncle Zach pointed out. “Artists have vivid imaginations.”
    â€œMom’s not an artist anymore,” Pamela chipped in, tossing her last fork in the general direction of a plate and pulling Joanna along with her to the couch. “She hasn’t painted in weeks.”
    Uncle Zach shook his head at her. “Whether she paints or not, your mother is still an artist,” he said firmly. “She sees and feels things differently than we do. More deeply.”
    The television had finally warmed up and an image was taking shape on the screen. Joanna leaned forward, crossing the fingers on both hands. Maybe there would be good news. Not like in the newspaper.
    The
Chicago Daily Tribune
had been lying open on Mr. Waterman’s chair when Pamela went to the bathroom earlier. The enormous photograph on the top half of the page had grabbed Joanna’s attention. It was taken from an airplane looking down on Cuba, and labels pointed out “Missile Launchers” and “Missile Trailers” on the ground below.
    Lower on the page it said that the Russians were calling the quarantine a step to war and were readying their troops. A headline on the second page said:
    RAID ADVICE:
    â€˜TAKE COVER—
    THEN PRAY’
    Joanna had dropped the paper back on the chair. She’d seen enough.
    Surely the television news would be more hopeful. But when Walter Cronkite’s face appeared, he was wearing such a gloomy expression Joanna had to fight an urge to run to the kitchen and hide with Mrs. Waterman. Nothing was better. And the first ship would reach the quarantine the next day.
    The news ended and Mrs. Waterman called them to the table.
    â€œGloria, this is straight