Free An Atomic Romance by Bobbie Ann Mason Page A

newspaper threw another front-page zinger. Technetium-99 that had been found in an underground plume of water was flowing toward the river at the rate of a foot a day.
    “Shit,” said Reed aloud.
    He read on. The radioactive metal had been found in a vegetable garden near the plant; rutabagas, tested a year ago, contained technetium. Reporters had teased out the data from piles of obscure technical reports. Technetium was also found in white icicle radishes. Reed remembered the volunteer tomatoes that used to grow near the sewage tank at the plant. And more volunteers sprang up in the compost behind the cafeteria. The cooks had used the fresh tomatoes from their cafeteria garden and had even planted cabbages and carrots, which grew to an enormous size. Everyone kidded the cooks about their radioactive vegetables.
    A box on the front page announced a public meeting that night at the school near the plant. A representative from the Department of Energy would answer questions about the toxic-waste cleanup, medical compensation, and current safety, but would not address the future of the centrifuge.
    The telephone rang. “Got your television on?” Darrell, a coworker, asked when Reed answered.
    “It’s busted.”
    “Oh, I forgot about you and your war on television. Well, you probably didn’t hear the latest.”
    “I take the paper and hear the radio. You mean technetium in the plume?”
    “Yeah. We need a bookmaker to bet on when it’ll get into the aquifer. Are you going to that meeting?”
    “No. I’m on shift tonight. You go and tell me about it.”
    “I don’t know if anybody from the plant ought to be going. We might get in trouble. I can’t afford to lose my job.”
    Darrell got on Reed’s nerves because he was always suspicious, filled with resentment about virtually everything. He complained all night at work—the long hours, the cost of roofing, his wife’s demand that he go with her to the mall on weekends (quality time together, she called it), the rotten weather. Something was always happening to Darrell: stolen wallet, kid who needed orthopedic surgery, mother-in-law with cancer, car with dead battery.
    “Some of us need to go just to provide a sense of humor,” Reed said. “You know, to show the funny side of nuclear catastrophe.”
    “We could forklift a rusty canister of worn-out UF 6 over to their meeting,” Darrell said.
    “And lay it sweetly at their feet,” Reed said. “Now you’re talking.”
    He hung up, finished reading the newspaper, then called the hospital. He waited on hold for some time, listening to a rolling message about hospital services. Local news on the radio mentioned the public meeting but not the technetium. Finally a nurse reported that his mother had eaten a good breakfast. “She’s asleep now. There’s nothing new on her chart from the doctor.”
    “Did somebody brush her teeth?”
    “That wouldn’t be on her chart.”
    He had vowed to visit some nursing homes today. He had had plenty of sleep and felt he could last all day and through his night shift. But he wasn’t eager to begin the mission. Although his tank was still a quarter full, he drove out of his way to get gas at a mini-mart that was his favorite place for filling up. From time to time since his divorce he had gone out with an ex-stripper who worked there. Rosalyn still looked good, although her butt was flattening somewhat, Reed had noticed. She had had a few nips and tucks—and a Botox-frozen forehead—and appeared much younger than her age, which he thought was over fifty.
    When he went inside the mini-mart to pay for his gas, Rosalyn pointed to the lead story in the newspaper splayed on the counter. “Who around here grows rutabagas?” she asked him.
    “Isn’t that another name for hooters?”
    “No. Rutabaga sounds dirty—like hogs.” She laughed.
    Reed thought he should spend more time with Rosalyn. She was probably the nicest person he knew, always sweet-tempered, large in