Free The Paper Cowboy by Kristin Levine

glass . . . immediately . . . lose business . . .”
    I felt kind of dizzy as I remembered the words from the movie,
It only takes a little poison . . .
    â€œCome on, Eddie,” I said. “Let’s go home down Odgen.” That was in the opposite direction.
    â€œTakes longer,” he said.
    â€œIt’s a nice day,” I said. “I wanted to walk.”
    Eddie shrugged and we turned around. He didn’t seem to notice I was distracted, and I guess he didn’t see (or didn’t care) about Mr. McKenzie because he didn’t mention the broken glass either. Once we got to his house, we went straight to the bomb shelter his dad had built. It was in their basement. The walls were made of concrete blocks, creating a space just big enough for three bunk beds hung on the wall, a small table and a pantry full of canned goods, water and other supplies.
    â€œYou see,” Eddie explained, “if the Soviets drop an atomic bomb on Chicago, those people are all dead. But my dad says Downers Grove is far enough away, so we stand a good chance of surviving. And look!” He pulled back a small curtain in the corner. “There’s even a toilet!”
    They also had a radio, a record player and a pile of books. “How long would you have to stay here?” I asked.
    â€œDepends,” he said. “Maybe two weeks after the blast. Then you could go out during the day, but you’re supposed to sleep inside the shelter for the next couple of months. Limit your radiation exposure.”
    He sounded so matter-of-fact. But it kind of scared me. My family didn’t have a shelter. What would happen to us if the Soviets dropped an atomic bomb on Chicago?
    Eddie knelt down and pulled out a box from under one of the beds. “We’ve got a gun in here too, to ward off any intruders, and Dad even bought a Geiger counter.”
    â€œWhat’s that?” I asked.
    â€œMeasures the radiation, so you know if it’s safe to go outside.”
    Upstairs, a door slammed and we could hear Eddie’s dad start yelling. His words were slurred as if he’d been drinking.
    Eddie shoved the box back under the bed. “It did cost a lot of money, building a place like this,” he admitted. “Mom was kind of upset about it.”
    There was more screaming from upstairs. I wanted to say something to Eddie, wanted to say I understood. “Wish I had a Geiger counter that told me when my parents were in a bad mood,” I joked.
    â€œYeah,” Eddie said, but he didn’t laugh. “Me too.”
    I went to bed early that night and fell asleep quickly. But I dreamed of Mr. McKenzie and Cardinal Mindszenty in Eddie’s bomb shelter and they were reading the
Daily Worker.

12

    PAINT ON THE WINDOW
    When Saturday rolled around again, it was almost a relief. I’d face Mr. McKenzie, see that everyone had understood it was just a joke and life would go on.
    I got up extra-early and finished the paper route in plenty of time. I even had some breakfast and put on a clean white shirt before I went to the store. When I arrived, Mr. McKenzie was outside, washing his front window. Phew. He’d gotten it replaced. The brick probably had nothing to do with me planting the paper in his store. I wasn’t sure why the replacement glass was so dirty, but at least it was there.
    Mr. McKenzie grunted when he saw me. “So you showed up again.”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œWasn’t sure you would.”
    I shrugged.
    â€œHow’s your sister?” he asked in a kinder tone.
    â€œBetter. I guess.” I’d gone with Mom to the hospital twice that week, but hadn’t been able to sneak off to see Mary Lou.
    He gave me a grimace that was almost a smile. “Grab a sponge,” he said. “Help me get this off.”
    That was when I realized it wasn’t dirt on the front window. It was paint. Someone had painted a