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1 THE MORNING AFTER PRESIDENT KENNEDY TOLD THE NATION ABOUT Cuba's nuclear missile sites, my father went to his office at the bank and began hunting for plans to build a bomb shelter. Five months later, one of the largest private bunkers in Tallahassee sat at the back of our house. It awed me. I gawked at the five deadbolts on the heavy lead door. I could hardly comprehend the yard-thick concrete walls. But what fascinated me most was the only window: a port the size of a shoe box so thick with glass blocks that it dimmed even the brightest sun. If I stood on my toes, I was just tall enough to peer into the swimmy, ice-green glow. No matter how I turned and tried to see, the world outside made no sense. I imagined life in the midst of war. X-rays broke like brittle arrows against the fortress walls. Inside, Mother cooked on a camp stove. Dad cranked the air pump. Grandmother read a fairy tale about a wolf and a fox to my sister and me, and then we listened, all of us together, while a radio announcer reported on the war and finished by saying, "All we can do is pray." I could feel the softened shock of bombs exploding in the back yard. With three feet of sand overhead, I thought, nothing can destroy this place. Not even Russian soldiers can break in. But Dad and I had privileges. Nearly every morning he stopped by my bedroom, woke me, and took me to the bunker. This was father and son time at the de Milly house. He stripped off his pajamas and hung them on the knob to a cabinet door. Then, standing nude on the bare floor, he faced me and began his calisthenics. As always, I sat on a bunk, watching. He fascinated me, in the way any nine-year-old might be enamored and impressed by his father. "How come you always do jumping jacks?" I asked. Copyrighted Material 4 "Because a man needs exercise." "I mean, why do you always do jumping jacks?" "Watch me. Did I tell you I used to do one-arm pull-ups?" Dad flexed his biceps. "See?" "Yeah. You've told me that a thousand times." I looked at his arm. Dad had a tan, even in winter, but when he flexed his biceps the skin stretched pale and thin. "How come we have a window if you can't see out of it?" "So we can tell if it's night or day." "Why would it matter? There's nothing we could do about it if we were locked in here all the time." "Well, you'd know when it was time to sleep. And maybe it helps to know that the world goes on." "I guess." This early in the morning, before the sun, the window-port sat dark and deep. One morning after Dad finishes his workout, he pulls a fold-down bunk from the wall and lies down, still unclothed. I sit on the floor beside him. I watch his erection. He slaps his tummy with it. He laughs as if he is surprised."Touch it," he says, holding his penis up, offering it to me. I reach over, hold it with my fingers, and let it go, making a thwack. He laughs. "Now I'll look at yours," he says. "Stand up." He pulls my pajamas down. He holds my penis between his thumb and forefinger and squeezes. "Don't," I say. "I want to make sure it's growing right," he tells me. He studies it, he hums, he tugs and twists. "Let go." I try to force his hand away. He ignores me, but then he eases back on his strokes and lies down on the bunk. He pulls at his own penis. He closes his eyes. I watch him, see his lips tighten into thin lines. He lies flat, grim, as if he is extracting some splinter from deep within himself. I stand by the bunk. I have seen his penis before when it is hard. He'd tried to put it into my bottom. He is going to do it again, isn't he? "I don't want to be here," I say. "Unlock the door. Please, Daddy." The bunker sits around me, heavy and grotesque. I disappear. Another Walt opens his blue eyes, reverent, paralyzed, the minutes stroking past, father rocking...

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