message. . ."
"Hi Dad," I said at the sound of the beep. "It's Stephanie. I just wanted to say hello."
I went back to my room. The house was so quiet. There was a half moon outside my window and it lit up Benjamin Moore's poster. Well, Benjamin, I thought, as I got into bed. It's just you and me tonight. I wish you were real. I wish you could come down off the ceiling and kiss me goodnight. You look like you'd be a great kisser.
I rolled over and fell asleep. I slept until a frightening sound woke me. I sat up in bed, my heart pounding. Then I raced down the hall to Mom's room. But Mom wasn't home yet. I grabbed the baseball bat from under her bed. She keeps it there when Dad is away, just in case. I glanced at the clock-i 1 :20-not even an hour since I'd
gone to bed. I listened for other sounds, trying to decide if I should call the police or a neighbor, but all I heard was Bruce, crying and calling for Mom. I ran to his room, clutching the baseball bat, and that's when I realized nothing was wrong in the house. It was just Bruce, having one of his nightmares.
I sat down at the edge of his bed. He threw his arms around me, sobbing. I held him tight. I would never put my arms around him during the day. Not that he'd let me. His face felt hot and wet with tears. He smelled like a puppy.
"The usual?" I asked.
"Yes . . . I saw it," he said, gulping for air. "I saw the bomb. . . it was silver. . . shaped like a football. . . rolling around in the sky. When it got to our house it started to fall . . . straight down . . . and then there was a flash of light
and I heard the explosion. . ."
"It's all right," I told him. "It was just a bad dream."
"It's coming," Bruce said, "the bomb is coming. . .
"But it's not coming tonight," I told him, stroking his hair. His hair was soft and damp around the edges.
"How do you know?"
"I just know. So there's no point in worrying about it now."
"It could be the end of the world," Bruce said, shuddering.
"Look," I told him, "if it happens, it happens." I don't like to think about the end of the world or the bomb so I don't. I'm good at putting bad things out of my mind. That's why I'm an optimist.
I lay down on Bruce's bed and held him until he fell back asleep. The good thing about his nightmares is that he never has more than one a night. It's as if he just needs to be reassured that the end of the world isn't coming yet.
I guess I fell asleep holding Bruce because soon my mother was gently shaking me and whispering, "Come on, Steph. . . let's go back to bed."
She walked me down the hail to my room. "He had a nightmare," I said, groggily.
Mom tucked me into bed and kissed both my cheeks.
The next morning, when I came into the kitchen, Bruce was sitting at the table, writing a letter.
I poured myself a glass of orange juice. "Who are you writing to today?" I asked.
"The President," Bruce said.
"Oh, the President." I set out a bowl for my cereal.
"You should write, too," Bruce said. "If everybody writes to the President he'll have to listen. Here . . ." Bruce shoved a piece of notebook paper at me.
"Not while I'm eating," I said. I finished my cereal, rinsed the bowl, then brought the box of doughnuts to the table. Mom is a doughnut addict but since we moved she's buying only the plain or the whole wheat kind. No artificial flavors or colors, no preservatives. Mom will eat only one a day now, at the most two, because she's trying to lose weight. I miss glazed doughnuts. I miss chocolate and jelly filled too.
"Mom is going to kill you," Bruce said.
"For what?"
"Polishing off three doughnuts."
Three? I counted the ones left in the box. He was right. Sometimes when I'm eating I forget to keep track.
I washed my doughnuts down with another glass of juice and then I started my letter.
Dear Mr. President,
I really think you should do more to make
sure we never have a nuclear war. War is stupid, as you know. My brother, who is ten, has
nightmares about it. Probably other