The Compound

Chapter TWO

I WALKED INTO THE KITCHEN FOR DINNER, NOT EXPECTING to be greeted with rainbow-colored balloons and streamers. My family sat on the red leather banquettes in the breakfast nook, all eyes on me. Mom and Dad were on opposite sides, of course. As far away as they could get from each other while still putting on the illusion of a happy family.

Lexie was in her usual place, right at Dad’s side. Maybe she thought she had a shot at becoming queen of the Compound. Her dark braid contrasted with the white of her T-shirt. She fixed me with a glare, even more piercing than usual.

Terese had a big smile on her face, definitely fake.

Mom’s wasn’t. Her dark hair was piled on her head and she wore red velour. Even a touch of red lipstick. Perhaps it was due to the occasion, but for whatever reason, she stood and her arms widened to give me a hug.

“Happy Birthday, Eli.”

She noticed the dread in my face and the smile on hers wavered. She backed off.

No one touched me. No one ever touched me. I didn’t allow them to. I didn’t touch them either. Not since the night we arrived here.

I sat down on a stool by the granite counter away from everyone else.

Dad yawned. His hair was a blond helmet of bed head, and he wore his ancient bear and elk shirt. Arms crossed, hands spread out on his shoulders, he looked like he was chilly. “Your fifteenth birthday, son.”

Not just my birthday. Eddy’s, too. That’s why I had been thinking of Eddy so much. My gut had realized it was our birthday even though my brain didn’t. I didn’t own a calendar. And I sure as hell didn’t mark off the days like some survivor on a desert island. I pretty much just waited for Mom and Dad to announce the holidays, the only Compound days that differed from regular ones.

Most holidays in the Compound were a welcome departure from the routine. Even though we lived in a microcosm where things never strayed from the unremarkable, holidays still held some surprises. The day after Thanksgiving we put up an artificial tree and decorations, hung stockings by the fireplace in the family room. On December 25, we awoke at some ungodly hour by Terese’s cheerful “Happy Christmas, everyone!”

Down in the family room, we found our bulging stockings. I admired Dad for managing to think of every detail. There was always something to open. Terese would get a doll or toy she didn’t already have. I’d get a video game. Lexie, some sheet music or ballet shoes. Although I knew where all the supplies were, Dad was able to keep a whole store of things secret, things he could bring out on birthdays and Christmas to make us feel like normal kids. And most of the time it worked. Even if it was just for one day.

My birthday wasn’t something I wanted to be reminded of, let alone celebrate. July 16. Once we were in the Compound, I found it ironic that Eddy and I were born on that day, the umpteenth anniversary of the inaugural nuclear explosion at the Trinity test site. Most dads had hobbies that they passed down to their sons; hunting, fishing, auto repair. Dad’s hobby was nuclear war, which meant his sons knew everything about it.

To Eddy and me, it was cool. War was exciting, especially nuclear war. But it was exciting in the same way a California earthquake might be exciting to a person from the Midwest, or a tornado might be exciting to someone who lives in New England, where they never occur. We thought it was something we would never experience, so we weren’t afraid.

Those scientists didn’t really know what they had created at first. Even their name for the atomic bomb was innocuous: the Gadget. But when they saw it brought to life, they realized soon enough. Oppenheimer himself later quoted some old text: “I am become death, the destroyer of worlds.”

Yeah, they realized soon enough. They probably realized weeks later on August 6, when the United States bombed Hiroshima, and then August 9, Nagasaki. The events of July 16 paled next to those.

July 16 wasn’t just my birthday. It was also the anniversary of the day we entered the Compound. That terrible night when, because of me, Eddy was gone forever. If it were up to me, I would never acknowledge the date. Celebrating the worst day of my life was insane. But I think celebrating the day only as my birthday—nothing else—helped the rest of the family in some way.

Mom handed me a package. “It’s from all of us.”

My fingers tore away the wrinkled white tissue paper. A first edition of On the Beach, a 1950s classic about the world after a nuclear war. It would have been valuable if the real world still existed. Of course I’d read it before; there was a paperback copy in the library.

I forced myself to look pleased as I opened the cover.

Dad had written the inscription, dated of course. Never without a black fine-point Sharpie, he always dated everything. In the old world, he dated boxes of cereal when the groceries were delivered. He dated packages that arrived in the mail. Whenever we went through the Starbucks drive-through to get his coffee, he’d date the paper cup. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’d Sharpied the date on my forehead when I was born.

I flipped the page.

Like the first time I’d seen them, T. S. Eliot’s cruel words struck me. That was the only passage I would ever read of this edition. Of course I would set it among the others on a shelf in my room, but it was a work I never wanted to read again. The survivors in the book stirred up jealousy in me. They saw the end creeping toward them, but all the while they were still in control of their own destiny. Yes, they were doomed, but they had the opportunity to choose when their final breaths occurred.

I envied them that, having cyanide as an option. Not that I would have chosen death over life in the Compound. But at least they had a tangible choice. I didn’t.

I felt Dad watching me so I forced a smile as I shut the book and thanked everyone. Then we had dinner, spinach salad alongside vegetarian lasagna with fresh peppers and tomatoes from hydroponics. The noodles were in pieces, they were so old, but it still tasted good. I didn’t look forward to birthday cake because there wouldn’t be any. We no longer had all the ingredients.

That had come to light a few weeks before. I had been in the kitchen, doing Mandarin vocabulary at the booth.

Mom was at the espresso machine, making her third Americano of the morning. For her, Dad had stockpiled what must have been tons of Tully’s whole bean French roast coffee. Decaf.

I was on my first, and only, of the day.

She took a sip out of her green-plaid insulated mug. “Eli, I want to show you something.” Still holding her cup of noncaffeine, Mom stood at the door to the pantry and beckoned. Inside, she pointed out a sack of flour. “Look in that.”

The burlap was folded open. The grayish flour stuck to my fingers. “I thought flour didn’t go bad.”

She took a drink. “I thought so, too. I’m wondering if it’s not entirely wheat. Maybe something else got mixed in.”

I held my hand to my nose and sniffed. Didn’t smell right. Didn’t smell that bad, though. “Is it all like this?”

“I don’t know.” She twisted a bit of her hair. “I don’t want you or the girls to eat any of it.”

I looked at her. “You’re not going to get rid of it?”

She bit the inside of her lip. “You know how your father likes bread.”

My eyes widened. “You’ve been feeding him bread from this?”

She nodded. “I mean, not yet. I just found this today. If he gets sick, then I’ll stop. I just… I just don’t want to give him any indication the food situation has worsened.”

That surprised me, coming from her. “Why not?”

She looked straight at me, almost like it was a challenge. “I just don’t. So I’m going to keep on like everything is fine. But I don’t want you or the girls to eat any bread I make.”

I knew she wouldn’t take the chance of using that flour to make cake, even for my birthday.

Back in my room, I treated myself to a Snickers from the stale stash under my bed. In honor of my Super-Duper Special Day. As I chewed, I couldn’t help but remember other birthdays. The ones in the Compound blended together, not worth reminiscing about.

But the ones on the outside? They were dream parties, fantasies befitting the twin sons of a billionaire.

Pony rides and moonwalks and huge theme cakes and, for our eighth birthday, a clown show plus players from the Seahawks. I thought we were too old for the clown. But that was the part of the party Dad let Mom plan, so Eddy persuaded me not to make a fuss.

That year should have been the best. Every boy from our class was invited, of course. But I knew they came for Eddy, not me. Eddy was kind to everyone, fun to be with, popular. I was just his twin; not so kind, not so fun. Definitely not popular. As Eddy’s twin, I was tolerated. We were a package—buy one, get one.

We were all outside. The front lawn had been transformed into a football field by temporary white chalk lines. The Seahawks played flag football with us for a long time. I should have been enjoying it.

I wasn’t.

I’d seen the boys from our class arrive, all bearing gifts. Of course they each brought two, one for me, one for Eddy. I could tell some were the same, but lots of them were different. Eddy’s presents were probably something cool. Mine? Not so much. I suppose it showed the degree to which we were liked. Or as in my case, not liked.

The blatant disparity bothered me. So I decided to do something about it.

With everyone out on the front lawn, I claimed I had to use the bathroom. I darted into the house, stopping to grab a roll of tape. In the backyard, a white tent was set up for the cake and presents and the clown show. At the table of gifts, I started switching tags. All the labels with Eddy’s name went on the presents for me, and vice versa.

My movements were hurried as I tried to finish before anyone came.

“Hey, kid!”

I jumped, startled, and the tape dropped from my hand.

The hired clown, in his white face, red nose, goofy striped outfit, and yellow clown shoes, stood there watching me. “What are you doing?”

Words didn’t come. What was I supposed to say? Laughter and cheers came toward us. I kicked the roll of tape under the table and crossed my arms in defiance. What was the stupid clown going to do? Screw up his biggest payday of the year?

The kids poured in and the clown just raised his freakish eyebrows. “You’re obviously the evil twin.” He stepped up onstage to get ready for his show.

We opened presents. I saw the confused looks. Our guests wondered why I ended up with the better presents meant for Eddy. Maybe some would mention it to their mothers later, although with the excitement of the day most of them probably forgot.

And Eddy didn’t know. Not only that, he didn’t even notice what I opened, or compare his gifts to mine. He opened each one, making a big deal over it and the person who brought it. Somehow, he made each kid feel that he had given him the one thing he’d always wanted. Me? I remember ripping open one after the other. Maybe I thanked kids. Maybe I didn’t. The presents were all dumb, anyway. I knew the good ones were yet to come.

That year Dad gave us laptops. Expensive prototypes not yet available on the market. Mine was exactly the same as Eddy’s, like everything Dad gave us. He presented them to us in front of all the kids from school. They immediately crowded around Eddy, clamoring to see.

Left on the outside of the circle, I tucked the laptop under my arm and sat down to have some more cake. The clown was on his way out and stopped for a second. “Hope you got what you wanted, kid.” He winked.

Yeah, there were a lot of reasons for me to forget that July 16 even existed. And even a few reasons to hate clowns.

THINKING ABOUT OTHER BIRTHDAYS MADE ME UNCOMFORTABLE. I didn’t feel like sitting in my room that whole night, thinking about the past. But I also didn’t feel like hanging out with the family. Not that I ever did. They were busy with their own routines.

We did eat dinner together most nights. But after that we went our separate ways. Dad usually went and worked in his office. Lexie retreated to her room or helped Mom with laundry or other chores like that. Terese usually joined them.

That was one thing to be thankful for. Dad believed things like laundry and ironing were strictly women’s work. Fine with me.

I went to pick out a DVD in the media room. Our collection of movies and music was incomparable, as if Dad had sauntered into Blockbuster and Music World and demanded one of everything. On the shelves beside the media were comprehensive catalogs, a product of my father’s fastidious nature, listing every item available. Even after six years, I still hadn’t watched or listened to nearly half of what that room had to offer.

I chose The Matrix, even though it was old and I’d seen it about a hundred times. Sometimes after I watched it, I pretended the Compound was simply an alternate reality and I would wake up any day in a better place.

My mom liked old Cary Grant movies. Sometimes I watched with her. She had a great laugh, an infectious kind that made everyone laugh along. It seemed Cary Grant was the only person who could draw it out of her anymore.

In the family room, Lexie was already watching a movie on the big screen. Horror, of course. Her routine. Sometimes I watched them with her, but she creeped me out more than the movies did. Lexie sat on the couch, not moving, her long, dark hair masking her face. Even during parts that made me flinch or jump or look away, my sister just sat there. Staring. Why was it that nothing seemed to scare her?

I stood in front of her, blocking her view, forcing her to look somewhere other than the screen.

Lexie sighed and tucked her hair behind her ears, revealing her face. She was pretty, with hazel eyes that lit up when she smiled, which wasn’t very often. “Move, stupid.”

“I want to watch something else.”

My sister finally looked directly at me, like I hadn’t existed before then. She frowned. “So, go watch it in your room.”

“No. I want the big screen.” I turned to the player and ejected her movie.

“Hey! I’m watching that.”

“So.” I inserted my DVD. “It’s my birthday.”

“Oh my God.” She laughed and mimicked me. “It’s my birthday.” When she stood up, the top of her head was even with my chin. “I’m watching my movie.” With one fuzzy-slippered foot, she tried to push me away.

I laughed. “Ooh, tough guy.” She was strong but light, so it didn’t take much effort on my part to shove her with one sock-covered foot.

As she fell back on the couch, she swiped at my face, barely missing it with her long, sharp, and perfectly shaped nails. Except for her left thumbnail, which she chewed incessantly.

Through the barrier of her blanket, I grabbed her arm and twisted it behind her back, forcing her face into the back of the couch. “Now I’m not positive, but I’m pretty sure I can take you.”

Lexie tried to rip the blanket off me to get at my skin. To touch me, knowing full well my weakness. But I was stronger.

I smacked her face not all that lightly with her DVD, and then dropped it next to her. “So why don’t you watch this in your room?” With an extra twist, I let go of her arm.

Lexie whirled around, pushing her hair away from her reddening cheek. She picked up the disk. Before she left, she kicked me in the shin. “Happy frickin’ Birthday.” I didn’t bother to retaliate.

The Matrix came on. I dropped the blanket and sat down, rubbing my shin. Yeah, I thought. Happy frickin’ Birthday.