Page 10 of A Christmas Harbor

David gave him that mock glare Paul was already growing fond of. “I was only six. I wasn’t allowed to see it, but I sneaked out of bed and peeked through the stair rail into the living room while the rest of my family watched it. Of course I showed up at the worst part, as the missiles were launching and the mushroom clouds were exploding. There was a wedding where the bride and groom were vaporized mid-kiss.” He shook his head. “I’ll never forget that image as long as I live.”

Damn.

“I bit down on my teddy bear’s ear to keep from screaming,” David continued. “My mom was crying, and my brother—who was eleven—kept covering his eyes. Even my dad, his face must have gone white, because his cheeks were a perfect reflection of that sickly yellow color on the screen.”

“And they didn’t know you were there?”

“Nope. I went back to my room before the movie ended. I think they stayed up late downstairs talking about it, kind of processing what they’d seen and how they felt. My brother’s social-studies class even had a discussion the next day. Meanwhile, I had to go on pretending I hadn’t seen it so I wouldn’t get in trouble for sneaking out of bed.”

That poor kid. Paul fought an impulse to reach out and take David’s hand.

“Finally after the fourth straight night of me waking up screaming,” David said, “Mom figured it out. To her credit, she didn’t say, ‘Oh it was just a science-fiction movie’ or, ‘That kind of thing could never happen in real life.’”

“What did she say?”

“She explained the doctrine of Mutually Assured Destruction.”

Paul almost fell off his barstool. “To a six-year-old?!”

“It was reassuring, believe it or not. Especially the part about second-strike capability.”

Jesus Christ. “What isthatand how could it ever be reassuring?”

“It means that neither side could win by taking out all their enemy’s surface missiles. And you know why?”

Speechless, Paul shrugged by spreading his hands.

“Because of the boomers,” David said. “They don’t know where ours are, and we don’t know where theirs are. Each sub carries enough warheads to destroy, well, everything. So there’s no winning a nuclear war, which means…”

Ah, okay. “Which means no one ever starts one. In theory that makes logical sense, but what if some nutcase gets hold of the nuclear codes?”

“The launch process has so many steps, so many fail-safes, one person could never do it on their own.”

Paul pulled his glass of water closer. Maybe David was just saying that to make him feel better. “For real?”

“For real.”

“So that’s why you wanted to work on one of those subs? BecauseThe Day Afterfreaked you out?”

“Partly. To me, it was the only thing I could personally do to prevent nuclear war—be part of the deterrent.”

“Hmm. But also, as a bonus…” He dared to touch David’s forearm. “You’d be in one of the few places in the world that might survive. Right?”

David pulled back, just an inch or two, and in his wide, sea-blue eyes Paul saw the scared little boy who had turned a childhood trauma into a career. In finding his safe place, he’d become the thing he’d feared most.

Or at least that’s how Paul would’ve written a character based on David. The real man was probably much more complicated. Paul wanted to know that man, and not just because he needed a distraction on this night of all nights. Not anymore, at least.

Martin began a new song on the piano. It took a moment before Paul recognized it in this minor key. “I never thought ‘Deck the Halls’ could be so sad.”

“Anything can be sad.” David shook more Chex Mix out onto his unfolded napkin. “Most depressing Christmas carol ever, though? Dan Fogelberg’s ‘Same Old Lang Syne.’”

The memory hit Paul in a rush. “Oh, man, I think about that song every time it’s snowing at night and then a warm front comes through and the snow turns—”

“Into rain! Me, too!” David shouted, his voice muffled by the snack mix. He swallowed and added, “That last line kills me.”

“And then the final sax solo rips your heart out, shows you your heart, then stomps on your heart with giant cowboy boots.” Paul banged his foot against the barstool rail to illustrate. “But it paints such a vivid picture, these ex-lovers bumping into each other in the frozen-food aisle and catching up over a few beers in her car. Although, should they be driving after splitting a six-pack?”

“It was the early eighties. People were probably drivingwhilesplitting a six-pack.” He pointed at Paul’s nearly empty tumbler. “Speaking of which, you didn’t come here in a car, did you?”

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