Friendly Fallout 1953

Ann Ronald

• Publisher: University of Nevada Press
• Year: 2010
• ISBN:
  9780874178326
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literary Collections
• Index: Literature

Friendly Fallout 1953 is a hybrid work of literature that combines the actual history of aboveground atomic testing in the Nevada desert in 1953 with fictional vignettes that explore the impact of the tests on the people who participated in them and on civilian "downwinders." The book brings to life a turbulent era when Cold War fears, patriotic enthusiasm, scientific progress, and unacknowledged political agendas often collided with the welfare of ordinary citizens and the environment.

Liz

“I've never seen anything like it.”

“Me neither. And I've been in this business forever.”

Crouched alongside a pregnant ewe in the confines of a wooden chute, the two men shake their heads. Jeb Stevens holds a clump of wool in his fist, wool that too easily pulls away from the ewe's shoulders. Doc Hamlin is looking at her mouth, where black scabs cover her lips.

“When I try shearing 'em, the fleece just falls apart.” Jeb's voice sounds agitated, higher pitched than usual. Although the Stevens operation isn't a marginal one, this crisis could be costly.

“Where were you trailing?” Doc asks.

“Same place as usual. Over the hills to the west.”

“Much forage?”

“Nothing but sagebrush and juniper. Too dry this winter. The sheep had to be real scavengers.”

“See anything out of the ordinary?”

“Nah. Been trailing that country for more than thirty years. Looked just the same as always, only drier.”

The vet's daughter, Liz, sitting on the top rail of the corral, listens soberly to the sheepman's words. More words strung together than normal. Usually Jeb Stevens says very little, just a sentence or two now and then. His cousin is even quieter, so shy he never looks anyone in the eye. Now Jacob stands off to one side, his head bent toward the ground, ready to push another ewe into the chute as soon the current patient is released. He is listening as intently as she is.

A thousand questions race through Liz's mind, but she keeps quiet, too. No one cares what a fourteen-year-old is thinking, not today. Usually her dad knows the answer to everything anyone could ask about medicine and animals, but this morning he seems at a loss. Just keeps shaking his head as he examines the sheep. She wonders if Pops might have some ideas. Because arthritis and a gimpy hip tie her grandfather close to home, he rarely goes out in the field anymore. But Liz knows he'll be intrigued by whatever is happening to the Stevens flock. She bets Pops has never seen anything like it either.

She watches her dad check the ewe's hooves, carefully lifting each one. “Badly cracked,” he observes.

“That's the drought,” Jeb interjects. “Animals as parched as the land.”

“Let's look at another one.”

“Sure thing.”

With that, Jeb lifts the gate, pushes the ewe out into the far corral, and slams the gate back down. Almost immediately Jacob shoves another pregnant ewe into the chute. As the men turn her into place, she bleats her dismay.

Doc checks her belly. “Feels like twins.”

“One piece of good news. But look at her coat.” As he speaks, Jeb grabs another fistful of wool and tosses it on the ground in disgust. “Too much slippage. I'll be lucky to salvage much of anything.”

“Have you called the county agent?”

“Yeah. Merrill's kind of worthless, but he said he'd come around later today.”

“Good. I'd like to talk to him. Find out if he's seen this sort of thing before.”

“He sounded blank on the phone, like it was all a mystery.”

“He'll know if any other flocks have been affected, though.”

“Yeah, but that's about all he'll know.”

“I'll see if I can get Pops to make a house call. Run him out here this afternoon if his joints aren't creaking too much. He might have some thoughts about what's going on.”

“I'd appreciate it. I trust your dad more than I trust Brother Merrill,” Stevens quietly acknowledges.

“Okay.” Doc looks up. “I'll check out half a dozen more sheep before I head home. Let me take some blood samples to send off to Salt Lake City. Might be some clues the lab can find.” With that, the vet glances down and plunges a syringe into the ewe's rump. Again, she bleats noisily. Out in the holding pen, a dozen other sheep echo her tone.

That's the only part of the business that Liz dislikes. Hurting an animal. Her dad and her grandfather never cause pain on purpose. They're always trying to help. She hopes she'll be as good a vet someday. From the time she could toddle out to the barn, Liz has planned to be a vet, just like the men in her family. Her brothers, especially little George, sneer at her ambition. “Girls can't be vets,” they say, repeating their disdain. Well, she'll show 'em. That's why she traipses after her dad whenever she can. On the weekends and just about every afternoon after school, she hangs around the clinic. She cleans cages, shovels out the pens, even gets up in the middle of the night to dose a sick animal. If someone calls him out to a ranch, she coaxes Doc to take her along. Any opportunity to learn more about the vet business, Liz takes. Today she is fascinated.

Jacob jostles another ewe into the chute, and then another. More bleating and more loose wool. Doc takes some fleece samples, too, planning to send the wool along with the bloodwork.

“Tissue would be even more useful. Don't guess you want to slaughter any of these soon-to-be mothers.”

“Guess not!” Jeb's voice suddenly sounds self-assured.

“Well, let me know if you lose one. I'd really like to include some tissue samples, too.”

“Will do. But keep your fingers crossed that nothing else goes wrong. The J-S-J is going to take enough of a hit from losing all this wool.”

“Yeah. I understand.”

“So what's next?”

“That's all I can do for now. We'll be back in a couple of hours.”

“Thanks, Doc. See you later. Sure hope Old Doc comes with you.”

“He won't be able to resist.” The vet turns toward his daughter. “Come on, Liz, make yourself useful.”

Liz hops off the fence rail as he hands her his kit. She asks to carry the specimens back to the truck, but her father doesn't seem to want them out of his hands. He holds the vials as if they're precious. Maybe they are, if they hold the key to what's happening to the sheep.

WHEN THE HAMLIN TRUCK arrives back at the Stevens place that Saturday afternoon, three family members crowd the cab. Liz sits in the middle of the bench seat, her legs awkwardly straddling the gearshift. Her dad is driving, and her grandfather has wedged himself against the passenger door, his cane propped against his knee. As Liz had guessed, Pops can't resist checking out the puzzle.

Behind them, Doc's faithful companions Shep and Rags hang out over the old Ford pickup tailgate, barking their excitement. In front, a white government Chevy is making dust.

“Looks like Merrill decided to join the party,” Doc laughs.

“Fat lotta good he'll do,” Pops chimes in. “Just make a lot of excuses about poor forage. I'm thinking it's something else.”

“Like what?” Liz turns to look her grandfather in the eye. But he's already staring out the window, checking out as much of the flock as he can see.

As the truck slows and turns in beside the Chevy, Pops takes a deep breath and glances back toward his granddaughter. “Might be something from all those tests out in the Nevada desert.”

“I asked Jeb about that,” Doc interjects. “He said the flock was far enough away to be safe.”

“How does he know for sure?”

“Merrill said so.”

“Merrill? What does that guy know about anything? I don't know why the county extension even hired him.”

“Sure you do, Pops. He's got the family name, with relatives in high places all over Salt Lake City.”

Pops snorts. Liz is ready to hear more gossip, but instead the two men throw open the truck doors. Sliding under the steering wheel, she climbs down after her dad and then runs around to the other side of the pickup. There, she gives a hand to her grandfather, who carefully leans on her shoulder until he gets his cane firmly set in place.

“Let's go see those critters,” he says.

Meanwhile, Doc and young Merrill strike up a conversation.

“What's going on here?” the county agent asks officiously, dusting his Stetson on his knee.

“Didn't Jeb tell you on the phone?”

“Yeah, sounds like the drought's catching up with these guys.”

“Maybe, maybe not.” Doc knows Merrill's words will rile both Stevens cousins, so he's trying to get the guy to listen.

“What do you mean?” Merrill respects Doc's medical training. Even though he gives more credence to his own recent schooling at the ag school in Logan, he's at least willing to listen to Doc's opinions.

“Real strange symptoms. Blisters, lesions around the mouths. Serious wool slippage, as if the fleece were just falling off the animals.”

“Must be something they ate.”

“Okay, you're the expert. What?”

“What?”

“Yeah, what? What could they have eaten?”

Just then the men reach the Stevens cousins, who are waiting with arms akimbo, fists clenched to their sides. “About time you got here.”

Merrill immediately sticks out his hand. “Good to see you, Stevens.”

Jeb shakes hands perfunctorily, then turns to Old Doc Hamlin. “Sure glad you could make it. We're anxious to hear what you have to say.”

Liz watches the exchange from her grandfather's side, and wonders if Merrill recognizes a brush-off when he sees one. Probably not. His youngest brother is in ninth grade, in her class, and Justin is just as dense.

Pops limps over to the corral, with Jeb on his other side. Liz climbs back up on a fence rail so she can see more of the milling sheep at once. For a long moment no one speaks. Then Pops waves his free hand.

“Let's get one in the chute and have a look.”

A large black ewe, nearly ready to drop her lamb, finds herself penned alongside the elderly vet. Jacob shoves her closer, so Pops can take a look at her mouth. As Liz can see, two big blisters are hardening into scabs. Pops reaches through the railing and runs his hand down her spine. It comes away covered with clumps of black fleece, some of it tangled and some of it looking almost charred. He examines the wool closely, pulling the strands apart as he balances himself by leaning against the pen. Then he stands a little taller, trying to see past the ewe to the flock beyond.

“Push 'em around a bit, Jacob,” he orders. “I want to have a quick look at as many as I can.”

As soon as Pops makes his suggestion, Doc climbs up alongside his daughter. “I think I know what he's after. Look at the other black sheep. Compare those five with the grays, and then with the whites.”

Liz laughs. “They're so dusty, it's hard to tell which are white and which are gray. They all look dirty.”

“But I think Pops sees a difference. Check it out.”

Liz looks carefully at the bleating flock. By this time, the pregnant ewes, terribly unhappy, are noisily voicing their displeasure. The din makes this morning's complaints sound relatively minor. Almost instantly she can see what her father means. The backs of the six black sheep look faintly seared, as if they'd rolled too close to a campfire. The white ones seem fine, though the two she can see the best have more of those lesions around their mouths.

Pops reaches out toward a young gray ewe. She dances away, but not before Liz spots a lightly charred pattern across her rump. The gray's steps frighten the others even more, and suddenly the whole flock is milling far too fast for the small enclosure.

“Better calm 'em down,” Jeb warns his cousin. “Climb out of there.”

Jacob obeys, settling onto the top rail on the other side of Doc. Merrill leans against the fence alongside Jeb and Pops, waiting for someone to say something.

No one speaks, as the flock slows itself and clusters at the far side of the corral. Then Pops lifts his cane and points to the nearest ewe.

“See that corduroy look along her back? Looks like some kind of burn to me.”

Jeb frowns. “I see it, but I don't understand it.”

Merrill chortles. “Doesn't seem to me like sheep get sunburned.”

Doc wants to shout, “It's not from the sun, you fool,” but he restrains himself. This is his father's show for now. Time enough for him to talk after the lab results come back.

Liz glances at her father. He winks back, and she knows exactly what he's thinking. Merrill sure is a jerk, and she's beginning to understand what might be wrong with the Stevens sheep.

Pops turns toward Merrill. “How about radiation? Any chance of these ewes getting a dose of Nevada fallout?”

“No way.” Merrill is on firm ground, sure of himself as he recites the information he's been given. He can almost quote the government brochures by heart. “Immediate biological responses should not be expected.”

“I have to agree with Merrill,” Jeb Stevens grudgingly accedes. “Whatever's wrong, it can't be from the atomic testing. If it wasn't safe, they wouldn't be setting those things off over there.”

“The guys at the Madison mining operation say the government didn't tell them the truth. They say they got all kinds of assurances, and then the radiation count went sky-high.” Doc can't resist putting in his two cents' worth.

“That's north of here, though, and west. I think they're pretty careful about what they're doing.” Jeb isn't ready to blame the government for his woes, not at all.

Merrill concurs. “Not a problem here. We're far enough away to be safe.”

“What about where you were trailing, though?” Doc keeps pushing his point. “Isn't that pretty close to the Groom Mountains?”

Still not convinced, Jeb shakes his head. “No, we were ten, fifteen miles this side. And besides, we didn't see a thing.”

“Not even a cloud overhead?”

“Sure, but it was sky-high.”

“Anything drifting toward the ground?”

“Maybe it was dustier than usual, more dust in the air, but that's from the drought.”

“Maybe not.” Pops speaks mildly. “Maybe your problem isn't drought. Maybe it's radiation.”

“Come off it, Dr. Hamlin.” Merrill jumps into the conversation. “You know better than to suggest that.”

“How else do you explain what we're seeing on these sheep? The burns. The wool slippage. The blisters and scabs.” Pops's voice is patient, as if he were talking to a recalcitrant student. “It's a pattern.”

“I think we need a lot more information before we jump to any such conclusion,” Merrill reacts. “I'll make some inquiries, maybe ask a couple of government scientists to come take a look. They'll reassure you that it's nothing but drought. Meanwhile, I sure hope you don't go noising this cockeyed radiatio...