Nuclear Option. Dorothy Van Soest

was just one person and the only thing required of her was to do her part.

      Martin Lind, someone else who will never quit until the day he dies, steps up to the pulpit. The crowd applauds and whistles, then stops when he raises his hands. “On behalf of the Monrow City Peace and Justice Coalition, it’s my distinct honor now to introduce tonight’s speaker.” More cheers. “Dr. Darla Kelsey is a senior fellow with the Arms Control Association. With a master’s degree in peace studies and a BA in international studies and political science, she is an expert on nuclear nonproliferation, missile defense, Iran’s nuclear capabilities, and North Korea’s missile program.” He stretches his arms out and opens his hands. “But the most exciting thing about Dr. Kelsey, as you know, is that she is the granddaughter of our own beloved Bertha Pickering.”

      The chanting outside—Keep America safe!—increases in volume but can’t compete with the raucous standing ovation inside. Dr. Kelsey, a frequent commentator on CNN, NPR, and MSNBC, would be the equivalent of a movie star to this audience under any circumstances, but for her to be the granddaughter of our heroine sends us over the moon.

      She appears older in person than she does on the screen, her long blond hair stringier, with strands of brown that match her brown suit and add a commanding maturity to her bright smile and youthful brown eyes. Bertha’s eyes.

      “We have nuclear weapons, so why don’t we use them? That’s the unbelievably dangerous question some politicians are actually asking today.” She pauses for effect. “Some of them are even asking why they should have to go to Congress to get approval to use them.”

      The audience boos. Competing shouts from outside. Someone rushes to close the door. My gut lurches like it does when the news on TV is rife with conflict. But I know what to do now when my serenity is threatened like this: take in a deep breath, start counting, and let the air out through my mouth. After several attempts, my jaw starts to relax.

      “North Korea has nuclear weapons capable of annihilating major cities in our country,” Dr. Kelsey says. I count to ten. “And now, they are threatening to test a hydrogen bomb over the ocean.” A hush falls over the sanctuary as her gaze moves from the upturned faces in the front row all the way to the people in the back. When it reaches the last pew, Bertha joins in and whispers in my ear. You’re going to have to do something about this, you know, Sylvia. I push back. That old familiar guilt that tells me I’m not doing enough may no longer rule my life, but that doesn’t mean it’s not crouching around the corner, ready to spring with claws bared given the chance.

      The man who looks just like Norton breaks into the silence. “Not gonna happen,” he shouts.

      Dr. Kelsey nods and smiles at him. “Not if we can stop it.”

      He jumps to his feet and raises his fist in the air. “And we are gonna stop it! Don’t worry, we’re gonna.”

      I lean so far forward I almost slip off the pew. The agitated pitch in his voice is as familiar as his appearance, his pattern of speech one I remember only too well.

      “With that kind of enthusiasm, I believe we will.” Dr. Kelsey smiles at him again and he sits back down. “But not everyone is like you, sir. Some people say there’s no need for concern. Why worry, they say, when we have the capability to shoot down any incoming missile before it can reach us.”

      “Bullshit,” the man who is the reincarnation of Norton shouts.

      After that, only snippets of Dr. Kelsey’s speech—a smattering of acronyms like GMD, THAADS, and ICBMs; a missile defense system that won’t protect us; a petition supporting a United Nations treaty to ban nuclear weapons—slip through the images and memories now playing like a movie in my head. About the night Norton and I met. His irrefutable commitment to peace and his knowledge about the issues. His long ponytail and bushy beard. The twinkle in his green eyes. His biceps bulging under a long-sleeved black T-shirt with PEACE in huge white letters on the front. The two of us talking in the bar late into the night, too many glasses of white zinfandel for me, too many cans of Pabst beer for him. Then my mind jumps to the months after, the arguments, misunderstandings, secrets.

      The man who looks just like him jumps to his feet again, and I’m jolted back to the present. “No! We will not allow it!”

      Dr. Kelsey nods. “I know you folks won’t. You folks know that to allow nuclear waste to be stored here would be to risk radioactive contamination worse than any plague you can imagine, poisonous pollutants in the air you breathe, the water you drink, and the food you eat.”

      She steps aside and hands the microphone to Martin Lind. He thumps his hand on the pulpit. “Dr. Kelsey is right, folks. The danger is real. The Nectaral Corporation is planning to store plutonium right here in our back yard.” People boo. “They don’t want us to know what that means. They don’t want us to know the risks.” People nod and call out in anger. “They don’t want us to know what happened at the Hanford nuclear reservation. Or at Three Mile Island.”

      People chant: No they don’t. No they don’t. Martin raises his hands. He’s on a roll. “They don’t want us to know what happened at the Nevada test site.” They don’t care. “Or what happened at Fernald, Ohio.” They don’t care.

      Martin lets the chanting continue for a while and then steps in. “So, do you think they care if mutated children are born here?” No they don’t. No they don’t.

      Finally, he raises his hands, waits for the crowd to grow silent. “But we do know, don’t we?” Yes we do! “And we do care, don’t we?” Yes we do! “But we also know that knowing and caring are not enough. We have to stop them. We have to act.”

      Stop the madness! Stop the madness! People are on their feet now, shouting, fists in the air. The protesters outside get louder, too. Keep America safe! Keep America safe!

      Martin shouts over the din. “Our message is clear. No plutonium storage here. No war profiteering here. No nuclear weapons anywhere.” People repeat his words. Then he raises his hands and hands the microphone to Peter Minter, the Indian Child Welfare compliance officer I used to work with when I was a foster care supervisor. Peter and I have been friends and allies for years, serving together even now on a statewide reform task force.

      “I want to remind you,” Peter says, “that the nuclear fuel cycle in this country began when the mining companies dug uranium from our Indian homelands. Our women had spontaneous abortions. Over half of our babies had birth defects, respiratory, liver, and kidney ailments.” He pauses with a swing of his gray braid. “And now that they can’t find any other place to store the damned stuff forever, they’re going to try to end the nuclear cycle on our homelands, too.”

      The man who looks like Norton shouts. “Just say no!” Everyone chimes in. Just say no! Just say no!

      My heart throbs with old passions stirred, screams at me to get in there, get involved, do something for God’s sake. But my head tells me to slow down, breathe in, breathe out, stay calm. I am enough. I do enough.

      Martin steps back to the pulpit, and the chanting stops. “It’s not a done deal yet. When there’s a congressional hearing about the plutonium storage contract, we will be there! Our voices will be heard! We will stop this! Our first action is next Thursday at Nectaral Plaza. Be there! And on your way out, be sure to sign our petition supporting the UN treaty to ban nuclear weapons.”

      I squeeze through the people crowding into the middle aisle and stand on my tiptoes by the door. My eyes light up when they settle on the man who looks like Norton. “There you are,” I whisper. Then everything stops, and with each step the man takes in my direction, I take a step back into another time. One step, and it’s 1984 and I’m being introduced to Norton at a coalition meeting. Another step, and I’m sitting across from him in a police van. One more step, and I’m seeing him for the last time as he walks away with two FBI agents.

      And then the man who looks just like him is walking past me. I touch his arm and he stops, turns around. “Excuse me, sir,” I say. “Is your name Cramer, by any chance?”

      He makes a