White Noise - Don Delillo [56]
I heard him say, “The stuff they sprayed on the big spill at the train yard was probably soda ash. But it was a case of too little too late. My guess is they’ll get some crop dusters up in the air at daybreak and bombard the toxic cloud with lots more soda ash, which could break it up and scatter it into a million harmless puffs. Soda ash is the common name for sodium carbonate, which is used in the manufacture of glass, ceramics, detergents and soaps. It’s also what they use to make bicarbonate of soda, something a lot of you have probably guzzled after a night on the town.”
People moved in closer, impressed by the boy’s knowledgeability and wit. It was remarkable to hear him speak so easily to a crowd of strangers. Was he finding himself, learning how to determine his worth from the reactions of others? Was it possible that out of the turmoil and surge of this dreadful event he would learn to make his way in the world?
“What you’re probably all wondering is what exactly is this Nyodene D. we keep hearing about? A good question. We studied it in school, we saw movies of rats having convulsions and so on. So, okay, it’s basically simple. Nyodene D. is a whole bunch of things thrown together that are byproducts of the manufacture of insecticide. The original stuff kills roaches, the byproducts kill everything left over. A little joke our teacher made.”
He snapped his fingers, let his left leg swing a bit.
“In powder form it’s colorless, odorless and very dangerous, except no one seems to know exactly what it causes in humans or in the offspring of humans. They tested for years and either they don’t know for sure or they know and aren’t saying. Some things are too awful to publicize.”
He arched his brows and began to twitch comically, his tongue lolling in a corner of his mouth. I was astonished to hear people laugh.
“Once it seeps into the soil, it has a life span of forty years. This is longer than a lot of people. After five years you’ll notice various kinds of fungi appearing between your regular windows and storm windows as well as in your clothes and food. After ten years your screens will turn rusty and begin to pit and rot. Siding will warp. There will be glass breakage and trauma to pets. After twenty years you’ll probably have to seal yourself in the attic and just wait and see. I guess there’s a lesson in all this. Get to know your chemicals.”
I didn’t want him to see me there. It would make him self-conscious, remind him of his former life as a gloomy and fugitive boy. Let him bloom, if that’s what he was doing, in the name of mischance, dread and random disaster. So I slipped away, passing a man who wore snow boots wrapped in plastic, and headed for the far end of the barracks, where we’d earlier made camp.
We were next to a black family of Jehovah’s Witnesses. A man and woman with a boy about twelve. Father and son were handing out tracts to people nearby and seemed to have no trouble finding willing recipients and listeners.
The woman said to Babette, “Isn’t this something?”
“Nothing surprises me anymore,” Babette said.
“Isn’t that the truth.”
“What would surprise me would be if there were no surprises.”
“That sounds about right.”
“Or if there were little bitty surprises. That would be a surprise. Instead of things like this.”
“God Jehovah’s got a bigger surprise in store than this,” the woman said.
“God Jehovah?”
“That’s the one.”
Steffie and Wilder were asleep in one of the cots. Denise sat at the other end engrossed in the Physicians’ Desk Reference. Several air mattresses were stacked against the wall. There was a long line at the emergency telephone, people calling relatives or trying to reach the switchboard at one or another radio call-in show. The radios here were tuned mainly to just such