Timmy never usually got excited on Sundays, especially in the evenings. His Mother and Father always insisted he be in bed by seven. Often he would sneak out and tip-toe down the hall in his pajamas, careful not to set off the creaks that he knew lined the floorboards, to overhear what his parents were listening to on the radio. He would do this nightly until he was scowled and whipped by his Father. Only after experiencing the lick of his Dad’s belt did he not dare to stick his ear to the living room door any further.
Before then, he was eager to get an audio sample of the humor. He would bend his fingers backward and bite his tongue to stop any evidence of his presence in the hall - anything to stop himself from breaking down in hysterics.
On this particular Sunday, it was Halloween. Timmy was prohibited from visiting the neighbors for the annual Barbecue that the Johnstones held - where the other kids like Mike Robinson and Bill O’Malley would get their share of boiled candy. Timmy missed out not due to bad behavior, rather he had a fever the Friday before. His mother, ever worried about such ailments thanks to the untimely death of his younger brother at the age of eight months - two years prior - overcompensated his health and safety now that he was her only child.
Timmy was free to expect a day without school on Monday and it was agreed, due to the loss of the annual neighborhood get-together, that Timmy could be rewarded for his sacrifice by staying up past his bedtime to partake in the nightly episode of Chase and Sanborn.
He was beyond excited. After dinner - roast chicken, gravy, veggies including baked potatoes - he was rewarded with a bowl of hot water and sugar. This was to compensate for the lack of access to the boiled candy. He was well fed and sugared up (and it wasn’t even seven o’clock yet).
His father insisted that he take a bath before listening to the shows. Timmy pleaded with him to turn the wireless up nice and loud, as loud as the speakers could crank so that he wouldn’t miss out while splashing away. His Father refused and this caused a great deal of distress in the house which his mother had to calm down. Such dysfunction was a regular occurrence and it was always his mother who had the soothing touch that was able to calm the testosterone that boiled to the surface.
Timmy ran out of the bath without a towel and sat under the speaker, shivering as he drew in each transmission. The cool October air flooded in through the open window that his Mother had insisted remain to air out the smoke from his father’s pipe. A flood of water trailed behind him and his mother had to hold his father back by both wrists to stop him from assaulting Timmy for his disregard.
“He’s sick, Stanley,” she said.
“He’s hardly sick, Maureen,” Stanley replied.
“Please,” she’d say with flirtation.
Her angular features and bold, deep blue eyes always provided the right antidote to his quick temper. An inheritance he had shared with his father and his grandfather (and so on, down the family tree where the men branched off).
A towel was draped around Timmy as a grown-up trailed off to get his pajamas for him to be dressed as he continued his indulgence of listening to the ‘grown-up’ programs. It must’ve been his Mother - for he heard the sizzle of a match strike in his peripheral and knew on instinct that his father had sat himself down in his armchair and lit his pipe. His mother’s arms assisted him in getting dressed while his attention was focused on the announcer;
“Ladies and Gentlemen! It’s the Chase and Sanborn Radio Hour!” came an announcement to wild applause.
“Ladies and Gentlemen!? What about children?! They don’t know I’m listening too!” Timmy said with glee as his mother smiled at him, taking her own seat opposite his father. The fire crackled to his right and a feeling of relaxed comfort swept over all three of them.
They listened intently as the ventriloquist cast aspersions on the guests who had agreed to be fodder for the episode on that particular evening. The comedy concluded with a musical number that was timed perfectly for Timmy’s need to relieve himself in the bathroom.
“You off to bed, honey?” his mother asked.
“No chance!” Timmy replied.
When he returned to the living room, his mother and father were both off their chairs, kneeling on the floor with his father’s hands on the volume dial - trying to boost the output as loud as the machine could. His pipe was left behind on the side table with tobacco strewn all over.
“What’s wrong?” Timmy asked.
“Shh!” His mother replied.
The announcer on the wireless filled the room.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I have a grave announcement to make. Incredible as it may seem, both the observations of science and the evidence of our eyes lead to the inescapable assumption that those strange beings who landed in the Jersey farmlands tonight are the vanguard of an invading army from the planet Mars.”
Timmy ran to his parents so as not to be alone, even if it was by a foot or two at the entrance to the hall. His mother wrapped an arm around him and he curled into her lap.
“The battle which took place tonight at Grovers Mill has ended in one of the most startling defeats ever suffered by any army in modern times; seven thousand men armed with rifles and machine guns pitted against a single fighting machine of the invaders from Mars.” The announcement continued.”
“Mars?!” Timmy yelled.
“Shh!” his father yelled this time.
“One hundred and twenty known survivors. The rest strewn over the battle area from Grovers Mill to Plainsboro, crushed and trampled to death under the metal feet of the monster, or burned to cinders by its heat ray. The monster is now in control of the middle section of New Jersey and has effectively cut the state through its center. Communication lines are down from Pennsylvania to the Atlantic Ocean. Railroad tracks are torn and service from New York to Philadelphia discontinued except routing some of the trains through Allentown and Phoenixville.”
“New York has fallen,” his father said to his mother.
“Is that what he said?”
“Yes… Your sister.”
“I’ve got to call her!” she said as she stood - Timmy falling out of her lap and onto a heap on the floor.
“Maureen the phone lines are down, didn’t you hear?!”
“I can’t hear anything, Stanley! What does this all mean!”
“I don’t know!”
“What is happening!” Timmy yelled.
His father stood up straight and clicked off the radio.
“Timmy, get my shells - next to my bed on the side table. There should be thirty there. I need all of them. Two boxes - fifteen each, hurry Son!”
Timmy got to his feet and did as his father ordered. In his parent's bedroom, he pried open the side table drawer. The shells were at the very back and he retrieved both boxes - giving them a little rattle to his ear to make sure they were full and began the run back to the living room. It was empty and he heard scuffling and the slamming of windows out in the back kitchen. He ran over to join his parents.
His mother was switching off the lights and blowing out the candles in the kitchenette whilst his father was shaking the windows that she had closed earlier to make sure they were secure and tight. He was holding his Winchester pump-action in his right hand and held his left hand out hungrily for Timmy to hand him the shells. He placed the boxes down on the dining table alongside the unwashed dishes that Maureen had agreed to tidy up the following morning. He took an elbow to the plates and swept them off onto the floor causing them to smash. He poured out the contents of the shells on the table and began to load up the shotgun.
“Timmy you get back to the living room, you’re barefoot,” he warned.
Maureen reached out for Timmy’s hand and led him back into the living room.
“Let’s check the windows, make sure they are boarded up,” she said as they checked the latches of each.
“Mom, I’m scared,”
“Me too honey,” she said - stopping her task to embrace him. Rubbing his head and kissing his cheek as his head pressed close to hers.
“What is happening?” he asked.
His father entered the room, loading the last shell into the weapon, and knelt beside them.
“Tim, listen to me Son - the news said Aliens from Mars have invaded. We no longer have an Army in place to protect us.”
“What?!” Timmy yelled.
“Calm down son, just listen to me. I know war - I’ve been in it, I’ve seen it, I know how to deal with it. When I was in Germany, I saw many families homeless, fathers killed, Mothers dead, children wandering the streets - that is not going to happen to us.”
Timmy had never heard his father talk about the war before. He felt as if he had finally gotten an insight into the world he knew his father had experienced but kept from him. A secret he harbored that would open the gates of intrigue that he never shared. Timmy resented his father’s privacy but was not open to hearing about it now under such stressful circumstances.
“They all made the same mistake - you know what that was?” his father asked.
Timmy shook his head.
“They left the house to go looking for help. We won’t be making that mistake,” he said. He clocked the weapon, readying it.
“There is no help.”
His father stood up and began drawing the curtains closed. His mother assisted and pulled the drawstrings opposite. The room was almost completely dark save for the street lights emanating through the cracks in the fabric.
They moved the furniture including their armchairs against the window and the three of them sat by the fire. Stanley took the poker and attempted to kill off the remaining ember.
Thirty minutes had passed as they sat in silent darkness.
“How long do we wait?”
“As long as it takes.” his father replied.
“Should we listen to the radio again? Maybe there is an update honey?”
“No, it’ll draw attention,” Stanley insisted.
An hour had passed and the room grew cold. Tim could see his breath pour out of his mouth, the room glistened in the moonlight.
“Do we have to stay here all night?” Timmy whispered.
“Shh,” his mother said, patting his head.
They looked over to Stanley who was snoring softly.
The sun broke through the window slit and lit the room almost entirely. Timmy was startled by the sounds of the birds and the neighborhood paper boy Joshua Mankiewicz. He ran over to the window to snatch a glimpse of his school friend passing by on his bike when he was tackled by his father.
“No!” he yelled. “It’s a trap!”
His father crawled back to his shotgun resting by the wall adjacent to the fireplace and gripped it tightly.
“They’ve taken human form. That’s what the news said last night. Do not go to the window,” he warned.
A set of footsteps trailed up the garden path. They grew closer. Timmy recognized them as the milkman’s. It was his morning drop-off. Stanley ran out of the living room towards the front door and pointed his weapon.
“It’s just Gerard, the milkman!” said Maureen who had run up beside him.
“No it’s not,” said Stanley, clocking his weapon once more and firing a warning shot at the door, blowing off a hinge and leaving a bowling ball-sized hole that allowed for the sunlight of the early morning to pour in.
A trail of white milk seeped under the door and began to pool on the carpet.