The Sky Is Falling by Caroline Adderson Page A

Pete, and I recoiled though I had only ever thought of Ronald Reagan, if I thought of him at all, as affable and doddering. Pete threw open the front door, booming: “Who have we here?”
    â€œTrick or treat!” UNICEF boxes jingled furiously.
    â€œHere’s a little something for each of you.”
    â€œWhat is it?”
    â€œA peace crane. And there’s a special message inside it. When you get home, ask your mommy and daddy to read it to you.”
    â€œThank you, Mr. Reagan.”
    â€œYou’re welcome. Now be careful tonight. You never know when I’m going to drop the Big One.”
    He shut the door and came back to the kitchen, still the president. Dieter had gone for the belt of his bathrobe and was tying a tea towel over his wiry hair. “Who are you?” Reagan asked.
    â€œArafat, you Yankee scum.”
    Sonia and I went to the living room where, kneeling on the chesterfield, we watched the procession out the window. Voices rang out all along the street, screeches too, then a firecracker discharged, and Sonia cringed. “Oh God. It’s like a war.” As soon as she said it, I saw it too, a tattered exodus, pillowcases stuffed with belongings, dragged along. They carried on right past our house, though our porch light illuminated a welcome. When a pirate broke free and started for us, an adult called him back. Finally a few older, unchaperoned kids took a chance. Reagan and Arafat answered.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œIt’s a peace crane. Inside there’s a special—”
    â€œDon’t you have any candy?”
    â€œNo, you ingrate. You’re fat enough already.”
    â€œFuck you!” said the child.
    Sonia leapt off the chesterfield. “What do you guys think you’re doing?”
    The kids fled down the walk. Two of them were playing with the cranes, using them as bombers, flying loop-the-loops, colliding mid-air. Sonia dismissed Pete and Dieter. “Go. Leave. Jane and I will hand them out.”
    We put on coats and shoes and took the bowl of cranes with us. From our new post at the end of the walk, we intercepted the next group that came along, Sonia crouching before a child in a hooded coat with rouge-appled cheeks. “Hello, sweetheart. Are you having fun?”
    â€œI’m cold,” the girl said, and Sonia cupped both her hands and breathed on them until a smile appeared.
    â€œDo you want a birdie?”
    I had relieved Sonia of the bowl so she could conjure the smile. Now I thrust it at the child. Her mother asked, “What’s that you’re giving out?”
    â€œOrigami cranes.”
    â€œWhat for?”
    â€œThey’re pretty,” I said.
    She frowned. “Okay,” she said to the little girl, “just take one and say thank you. Jeremy! Wait for us! Say thank you.”
    â€œThank you,” the girl told Sonia.
    â€œYou’re very welcome,” Sonia told her, standing again. “Stay warm.”
    As soon as the woman turned her back, Sonia stuck out her tongue. “She doesn’t want her kid to have a paper crane. It’s okay, though, to rot her teeth with candy. People are so stupid. They hate us on this street. Have you noticed? They never talk to us. The woman next door gives me a dirty look every time I walk by. They think we’re Communists. If you want peace you must be a Communist. It’s stupid.”
    â€œAre you Communists?” I asked.
    â€œNo!”
    More children came. Sonia stepped in front of them too and, scooping a crane from the bowl, flew it, twittering it into a sack. The children watched her, rapt. I watched their father, saw him take note of the house, its psoriatic paint and overgrown yard, then Sonia—her mournful hair, the button on her anorak: Think Peace . She was speaking to his children in birdsong, exuding harmlessness, but his lip curled anyway and he bustled them along.
    And so it went, all Sonia’s