The China Syndrome, The Price Of Silence

"You ain't gonna get what you want. I'm not going to get what I want.
Nobody wins. Such is the price of Silence."

My grandfather said that just before he died. He was talking to God. I was just a kid from the city hiding in the barn just 'cause I wanted to hide out. Visits to Gramp's ranch were like heading to a foreign country, never really sure of the rules of engagement. I remember asking myself if it really was OK to live on such a wonderland ranch - there was so much room to dream.

But when I heard Gramps come slamming his way in it sucked all the air out of the barn and I naturally crouched down in curious fear. He grabbed a pitchfork and stabbed clumps of hay like he wanted to kill them, slinging them angrily from one spot to another. All I could think about was staying out of the way.

"Jesus!" he spat, stopping to gather himself.

Yup, something had set him off alright. Hoped to hell it wasn't something I did. I was known for always doing the wrong thing - The Worst Thing Possible usually. So as I listened to my grandfather continue his string of expletives I frantically scoured my mind for any possible transgressions I may have done. For the life of me I couldn’t come up with any - but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

Then Gramps started in having his conversation. I found out who he was mad at: God.

"You just fucking hate me, don't you you goddam bastard! Why don't you just come down here and kill me you want me dead so goddam bad? You still mad for what we did do Jesus? Is that it? Well, I guess you didn't like his goddam ass too much better considering what you let happen to him. Jesus, there's no living with you!"



Gramps was venting but the steam stayed trapped within, his face redder with each passing word. "What's he so mad for?" I whispered to myself, secretly hoping the words could reach his ears. Startled the crap out of me when he replied out of nowhere: "Why don't you shut the fuck up!" Not that it was truly physically possible, but I scooted back even further in my corner.

"You're so goddam fucking smart, tell me what the fuck I should do! Jesus, I wish I could stick a knife in you the way you stick one in me. I got no way outta this shit! Do you hear me you deaf fucking son-of-a-bitch? No fucking way out!" That's how I was starting to feel too, reluctant witness that I was.

Then he flung the pitchfork away like a hot potato and stilled himself into a volcanic statue. I stopped breathing as well. I thought maybe he was deciding if he was going to kill somebody or not. I'd taken myself off the suspect list at this point - I was annoying but not that annoying - but nearest I could figure he wanted to kill God. Or...

Shit, he wanted to kill himself! I tried brushing the thought away but its wind was too strong. So now what do I do? His agony was like a live wire, snapping and curling every which way and I didn't dare get close to it. Who am I to tell someone suffering this badly to live anyway? Heaven seems so finite while hell is without end. The China Syndrome.



I can't imagine the look on my face at that moment. When I first heard about the China Syndrome it scared the shit out of me, but to witness it? Terrifying. An older cousin told me about it once, me wide-eyed in fear no doubt. She was talking about when a nuclear reactor melts down and if they don't stop it in time then there's no stopping it at all - the core cuts all the way through to China. Had Gramps reached that point?

I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to rush out to him. We'd been famous friends at one point, with me practically begging for return trips. We rode for hours on horses together as I pretended I was Daniel Boone exploring countryside for the first time. Gramps and I were so much alike! He called bullshit on everything same as I did. I'd just grin away when he'd start one of his rants. And he was damn funny too. I smile even now with the remembrance.

But mine was a burning soul and I couldn't resist lighting flame to a grassy field, just to watch it burn in fascination. I can still see my evil little hands striking the matches, pretending they wouldn't really burn. It was never the same after that. Gramps wasn't near as mad as I thought he'd be, saying lightening could have done the same thing. But I didn't know that.

My world inverted. Gramps never said a word to my parents - or anyone - about what I did. Mom and Dad sent me back like usual for my visits, thinking it pleased me. I had bragged on my famous friendship so much there was no taking it back. It was a living thing, clearly meant to last forever. But I was the Judas who destroyed all that while my grandfather remained the fine and noble person I so dearly admired. I was mystified how he tolerated me at all...



Silence consumed every corner of the barn. But it was the silence of a man with a dagger stuck in him as his mouth opens but no words can escape. And that was exactly the look on my grandfather’s face at that moment. A thousand possible responses crossed my mind to speak - all of them wrong, I was not programmed for moments like this. Then Gramps gave me a clue.

"She's gone," he stonily muttered. "What am I supposed to do?"

Did he mean Grandma? But that was two years ago she died - a lifetime ago in the tormented years of my youth. He was still missing her? Needing her even now? Was God so cruel Gramps was to miss her forever? Didn't his needs stop when she died? That would only be fair if you asked me. Nobody did though.

Grandfather pleaded to the ceiling. "I don't know what to do. Please tell me what to do." Then he crumpled to the ground in defeat, spirit wolves tearing his flesh apart, eating him alive. I know what my innocent soul would have done. An innocent soul would have rushed to his grandfather's huddled body and protected him. But I couldn't leave my prison of shame - giving me further sentence, staining my soul. Then I heard his final words on God's silence and how nobody wins...

He'd been funny that morning, cracking me up. I told him I wanted my eggs over easy but he was scrambling them instead, telling me in an accented voice, "We must cook the eggs this way or we lose the war!" It was in reference to his regiment's foreign born cook in WWII, whose excuse for everything was the outcome of the war depended on him doing things his way. Gramps loved the genius of his absurd argument and made the man mythic in my mind. Gramps made everyone seem mythic. To think he put on such a show for me when he was dying inside.

I've been running ever since that moment in the barn, never confessing my crime of silence. Afterwards, if someone gave me something I didn't want, I very politely said thank you. If I got something dear to me, I'd say nothing. I went the opposite way of my feelings before I could betray them like I had my famous friendship - the last of its kind for me. Yes, silence is like the China Syndrome - the destruction never stops.