“Want a lift home?” Raahi asks me. He gestures back up the hill to the parking lot, where his car is presumably still sitting with all the doors unlocked.
“No thanks, it’s nice out,” I say.
“Raahi,” says Sarena, “have you gotten any more news?” Sarena always asks about this. I feel awkward broaching the subject, but for some reason she and Raahi seem able to talk about it.
“No,” he replies. “I doubt there’ll be any at this point.”
“Have you started . . . packing?” I ask.
“A little,” he says. “I’m not supposed to bring much. You get on the bus with just a duffel bag. But I’m putting away other stuff, for Mom—so she doesn’t have to do it.”
There’s a lot in these words. Raahi doesn’t say, for instance, in case I don’t come back, though he’s surely thinking it. He’s said as much during the past few weeks.
Raahi has been drafted. He got his card last month, and he’ll be leaving for basic training next Tuesday. In all honesty, I’m a little excited for him—jealous, even. I don’t say it, because he’s obviously scared, but it kind of sounds like an adventure. It has crossed my mind to volunteer when I’m old enough (I’m barely sixteen right now).
“Heading back up the hill?” Raahi asks Sarena.
“Yeah,” she says.
“Can I carry your trumpet?”
“Sure, okay,” says Sarena, handing it over.
The two of them say goodbye to me and head back up. I watch them go—short Sarena and lanky Raahi. Since he got his card, his demeanor has totally changed from what I’ve always known. I don’t think I’d ever seen him in a bad mood before the last few weeks. He isn’t the first senior at school to have his name come up, but he’s the first who’s a friend of mine.
I continue ruminating on the matter as I walk toward home. The U.S. isn’t technically at war yet. A month and a half ago we closed our borders to people from countries with “questionable sympathies,” but few shots have been fired. It’s about looking tough for now. The most popular quote from the television pundits so far has been “Speak softly and carry a big stick,” which President Roosevelt said over a century ago. Several commentators have pointed out the possibility that this African proverb originated in the very country we’re about to attack. It’s strange to think that the stick mentioned in that proverb is partly composed of seniors from Central High.
The other term that’s discussed frequently is victory. When you go to war, it’s important to have a clear sense of what you mean by victory, so you know when to stop fighting. Something about that strikes me funny. I imagine a football team arguing over the nature of victory. It seems kind of obvious. For instance, World War II: the free world fought against fascism. That’s pretty clear. At school I learned that World War II is called the Good War.
World War II is the war my grandfather Gonzalo fought in. He disappeared somewhere in Africa, maybe Tunisia. He died serving his country, according to his conscience. I think he’s a hero, and so do my dad and my aunt Ana. If I had the chance to make the same choice as Gonzalo, I’d follow his footsteps. I would fight.
Aunt Ana and Dad love to talk about Gonzalo. He was the son of a peasant farmer in Mexico, and spoke imperfect English. It’s because of him that my grandmother Fidelia, whom I called Abuela, moved here; because of him that my dad was born here; because of him that I’m growing up here, barely sixteen years old and poised at the start of the next war.
I’m still thinking about Raahi when I reach my block. As I turn onto my street, I encounter a sudden and strong smell of flowers—hyacinths or hydrangeas (which is the one that blooms in early spring?). I breathe deep. It’s one of my most favorite scents—not a nice, neat smell, but a kind of wild one. You have to wrestle with it. Sometimes it makes me sneeze, and it always sends my mind in romantic directions. I recall something Raahi told me the other day: that he has not been kissed. He’s eighteen, about to ship off to war. For a moment, I imagine a fantasy for him in which a beautiful girl kisses him just as he’s about to step onto a boat/plane/train.
Iris, who’s my best friend, hasn’t been kissed either. This is especially perplexing to me, because not only is she nice, funny, and unquestionably a knockout, but she was asked to freshman prom by nine different guys. She said no to all of them. I can’t fault her for being picky—she deserves someone special—but even I went to freshman prom. Iris stayed home and played Scrabble with her parents.
My date to freshman prom was Norbert Ganz. We didn’t kiss—we were just friends. I smile now thinking of Norbert, who doesn’t even attend Central High anymore. I may not ever see him again, but I have the feeling that as I get older it will become pretty funny that the name of my date to freshman prom was Norbert Ganz. Norb, we called him.
My apartment building is an old five-story brick rectangle nestled between two other five-story brick rectangles. (They are all very nice rectangles, well-maintained and with pretty flourishes at each cornice.) I enter the lobby and walk the red carpet to the numbered mailboxes on the wall, by the long mirror. I watch my reflection pass across and observe myself. I’m kind of a frumpy girl, but not uncute, with a frame that’s both scrawny and chubby (which could perhaps be my miracle if the Church ever beatifies me: “St. Gabriela, it is Said, was Blessede by the Lorde to be both Scrawnye and Chubbye”). My curly brown hair is a mix of my dad’s dark, wiry curls and my mom’s wavy, blond locks. I’ve got light brown skin and a handful of freckles across my nose.
The mailboxes are set into a massive iron rectangle, as old as the building itself. I retrieve apartment 305’s mail from its keyed cubby and proceed to the elevator, which is also as old as the building. It’s the kind that has an iron accordion gate you pull back. When the car arrives, I enter and select floor three. I leaf idly through the stack of mail as the room glides up. There’s a bank statement and an ad for a sporting goods store. The gas bill. A dumb magazine Dad reads called Fiscal Frontrunners. Then there is one more letter.
The elevator dings. The doors open.
They wait.
They close.
I’m still inside, staring at the final envelope. It’s light red. There’s no stamp on it, no return address, and no address for the recipient. There’s only a first name. My name.
It’s a Death Letter.
The elevator begins to descend—someone has called it back to the lobby. Quickly, I cover the letter in the other mail, so when the doors open on the ground floor I appear to Mr. Sanders to be absorbed in a deep (though unlikely) meditation on closeout golf cleats. I step out and he steps in.
I return outside and start walking. Dad’s magazine and the other mail falls through my fingers, and I grip the letter tight, crumpling it a little, thinking that it cannot be there. Not for me. I’m in a daze. I take a left turn and a right turn, moving absently, my mind possessed with a static turbulence, like boiling water.
I find myself standing outside of St. Mary’s, my church. It’s a long building with a humble steeple, stretching for half the block. I enter through the double doors. I dip my fingers in the baptismal font and cross myself, then proceed along the dark nave, structured in even rows of pews. The church is hung with somber banners, quotes about remembrance, mortality, repentance—the sober mist of Lent has begun already to descend here, though it doesn’t start until next week. There are a few people inside, widely dispersed, all deep in prayer, heads bowed. No one notices me.
I slide into an empty pew, lay down my book bag, and hold the red letter before me. Hands shaking, I quietly tear it open and remove a single sheet of rose-colored paper and a rose-colored return envelope with the name HERCULE typed on it. The letter is only a few lines long, but for a moment I can’t read it. My brain rejects the alphabet. I see shapes, but they are hieroglyphs—not even hieroglyphs: bugs. I focus my eyes with a great act of will, and run them over the words.
Dear Gabriela,
You’ve been chosen for departure. How about next Wednesd
ay? That gives you a week. Save a dance for me.
—Hercule
There are tears on my cheeks, which leaked out without me noticing. I dry my eyes on my sleeve, then stand and pull my book bag over my shoulder. I exit the church and head home.
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About the Author
STEVEN ARNTSON is the author of The Wikkeling and The Wrap-Up List. He writes books and music from his home in Seattle, Washington, and often reminisces about his years in Iowa, where he went to graduate school at the Iowa Writers’ Workshop in Iowa City. Visit his website at www.stevenarntson.com.
The Trap Page 16