“Look,” I finally said, “I don’t want to argue anymore. I’m dead tired. I’m going to bed.” I put my hand on the door handle.
“Sure,” said Dad, “run off, now that the argument is getting tough for you.”
“Frank,” said Mom, exasperated, “let him go. You two could argue all night, and you’ve already woken up half the neighborhood.”
He sat down and waved his hand at me, looking away. “All right, go— get out of here.”
I went. When I got up to my room, Marion was nowhere in sight, but my brother George, who was a year younger than I was and as conservative as they came, was sitting on my bed. He was all I needed on top of Dad.
“Gee, John,” he said, pushing his thick glasses back up his nose with one finger pointed right between his eyes, “why did you come home and get Dad all riled up? You know his heart has been bad.”
“I don’t do it on purpose, George, okay? Now get out of here and leave me alone, will you. I’m going to sleep.”
I started to unbutton my shirt, but George didn’t move.
“I don’t see how you can disagree with him so much,” he went on. “He’s been through so much more than you have. He knows so much more about life.”
I stopped dead, my shirt half-off, hanging from one shoulder.
“I can’t believe you just said that. He doesn’t know more about my life, George. I’m the one who has to live it, not him. Now, get out of here and let me do it.”
I finished taking off my shirt and started on my jeans. George just shook his head sadly.
“You two are going to kill each other one of these days. I hate having to mediate between you. I’m too young to be doing that.”
I took off my pants and tossed them over my desk chair.
“Let’s face it, George, you’re older than you and me combined. You were born old. And nobody’s asking you to mediate, so don’t cry to me about it.”
I could see I’d hurt his feelings, so I sat down next to him.
“Look, I know you’re trying to keep the peace, and I appreciate it. But it’s a hopeless cause. Dad and I are just too different.”
“Too much alike, you mean.”
“In temperament, yes. In our politics, no. Whatever causes it, we just don’t get along. You can’t change that.”
He started tracing the squares on my old plaid bedspread with his index finger, not looking at me.
“Marion and Ruth woke up and started crying when they heard you arguing out there. Steven woke up, too, this time.”
That was a guilt trip I didn’t need. I was crazy about Marion and Ruth and Steven—and George knew it. All three of them were still in grade school, Marion about to start seventh grade, Ruth fifth, and Steven kindergarten. I would do anything in my power to avoid hurting them, but some things weren’t under my control.
I put my face in my hands and shook my head, then flopped back on the bed, putting my hands behind my head and staring up at the ceiling.
“Maybe it’s time for me to move out of here,” I finally said.
“That’s what I think,” said George. “You’re not around much, anyway. I think you and Dad would both be better off, and so would the rest of us.”
“Okay. I’ll think about it. I’m not sure how I’d afford it, but I’ll think about it.”
I sat up.
“Now, get the hell out of here, George. I’ve had it for one night.”
George mumbled goodnight and left, closing the door behind him. He didn’t seem entirely satisfied with the outcome of the conversation. Maybe he’d hoped to get a date for my departure.
Tough, I said to myself. I can’t go until the time is right. I’ll know when I’m ready.
I flipped off the overhead light, pulled down the covers, and flopped face-first onto my bed. It was too hot to put anything over me. I listened to George rustle around in the next room and finally get into bed, then I tossed and turned for another hour, until exhaustion finally brought sleep.
3
STEVEN WOKE ME AT EIGHT O’CLOCK the next morning by barreling into my room and jumping on top of me. He was five years old, small and wiry, and he often acted younger than his age, especially around me. I suppose it was because I had always been his big brother, Mark being long gone when he was born, and Jim having left for the service not long afterward. Also, I indulged him and acted like a little kid, myself, when I was around him. He brought it out in me.
I tossed him off onto the carpet and sat on him, being careful not to put my full weight on his body. I was wearing only my underpants, so he tried to tickle my sides, but he did it too hard, so it was easy for me to control my laughter. Finally, he got frustrated.
“C’mon, John, let me up!”
“Not until you tell me who your favorite brother is.”
His eyes lit up. We’d been playing variations on this game since he’d first learned all our names.
“Is Mark your favorite brother?” I asked.
“No!” he shouted.
“Is Jim your favorite brother?”
“No!”
“Is George your favorite brother?”
“No!”
“Then who is your favorite brother?”
He got a devilish grin on his face.
“No one!”
I started tickling him unmercifully. He thrashed around, laughing hysterically and begging me to stop. Finally, I did.
“Okay, one more chance. Who is your favorite brother?”
“John is!”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure!”
“Will I always be?”
“Always!”
“Okay, then.”
I got off of him. He leapt to his feet, ran to the door, and turned back toward me. “I had my fingers crossed!” he cried and went flying through George’s room and down the hall.
I laughed, and that segued into a huge yawn. I wanted nothing more than to lay down and go back to sleep, but I had a nine-thirty psychology class, and I was determined to make that day more fruitful than the previous one. After psychology came creative writing, then a sociology lecture at one-thirty. After that, since I didn’t have to work, I figured I’d study until it was time go to Claire and Tony’s for supper.
Remembering the shoplifting arrest, I shivered, though the day was already warm. I was still shaken by it. I wondered if it meant I’d have a criminal record for the rest of my life, something prospective employers would uncover routinely. It was hard to believe I could be tainted for life because of stealing a ninety-five cent paperback, but it was a distinct possibility. Depressing.
I showered, put on my jeans and a fresh t-shirt, and filled my army surplus knapsack with all the textbooks and notebooks I’d need for the day. Then I lugged it downstairs with me. The kitchen smelled of coffee, fried eggs, and dishwashing soap. Only Marion was still at the table. She was finishing a powdered sugar doughnut and a glass of milk. Dad was at work. So was George, off to a high-paying summer “slave” at the Gisholt factory. Mom was in the basement doing laundry, and I could hear Ruth out in the driveway with Steven, trying to teach him how to play hopscotch.
“Hi,” mumbled Marion.
I returned her greeting. She was the only shy one in the family. She hung back most of the time in family conversations and, perhaps because of that, was a keen observer for someone her age. I felt very close to her, and she to me, though our affection was rarely verbalized.
I poured myself a bowl of Cheerios, put milk on them, and sat down across the table from her. The sun was streaming in the pair of open windows at her back, surrounding her with a halo. We smiled at one another, but then she looked down at her plate, hiding her light-brown eyes. She seemed nervous around me. My argument with Dad the night before must have gotten to her.
“How’s your summer going, kiddo?” I asked.
“Okay,” she replied, her head still down.
“You getting ready for school to start up again?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Did you get a new pencil case and a bunch of new folders?”
She looked up, offended.
“C’mon, John–only little kids get excited about stuff like that.”
“Like hell! Oops. Hope Mom didn’t hear that.” I looked toward the basement door. “I still get excited about stuff like that, and I’m in college.”
“But you’re different.”
“What do you mean, different?”
She thought about it for a moment.
“I guess it’s that you still seem a lot like a kid. Most older people try to act so grown up. You don’t seem to want to.”
Out of the mouths of babes …
“Do you think that’s good or bad?”
She thought again. “Sometimes I like it and sometimes I don’t.”
I smiled, which seemed to relieve her tension a bit. “Me, too,” I said.
I reached across table and chucked her under the chin.
“Thanks for being honest with me, kiddo.”
I wolfed down the rest of my cereal, got up from the table, and put my bowl into the dishwasher. I double-checked my knapsack to make sure I had everything, slung it over my shoulder and groaned. It felt like it was full of rocks. I looked at the kitchen clock and realized I’d never make it to the bus I needed to take in order to get to class on time. I’d have to hitchhike.
“Tell Mom I left, will you, Marion?”
“Sure. Good luck with your weightlifting.”
“Not funny,” I said, shifting the bag higher on shoulder.
I walked the few blocks to Lake Drive as fast as I could with the heavy knapsack and got a ride pretty quickly from a guy my age in brand-new red Volvo sports car. His hair was long, but perfectly trimmed, and he wore a crisp white t-shirt and cut-off jeans that looked like they’d been trimmed by a New York designer. His manicured hands were wrapped comfortably around the leather-covered steering wheel.
“So, you’re a student, huh?” he asked.
“Yeah. You?”
“Not any more. I just dropped my student deferment, so why the hell go to school? I’m working at my old man’s investment firm. I don’t do much–run a few errands and shit–but he pays me a bundle. It beats the hell out of studying–not that I ever did much of that.”
He laughed as if this was the funniest thing he’d ever said. I waited for him to recover.
“Aren’t you afraid of getting drafted?”
“Hell, no! You think I’d be doing this if I thought there was any chance I’d end up in ’Nam? No way, man! The draft counselor at school told me they definitely won’t call any more numbers in the draft lottery this year. It’s an off-year election or some shit like that. My old man says the same thing, and he hangs out with congressmen and senators. I dropped my student deferment the minute I heard that, and by New Year’s Eve I’ll be able to tell the draft board to kiss my ass. Then it’s dope and pussy forever!”
He downshifted for one of the sharp curves on Lake Drive, which follows the meandering coastline of Lake Michigan, and then popped back into third and accelerated. The Volvo purred beneath us.
Definitely no more numbers called for the rest of the year? If he really knew what he was talking about, this was big news! Was it possible I’d escape fighting in that ugly little war without leaving the country or going to prison? The possibility was exhilarating.
I looked out at the huge, beautiful houses that lined both sides of Lake Drive. No doubt, this guy was from a similar house in Fox Point or Bay-side, further north. It seemed unfair that kids who were already financially privileged always had the right information about how to get themselves into good situations and out of bad ones. I thought about guys I’d known in high school, guys from working-class families who didn’t have the aptitude for college, who took factory jobs after high school and got drafted right away. A couple of them were already dead, while guys like the Volvo driver concentrated on “dope and pussy,” doing just enough to get by. There was no justice in the world.
But I was one of the privileged, too. My family didn’t have the wealth and status of that guy’s family, but I was educated and I had the right information and I was going to use it. I decided then and there I would visit the UWM draft counselor that afternoon. I didn’t like being in the same class as the Volvo driver, but I consoled myself with the fact that I was morally opposed to the war, not just out for a good time.
The bastard refused to go a couple blocks out of his way to drop me off on Downer, so I could make my class on time. This after he’d just finished telling me how he could come and go as he pleased in his cushy job. Why was it the people with the most are so often the least generous?
The classes were a piece of cake that day. It was the last week of the summer session, so the atmosphere was relaxed and casual. The profs and TA’s knew it was our job to get ourselves ready for exams, and they weren’t about to go too far out of their way to help us. They were too busy mentally packing up beer and suntan lotion for their end-of-summer excursions. Early in the afternoon, I slipped out of a rambling sociology lecture to go to the draft counseling office in the student union. I avoided passing the bookstore. I had no need for a visual reminder of the previous day’s humiliation.
The draft counseling office was about the size of a study carrel in the library. When the counselor saw me through the glass and wire mesh door, he stood up to move his visitor’s chair, so I could open the door, which swung inward. Once I was in, I had to step behind his chair, while the door swung shut and he repositioned my chair beside his desk. I sat down and he offered me his bony hand, apologizing for the cramped quarters and explaining it was all the university would give him. I shook his hand and told him it was okay.
The counselor’s name was Carl Lindstrom. He was tall and emaciated and balding, though he was only a few years older than I was. His face was unshaven. He was gentle and solicitous, speaking in a voice so soft that, even in that tiny space, I had to lean forward to hear him. He confirmed everything I’d heard from the Volvo driver, saying he was certain there would be no more draft numbers drawn for the duration of the year. All I had to do was drop my student deferment and, by the end of the year, my eligibility would be over. I would be free from the threat of being drafted.
I couldn’t quite believe my ears. Ever since high school, when my opposition to the war had crystallized, I’d agonized over what I would do if I was drafted. That threat was the whetstone on which I’d sharpened my social and political beliefs. And it was about to be taken away. My life stretched out before me, uninhibited by the threat of violent disruption through imprisonment or emigration. I’d played the lottery and I’d won. I was both relieved and bewildered.
Carl empathized with my feelings. He told me they were the normal ones, under the circumstances. He asked if I was morally opposed to the war, and I said I was.
“Then,” he added, “you’ll also have to deal with feelings of guilt over having been spared the hardships others will face. But I have something that might help you assuage that guilt.”
A trace of a smile crossed his serious face as he pulled a mimeographed sheet from the middle drawer of his desk and handed it to me.
“This is about the Social Action Center, an organization with a staff of one–me–sponsored by the Quakers. We offer information about the war, the draft, and other social issues, and we run a soup kitchen and a house where runaway teenagers can come for advice and a place to crash. We’re always looking for volunteers.”
I looked over the haphazardly formatted information sheet, which had a big peace symbol at the top.
“I don’t know if you’re interested in any of the other things we do, but you might consider getting involved with our anti-war activities.”
“I’m definitely interested,” I said–and I was, in theory, though I wasn’t much of joiner.
“Then, why don’t you keep that information and stop in at our office, sometime. We’re on the corne
r of Farwell and Brady, second floor.”
I said I would, and rose to leave. Carl rose, too. I thanked him, then we did the dance with the chair all over again, and I left.
I walked across the huge concrete plain in the center of the campus toward the library. I was still in a daze over the news about the draft. It was as if I’d been training intensely for years to meet a tough opponent in the boxing ring, thoroughly terrified by his power, only to have him not show up for the match. It would take a while to believe I was going to win by default. It was a bit of a letdown.
I spent the rest of the afternoon engrossed in studying for my exams, only occasionally staring out the window to watch clouds rolling in from over Lake Michigan. It was easy to apply myself with the supper at Russo’s to look forward to. At 4:30 sharp, I snapped shut my sociology book, packed up my knapsack, and went outside. The cloud cover had blocked the sun, reducing the heat, so I decided to walk the mile and a half to Brady Street. I went down Maryland Avenue, through the tree-lined residential area south of the university, and then took Farwell past the familiar old neighborhood bars on North Avenue, and past the storefronts, small factories, and apartment buildings further south. Traffic was steady on Farwell, but nothing, I knew, like it would be on Prospect, a block east, where commuters would be streaming home from downtown.
As I walked, I couldn’t help reflecting on the change that had occurred in my life that afternoon. With the burden of facing the draft off my shoulders, my step was lighter and my pace quicker. I couldn’t wait to tell Claire and Tony about my good fortune.
When I arrived at the door that led to their stairwell, I noticed that a cigarette butt had wedged itself underneath, preventing the door from closing tight. I pushed open the door, pulled out the butt so it would close tightly, and went up the steps, two at a time. Just as I was about to knock, I heard raised voices inside, from the back of the apartment.
“Well, fuck you!” I heard Tony say. “I work my ass off all day and then come home to this shit.”
Claire’s voice was less distinct, but still audible. “I work all day, too, you know, Tony. It’s no picnic here, either.”
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