Dawn of a New Day

by Gilbert, Morris

  It was not his purpose to hear the speaker, for he knew what the rhetoric would be. The story, he had decided, would be based on the protestors themselves. Who are they? Where did they come from? Why are they so vehemently opposed to the war? Questions like this he had filed in his mind, and he began talking to a diminutive teenager who stood next to him. She was smoking marijuana, and the acrid smell of the joint was sharp in Mark’s nose.

  “It looks like a good rally,” Mark said.

  The girl, who had dishwater blond hair that needed washing, turned to grin at him. Her teeth were not good, and she obviously had not bathed that morning. He noticed also that her fingernails had dirt under them, and her fingers were stained yellow with nicotine.

  “Yeah,” she said, her speech slightly slurred. “You come out to these things a lot?”

  “Not much,” Mark said. “I have to work for a living.”

  “Yeah?” she said. “What do you do?”

  “I sell paper supplies.”

  The girl giggled. “What a drag,” she said. Her eyes took him in in a speculative fashion, and she said, “What do you say after the meeting we go out and celebrate?”

  Mark nodded. “Might be all right,” he said, thinking that she was just doped enough to tell him the absolute truth about herself.

  The meeting started, as had the others, with a sixteen-year-old philosopher who wore a guitar and was singing Pete Seeger’s and Bob Dylan’s protest songs. He was a mediocre performer, but the crowd did not seem to notice.

  Mark felt he should get more reactions from the people, and he winked at the girl. “I’ll see you after the meeting.”

  “Yeah. We’ll have a party.”

  Mark moved around the crowd and noticed that the attention was not strictly paid to the protestor doing the singing. He passed through a motorcycle gang and eyed them carefully as a prospect for future interviews.

  He began talking instead to an older woman who stuck out like a sore thumb. She was neatly dressed; her silver hair looked as if it had been done by an expert hairdresser, and as he moved to stand beside her, he said, “Hello. It’s a big crowd today.”

  “Yes it is.” The woman turned to look at him, taking in his white turtleneck and clean-cut appearance. “You don’t look like so many of these other people,” she said. “I wish more of our kind would come out here.”

  Wondering what “our kind” was, Mark decided it meant not hippies. “I guess our kind are working,” he said.

  “What is your job?”

  “I sell paper supplies for the Acme Printing Company.”

  The woman nodded briefly, listened to the song, and then her lips tightened in a bitter line. She stood there silently, and finally she turned to Mark and said, “This horrible war! This is all I can think of to influence the president to stop it.”

  “You don’t think we should go on?”

  “With this terrible thing? Of course not!” She stared at him with antagonism beginning to show. “You don’t believe in the war, do you?”

  “Well, I suppose the president’s having a hard time. We’re into it, and it seems wrong to just pick up and leave after all the soldiers who have died.”

  The woman turned to face him, her voice rising. “My son was killed six months ago in this useless slaughter!” Her voice got out of control, and those standing around began to look at Mark. There were scowls, and the crowd began to grow restless.

  Mark saw he had gotten himself into the wrong light, but still the woman was voicing what many respectable Americans felt. He continued to play the role of a man who was not totally in favor of stopping the fighting, which proved to be a mistake.

  “Well, looky here. We’ve got a patriot.”

  Mark turned quickly to see that the black-jacketed motorcycle gang had moved closer to form a semicircle around him. Three of them were of rather average size, but the speaker was a huge man about six foot four and weighing, Mark estimated, close to three hundred pounds. The sleeves of his jacket were cut off, leaving his arms free, and they bulged with heavy muscles. He was, Mark figured, a wrestler and a weight lifter. He had the ponderous strength of one of those, and his small eyes were glittering with a reptilian ferocity. He came right up, and Mark could smell the rank odor of marijuana, and sweat, and stale beer. The man reached out and grabbed Mark’s arm, his grip like a Stilson wrench. “You’re one of the president’s men, are you? Why ain’t you over there fightin’ if you’re such a patriot?”

  Mark tried to free himself, but without breaking loose violently, it was impossible. He eyed the others who all wore identical clothing, what amounted to uniforms. “I didn’t say I was in favor of it,” he began lamely. “I just don’t see—” He was cut off, however, for the four began laughing raucously. Another member of the gang, a small man with a feral appearance in his thin face, took his other arm so that Mark was pinioned. He began to curse, and Mark knew that he was in a poor situation. Quickly he glanced over the crowd, and from his superior height saw policemen wearing riot helmets and carrying sticks.

  Got to get out of this quick! He decided to draw his strength into one motion and rip himself free from his captors. He threw his arms up violently, heaved himself backward, and threw his smaller assailant off balance so that he staggered, but it was only with a second effort that he managed to rip himself free from the gorilla-like grip of the other. He turned and made one or two steps toward the police, but a mighty blow struck him at the base of his skull. It drove him to the ground and sent the world around him in a kaleidoscope fashion. He knew what was coming next, and he rolled into a ball to avoid the kick. It caught him on the kidney, and the pain made him gasp; then he turned his head to see a boot coming toward him and tried to roll away. But it caught him in the temple, and the world exploded in a huge, orange burst of light….

  When he awoke, Mark lay for a moment in utter confusion. His head was pounding as if someone were striking it with a railroad spike tapped by a sixteen-pound sledge. He groaned, and voluntarily lifting his hand, felt the bandage around his head. But in lifting his arm, pain suddenly raced through his chest, and it caught his breath for a moment.

  Slowly he opened his eyes and saw that he was in a hospital. There was no mistaking the stark bareness of the room, the single bed that he lay on, and the sterile, shiny white walls and ceiling. Memory came to him, and he muttered, “They must’ve had a holiday kicking me.” He took a breath, and as he did the pain came back again. He lay there for a moment, then saw the cord with the buzzer looped around the aluminum rails. Reaching out very carefully, he punched the button, then let the arm fall back. Almost at once the door opened, and a short, heavy young man of about twenty-five moved across the room and looked down at him. “Well,” he said, “you’re back with us. How do you feel?”

  “Like I was hit by a truck.”

  “That might have been better.” A grin touched the chubby face, and the speaker’s blue eyes considered Mark. He reached over, took his pulse, then leaned over and peered into his eyes carefully. “Well, you’re lucky,” he said. “No broken bones, and no concussion, it looks like. But you do have some ribs that are sprung and cracked pretty bad.”

  “How long have I been here?” Mark licked his lips, which were dry, and tried to sit up.

  “Better not try that,” the nurse said. “I’ll crank you up a little bit.” As he manipulated the controls, Mark slowly came to a half-sitting position. He said, “They brought you in about six hours ago. I was in the ER, and you were in bad shape! You want some water?”

  “Yes, please.”

  Mark gulped down the water, some of it spilling down his chin, and the nurse chattered on happily, giving a list of Mark’s injuries, which were not encouraging. Even as he spoke, the door opened, and Jake Taylor walked into the room, his face tense with worry. “How is he?” he asked the short nurse.

  “Going to live, but he’s not going to be much good for anything for a couple weeks.” He turned and left the room, saying, �
��I’ll be back to give you some medication after your visit.”

  Jake shook his head. “Well, this wasn’t the best idea we ever had, was it?”

  “No, it wasn’t. If I had kept my mouth shut, it would never have happened.” He recounted how he had gotten into such a condition and said, “I guess I’m not much of an investigative reporter.”

  “You’re coming home with us. Stephanie’s got something for what ails you. She always feeds us chicken soup, no matter what kind of sickness we have.”

  Mark was glad that he would not have to stay in the hospital. That afternoon he went home with Taylor, and for the next week he moved slowly and carefully. As usual, he enjoyed Betsy and Forest, and he spent hours playing board games with them.

  It was on the fifth day of his stay at Stephanie’s that Jake came home with a small package of letters in a rubber band. “I stopped by and picked up your mail. These came for you at the office,” he said, tossing them on the table. He sat down and began to recount the affairs at the paper, paying only scant attention to Mark. Finally, however, he looked up and saw that Mark was staring at a single sheet of paper, his face pale. He had discarded all the bandages, but there was still puffiness and discoloration on his right temple. Jake did not like to pry, but Mark was so obviously shaken that he asked, “What is it, partner? Bad news?”

  When Mark looked up, his eyes were filled with grief. “My best friend in high school, John Tyler. He’s been killed in Vietnam.” His voice was tense. “This letter’s from his mother; she’s a widow. John was her only son.” He was silent for a moment, then he dropped the paper and clasped his hands together. “John was a good guy,” he said. “He played tight end at the University of Arkansas on a scholarship. I was going with him—that was always the plan, but I decided to do something else. I–I hadn’t even heard that John had joined up.”

  Taylor sat there, understanding some of the pain in the younger man. He had lost a good friend himself in Vietnam, and finally after a time he said, “This war! It’s chopping our men to pieces.”

  Mark appeared not to hear. “He always loved dogs,” he said. “Every stray dog in the world that he found, he would take ’em home. His mother was so aggravated with him, but he never gave her a minute’s trouble.” He lifted his eyes and stared out the window for a moment, then murmured, “And now he’s dead. It’s all over. He’ll never get married, never have those kids he should have had.”

  Taylor sat there for a while, but he saw that Mark did not want to talk. He moved into the kitchen and told Stephanie the news. She stood there with compassion in her eyes. “The poor boy,” she said. “And Mark’s taking it hard, you say?”

  His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “He’s not going to shake this off so easy.”

  Jake Taylor was right. Mark could not shake off the death of John Tyler. He stayed at Jake’s for another two days, saying little, and he was glum and lifeless. Mark knew he was casting a pall on the place. Thanking Jake and Stephanie, he moved back to his apartment, but he found no peace there either.

  One night he stopped at Prue’s apartment after he’d been walking the streets. She was surprised when she opened the door. “What are you doing out at this time of night, Mark?”

  “I’ve got to talk to you, Prue.” Mark stepped inside as she invited him in, and sitting on the couch, he began to speak of what had happened. Prue took her seat beside him, her eyes filled with compassion. He ended by saying, “I’ve decided to join the Marines, Prue.”

  Shock ran through Prue Deforge, and a wave of fear followed. She could not speak for a moment, so disturbed his statement had made her, then she said, “Mark, don’t do anything rash.”

  “I’ve got to do something. Oh, I know it’s foolish, and I won’t change anything, but I’ve got to do something.”

  Prue had a swift thought. “Let’s go home. You can talk to your dad. He was a fighting man in the last war. He can give you some good counsel.”

  Mark looked up with surprise. “And you’d go with me?”

  “Of course I would. I’d like to get away and rest for a while anyway.”

  Mark’s parents were surprised to see them, for they had not announced they were coming. Prue whispered, “Come to my house after you have talked to your father,” and Mark agreed.

  Mark said nothing for the first day of his visit, but late the next afternoon he drew his father aside outside and said, “I’ve got to talk to you, Dad.” The two of them walked slowly down the path that led to the lower pasture, and Mark poured out his problems to his father. He finished by saying, “I’m joining the Corps, Dad, if you think it’s right.”

  Les Stevens stared at this tall son of his, and memories of combat came rushing back to him. It had always been his fervent hope that his son would never have to face death the way he had. Now he saw, however, that the dreaded moment had come. He began to speak, talking about the country and the bad things that had happened; then he added, “I guess you know my line about things like this.”

  “You mean what Stephen Decatur said?”

  Les nodded. “That’s right. To our country may it always be right—but right or wrong our country.” He reached out and put his hand on his son’s shoulders. “You’re a man now, Mark, and you have to make your own decision, just like I did. Just like every man does. I’m ashamed of the decisions that some young men I know, men from this town, have made. I hate like blazes to see you go, but if you do, I’ll be right behind you. And proud of you too.”

  Mark felt a warmth flow through him, and he said huskily, “Thanks, Dad—I guess I needed to hear that.”

  “We’ll have to tell your mother. She’ll take it hard.”

  They went inside the house, and it was difficult. Mark left half an hour later, his head down. His mother said little, but he saw the pain in her eyes. Crossing the highway, he made his way down the Deforge driveway and found Prue sitting on the front porch. It was late afternoon, and shadows were growing long. She came down and said, “Did you tell them?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t easy.”

  “Let’s take a walk, Mark,” Prue suggested. They moved down the path to the stream where they had had so many walks before, and when they got to the creek, they stood for a long time, letting the silence of the place sink into them. The swifts were doing their acrobatic dance in the air, turning and rolling, and for a while they watched them.

  Finally Prue whispered, “We had so many good times here, didn’t we, Mark?”

  “We’ll have them again.”

  “No, I don’t think we can ever be that happy.” Prue shook her head. “That’s strange, because I had an unhappy childhood, always too tall, always doing so poorly in school.” She turned to him, and the fragrance of her hair was like a drug to him. Her face was lifted, and she said quietly, “You helped me through some hard times, Mark. Even though you were always going with other girls, and so popular, and I was a nobody, you always had time for me.”

  “You’re not a nobody now.” Mark studied her face, her dark eyes and dark hair. There was such character in her face, in the full lips and the deep-set eyes that observed him with such warmth. Her figure was the envy of so many girls now, and he thought of the angular leanness that had been hers when she was growing up. Something took him then, coming to him as almost a revelation. He said quietly, “You’ve grown up, Prue. I’ve been thinking of you for so long as the girl I grew up with. All arms and legs, and always sort of sad.”

  “That’s what I was. I guess I still am.”

  “Not now,” Mark said. The summer heat lay across the land, but it had grown cool now. From far off came the sounds of cattle lowing, and the cry of a night bird was a melodious melody that came to them as they stood there.

  Prudence looked up at Mark, and a longing came to her. All of her life, it seemed, she had been alone except for her parents—and for this young man that stood looking down at her. She had known for a long time that she was in love with Mark Stevens, but it had been a h
opeless love. One that she never thought would be returned. He had always been the popular one, the one all the girls wanted to go with, the star quarterback, the hero, and she had been just Prue Deforge, an object of ridicule for so much of her life.

  Now, however, as she stood there breathing the fragrance of the land and looking up into his face, she knew that he might never come home again, and a great pity came to her. She suddenly knew the hungers that come to a lonely woman and recognized that she had put childhood and adolescence behind her. With a boldness that slightly shocked her, she reached up, put her arms around his neck, and placed herself against him. She felt the shock run through him as her soft curves flattened out, and she pulled his head down and whispered, “Kiss me, Mark.”

  Mark put his arms around her and lowered his head. Her lips were soft and yearning and willing under his. There was an innocence in them, but at the same time the fullness of a woman’s passion. She held him tightly, and the touch of her lips and the clasp of her arms stirred him as he had never been stirred before. He clung to her, pressing her closer still, and as he did, the old hungers revived and seized him. He lifted his head and whispered, “Oh, Prue, there’s such a sweetness in you.”