Full Circle Page 16

  After the exchanging of presents, the Graces went home, bearing with them several Tupperware containers of leftovers along with the blouse and earrings my mother had selected for Patricia from Boscov's, the bottle of Chivas Regal my father had given to Clark, and the scarf my mother had purchased for me to give to Jack. When they were gone, my mother turned to my father, the smile that had been plastered to her face all day wilting a bit.

  "You weren't very nice to Jack," she said.

  "I don't know what you mean," my father replied, dropping into his recliner and opening a National Geographic . "I was perfectly pleasant."

  "I saw the way you shook his hand," my mother continued, not backing down. "Like a fish. I know you, Leonard Brummel. That's the handshake you use for customers you don't like." My father shut the magazine and put it down. "Fine," he said. "Maybe I do think it stinks. That boy's no more a minister than I am. He's just doing this to get out of serving." Fascinated, I leaned against the doorway to the living room and listened. My parents rarely fought, and my mother even more rarely expressed an opinion about anything even remotely political. I was curious to hear her defend Jack.

  "That's easy for you to say," she said, angrily wiping the dining room table with a rag. "You never had to go."

  "But I would have," my father said. "I would have if they'd needed me. It just so happened that the war was over by the time I was old enough."

  "How lucky for you," my mother shot back. "But Jack isn't as fortunate."

  "Neither are all the other boys who are over there," countered my father. "Now, because he won't go, some other kid will have to take his place. Is that right, Alice? Is that right?" "What if it was our boy instead of Jack?" said my mother, stopping her cleaning and pointing at me.

  "What if Ned had drawn number 21, or 16, or 1? What would you think then?" My father's face fell. His gaze moved to the National Geographic in his lap. I followed his eyes and looked at the cover. It showed astronaut Buzz Aldrin standing on the moon. My father stared at the image for a long time, then looked up at my mother.

  "Jack has been a part of this family since the day he was born," he said. "I've watched him grow up right alongside Ned. He might as well be my own son. I don't want to see him hurt any more than I would want to see Ned hurt." He paused before continuing. "But I'd like to think that I raised my son not to run away from something just because he's scared."

  He looked at me then, his eyes meeting mine. I knew he was speaking to me as much as to my mother. I nodded at him, as if agreeing to the unspoken question passing between us. No, I wouldn't run away. He picked up his magazine, opened it, and began reading.

  My mother opened her mouth, as if to rebut him, then snapped it shut. Glancing at me, she went into the kitchen, and a moment later I heard the water running in the sink. I waited a moment, then went in to see her. She was scrubbing gravy from a plate, her hands encased to the elbow in yellow gloves.

  "Men," she said, seeing me. "You're fools. Every last one of you."

  "Dad was just…" I began.

  "Don't," she said, throwing me a look. "Don't you say it. There's no reason that makes it all right for boys to die in a war that has nothing to do with them. None."

  She returned to the dishes, her hand circling so violently that she splashed soapy water onto her dress. She ignored it, putting the plate down and picking up a fork. "I drew a high number," I said, as if that should set her mind at ease. She nodded but said nothing. I left her there, returning to the living room and my father, who was leafing through the National Geographic . I turned the television on and sat on the couch to watch The Ghost and Mrs. Muir . After a few minutes, my father said, "Is she okay?"

  "She will be," I told him, taking my eyes away from the TV, where Captain Gregg and Carolyn were trapped in a dream version of A Christmas Carol . "She's just a little freaked out, I think." "She loves Jack," he said. So do I, I wanted to say. But talking politics with my father was not something I was going to do. Truthfully, I didn't know whether I agreed with him or not. I was angry at Jack, too, but our reasons were worlds apart. Could I really blame Jack for looking for any way out of a terrible situation? My father clearly did. But how could I, especially after I had help put him there? I understood that the lottery was a game of chance, and that I had won and Jack had lost. But I couldn't help wondering, if our situations were reversed, would he allow me any way out, or would he, like my father, expect me to face my fate without flinching? It was easy to be brave when there was little chance of encountering danger. But what if Jack had been the one looking on while I marched off to war? Would he do what he was asking me to do? Would he absolve me of any guilt I might feel at fearing for my life enough to ask another man to take my place? I didn't know if he would.

  "Do you like the car?" my father asked unexpectedly.

  "Yeah," I said. "I still can't believe you got it. It's fantastic."

  He nodded approvingly and returned to his reading. As I went back to the TV show, I suddenly wondered, was the car a kind of apology from my father? Had he given it to me as a way of asking forgiveness for putting me in the path of danger by bringing me into the world at a time when the shadow of war was looming? Maybe, I thought, he felt guilty over escaping himself all those years before. Maybe his anger at Jack was really anger he could not direct at himself. While he sought forgiveness from me and the other 19-year-olds of the world, I sought forgiveness from Jack. Yet it was Jack who was the focus of our combined rage, Jack who had to bear the brunt of our frustrations and fears because we could not turn them on ourselves. And because we could talk about none of these things, we remained silent, each of us trapped in a cell of our own creation, waiting for deliverance. My mother was right. Men are fools.

  Unable to admit this to myself then, I retreated into the simpler world of television, where trouble seldom lasted past the next commercial and even the most difficult problem was solved by show's end.

  CHAPTER 20

  For reasons which will become clearer as this story continues, I've come to regard the New Year with suspicion. In addition to the usual perils provided by resolutions that are sure to be broken and hopes for the future that are almost certain not to pan out as expected, this particular time of year has, for myself, historically been one of unlooked-for upheaval. This is particularly true on the eve of a new decade. As previously noted, the years ending in 0 have a way of accumulating energy around them. Whether this is a result of some cosmic calendrical alignment or simply that humans as a species ascribe undue importance to the dawn of a new era and therefore create bother and worry where none need exist, who can say. The fact is, by the time that final year comes around, we are frequently only too eager to show the old decade the door and welcome the new one with bright smiles, conveniently forgetting that we did the same thing ten years earlier. This time, we hope, we will not end up disappointed. As 1969 prepared to make way for 1970, I returned to Penn State and prepared to begin a new life without Jack. In the week following his announcement, I had seen little of him, as he'd been busy with readying himself for his new path. On December 31, our families had gathered for the traditional New Year's celebration, and we'd tried to be happy as midnight came and we toasted one another with hugs and best wishes. But things had changed for all of us, and the champagne Mr. Grace brought for the occasion could not make us forget, despite its bubbliness, that we were no longer the same happy family. I said good-bye to Jack on January 2, got into the Mustang, and drove back to State College alone. Because the first day of the new year fell on Thursday, we wouldn't start the new semester until the following Monday. Those of us who arrived early therefore had the weekend in which to have a second New Year celebration. Pinchot was surprisingly full when I arrived, and I was relieved that I wouldn't have to endure the next two days in solitude. Although I sometimes resented the lack of privacy inherent in dorm living, I needed to not feel alone.

  I spent Saturday morning packing up Jack's belongings, which I'd promised to
mail back to him. I stacked the cardboard boxes against the wall on his side of the room, then sat on my bed and looked at them. Everything he had fit into a handful of boxes, and for some reason seeing that made me depressed, as if what he was amounted to very little. His side of the room was now bare, like a forest whose trees had lost their leaves and now stood empty and cold. I wondered if, when he notified the school of his leaving, I would get a new roommate, and what he might be like. Instantly I resented this newcomer. I didn't want him intruding on my life, trying to fill the void left by Jack's departure. Even more, I didn't want his presence to be a daily reminder of what I had lost. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock on the door. Before I could answer, it opened, and Andy's face appeared. "Hey," he said. "You're back. Cool. Do you and Jack want to come to a Second Chance New Year's party tonight? This buddy of mine is having one."

  I looked at Andy, trying to figure out who this man was who seemed to float effortlessly through the world, oblivious to almost everything but his own wants and needs. Did he not see the boxes, I wondered? Did he not notice that Jack's bed was stripped, his books gone from the desk, his jacket missing from its place on the back of his chair? I searched his face for some sign of recognition that things had changed in my life. He waited, saying nothing.

  "Jack dropped out," I said. "He's going to become a minister."

  Andy's eyebrows went up. "No shit?" he said.

  "No shit," I answered. "He was failing, and he didn't want to get drafted."

  Andy shook his head. I wasn't sure if he was expressing dismay over Jack's leaving, his desire to avoid the draft, or the war that was responsible for his having to make the choice at all. I noticed that he'd gotten a haircut. He looked more handsome than ever, I thought, and was immediately ashamed of myself.

  "That really sucks, man," he said finally. "So, do you want to come to the party with me? It starts at ten." I almost said no. I was going to say no. But I heard myself tell Andy that I would go with him. When he left and I was alone again, I berated myself for being so stupid. More than that, I berated myself for being so afraid to be alone that I would risk putting myself in a situation with Andy again. What was it about him, I asked myself, that I found so impossible to refuse?

  There was no answer to that question, not then, so I pushed it from my mind and retreated into sleep. I awoke in darkness, and at first thought (not without some small sense of relief) that I had slept through the night and missed the party. But a look at the clock showed that only a few hours had passed, and I in fact had more than enough time to get ready. Dulled by the weariness that comes from having slept too early and too long, I slowly pulled myself off of the bed and turned on a light. It took another ten minutes before I could rouse energy enough to get dressed.

  Andy tapped on my door a few minutes before ten. Still moving slowly, I followed him outside, where the cold air woke me up a bit. Having dumped several feet of snow across Pennsylvania, the Christmas storm had swept northward, leaving behind mountainous drifts and skies clear as ice. With only a sliver of moon remaining before the new one arrived, we were in a world lit only by stars and the watery electric light of the street lamps. I jammed my hands in my pockets, sorry that I had left my gloves back in the room.

  I let Andy drive. For some reason, I didn't feel like letting him sit in the Mustang. Perhaps on some level I felt it was the one thing of mine he hadn't touched, the one remaining piece of my life I could say belonged only to me. Although it sat only a few spaces away, and I held the keys in my hand inside my coat pocket, I climbed into his pickup and shut the door. Andy started it up, clouds erupting from the rear and surrounding us like fog.

  The house we went to was in the same neighborhood as the one where we'd attended the Halloween party, and for a moment I was afraid we were going back there. But Andy brought the truck to a stop in front of a different house, this one smaller than the other. I could see the lights of a Christmas tree flashing from behind the front window, and a path had been shoveled through the snow to the front door, on which hung an evergreen wreath tied with a red bow. Smoke trickled from the chimney, suggesting a fire in the hearth below.

  "This is my buddy Ryan's place," Andy informed me as we walked to the door. "Actually, it's his parents' house, but they're out of town visiting family, so Ryan's got it to himself." That, I thought as Andy knocked on the door, explained the cozy feel of the house. An actual family lived there, not just some random assortment of tenants or group of students who wanted a place of their own off campus. I hoped the crowd inside wouldn't alter too much the peaceful feelings the house aroused in me.

  The door was opened by a young man about our own age. Seeing his red hair, worn in a crewcut, and his cheerful face with its pug nose, I realized that I'd seen him before around school, although whether he'd actually been in a class with me, I couldn't remember. He greeted us warmly and showed us inside.

  "Hi," I said after Andy failed to introduce us. "I'm Ned."

  "Ryan. I think we were in English lit together last semester."

  "That's what it was," I said. "I knew I'd seen you before."

  "I was the one who always showed up ten minutes late," said Ryan.

  "Those seven o'clock classes killed me. I didn't sign up for anything before nine this semester."

  Ryan took our coats, disappearing into a hallway with them while Andy and I looked around. Unlike the Halloween party, this one was much more low key. Maybe fifteen or twenty people were there, spread throughout the living room, kitchen, and den. Crosby, Stills, and Nash played softly in the background, and although the smell of pot wafted through the rooms, the mood wasn't one of overindulgence. I found myself relaxing, pleased that I had come and wondering how it was that Andy knew someone like Ryan, who seemed the antithesis of most of his friends.

  I knew no one at the party by name except for Andy, although I was fairly certain that I'd seen a number of the faces before. Mostly they were men, although here and there a girl's voice broke through the low murmur, like a bubble rising into the air. After exploring the rooms, I got a beer from the kitchen and returned to the living room. There I saw Andy sitting on the couch, talking to a man who looked remarkably like Ryan, only taller and less youthful. He was leaning forward, moving his hands animatedly while Andy nodded.

  I walked over and took a seat in an empty armchair beside the couch. Andy tipped his beer at the man beside him. "This is Dylan," he told me as the man reached out to shake my hand. "He's Ryan's brother."

  Now that I knew, the resemblance between Ryan and Dylan was remarkable. Like his brother, Dylan's hair was red and his skin pale and freckled. His green eyes surveyed me warily yet kindly, and he held himself in a way that suggested confidence and strength. The only detraction from his otherwise handsome face was a scar that ran from his right temple to his jaw, just touching the corner of his eye and mouth. Still pink, it seemed relatively recent, although Dylan showed no hint of self-consciousness about it.

  "Dylan just got back from Nam," Andy informed me. "He got that scar from a gook bayonet." Despite myself, I looked at the scar again.

  "It's okay," said Dylan. "I'm proud of it."

  "Dylan's in the 101st Airborne," said Andy.

  "The Screaming Eagles," Dylan elaborated. "Best there is."

  "Dylan was at Hamburger Hill," Andy said.

  I didn't know what Hamburger Hill was. Dylan, noticing my lack of response, gave me a brief history lesson. "Dong Ap Bia mountain," he told me. "Meanest motherfucking hill in Vietnam. Locals call it ‘the mountain of the crouching beast.' Thing's so thick with jungle it's always nighttime under the canopy."

  "Why Hamburger Hill?" I asked him, although his scar had given me some idea. "Back in May," he said, "command decided it was time to clear the NVA out of the A Shau Valley once and for all. We thought we'd wiped 'em out after Tet, but while we weren't looking, they'd turned it into their very own staging area. Supply depots, spider holes, tunnels all through the place. We had to get rid
of them."

  As Dylan was telling the story, Ryan and a couple of other people came over to listen. Soon we had a small crowd around the couch, all of us quiet as Dylan talked. "The 3/187th—the Rakkasans—drew Dong Ap Bia. Didn't think much about it. None of us did. You do what you're told, and they just knew they had to take it. What they didn't know was that it was impossible. But they found out soon enough. The VC were swarming all over that hill. They hit those bastards with everything they had, and they just wouldn't give up. Nine days they spent trying to get to the top of that mountain, sometimes fighting hand to hand, and every day more of 'em got themselves killed."

  Dylan grew quiet, as if he was thinking about what his army buddies must have gone through. Somebody passed him a joint, which he took with a grateful nod. He inhaled, closing his eyes for a long moment. Then he exhaled and continued.

  "Finally they called us in for reinforcement. The 2/506th. A Company. We got there at night. The next morning, we watched the jets fly over and drop shells, rockets, napalm, whatever they could find back at base camp. Just knocked the shit out of them. And for some reason, the stupid fuckers set off purple smoke grenades. We're looking up at that mountain, watching the shelling, and all of a sudden we see this purple smoke rolling down, like some kind of weird mist or something. Maybe they thought it would give them some cover. I don't know. But the boys just aimed for the grape and emptied their loads right on top of the VC hiding underneath."

  He chuckled and grinned. Again his gaze went off into the distance, seeing something none of the rest of us could envision. When he spoke, something had crept into his voice, a sense of awe mixed with fear. The grin had disappeared, and his jaw had tightened. At that moment, I saw the soldier in him.

  "At ten hundred hours we started up the mountain," he said. "The 3/187th A and C companies were on the right and in the center. We were on the left. We went slow, expecting fire. But we didn't get any. We made it to the first bunker line and kept going. We were closing in on the second line, maybe seventy-five yards from the top. That's when all hell broke loose. All of a sudden these NVA guys just pop out of the ground and start firing. They're rolling grenades down the hill at us. The guy to the right of me went down in pieces."