Home: Part 43

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

April 1958 

Terry had two brothers. Mark, the oldest of the three, lived in Albuquerque where he owned a small restaurant. He had a wife and two children, and from what I gathered from Cindy was the family outcast who had turned his back on the farm and everything involved with it. "He doesn't even write letters home or send Christmas cards," Cindy told me. "Terry says the two of them were close, but then Mark changed and moved away." Tony was the youngest of the three boys. He was a couple of years younger than I was, and he was what Cindy called "special." She chose her words carefully. "Not retarded, just slow." I'd seen Tony at school, and he had seemed normal enough to me.  

A couple of days after my experience with Terry in the barn, Cindy knocked on my bedroom door. Inside my room, she sat on the chair at my small desk and looked at me. "Terry's not sure about you," she said.

I didn't know how to take that. "What does that mean?" I asked. 

She pursed her lips. "He just says he's not sure he can trust you. That's all."

"Trust me with what?"

"With things he says or does."

"That's what he says?"

"Yes."

"I don't know what that means."

"He says you were acting strangely in the barn the other day when we were at his house."

"I wasn't."

"He says that. He wants you to be friendly with Mark when we're all together, but he's not sure he can trust you."

"Trust me to do what?" I'd never even spoken to Mark, so I didn't know what Terry could be talking  about, or thinking. I did not remember seeing Mark the few times I'd accompanied my sister to Terry's house.

"Just remember that Terry is my boyfriend, okay? He's important to me." She seemed genuinely concerned, but I was not sure of why or for whom.

"I don't want to be doing your church stuff," I said. 

"You're not old enough to know what you really want, or what you need," she said. "Everything Terry and I do is good for you. Not just for god."

"Dad says I don't have to go to church if I don't want to. Not anymore."

She let that sink in as if weighing whether I was bluffing. "I'll talk to him." She got up to leave. "I might go to Terry's next week, too. You'll come with me."

 

 

Home: Part 42

What follows is a work of fiction. Nothing here is either true or relevant. Read at your own risk. Expect nothing, and that's exactly what you'll get. Oh: This could go on for a while.

June 1968 

Mitchell enlisted in the army the day after we graduated from high school. He said he needed some adventure and wanted to get out of our small town as soon as he could. The day he signed the papers, we went into the recruiter's office together. "You can still change your mind," I said as we walked up the concrete steps and into the building. The sky was gray. The light rain showers we'd had the previous night had left the concrete wet and slick, and I had to walk slowly. "Or, you could join the navy, go to sea."

He hesitated before opening the door. "No," he said, shaking his head. "I think this is the right choice to make."

That evening at the supper table, I told my family what Mitchell had done. My parents both seemed petrified. I'd known Mitchell since Kindergarten. His father was a mechanic who owned his own shop, and his mother was a cook in the high school cafeteria. "Not a good choice," my father said. "Why in the world did he go and do that? Not a good choice at all."

"He said he wanted adventure."

"His parents must be furious," my mother said.

"Why didn't you talk him out of it?" my father said. "You're his friend. You could have done that."

"I tried," I said, thinking back to my feeble attempt earlier that day. But I knew Mitchell well, and I was sure that I could have pleaded for hours and not succeeded.

Cindy, though, thought that Mitchell had done the right thing. "We have to fight Communism," she said. "It's the Domino Theory. We have to stop them."

"Maybe you should go fight," I said.

"Don't be stupid," Cindy said. "I'm a woman. I can't got fight. I'm doing god's work here, instead. If I serve got, then he will fight."

"Onward Christian soldiers," my father muttered.

"We are soldiers, Dad," Cindy said. "We're fighting for the entire world."

My father seemed as though he wanted to say more, but instead he let the matter drop. 

But Cindy wasn't finished, and she turned her attention to me. "You should be fighting with us," she said. "Since you can't go to Vietnam, you should do what you can from here."

"Why doesn't Terry go?" I said. "He seems healthy enough."

"He can barely see out of his right eye."

"He can shoot a gun just fine," I said. "At least, he likes to shoot pigeons flying around his barn. You can go to church and do whatever you want to do, but don't drag me into this. Besides, I've got other plans."

Cindy snorted. "Plans? What plans could you possibly have?"

"Anything but church," I said. "Anything that doesn't involve that boyfriend of yours."

"Some plan."

My mother exhaled loudly. "Not at the supper table. Let's just eat in peace, okay?"