Death Coming Up the Hill (6 page)

I was surprised how

 

calm he was about

the war—and how his stories

haunted me. “It's a

 

bad scene over there,”

he said. “Real bad.” He lit a

cigarette, took a

 

long drag, and while smoke

drifted upward like a lost

soul, he shook his head.

 

The summer and Dad

were brutal to Mom. The sun

melted energy

 

out of her, and she

spent afternoons, the worst part

of every July

 

day, in the quiet

coolness of her bedroom. Most

days she was far too

 

wiped out to attend

anti-war demonstrations

or political

 

meetings. At night she'd

shuffle around the house with

a hand on her huge

 

belly, as if one

false step might break her open.

Digging ditches all

 

day wiped me out, too,

but Mom's was a different

kind of weariness.

 

The baby inside

her made Mom suffer. And so

did Dad by dropping

 

tons of cold legal

stuff on her as punishment

for being pregnant.

 

The summer tortured

Angela's family as much

as it tortured mine.

 

Still no word from her

brother, and the Army did

nothing to help. She'd

 

take turns with her mom

and dad calling bureaucrats

and writing letters,

 

but in the end, the

military stonewall won.

The Army knew where

 

Kelly was stationed,

but they couldn't—or wouldn't—

confirm his status.

 

When I went to the

Turners' house on Friday night,

the place felt like its

 

spirit had been ripped

from it. Her parents welcomed

me like always, but

 

their warm smiles couldn't

camouflage the worry etched

onto their faces,

 

and even though we

sat at the kitchen table

eating cookies and

 

chatting, the mood felt

forced, fake, hollow. Angela

grabbed my hand. “Let's walk.”

★  ★  ★

Smoky strands of clouds

stretched across the orange-red

western sky, and the

 

dry heat from the baked

sidewalk warmed the soles of our

shoes as we walked to

 

Meyer Park. Waves of

sorrow radiated from

Angela, and when

 

our hands brushed, she clutched

mine and pulled us to a stop.

Her eyes glistened with

 

tears, and she started

talking, fast, about Kelly,

the war, the riots

 

and demonstrations,

the murders of Kennedy

and King. “Sometimes I

 

feel like our world is

drowning in madness and death.”

Her eyes pleaded for

 

comforting, wise words,

but I didn't know what to

say. We stood there in

 

silence while the last

rays of color faded from

the horizon. Then

 

she squeezed my hand and

we walked to the park, where we

sat on swings, sharing

 

the weight of worry

that burdened us. We didn't

know what might still be

 

coming up the hill

in 1968, but

we swore whatever

 

happened, we'd face it

together. Sitting there in

the dark, our pinkie

 

fingers linked, I thanked

God that Angela's life had

intersected mine.

 

It looked like the war

would never slow down. Reuben

laughed when I asked him

 

about it. “Ain't no

way, man. The white-collar dudes

sitting in D.C.

 

aren't the ones bleeding.

They have it their way, this war

will last forever,

 

and if we run out

of Vietcong to blow up,

they'll find some other

 

war to keep business

hopping.” I didn't want to

believe him, because

 

I was depending

on my college deferment

to keep me safely

 

out of the draft through

1973. There

was no way we'd still

 

be in Vietnam

that long, so I'd graduate

from college and step

 

into a peaceful

working world. But if we were

still at war, I'd be

 

instant draft bait, and

that would change everything. I

didn't want to think

 

about it, but all

afternoon, images of

jungle warfare and

 

death haunted me. If

Reuben was right, in five years

I might be digging

 

foxholes and dodging

bullets on the front lines of

a jungle war, and

 

even in the heat

of the Arizona sun,

a chill shivered me.

 

“It's the not knowing

that's the worst. Is he rotting

in a Vietcong

 

prison, or is he

dead?” Angela's voice trembled.

“Why don't they tell us

 

something, Ashe? They have

to know where he is!” She got

worked up like this when

 

all the worrying

at home dominoed onto

her. She could hold up

 

when only her mom

freaked, but when her dad caved, too,

she couldn't handle

 

it, and she'd call to

tell me to meet her at the

park. Last night a mean

 

desperation gripped

her, a kind of panic-laced

determination

 

to do something, to

fix things. When I got there, she

was pacing back and

 

forth in front of the

swing set; as soon as she saw

me, she unloaded:

 

the frustration and

pain, anger and sadness. I'd

heard it all before

 

and knew the best thing

I could do was to listen.

So I sat on a

 

swing while she paced and

talked and swore and cried. When she

finished, she turned to

 

me and said, “I'd do

anything to save him, Ashe.

Anything. Even

 

die.” The look on her

face told me she meant it, and

I wondered where that

 

kind of courage and

love came from. If I were in

her shoes, would I be

 

willing—would I be

able—to sacrifice my

life for a sibling?

 

After school, I found

Mom whispering into the

phone in the kitchen,

 

wiping tears from her

cheeks as she sat hunched at the

table. When she saw

 

me, she hung up and

dabbed her eyes with a tissue.

“Was that Dad?” I asked.

 

“A friend.” And I knew

she meant
that
guy. “Ashe, there is

something you should know

 

about . . .” But then the

front door opened, and Dad walked

into the kitchen.

 

Reading the surprise

on our faces, he said, “I

still own this house, you

 

know, even if I

don't live here anymore. I

came to pick up a

 

few things.” The shock of

seeing Dad made Mom ready

for a fight. “You could

 

have called.” Dad stared at

her, then at me, and sighed. “I

tried,” he said, “but the

 

line's been busy for

more than an hour.” Raw tension

smoldered between them,

 

a standoff just like

old times, but Dad ended it

by going downstairs.

 

Taking a deep breath,

Mom rested her head on her

hands. “This is a real

 

rugged patch for me,

Ashe, and I'm going to need

your help to get through

 

it.” The doorbell rang,

and before I could move, I

heard the door open

 

and Dad's annoyed voice:

“What do
you
want?” Mom paled and

dropped her hand to her

 

belly. Angela's

voice: “Is Ashe home?” At my front

door. With my dad. I

 

got up so fast my

chair crashed onto the floor, but

I arrived too late.

 

She saw me standing

behind my dad and smiled. “Hey,

Ashe.” Dad stepped back, took

 

a long look at her,

then turned on me. “Who is this?”

Icy slivers spiked

 

his voice, and I felt

hearts and hopes and doors slamming

shut as I fumbled

 

for answers that would

satisfy my father and

my hippie girlfriend.

 

Angela and her

mother brought dinner over

Wednesday night. When she

 

had heard about Dad,

she insisted on doing

something to help. “Mom

 

and I know something

about loss,” she had said. “And

it's no fun dealing

 

with it alone.” When

they walked in, it felt like they

breathed life back into

 

our home. Angela's

mom hugged my mother like they

were long-lost sisters,

 

and Mom's eyes teared up

when she met Angela. “I'm

sorry about what

 

happened the last time

you came over. Ashe's dad . . .

well, just let me say

 

I'm sorry, but I

am delighted to meet you.”

After eating, we

 

went downstairs to watch

the evening news, but when a

report on the war

 

came on, I jumped up

and changed the channel to a

news program about

 

a massive high-rise

office building project that

was getting started

 

in New York City.

These twin office towers, said

the reporter, would

 

be the world's tallest,

a permanent monument

to America's

 

ingenuity,

capitalistic system,

and democracy.

 

Mom started laughing.

“Isn't it ironic that

we're bombing the hell

 

out of one country

while we're building monuments

to our own greatness?”

 

The room fell silent;

I felt the awkwardness of

Mom's political

 

statement. But seconds

later Angela's mom said,

“I hear you, sister.”

 

The attention from

Mrs. Turner really helped

my mom get through some

 

rough days, but still I

worried. Sometimes after work,

I'd find Mom in her

 

bedroom, panting and

moaning and dripping with sweat.

I'd never felt so

 

weak and desperate.

If Mom went into labor

at home, what would I

 

do? What could I do?

Call an ambulance and hope

it would get her to

 

the hospital in

time? What if something went wrong?

Complications—or

 

worse? If I lost my

mom, the baby, or both, what

would become of me?

 

Pounding dirt in the

pounding Arizona sun

darkened my skin and

 

hardened my body,

and Reuben Ortega made

me appreciate

 

the broiling heat. “You

think this is tough,” he said, “try

a couple days in

 

a muddy foxhole

with mortar shells dropping all

around you day and

 

night”—he'd stare into

the distance and his voice would

get ragged—“never

 

knowing if shrapnel

or a sniper will nail you

while you're sweating in

 

a stinking hellhole,

just hoping to make it through

the night.” Then he'd snap

 

out of it, focus

his eyes on me, and say, “Don't

never go to war.

 

If it don't kill you,

it'll break you, and you'll be