through long afternoons. We rented a surplus navy life raft; Ricky and I inflated it with a bicycle pump and pushed it beyond the breakers while the girls swam out behind us. We drifted the far side of the surf, zinc oxide smeared on our noses, drinking sun-warmed beer and watching the opulent Chesapeake schooners slice past with names like String of Pearls, Rhondaâs Dream, Body and Soul, in flight toward paradise.
That night we sat on a bench in front of the Mermaid Bar, talking, listening to the ring of arcades and carnival screams and the ocean booming in the darkness behind us, and after the others drifted away Mary and I stayed on, still talking as the
neon signs along the boardwalk clicked off and the moon rose higher and we could see a rim of surf break and disappear back into shadow. We slipped off the bench to sit on the sand and kissed, hard and carefully at first, then softer and with more assurance, lying down on the sand and holding each other, watching the moon move from behind the boardwalk façade to flood the beach in a sweep of cold light.
5
In 1967 I was eighteen years old. It was my senior year in high school. Ricky Baynerâs older brother was in the army, serving in Vietnam. I had finished my high school football career with six touchdowns in ten games and just under a thousand yards rushing. There was talk of a scholarship to one of the smaller universities. The college scouts believed my speed and agility and fine hands made up for my lack of weight and height, and during that football season the Director of the Selective Service Administration announced that the draft would be intensified due to increased troop demands in southeast Asia.
My grandfather sent me $100 for my birthday, and for Christmas I bought Mary a ring with a diamond inset. On December 28 I received the letter notifying me that my draft classification would revert to 1-A as of graduation day. The letter went on to say that the time and location of my induction physical would be forwarded at a later date.
6
New Yearâs Eve, 1967. A dark heaven of rock and roll, fall of color, and lives played out in cars. In my Camaro with three other football players, driving, talking, passing around a wine bottle, cruising down the hours and near midnight finding ourselves at the reservoir where we swam and drank and brought girls all through the summer. We got out of the car, crunching leaves, moving like strangers on the landscape. The gravel beach and pier and black water seemed bruised and solitary, no place we had ever been, and the sky was wet with cold moonlight and ragged clouds. Somebody said it was 1968.
The half gallon of cheap sour wine made the round and nobody spoke. After a moment I walked back to my car and sat alone behind the wheel, frightened by a deep and uncertain longing in that expanse of silence.
The news on New Yearâs Day said Nguyen Duy Trinh, speaking from Hanoi, claimed his government would begin negotiations if the United States would unconditionally halt the bombing of North Vietnam. The New Yearâs cease-fire was allegedly violated by 170 enemy-initiated actions. There had been fighting at Tay Ninh, 60 miles northwest of Saigon,
close by the Cambodian border: 23 Americans were dead, 155 wounded.
By the end of the day Texas A&M had upset Alabama, 20 to 16, in the Cotton Bowl. USC had no trouble with Indiana in the Rose, and I watched Oklahoma squeeze past Tennessee in the Orange Bowl, 26-24. When I turned the television off I felt claustrophobic, vaguely ill. I had received the official letter directing me to report for induction into the armed forces the following November, and I stepped out into cold dusk, shivering. The blue air and hard starlight smelled like smoke. I looked at my car in the driveway, and went inside for jacket and keys.
I drove, through the serenity of quiet winter streets, the already beaten fragility of early demise. Police reports and body counts lived in the
That night we sat on a bench in front of the Mermaid Bar, talking, listening to the ring of arcades and carnival screams and the ocean booming in the darkness behind us, and after the others drifted away Mary and I stayed on, still talking as the
neon signs along the boardwalk clicked off and the moon rose higher and we could see a rim of surf break and disappear back into shadow. We slipped off the bench to sit on the sand and kissed, hard and carefully at first, then softer and with more assurance, lying down on the sand and holding each other, watching the moon move from behind the boardwalk façade to flood the beach in a sweep of cold light.
5
In 1967 I was eighteen years old. It was my senior year in high school. Ricky Baynerâs older brother was in the army, serving in Vietnam. I had finished my high school football career with six touchdowns in ten games and just under a thousand yards rushing. There was talk of a scholarship to one of the smaller universities. The college scouts believed my speed and agility and fine hands made up for my lack of weight and height, and during that football season the Director of the Selective Service Administration announced that the draft would be intensified due to increased troop demands in southeast Asia.
My grandfather sent me $100 for my birthday, and for Christmas I bought Mary a ring with a diamond inset. On December 28 I received the letter notifying me that my draft classification would revert to 1-A as of graduation day. The letter went on to say that the time and location of my induction physical would be forwarded at a later date.
6
New Yearâs Eve, 1967. A dark heaven of rock and roll, fall of color, and lives played out in cars. In my Camaro with three other football players, driving, talking, passing around a wine bottle, cruising down the hours and near midnight finding ourselves at the reservoir where we swam and drank and brought girls all through the summer. We got out of the car, crunching leaves, moving like strangers on the landscape. The gravel beach and pier and black water seemed bruised and solitary, no place we had ever been, and the sky was wet with cold moonlight and ragged clouds. Somebody said it was 1968.
The half gallon of cheap sour wine made the round and nobody spoke. After a moment I walked back to my car and sat alone behind the wheel, frightened by a deep and uncertain longing in that expanse of silence.
The news on New Yearâs Day said Nguyen Duy Trinh, speaking from Hanoi, claimed his government would begin negotiations if the United States would unconditionally halt the bombing of North Vietnam. The New Yearâs cease-fire was allegedly violated by 170 enemy-initiated actions. There had been fighting at Tay Ninh, 60 miles northwest of Saigon,
close by the Cambodian border: 23 Americans were dead, 155 wounded.
By the end of the day Texas A&M had upset Alabama, 20 to 16, in the Cotton Bowl. USC had no trouble with Indiana in the Rose, and I watched Oklahoma squeeze past Tennessee in the Orange Bowl, 26-24. When I turned the television off I felt claustrophobic, vaguely ill. I had received the official letter directing me to report for induction into the armed forces the following November, and I stepped out into cold dusk, shivering. The blue air and hard starlight smelled like smoke. I looked at my car in the driveway, and went inside for jacket and keys.
I drove, through the serenity of quiet winter streets, the already beaten fragility of early demise. Police reports and body counts lived in the
Similar Books
The Lifeboat Clique
Kathy Parks
Bleeding Violet
Dia Reeves
Fish Out of Water
Ros Baxter
Patient Z
Becky Black
If I Could Do It Again
Ashley Stoyanoff
Battle Scars
Sheryl Nantus
And Condors Danced
Zilpha Keatley Snyder
Good Girl Gone Plaid
Shelli Stevens
Tamam Shud
Kerry Greenwood
The Language of Flowers
Vanessa Diffenbaugh