joke like that, darling.”
“I’m not joking, sweetheart. I wish I were. I have to report to the induction center on Shaw Avenue by noon on the thirtieth.”
Esther broke down and became hysterical. “NO! NO! I WON’T LET YOU GO! YOU CAN’T GO!”
“Esther, baby, calm down. Maybe there’s some way I can get out of it.”
He could hear Esther crying in the background when Dr. Rosenberg’s voice came over the phone. “Ruben, what’s wrong?”
“I’ve been drafted. I have to report by the thirtieth.”
He heard Dr. Rosenberg say, more to himself than to Ruben, “Oh, no. Oh, no.”
He wasn’t a coward, but he didn’t want to leave his music and he certainly didn’t want to leave Esther.
“I don’t know what to do,” he told Dr. Rosenberg. “What should I do?”
“We’ll try to think of something, son. Can you and your mother come over tomorrow about noon? I’m going to call in some marks.”
But Dr. Rosenberg didn’t have marks with the right people for this. Ruben didn’t have a student deferment because he wasn’t attending a recognized institution of higher learning. The band wanted him to say he was gay to get out of it. Of course that was out of the question. Others told him to go to Canada, or be a consciences objector.
Ruben, once the dust settled in his mind, knew he had to go. His father had fought his way across Europe in World War II with the Second Ranger Battalion and was wounded twice. One of his father’s brothers flew twenty-two missions as a tail gunner on a B-17. He was shot down over France and lost both legs below the knee. Another brother was wounded with the First Marine Division on Guadalcanal. Both of his mother’s brothers were in Army Intelligence. In short, Ruben’s family had contributed significantly to the country’s defense and his mother thought it the worst kind of injustice for the government to take her youngest son. She tried to be strong for Ruben but could rarely hold it together. Mrs. Rosenberg complained bitterly to her husband.
“Isn’t there anything you can do? What about all these delinquents doing nothing on the street corner? Why can’t they go? We’re talking about Ruben! This is insane!”
In the end, Ruben reported to the induction center on Shaw Avenue in Fresno. He asked his Mother, the Rosenbergs, and Esther to say goodbye to him at the door, telling them it would be easier that way.
The last words he heard before going through the door were, “I will wait for you, Ruben Barlow. If I do not marry you, I will marry no one.”
Inside, fate threw him one more curve. After the physical examination and other protocols, Ruben saw two Marines enter the room. They were starched and pressed and moved with a swagger. They announced, “We’re short three for our quota. You, you, and you. Let’s go.” The last “you” was Ruben Barlow.
Chapter 4
Lasting’s Court in the Neverborne Kingdom
The powerful black robe named Lasting circled the highly polished obsidian floor of his main chamber. Each place he stepped, a crimson pool bled out from his footstep six inches in each direction and just as quickly subsided to shining blackness as the foot left the floor. His arms were folded in front of him so that each hand held the opposite shoulder. His eyes focused on the floor before him.
In aggravation, his steps quickened to an inhumanly quick rhythm. He was thinking about the same thing which had obsessed him for eons – his absolute hatred for the red robe Alaal, now Ruben Barlow.
At one end of the chamber, a spirit hung suspended in a cage. Each time Lasting passed, his right hand shot out and the cage was engulfed in a fireball. The poor spirit, whose only crime was to resemble Alaal, screamed in agony as his body was consumed with fire, only to regenerate when the fire died.
Lasting’s concentration was suddenly interrupted by a messenger, and Lasting’s hand extended threateningly toward the newcomer. The Neverborne neither understand nor practice tolerance.
“Your grace,” said the messenger, falling to his knees in fear. “I believe what you seek has been found.”
Lasting’s hand did not move. “A mortal?” he asked.
“Yes, your grace,” said the messenger, his forehead touching the floor.
“Has this mortal a relationship with the red robe Alaal?”
“No, your grace. But he is the same mortal age and lives in America.”
“America!” spat Lasting. “I hate America. Is the mortal susceptible to our nature? Will he do what I want?”
“We believe he will serve your purposes, your grace.”
“What is his mortal name?”
“William, your grace, called Billy by those who know him.”
“Billy” said Lasting to himself. “Show him to me.”
The messenger lifted his hands and showed Lasting his palms. “Behold, your grace.” Then, images began emerging from the extended hands.
Billy Harold
Boston, Massachusetts – 1961
“What are we supposed to do with you, Billy? Why do you read this tripe?” Mrs. Harold’s voice quivered with emotion as she held the book between her thumb and forefinger. Twelve-year-old Billy stood before her, his blue eyes glancing from knot to knot on the dark hardwood floor.
His father, sitting on the bed with his face in his hands, suddenly grabbed one of the many images of Christ that adorned every room of their Boston Victorian home and leapt to his feet. He gripped the black hair on the back of Billy’s head and pulled Billy’s eyes toward the beckoning arms of the six-inch statue.
“What would He say, Billy? What would the Lord God Almighty say about this filth?” His father violently jerked Billy’s head back and pain again engulfed the boy’s scalp. His father, still jerking Billy’s head, moved his face so close to Billy’s that their foreheads touched.
“Answer me, you blasphemous boy!” Billy felt his father’s spittle spray his face as the grip tightened and knew he needed to answer before his hair was pulled out.
“I was curious,” he said, in a barely audible whisper. His father suddenly released Billy’s hair and placed a huge hand on Billy’s shoulder. He turned his head so that his ear was directly in front of Billy’s mouth.
“What did you say?”
“I was curious,” Billy whispered. His father faced his wife and Billy was left to look at the solid field of white shirt covering his father’s broad back.
