talks have to go somewhere. They just have to!”
He didn’t say anything. He felt her trying to make out his expression in the dark, but finally she jumped up. “Let’s build a fire.”
They pulled on their clothes, then tugged apart a small shelter someone had built nearby, piling the pieces. Along with the matches, Dinah had brought the day’s newspaper. He crumpled the sheets, remembering the headlines about U.S. bombers in Laos. Vietnam and the war felt so distant, unreal, and yet loomed over his life as terrifyingly as the monster he’d been sure lived in his closet when he was a kid.
It occurred to him that then, as now, his parents had tried to banish his fears by insisting the monster didn’t exist. They’d been right about the childhood bogeyman, although the tactic hadn’t made him less afraid, but this time, they were wrong and unwilling to admit it. His dad was proud to have served in World War II, and wouldn’t let himself see that this war was different.
Dinah lit the match, and they stood in awe as their bonfire caught, crackling and shooting flames toward the black sky.
Telling himself his eyes were burning because of the heat, Will pulled her up against him. “I love you,” he whispered.
Her smile was glorious. “I love you, too.” If she saw tears on his cheeks, she didn’t say anything, only kissed him and held on to him as tightly as he held her.
The Paris peace talks went nowhere. The newspapers reported atrocities committed by U.S. soldiers at a village called My Lai. Some people denied that American boys could have done anything like that, while others wondered aloud whether such horrors might be more widespread than just the one instance.
President Nixon talked about a “Vietnamization” program that would hand over responsibility for protecting South Vietnam to their own soldiers, but that would require training them first. Will and Dinah went together to the Vietnam Moratorium in San Francisco, part of a nationwide protest held on October 15th. Supposedly a million Americans, including fifty members of Congress, participated in the rallies and vigils across the country. In response, Nixon announced that he planned to withdraw American troops, but it would be on his own secret timetable.
And instead of ending the draft and going to an all-volunteer army, Congress gave him the authority to institute a draft “lottery” system. Before, men could be called up anytime they were needed until they turned twenty-six. The idea was to end uncertainty. It was hard for guys to start a career or plan to buy a house when they didn’t know if they’d have to serve or not. Now only nineteen-year-olds would be subject to the draft, each possible birthdate to be drawn and randomly assigned a number from 1 to 365. The lower the number, the greater the chance of being inducted. The day you were born would determine whether you went to Vietnam or not.
So, once the lottery was held, Will would have a good idea one way or the other. Either he’d have a low number and be subject to the draft, or he’d get a high one and be able to go ahead with his life. Rumor had it that the bottom third were likely to be called up to serve, which meant the biggest uncertainty would be for guys whose birthday drew a number such as 125. They might get a draft notice, or they might squeak by, depending on whether their local draft board met its quota or not.
That fall semester, Will was taking classes at the high school only in the mornings, and working afternoons for the same local contractor who’d given him summer jobs the past couple of years. On December first, the results of the lottery for guys born in 1950 would be announced. The numbers had been drawn, Will had read, from the same glass fishbowl used for the World War II lottery.
Three of the guys on Will’s construction crew were nineteen and therefore subject to the draft. The foreman said nothing when the beat of hammers ceased and everyone listened to the dry voice coming from the portable radio.
Guys born September 14th had “won” the lottery and were number 1.
“Poor bastards,” someone muttered.
Jose Guillen crossed himself when the announcer reached his birthday. February 24th, number 236. Pump of the fist—his life was his again. The rest of the crew slapped him on the back, congratulating him.
Richie Johansen wasn’t as lucky. Number 103. The chances were pretty good he’d get drafted, but probably not right away. Richie would spend the year waiting, his heart pounding every time the mail came. Some said anyone with a number around one hundred would probably get an induction notice by late summer of 1970.
A couple of guys got back to work, hammering studs on an interior wall of the house they were roughing in.
The announcer reached August, and Will shouted, “Will you shut up?”
Silence. Even though he was sweating, a chill crept over Will’s skin. If not for the audience, he’d have vomited.
He could be celebrating in a couple of minutes, like Jose. Yeah. It could happen. Two hundred or above. That’s all he asked.
August 29th, number 61. August 30th, number 333.
A raw sound escaped his throat. Here it was. His future.
“August thirty-first, number eleven.”
He stood, unmoving, slow to comprehend.
“Bummer,” one of the guys whispered.
“September first, two hundred twenty-five.”
Eleven? One day different either way, and he’d have been safe, but because his mother went into labor on August 31st, he was screwed?
When at last he looked around, gazes slid away from him.
“Get back to work!” the foreman yelled. He set a hand on Will’s shoulder. “You need to take the rest of the day off, kid?”
Will shook his head. “I’m okay.”
It was a lie. Later, he couldn’t remember a single thing he did. When they laid off at five, he felt like a husk of himself, as if he’d died inside. He got in his car and drove home, and he didn’t remember that, either.
Dinah’s car was in front of his house. His mom’s was in the driveway, even though she didn’t usually get home from her job at the assessor’s office until closer to six.
Will didn’t even wonder if they knew. He just parked and trudged up the driveway and the front steps.
The moment he opened the door, Dinah flew to wrap her arms around him.
“Will, I heard! Thank goodness you’ll have a student deferment.”
He just stood there, unable to lift his arms to respond to her embrace, not even wondering if she’d just stood up and walked out of class.
His mother hovered behind his girlfriend, her expression anxious. “Is it true? You’re number eleven?”
It took enormous effort to nod his head. The effect was peculiar, as if he were outside himself, watching.
“Someone at work told me she’d heard rumors they’re thinking of ending student deferment,” his mom said. “But I can’t believe, once you’re in school…”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. I never applied.”
