Thanks for the beer, Mr. Paulino.”
“Sure, Tommy, say hi to your folks for me, and we’ll keep Rory in our prayers. Don’t worry, kid, it’ll work out, I’m sure.”
Tom nodded as they went out the back door into the fading daylight. HR stopped in the small parking lot in the alley and Tom stood still, his head down, thinking about his wounded brother. Cause for concern, the telegram said. What the fuck does that mean?
“Imperialism, Tom, that’s what did it. LBJ and the other politicians, whipping up the people’s fear of communism to play on their loyalty to start a war in Asia to get control of the resources, make sure they keep the markets to shore up the capitalist economy. That’s what got your brother hurt.”
Tom looked up, his eyes flaring. HR took a step back. “The whole country got taken in, Tom, all of us. The domino theory bullshit, make the people afraid and they’ll seek security, even go to war. We’ve got to make them see, Tom. The National Liberation Front is our brother, not our enemy. We’ve got to stop the war against the downtrodden people, stop the wars against the worker states, stop fighting wars for the corporations. Then none of us will get hurt for unjust causes.”
Tom shook his head and the two were silent for a moment. A Ford station wagon pulled into a spot next to them. Two short-haired men wearing ties got out.
“This place here, Al,” one said, gesturing with the keys. Al got out of the car, looked at the two long-haired students and glanced at his partner.
“I have the keys, Al, let’s get the stuff unloaded.”
Tom and HR walked down the alley towards HR’s car.
“I wonder who those guys are,” HR said.
“Dunno,” Tom said. “Looks like they’re moving stuff into the empty store next to the bar.”
“Look!” HR said. “Those boxes. Some of them have DuPont on them. They’re from the place we trashed last night. They must be moving their location off campus!”
“Huh. They’re moving it right into the old Chicken Delight. The university must be renting a bunch of these places.”
They got into HR’s Volkswagen and started driving downtown.
“That’s another target for us, Tom. One of the three Rs – Recruiters, ROTC, Researchers. We chase ‘em off campus, then we’ll run them right off Main Street, and show them the movement is growing, striking back.
“Say, you tell your folks about moving into the apartment down in Allentown with me and Nancy yet? It’ll be great – you already got a job downtown and you can ride up to school with us or take the bus. You’ve got your own room and you can come and go anytime. All the action down there – it isn’t like the bourgeois neighborhood around here, it’s more like Greenwich Village in New York. And it’s cheap, too – you can swing it on your salary from the warehouse job. You said it yourself, they like you and’ll have you running a forklift any day now for a raise.”
Tom thought about his moving out of the house, the only place he’d ever lived. No more getting woken up for Mass on Sunday morning. No more lectures about drinking or smoking pot. I’ve got my own money from the warehouse job and the last roommate left all his furniture. HR’s got a decent stereo, too. Just bring my clothes, books and some other stuff. Yeah, and best of all, no more having to sneak around with a girl.
10.
The next telegram arrived as Rita was pulling laundry out of the dryer. She rushed up the stairs at the doorbell and had change ready for the tip by the door. She sat down at the phone stand as she read,
...HE HAS SUSTAINED TRAUMATIC AMPUTATION OF THE LEFT ARM BELOW THE ELBOW AND THE LEFT LEG BELOW THE KNEE. HIS LEFT EYE AND JAW HAVE BEEN SERIOUSLY DAMAGED. THESE WOUNDS HAVE BEEN STABILIZED. HE IS CURRENTLY IN CLARK AIR FORCE BASE HOSPITAL IN THE PHILIPPINES AND WILL BE TRANSFERRED TO WALTER REED HOSPITAL, WASHINGTON, DC ON TUESDAY MARCH 28 FOR FURTHER TREATMENT...
What have they done to my boy? she thought, looking over at the little cabinet in the coat closet where they’d kept mittens and hats for the boys. He’s lost an arm and a leg. What about his eye! His jaw? “Who do I call to find out!?” she screamed into the empty room.
When Pat came home half an hour later, she was curled up on the couch in the living room, rosary in hand.
11.
Pat scooped another shovelful of the wet, heavy snow, threw it onto the front yard and looked behind him. It’s March already. Gotta be the last snowfall of the year, he thought, another fifteen feet to finish shoveling the driveway. The streetlights came on, and he looked up into the darkening sky as another few snowflakes fell onto his face. He wondered if it would stop soon. He tugged the skier’s headband down farther over his ears and leaned on the shovel. I wonder where Tommy is, he thought, he should be home by now. Pat smiled, thinking about how the boys used to help him shovel the driveway. They had their own tiny orange shovels and would fling snow everywhere. Snowballs thrown and angels made, runny noses and Rita calling them inside for hot chocolate when they were cold and soaked. Rory will never shovel anything again, he thought, as a tear dropped onto his old leather glove.
The side door opened. Rita stuck her head out and, seeing him leaning on the shovel, waited.
“I’ve made some hot chocolate, Pat,” she said after a few moments.
Pat turned and looked at his wife, their eyes meeting. “Ok, mom. Just let us...I’ll finish the driveway and I’ll be in for some.” She waited a few seconds, watched until he turned back to the driveway and returned inside. He took a breath, gripped the shovel and resumed shoveling, the snow flying off the driveway now, faster and faster as he approached the street.
When he finished, Pat straightened up, leaned back to stretch and took a deep breath. Hearing footsteps crunching towards him, Pat looked over and saw his younger son Tom approach down the sidewalk, eyes downcast.
“Hi,” Tom said. They looked at each other in the dark, Pat taking in his son’s long black hair and unearned GI field jacket. Not carrying any books either, he thought.
“Mom’s just made some hot chocolate.”
“Uh-huh.”
They went inside silently, Pat stowing the shovel in the hallway, unzipping his rubber boots and putting them on a mat. Tom kicked the snow off his construction shoes and went through the door into the foyer hallway.
“Pat? Tom?” Rita inquired, knowing their sounds.
“It’s both of us, mom.” Pat said, unbuttoning his long brown overcoat and hanging it up on a hanger in the closet. He reached to take Tom’s coat.
“I got it,” Tom said, putting it on a hook.
“Dinner should be ready in five minutes,” she said. “And I’ve got hot chocolate for the both of you.”
“Great,” Pat said, following Tom through the dining room back towards the kitchen.
“Well,” Rita said, handing Tom a cup of hot chocolate. “How was philosophy today?”
“Irrelevant,” he answered, jutting his chin towards the TV playing in the den, where
