Chapter two

It’s been a week-seven days-since I last talked to Kay. I hadn’t even the slightest amount of decency to call her before she left. I do’t mind. In all honesty, I can admit that I’ve hardly even thought of her. Of all the demons gnawing at my fragile heart, she’s not one of them. I mean, I’m terrified. And it’s funny, hilarious even, that I have absolutely no idea what it is that frightens me. What have I to be afraid of? Myself, perhaps. I hardly feel anything anymore. I don’t want to. It hurts too much. I’d rather feel nothing than feel pain. I can tell that my father likes the fact that I’ve basically become mute. I’m more like him. Ever since Mom left he’s been like a wall. Nothing can penetrate him and nothing can escape. Things aren’t so bad between us. He’s gone to the factory by the time I wake, and he doesn’t return until six. The time when we are around each other, few words are exchanged. Those words are usually commands or requests on his part and “okay”’s “alight”s and “sure”s on mine. Ever since his leg got shot (hunting accident) it’s been me doing the grocery shopping, cleaning and making up the difference in money. Factory workers only make minimum wage, as do I working at Al’s Hardware downtown.
It’s a small store, carrying only the essentials; screws, tape, wood, etc. the store is where I met Kay, eight months ago. She had just moved to Nome from Fairbanks and was helping her family fix up their house, which definitely needed to be fixed up considering that half their roof was missing and almost all the shutters were gone. She was walking down the aisle that shelved the nails. I could tell that she was having trouble finding the type she needed, so being a kind gentleman, I offered her my assistance. She informed me that she was searching for nails that were two inches long. I reached to the highest shelf and grabbed the nails. I smiled kindly while placing them in her petite, pale hand. We shared names, stories and phone numbers. She was such a nice girl. How could I hurt her? I always told myself that I’d break things off between us before things got too serious. As the weeks went by, it got harder and harder. I also promised myself that I’d never let her tell me that she loves me. I’d never let her even let her think she loved me. Well, some things are very much easier said than done.
It’s Saturday, yet again, and I’m standing behind the cashiers counter at Al’s. I’m not reading anything, listening to anything, or doing anything. Just standing. Saturdays aren’t usually this slow. Becoming bored and anxious, I look to my watch and then to the window where I see the sun still high above the tall Alaskan mountains. Thinking of, and having, nothing better to do, I walk out from behind the counter and make my way to the bathroom. As soon as I enter I have to cover my nose and mouth with my hand. Does anyone ever clean these bathrooms? I decide to just wash my hands, shortening the time I have to breathe in the putrid stench. Turning the faucet on, I remember that the hot water doesn’t work. I immerse my hands into the running water, which in return dispenses nothing. I turn the water off and reach for the paper towel holder mounted on the sea green, tiled wall. No paper towels. I dry my hands on my holey blue jeans. As I exit the vile restroom, a man enters the sore. Mr. Henderson walks in, most likely to buy his weekly supply of chocolate covered raisons and firewood.
“Hello, Mr. Henderson! How are you?” I say with a smile, returning to my station behind the counter.
“Ah I’m good, Bradley. For an old man like myself, I’m doing mighty good”. He touches his long grey beard and squints at the candy shelve through his round, wire glasses.
“Ahh” he breathes as he picks up the twelve ounce bag of his usual chocolate covered raisons. He’s a burly man, Mr. Henderson is. When he was younger, I always thought he would have been very handsome. Now he’s somewhere in his late fifties.
“Will there be anything else?” I ask him, already knowing the answer.
“How many times you gotta’ ask me that, Boy?” He replies, with a hint of frustration in his voice. I chuckle a little. "I'm sorry, Mr. H." He pulls out his billfold from the chest pocket in his red and black plaid, button-down shirt. The shaky hand that I've come to know and admire places $8.50 in front of me. He then sighs and looks up at me. Akwardly, he smiles. "How've you been, Bradley?" When has Mr. Henderson ever asked me how I've been? With an amount of surprise in my voice, I inform him, "Oh-uhm, fine. I'm fine". "Got any plans for the rest of the summer?" "Uh, yes. I'm going to Colorado next week. College..." Mr. Henderson's eyebrows scrunch sympathestically. "Is something wrong, Mr. H?" He looks to the floor. "Have you checked your mail today, Son?" I stutter and become confused. "N-no. My-my father gets the mail Saturdays. H-he doesn't work...on Saturdays.Why?" He doesn't look up from the floor. I glance at his hands which grasp tighter around the edge of the counter. Little do I know that his next four words will without any doubt change my life forever. "There's been a draft". All I can do is stare at him with scared brown eyes. I try to speak. I can feel my mouth move, but I hear no words. I can't decide whether it's my ears that can't hear, or my mouth that can't speak. The four walls of this cramped store seem to be quickly closing in on me. Mr. Hendersons' words wrap like a snake around my neck and constrict tightly around me. The blood within my veins has turned white-hot and now pounds violently against my ears. Without warning, my stomach jumps up into my throat. I've heared hushed rumors of the war in Vietnam. It all seemed so far away. Part of me was skeptical on if it even existed. But now it was here. It has grabbed me by the collor and dragged me away from all I once knew. Though I haven't moved, though I'm still speechless behind the checkout counter at Al's Hardware, I feel so far away. A trickle of blood crawls down my chin from where I've been biting into my lip. It brings me back to reality. "The wood's out back. I-I have to go" and with that, I stumble hazily out the door and race as fast as my thoughts towards my house. Mr. Henderson is left behind, alone in the untended hardware store. A draft. I keep hearing Mr. H's words loop in my herad; "There's been a draft". While I am running home all lives around me continue normally, whereas mine seems to have stopped. I see children walking down uneven sidewalks with their mothers. Sweethears hold hands and stoll through parks, thinking only of eachother. I nearly knock a young looking, bleached-blonde woman off of her feet. As we bump shoulders, her oversized sunglasses fall off of her face and hit the ground. "Hey!" she yells after me, but I don't slow down or turn back. I can't go to war. Oh my God, I'm eighteen years old! I justgraduated highschool and in a week I'm moving to Colorado. I want to go to college. I want to live my life the way I've always had planned. I'm by no means a coward, and by absolutley no means am I against serving my country. It's just I knew how everything was going to happen. There weren't supposed to be any more suprises. I've reached my street and stop across from the white house. I see the red, Ford pickup. My stomach does a sudden cartwheel. I see the mail box. I inhale. I exhale. Long, slow steps take me across the wide road. I begin to increase my speed by the time I reach the dotted yellow line. I force myself to slow down. Why is it taking so damn long to cross a street!? My eyes stay glued to the mailbox, red flag at its side. Now I am here. I shakily extend my right arm and grasp onto the silver handle. Closing my eyes, I pull it down. No mail. Not bothering to close it, I race into the house and slam shut the broken screen door. My knee caps shake within my legs as I run into the living room, Empty. I turn around and head for the kitchen, finding there what I've dread, yet anticipated, this whole time. My father sits in a wobbly wooden chair at the round kitchen table. His can is at his side. I first notice the stubble growing his nose and around his mouth. He's not yet bothered to shave. I become saddened at seeing his old, tired face and his grey hair. W stare at eachother for a time that seems long to us, but to outside viewers would not. I then look to the table and see an opened envelope addressed to me. Next to it is a letter. The room remains deafeningly silent. Swirls of color surround me. I walk with unsteady balance to the letter and pick it up. My eyes blur as I begin to read;

Selective Service System

Order to Report for Induction

The President of the United States, To: Bradley McHoover 123 Lincoln Street Nome, Alaska 99762

Greetings: You are hereby ordered for induction into the Armed Forces of the United States, and to report at Assembly Rcom. 17th floor. Federal BLDG Belmont Street, Nome Alaska 99762

August 16, 1970 at 7 A.M.

for forwarding to an Armed Forces Induction Station

I place the letter back onto the table. My fathers eyes drop to his sock-covered feet. My breaths are short and sharp. I keep my gaze to the yellow kitchen wall. "I need your keys" I say blankly. "Brad..." Trying to hold back determined tears, I repeat myslef articulately, "I-need-your-keys". He breathes out loudly and reaches into his pocket. When he finds the key chain holding the house and car keys, he set it on the table. He reaches for his can, stands up, and walks to the living room where he'll proceed to sit on the couch and turn on the television. I take the keys and walk out the door.

Chapter One

It's the warmest time of the year in Nome presently. Two more weeks and I will be on a small plane headed to Colorado, where I am to attend the University as a freshman.

I can't help but smile as I walk home. I picture his face as it had been so joyous on the field. His happiness shown throughout his smile and flooded over and into me during the game. I can't help but wish there was a brief moment during the game where his eyes met mine. Or, maybe there was. Yes. There definintly was. I remember it so perfectly now. So vivdly. There he was, on the soccer field, paying close attention to the ball, when, without a doubt, his gaze cought mine. Without consiousness, I believe my expertly brewed story and there's no question in my mind.

I look up and down the vacant street of West Lincoln and when I'm sure no cars are coming, I cross to the white house. Paint is chipping off of the siding, and the front screen door is falling off. It only hangs from its top hinge. I climb up the three wooden steps and onto the porch. I notice that my dad's red, Ford pickup isn't in the driveway. I walk inside and kick off my worn-out white Nike sneakers. I push them into a corner behind the door, and then close it. My eyes keep to the dark wooden floor as I make my way into the living room.

"Jesus!" I exclaim with little breath left in me. Kay sits nonchalantly with her legs crossed on the floral printed sofa. Her arms are folded across her chest and her eyebrows are raised as if she's wating for the answer to a question she's not yet asked me.

"How'd you get in here, Kay!?"

"Your door wasn't locked. I let myself in". My right arm, I let rest horizontally on my forehead. I run my fingers through my wavy, chesnut hair. I let out a heavy sigh.

"Where were you?" she questions flatly.

"I was-I was going for a walk".

"You were going for a walk..." She then nods once. "I have been sitting on the curb outside the fair entrance for one and a half hours, Brad". She emphasizes the "one and a half hours". Damnit! I now remember making plans two days ago to go to the fair on Washington street with Kay. That's what boyfriends are supposed to do anyways right? Take their girlfriends to the carnical, buy them cotton candy, and win them a gigantic teddy bear. I raise both my hands and place them behind my head. My eyes close and I face away from her. After a few seconds of trying to conjur up a plausable excuse to as why I left her alone on a curb, I come up with nothing and turn to face her once again.

"I'm sorry" I say with the most sincerity I can find within myself. Kay rolls her brown eyes and stands up. Her arms remain crossed. She's a pretty girl. Her short, auburn hair is worn in two stubby pigtails. Her shorts remind me of Daisy Duke, and her grey tank top reveals her flat stomach. She walks slowly over to where I'm standing. I watch her with eyes full of guilt. Her arms wrap around my neck and her chest presses lightly against mine. Her gentle, forgiving voice whispers in my ear as our cheeks touch.

"I think I'm in love with you, Bradley, but I'm not sure you do, or ever will feel the same." Her voice is soft. I can tell that she is crying, but I don't let her know that I can. She'd be embarassed. She clears her throat.

"I'm leaving for Montana Tuesday" today is Saturday "and I'm not coming back". She pauses and waits for me to respond. I don't. I should pull her close to me and beg for a second chance, but I'm so tired. I'm just so damn tired of everything. My arms remain at my sides. She pulls away and grasps my shoulders carefully. She searches hard for something deep within my eyes. She doesn't find it. The puzzled look on her face disappears and is replaced with pain as she looks to the ground and walks out the door.

For ten minutes I am left staring at nothing, thinking of nothing. Standing as a statue. I am numb.

Prologue

I watch him, so perfect and confident. His mezmorizing blue eyes are so ingeniously complimented by the dark brown hair and side burns that he's been growing out since July 7th, a month and 16 days ago.He jogs casually from the soccer field to the sidelines where he pulls his sweat-drenched, white T-shirt over his head and tosses it on the seat of the metal bench. Suddenly I become ashamed and embarassed. I look bashfully to the ground and pluck a blade of grass. I examine the green plant smeciman between my thumb and index finger and realize that there's nothing unique about it. The resemblence between this blade of grass and every other blade of grass is not suprising at all. I'm eighteen years old. I know that blades of grass hold no traits or signs of personality to differentiate them from all of the others. My thoughts quickly shift. I think of how peculiar and fasinating it is that a few seconds ago this blade of grass was alive and thriving. But I killed it. I ripped it from the cool, dark soil which was its home. This very blade of grass will never again be alive. It will never again embrace the warmth of the bright, yellow sun, and the sun will never again embrace it in return. As soon as I anotate my own thoughts, I begin to realize how idiotic they are.
"Pass it here, Stevie!" I hear the strong voice yell to a teamate. Stevie passes him the checkered ball. I watch intently as he kicks the ball with such expertise down the field, avoiding all attempts to ruin the play and all threats imposed by opponents. Suspense builds up like a brick wall in my heart, which beats monsterously inside my chest. Even though it is no more than a scrimmage, it feels as though the fate of all the worlds happiness depends on the outcome of the match. As he reaches the final moments of the play, my eyes widen with such passion and intensity. Now, what everyone has been waiting for. In slow motion it seems, his right leg extends in a perfect diagonal line, aiming for the ball. With amazing and beautiful form, he flies through the air. The sole of the black cleet touches the ball, which, as a result, is sent soaring in the direction of the goalie (who I might add looks extremely frightened and terribly troubled). As the glowing body of the shirtless "soccer star" hits the ground, the ball flies past the goalie and hits the back of the netted goal. I immidiatly jolt up off the dewy ground and excitedly clap my hands. I feel so elated and so relieved. Also, I feel rather small and irrelevant. Here I stand on a grassy hill, watching a soccer game from such a distance. Watching the man I love, but will never love me in return. Desperatly watching him embracing and celebrating with the others, as boys do. I become secretly envious. My clapping gradually slows, but I remain standing, staring at the field with innocent child-like eyes.
"I grew up as any other boy in Nome". That's what I long to be able to truthfully say. God, how I yearn for distant recollections of normalcy! While the other young boys collected worms and set ants on fire, I was left locked in a prison cell with only myself and imaginary friends to converse with. I was the owner of this prison and I held the key to this cell. As empty, unsatisfying years sauntered by, I suppose I forgot this. And as more years went by, I believe I lost the key all together. By the age of nine, I knew there was no use in trying to turn my life around. At first, this thought frightened me, but one day I woke up and was utterly content to be where I was. You see, I had ways-effective ways- of coping with every trial life seemed to catapult at me. If I received an enexeptable grade in a class (unexeptable to my standards) I'd return home immideatly after the bell rang and rush up to my room. There, I'd sit cross legged on my twin bed and begin to read every word of whichever textbook I so chose. When my eyes burned and my legs grew stiff to the point of unbareability, I'd hang my head low and walk down the hall to the bathroom. I'd stand in front of the vanity mirror, which was disgustingly placed messily on the coral-pink wall, and furiously stare myself down.
"Bradley, you're an idiot. Bradley, you're worthless. Bradley, you're an insignificant piece of shit and mean nothing to the world. Bradley, I hate you" I'd inform myself as tears avalanched down my tired, puffy face. And it was true. All I spit at my reflection was true. That was how I coped with failure.
Each recess, which should be every childs favorite time of the day, I'd spend in a dirty stall of the boys bathroom. I'd sit sideways on the stained toilet and draw colorful pictures of myself and Charlie climbing Mr Everest, exploring the most lethal rainforests, and riding magic carpets to India. You see, the best thing about Charlie was that he was always available when I needed him. Also, he was a master secret-keeper, mostly due to the fact that he had no one to tell. But, what I enjoyed most about Charlie's company, was that he understood me to the fullest extent there ever was or will be of undterstanding. I never once had to explain myself to him, because Charlie already knew everything I knew. I invented him. He was my best friend for the longest time. That was how I coped with lonliness.
It was Tuesday night, April. My father was in prison for possesion at the time. I remember the smell of the fresh rain. It smelled like life. It smelled like happiness. Even as the lightening flashed and the thunder paraded throughout the night sky, it was so peaceful. All of my worries left me. I felt like a ten year old boy is supposed to. It was then that I heard a slight whisper of hope. This whisper told me that I still had a chance. It told me that I could live a great and inspiring life. It distincly and clearly told me that I could be happy. That's all I ever really wanted, you know? To be happy.
I heard my door creak open. Rolling over under my covers, I saw my mother sulking in the doorway. I could tell that she'd been drinking from the wild look in her eyes.
"Are you scared" she asked me "of the storm?"
"No" I quietly replied. And I honestly wasn't.
"There's no need to be frightned. It's just a small thunder storm".
"I know". She then made her way under the flanel covers with me.
After that night, I knew that i would never be able to look at a woman the way a man was supposed to. I would never witness the birth of my own, biological children. At ten years old, I was broken and would never be fixed.