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.