A Pact with the Living

By Dan Eberhart

There is a fine line between those who go to war and those who vow to keep them from going. Supporting them on both sides of the divide are the loved ones left behind. A Pact with the Living is about war but is not a war story. It explores howafter all the battles, sacrifices, and losssurvivors on both sides of the divide carry on and come to peace with their grief.

On a cold December night in 1969, all American men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six had their destinies decided by a small piece of paper pulled from a blue capsule, the first selective service lottery. Two men and a woman watching the event will cross paths for the first time. Their journeys through life will clash along the way then unite after going through hell and back.

A Pact with the Living will bring the reader to the Vietnam War Memorial and ask two questions. Are 58,000 names on a wall a just price to pay for a cause? What is the cost to avoid being a name on that wall? In the end, A Pact with the Living will show that the dead on either side of the divide never leave us. They will tell us that the soldier and the pacifist have more in common than not.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Oct 26, 2016
• ISBN: 9781524642419

Dan Eberhart

Dan’s travels have taken him around the world, through all 50 states and much of Canada. He embarked upon a diverse set of careers that included elementary school teacher, corporate executive and long-haul truck driver before retiring as a school bus driver. In addition to writing, he volunteers with Eyecycle Colorado (sighted captains and blind stokers on tandem bicycles), the Colorado Dept. of Corrections and in Denver Public Schools. With his wife, Karen, Dan lives in Denver. He has three children; Mariah, Courtney and Travis. Giving him immense joy are his grandchildren Georgia Blue, Medley and Jacob. Dan comes from a long line of writers, including his father, Perry Eberhart (Guide to Colorado Ghost Towns and Mining Camps and others), and his grandmother, Eve Bennett Haberl (among her teenage romance novels are I, Judy and Concerning Casey). Dan’s first novel, Quadrangle (OutskirtsPress, 2011), tells the story of Casey Turner who falls in love with Molly on a mountaintop, then is spirited away to the desert by Angelita, and becomes infatuated with Sydney, the confidante he knows he can never have. Casey’s life becomes a quadrangle which will either weather the storm of complexity and conflict, or fall in a heap around him.

Book preview

Part I

Sometime they’ll give a war and nobody will come

—Carl Sandberg

"The People, Yes" (1936)

Chapter 1

Josh

These guys are scared shitless, Josh mumbled.

Around him sat boys and young men whose eyes were wide, glassy and about ready to pop out of their heads. His best friend, Ryan’s eyes bulged, too, but he wasn’t about to tell him that he looked as frightened as everybody else.

December first was a cold Monday in 1969. On that night, Josh, Ryan and every American man aged eighteen to twenty-six was going to have a number assigned to his birthday by lottery. The number would be a reprieve or a ticket to the war in Vietnam.

Faceless bureaucrats somewhere in Washington D. C., said the lottery would give all draft-eligible males the ability to plan their lives. What the hell did that mean, Josh had thought when he’d first read news accounts about the lottery. He didn’t feel like his life was being made easier. Three years earlier, when he’d turned eighteen, he had done his civic duty and registered for the selective service. When his draft card arrived in the mail, he’d been overwhelmed by feelings of ominous responsibility and the sense that somehow his manhood had been ordained. Being enrolled at the University of Colorado granted him 2-S status, a student deferment, but it seemed merely a buffer against reality. But, planning for his future? Anything beyond this night seemed an excruciating mystery.

Well, they have every right to be scared, Ryan said without turning his head. Defiance and anxiety fused in his voice.

A few guys were telling jokes and others laughed, but they were out of sync with the punch lines. A few of the small number of girls in the crowd had smiles that looked painted on their faces. Two younger looking boys seemed startled every time the double glass doors opened and they watched each newcomer until he found a place to sit. Everyone stole glances at the television set that was perched on top of a pedestal at the front of the room, but they all avoided eye contact in case a chance encounter might ignite unbridled panic.

Cigarette smoke drifted toward the ceiling in filmy clouds. Josh tried to lick his lips but his tongue was as dry as his mouth was sour. Everybody else’s nervous attempts at self-deception might have been amusing but for the realization that he was just as terrified. The events unfolding would profoundly affect the rest of his life, and he felt powerless to change the outcome.

He and Ryan sat on the opposite ends of a ratty, over-used couch in the commuter lounge of the University Memorial Center. Though neither had said so, they might have shared hope that there would be comfort in a crowd. A wide tie-dyed headband corralled Ryan’s stringy, dark brown hair as his eyes swung back and were glued to the TV. Through the veneer of his indignation bled a sense of vulnerability that was immediately contagious and uncomfortable. Josh followed his friend’s gaze to the front of the lounge and marveled at the hypnotic sway the square black box held over the crowd. It held unseen forces that stood in judgment, preparing to dictate the fate of each young man in the room.

A large wooden bowl nudged past Josh’s shoulder and crash landed in his lap. Rattled, he was about to jump up and cuss someone out when he remembered the clean-cut frat boy who had stood up and announced the ‘pool.’ Everybody in for five dollars, he’d declared. The lowest number drawn in the lottery would win all but twenty-five dollars, which would be split between the second and third place finishers. The bowl was heaped with ones, fives and a few ten dollar bills. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, Josh pulled his wallet from the back pocket of his jeans. It was the ultimate irony; while the bucks would come in real handy, winning the jackpot unquestionably meant you had a one-way ticket to Vietnam.

Counting out five bills, Josh threw them in the bowl and pushed it over the cushions to Ryan. Laughter erupted from the back of the room. He started to look, but then decided he was tired of people watching. Let’s get this show on the road, and over with.

An officious-looking man in a dark suit walked onto the screen and in a stern voice announced, Welcome to the first annual selective service lottery.

Clamor in the room evaporated. The hush puddled around Josh’s feet and a chill stole up his spine. All eyes were riveted on the television. A clergyman stepped into the picture and offered a muffled convocation. The words were hard to understand, but his serious expression left no doubt as to the solemn nature of his message. With a minimum of ceremony, another self-important appearing man introduced as a congressman from New York stepped next to the tall cylinder filled with plastic capsules. He thrust his hand into the container and drew one out. Pulling it apart, he hesitated for an instant and then announced, Number one is September fourteenth.

Paralyzing stillness fell over the commuter lounge and on the television. Josh realized he had been holding his breath and gasped with everyone else when it became obvious that no one in the room had a birthday on September 14.

A young woman stepped into the picture and was introduced as a member of the Selective Service Youth Advisory Committee from the state of Alabama. A crisply pressed uniform failed to hide her nervousness. She reached into the canister and carefully picked a capsule, only to have it slip from her fingers. With a look of desperation, she glanced down and grabbed frantically at the mound. As if she had found the exact same one, she snatched a capsule and pulled apart the two halves to extract the small slip of paper.

April twenty-fourth, she said and quickly headed off stage.

Though that wasn’t his birthday, Josh felt light-headed and drifted through a haze of suspended animation. Relief and an odd sense of disappointment threaded through the gathering. The air was heavy, and the silence, oppressive. Just as the suspense began to suffocate him, commotion bubbled from a back corner of the room. Mildly thankful for the distraction, Josh turned to see two large, muscled men with a slender, dark-haired woman between them sitting on a tan vinyl couch. They laughed and grinned with arrogance as if they owned the room. Their antics were oil on the water of seriousness that filled the lounge.

It took several seconds for Josh to fit the aberration into the picture. Confusion dissolved into contempt. One of the men, the black one, was a varsity football player, but Josh didn’t recognize the other guy. They reminded him of the jocks that had lived on his floor in the dorm during freshman year. Full of swagger and disdain for anyone not as exalted as them, they roamed the halls with brash conceit. Josh loved football, but he had come to despise the Neanderthals that played it and the hero worship they flaunted. Needing to stem his irritation, he grunted and looked back to the television.

A few more numbers went by when the representative from Florida pulled open a capsule. Number six, he paused, is September sixth.

That’s me! I win!

Head and bodies swung toward the outburst. A skinny kid with spikey yellow hair jumped up and scanned the room with a look of triumph, arms raised. His fists hung in the air until the quiet overwhelmed him. The roomful of stares seemed to melt his arms, which dropped to his sides.

You got that right, Connors! boomed a voice to the kid’s side. A big, meaty hand clapped on him on the shoulder. You won the most expensive prize that no one wants!

The wooden bowl materialized from the middle of the crowd and bobbed toward the boy named Connors. The kid’s eyes were large and white as the polished alabaster eggs Josh’s grandmother kept on her knick-knack shelf.

A disembodied voice from the television sliced the air, Date number seven is October twenty-sixth.

In unison, everyone fell back under the spell of the lottery. Another date was drawn with no reaction from the room when a lanky young man stepped to the microphone. His crisp movements defied a vaguely disheveled appearance. Number nine, November twenty-second, sir, he barked.

Aw, fuck! groaned a voice off to Josh’s right.

Hey, that’s my birthday, too! A boy in front of him yelled, jumping up and whirling around.

While the group tried to fathom the concept of dual winners, Connors pushed the wooden bowl at his round-shouldered friend and announced loudly, Here, you count out their winnings.

After a quick rummage through the currency, his buddy shouted, Wow! There’s $165 in here! That leaves, uh, wait, the boy hesitated, looking at Connors, How am I supposed to split up twenty-five dollars evenly?

Connors looked annoyed. Give ’em each twenty, I don’t care.

The chubby friend thumbed two stacks of bills and handed them toward the second place winners. One handful came to Josh, who turned and passed it behind him. Blood money, he thought.

More numbers found their victims. Groans mingled with shouts of sympathy and callous ridicule. Heads were cuffed, shoulders slapped and backs pounded. Bright red veins scored swollen eyes and agonized smiles tried hard not to quiver. Pity, thick and bitter, washed through Josh. This was Russian roulette, only the trigger got pulled twice. Your birthday in the right capsule put you in misery. A second bullet in the right chamber would put you out of it.

Over the somber drone of the television and through the collective tension, more racket filtered from the back of the room. Josh turned to see the two jocks pointing at a boy whose birth date had just been called. He looked like a small kid who had been told that a parent had died. Tears streaked his cheeks and his eyes were crimson. Watching him cry, the burly black guy hissed, Pussy.

The woman between the two men attempted an apologetic smile. For a quick moment, she looked at Josh. It was almost like she felt embarrassed in front of him and wanted the bullying to stop for his benefit. The connection dissolved when the two men suddenly stood and made a performance of stretching and yawning. The white guy reached a hand down to the woman and pulled her to her feet.

Those guys make me wanna puke! Ryan spat.

Walking through the glass doors, the men swaggered into the hallway, exaggerating self-importance with each step. Disappearing around a far corner, the aura of their defiance lingered. Resentment simmered in Josh’s stomach.

The rest of us are in here sweatin’ bullets, and those two act like it’s just another game to them, Ryan sputtered.

Yeah, I think that’s Jerome Bookhart, one of the Buffs’ linebackers. Don’t know who the white guy is, but he’s built like a fucking barn! Josh exclaimed. With accidental curiosity, he added, And the chick looked kinda like Joan Baez.

Ryan stared at the doors as if their images were embossed on the glass. Why’d they come here to watch the lottery, anyway? You know what really pisses me off? Without waiting for a response, he went on, Yeah, I heard about Bookhart and that he has a shot at the pros, but I bet he’ll play the 4F card to get out of the draft, y’know, claim some knee injury or something. Then while the rest of us have to watch our lives auctioned off, they’ll wrap themselves in the flag and cheer on President Nixon’s war machine! His growing anger seemed to be lifting him from the couch.

Hey, where you going, man? Josh said, alarm in his voice

I’ve got a mind to tell them who the real pussies are. I’m getting real tired of these assholes letting the politicians sacrifice our lives for their own immoral purposes.

Wait, wait, wait! Josh demanded. You know what those two guys would do to a hippie like you? I bet the big white guy could send you across the room with a flick of his finger. Grabbing at Ryan’s sleeve, he argued, Fuck ’em, man, they’re not worth our time. Let’s see what date they’re gonna call next.

Ryan was definitely a lover, not a fighter, and those guys weren’t going to let him lecture them on the war. Josh shared his friend’s revulsion for the jocks, but knew the real drama was in front of them. He kept a hand on Ryan’s shoulder until his tension reoriented itself toward the TV. Several more numbers were met with moans and commentary, and then the hazy silhouette of another cadet moved into the screen. The introduction was lost in the room’s chaos.

Shh! someone hissed loudly.

Piercing the lull, a sturdy voice with a Southern accent announced, Number thirty-nine is December eleven.

Shit! Josh spat and clenched his teeth. Figures.

Ah, man, that’s your birthday? Ryan faced him with concern and confusion pulling at his expression. His eyes were wide and questioning, his mouth half-open like words were trapped in his throat.

Josh’s eyes slowly turned back to the television, hoping he’d heard wrong. The turmoil bounced around the room and then faded until there was only a bubble of emptiness. A future that once had some definition dissolved into a haze of suffocating, pulsing shadows. Panic seized him as the fear of death swelled in his gut like a balloon daring to be burst. Heat flooded his face, and the skin of his cheeks stretched until they felt brittle. Subtle pressure on his forearm caused him to flinch.

Josh, are you okay? The voice was remote, a small buoy riding raging seas in a storm.

Grating noises and vague silhouettes began to dissolve into real shapes and sounds. Breaths came a little easier.

We’ll get you out of this, Ryan said with budding resolve in his tone. You’re not going anywhere if I have anything to do with it. His hand found Josh’s shoulder and squeezed gently.

My student deferment, Josh started with a rush of air, that’ll keep me out ’til ’71, I guess. The knowledge was only a minor salve on the burn of inevitability.

Well, yeah, I guess your 2-S gives you time to plan some way to make sure you never have to go to that goddam war.

The air between them became thick and expectant, but neither seemed capable of adding to the conversation. The crowd was beginning to thin by a person or two here and there. Voices rose and fell. Announcements from the television filled the spaces.

An hour later, the number 286 was called. Tension visibly flowed off Ryan like melted butter. He blew out a big breath and slumped into the couch cushions. His obvious urge to shout out loud was squelched in his glance toward Josh.

Way to go, man. They say the last third of numbers are safe. I think that covers you. You’re free to spend the rest of your life the way you want to.

Ryan replied with genuine concern, Guess so, but I’m still real bummed about your number. I want to be happy for me, but, he took a deep breath, you’re my best friend, man. I hate that you’ve got the draft staring you in the face, even if it’s a couple years down the road. Maybe, somehow Nixon’ll get us out of there by then… but that ain’t gonna happen.

His back stiff and thoughts stale as the air in the lounge, Josh stood and stretched. Let’s get out of here.

They got up and Ryan squeezed his friend’s shoulder as they wove their way out of the smoky room and through the UMC. It felt like all the words that needed to be said had been said, so they walked in silence. Pushing through the big wooden door to the outside, a blast of cold slapped Josh’s face. He inhaled deeply, and the oncoming winter tasted crisp and refreshing. Beyond the flagstone portico and amber floodlights, darkness trickled through the pines in soft billows. Knots of dried leaves fluttered around their feet as they walked up the stone steps and through the archway into the Mary Rippon Theater. A half circle of flagstone benches swarmed out of the shadows. On the walkway where they passed, a stage would be constructed for the Shakespeare festival that was held every summer. Strains of a song from a record he’d just bought and had been playing seemingly non-stop in the last few days, filtered through his head. It was taken from a speech by Hamlet, and on the soundtrack from the play Hair.

What a piece of work is a man. The lyrics came together and he half-sang in a low voice, How noble in reason, how infinite in faculties, in form and moving, how express and admirable. In action how like an angel, in apprehension how like a god.

Soft amusement dispelled a bit of the gloom. To Ryan’s inquisitive expression, he mused, You know, man is a piece of work. Men are supposed to be noble, angelic and godlike, but what do they do? They start wars. Then the man in charge sends other people’s kids to die on the battlefield. He sends other mothers’ sons to die for worthless causes. For all man’s supposed intelligence, he can’t find better ways to settle his differences with other men.

But wherefore I know not, lost all my mirth, Ryan chanted as his face subtly brightened with recognition.

Yup, that’s right, I’ve about lost all my mirth, Josh replied.

Ryan looked at the seats, then at the red stone walls of Hellems, the building surrounding the amphitheater. Turning to face his friend, he hesitated and then said with fragile enthusiasm, Hey, look, we can’t change the world tonight. Instead of hanging out at Nance and DJ’s, let head over to the Sink. Music, a bunch of crazy people and couple of pitchers, that should get us out from under the cloud.

Sure, I guess.

They passed under the opposite arch and turned onto the sidewalk along Broadway. Headlights came and tail lights went as Josh jammed his fists deeper into the pockets of his pea coat. Sure, he thought, I’d like to go to the Shakespeare festival and, yeah, I’d like to hike one of Colorado’s fourteen thousand foot peaks. While I’m at it, I just might go to Paris.’ There were a lot of things he’d like to do, but he’d better do them before he got drafted and sent to Vietnam. Pessimism was a curtain getting ready to drop over the last act of the play that was his life. Pulling the wool collar of his coat up to his ears only blocked the cold from outside.

The stoplight changed and a biting wind pushed them across the street. The tall windows of the Colorado Bookstore loomed dark and foreboding while the glare of lights from Jones Drug across the street bathed the faces of passersby. A few more people than usual were out on a Monday night. Through the fog of aimless thought floated the image of a pretty face with pale lips, long brown hair and big round glasses. Smoke, the crackle of a television and loud voices surrounded her. On either side were two giants, drooling with long, sharp teeth, but she was a delicate flower, a compassionate spirit in their midst. She did look like Joan Baez, Josh thought, except for the glasses. His favorite folk singer and the attractive girl from the UMC swirled together in a pleasant, sensual mood. A bottle of wine, a candle, her naked skin against his… he chuckled.

What now? Ryan said. You seem to be having a good time in your head.

Josh laughed. Oh, I don’t know, just crazy thoughts.

Ryan walked a couple steps ahead as they passed through a thin cloud of sweet, herbal smoke. A small group of people in fringed leather and old denim loitered by the doorway to Pete’s Diner, dark and closed for the night. Ryan took an exaggerated sniff and smiled at them. At the corner, he turned left, over a triangle of pavement and across 13th Street.

‘The S nk,’ was written in fluttering neon behind the wide, plate glass window. A burly man with a bushy beard, spattered white apron and squashed baseball cap sat on a stool in front of the double doors. He was squinting at the out-of-state drivers’ license of a giggling, young-looking lady. Looking over her shoulder at the license, Josh calculated that she was thirty-three years old. You only had to be eighteen to get in; he was tempted to join in her delight but pursed his lips. The doorman finally grunted his approval to the woman and hardly glanced at Ryan and Josh’s licenses. Behind a counter by the window, a tall, long-haired hippie stood, flipping burgers and smiling at no one in particular. A chunky Mexican, who Josh knew to be the assistant manager, leaned on the bar, flirting with a young coed.

Cigarette smoke, beer fumes and loud voices burst through the archway from the back rooms. Kids who looked barely old enough to get by the beefy doorman yelled and guzzled beer as if they thought they had gained entrance to Gomorrah. Josh turned to his left, stepped through the entryway to the rear cave of a room and ducked his head to avoid pipes hanging from the low ceiling. Old wooden benches and booths were filled with people sitting around picnic tables whose surfaces had been gouged with decades of graffiti.

Ryan yelled and waved to someone hidden in the shadows, midway down the back wall. Josh followed as Ryan snagged an empty bench and pulled it up to a table of four people. There Mike, a good friend from freshman year in the dorm, sat with an arm draped around his current lady friend. Her eyes and cheeks glowed with adoration at his spirited gesticulations. Another couple huddled across the table from them. Josh started to squeeze onto the bench next to Ryan, then faltered mid-air.

In the back corner, a few tables away, were the two jocks from the commuter lounge and the woman who looked like Joan Baez. She was snuggled up to the bigger white man on one side of the table, across from the black man. The image of the men swaggering down the hall made Josh’s stomach somersault. Remnants of the lusty thoughts he’d been enjoying just a few minutes ago suddenly made him feel like he’d been caught stuffing an old Playboy in his back pocket. Bright light from the front room reflected off the woman’s lenses as she unexpectedly turned and looked at him. Her eyes were obscured, but there might have been a flicker of recognition. She had a delicate jawline and slightly upturned nose that softened the pandemonium swirling around her. Following her gaze, the big guy caught Josh’s stare and sneered a warning.

Josh fell hard onto the bench, sloshing the pitcher of beer on the table.

Whoa, careful there, man! exclaimed the guy across the table from Mike.

Hey, good to see you dudes. Mike reached across the table and clutched Ryan’s hand. He looked from face to face to face and said, You know Shayla, he indicated the girl hanging on his arm, and Brett. This is his girlfriend, Tara.

A head full of dark, dark curls surrounded narrowing eyes. She smiled with an edge that implied she most certainly was not anyone’s girlfriend.

Didja watch the lottery drawing? Mike went on. My number was 299 and Brett’s was 154. Not great, but in the three years when he graduates and his 2-S is up, the numbers hopefully won’t get that high.

Brett nodded with a half-convinced smile.

"How about you guys?

No one spoke as the chaos around them bounced off the walls.

Oh, no, Mike finally muttered. Not good, huh? Both of you?

Ryan straightened, looked to his right and took a deep breath. I’m good, mine was 286. But…

Mine was 39, Josh said quietly. After another lull in the noise, I’m fucked.

Shayla uttered an elongated, Wow!

Ryan put his arm around Josh’s shoulders. The gesture was appreciated but did little to dull the sting of his rotten luck.

With a squeeze of empathy, Ryan brought his arm down, clenched his fists on the table and leaned forward. It’s cruel, man! I hate this fucking war and can’t stand that anyone has to fight in it, much less, his eyes reddened, my best friend. I, we’ve, walked in a few protests, but, he slapped the table, making everyone jump, we have to turn up the heat. I’ve got a couple friends that are pretty involved with the Student Mobilization Committee. They’re organizing boycotts and stuff to get the university to take a stand against the war. I’m going to check with them, and find other ways to get involved. I mean, here and across the country millions of people are speaking up. There’s a revolution around the corner and we gotta help make it happen. We have to keep Josh out of this damn fucking war, and everyone else, for that matter. It’s just not right!

Yeah! yelled Brett. There’s a lot of people out there telling Nixon this war is evil and they’re not gonna go. I’m with you, let’s get out there.

Adrenaline and inspiration fueled a loud debate. Tara jumped in and started pointing her finger at myriad, unseen villains. Josh’s head heard all the good stuff they were saying, but his heart was not into it. He tried a comment or two here and there but gloom surrounded him like a heavy, black shroud. The air got too heavy, making his shoulders droop.

I gotta have a plan B, he muttered.

Though his voice was decibels softer than the rousing conversation and the craziness around them, everyone at the table looked at him.

What’d you say? Tara asked, concern in her voice.

Well, my 2-S is good ’til seventy-one. If we don’t stop the war before that, my goose is cooked. Josh knew that was not the answer his friends wanted to hear, but in the back of his mind he reluctantly thought, they don’t have to worry, do they?

That’s the truth, I guess, Brett replied. Suddenly, his eyes widened. No, I didn’t mean that you’re out options. Hell, there’s got to be other ways to get out of going.

Ryan looked up, and his expression made clear that his mind had shifted into overdrive. Yeah, like conscientious objector or Canada. Hey, remember that movie we just saw, ‘Alice’s Restaurant?’ You know, where Arlo Guthrie gets all fucked up and goes in for his draft physical?

They laughed and resumed the raucous discussion, throwing out ways Josh could prove he was physically unfit and could qualify for a 4-F. Europe, Australia and other exotic places were tossed around like islands of safe haven. All their ideas were entertaining, but nothing sounded plausible to Josh. His fate was sealed and he alone would have to live with it. It wasn’t the other guys, the lucky guys’, fault but Josh was feeling like their sacrificial lamb. Ryan, Brett and Mike, all his other friends, would graduate, get jobs, have families and live while his ass was on the line. They’d never know how he felt. The Sink suddenly felt like a dungeon of drunken shouts and too loud music. He wanted to leave, but his friends offered a barrier from worse thoughts he didn’t want to think, and which he knew would come if he was alone.

Refilling his mug with the last of the pitcher and trying to distract his demons, he butted into the conversation. I don’t know man. What would I do in Canada?

Mike blurted, Friends of mine live on a commune in Saskatchewan. They’re diggin’ it. As if proud that his suggestion had merited consideration, he enthusiastically added, Lots of draft dodgers up there.

The girls nodded too eagerly and stole sympathetic glances in Josh’s direction.

Talk continued. Suds flowed, blurred his thinking and filled his bladder. Returning from his second trip to the bathroom, a derogatory shout came from Josh’s right and, he knew, was aimed in his direction. On edge and fortified by alcohol, he turned toward the voice, ready to tell off the wise-ass, and froze.

What’re you looking at, boy? You walked by enough times to wear a groove in the floor. The black man looked at the scuffed cement. He pointed and spoke, Yup, right there, see it? A motherfuckin’ rut in the floor!

His big buddy laughed and glared at Josh. Their insults melted his self-assurance into resentment. His fists clenched and body tensed. He could see the muscles that rippled from the black man’s tee shirt. His friend sat a head higher than everyone around him. The odds were not in Josh’s favor. He wasn’t a fighter, but didn’t like to think of himself as a coward, either.

Rooted to the floor by indecision, the budding urge to throw up was suddenly deflected by concern and apprehension in the eyes of the dark-haired woman. Tiny seeds of apology and empathy, similar to what he’d felt from her in the commuter lounge, began to calm Josh’s irritation. Before he could wallow in her enchantment, however, the white guy leaned forward to join in his friend’s bullying. She laid a hand on his forearm, causing his mouth to drop open in surprise.

With a forced smile, she said slowly and softly, Leave him alone.

The big man stared back at Josh, then at her. Her eyes shimmered behind the over-sized round lenses. She managed to create some calm in a sea of shadows. Strain and panic seeped from Josh’s muscles, and it was obvious she was having the same effect on her companion.

Almost as if he was relieved, animosity slipped from the man’s hard expression. He looked at his friend and muttered, Leave the guy alone. He’s not worth hassling. Throwing his head back, he emptied his mug.

Realizing he’d been holding his breath, Josh exhaled, blinked hard, stretched his fingers and forced himself to walk coolly to his friends’ table.

Not long after the confrontation, The Sink crew began herding everyone toward the red double doors. Midnight was the witching hour for bars that served 3.2 beer. Ryan rallied the gang to take their discussion and fake IDs to the Catacombs tavern downtown. Ambivalent and spent, Josh followed meekly into the frosty night. They meandered to Brett’s townhouse on University Avenue to get his car and inside to get his keys. Before heading back out, they shared a joint. Josh partook but hesitated when they gathered in the parking lot. The breeze cut through his coat as the weight of the evening mercilessly pressed down on him. Ryan started to get in the car and then turned.

Not up for it? he asked.

Nah. Wasted, Josh mumbled.

Marijuana hadn’t revived his spirits as he had hoped. Crawling into bed, pulling the covers over his head and passing out was a poor but preferable alternative. Ryan made a half-hearted attempt to change his mind, but they both knew the arguments were pointless.

Josh appreciated the effort and tried to sound upbeat. Drink a toast to my future.

Ryan turned and wavered. With a grimace on his face, he started to form words but his lips compressed. Clasping Josh’s hand, he pulled him into a half hug. They pulled apart, looked into each other’s eyes and nodded. Ryan lowered himself into the car seat and slowly closed the door.

Chapter 2

Cassie

Leave him alone.

Cassie’s eyes grew wide, but she fought to keep her voice calm and steady. Okie had started to lob another insult at the guy, but turned and stared at her. Her insides tensed, but her eyes were fixed firmly on his. Laying a hand on his forearm, her thumb gently pressed small circles into his taut muscle. This wasn’t like him to be so belligerent, but after a long moment, hostility melted into resignation. Relief and a needed dose of affection filtered through the tightness in her veins, a small smile loosened her jaw. He broke the connection, lifting his mug to swallow the last of his beer.

Leave the guy alone, Okie said to Jerome, sneering. He’s just another fuckin’ freak can’t hold his beer.

Cassie watched Jerome watch the guy. He obviously wanted to string out the harassment, but paid heed to Okie’s remark. With a dismissive wave, he too emptied his glass in one huge swig. An awkward silence hung over the table. The tension finally dissolved when Jerome threw out a question about the Bronco’s upcoming game against the Kansas City Chiefs. Okie responded immediately, seemingly content to change the mood.

Her glass remained nearly full glass as Cassie sighed deeply. Out of the corner of her eye, the object of Jerome’s taunting retreated toward a nearby corner of the dusky room. He ducked under an exposed pipe and looked over his shoulder. For a long second, connection floated in the smoky air. Startled and a little embarrassed, Cassie quickly looked down at the gouges in the old picnic table.

That was weird, she thought to herself. What is it about that guy? He had piercing dark eyes and wispy, light brown hair that hung to his shoulders. He had been in the commuter lounge, watching the lottery, sitting on a couch in the middle of the room with another guy who wore a tie-dyed headband, its long tails drooped halfway down his back. Sitting on opposite ends of the couch in nearly identical faded jeans and red flannel shirts, they looked like bookends with no books to support. If he wasn’t so shabby, he could be attractive and there was something else about him, something mysterious and engaging. Whatever it was, it had aroused a sliver of unexpected sympathy when Okie and Jerome started picking on him.

Their bullying stirred the discomfort she had felt about going to the UMC in the first place. They had been invited to watch the lottery at Jerome’s dorm with members of the football team. Cassie had even invited the guys to her apartment and offered to cook them a nice dinner. Instead, Jerome insisted they watch in a more public place. He must have known hippies and anti-war types would be there. What she didn’t understand was Okie’s eagerness to go along. That was a malicious side of him she hadn’t seen, and it worried her a bit. He didn’t even have to watch the lottery; he was in ROTC and going into the Army regardless of the number assigned to his birthday. Going to The Sink afterward had only reinforced her uneasiness. She didn’t like the place to begin with, and the rowdy kids, gloom and graffiti-scrawled walls only made Okie’s menacing behavior more troubling.

Ain’t you gonna finish up your beer, Cass? Okie said loudly. Let’s get outta here.

His command thankfully sidetracked thoughts she didn’t want to think. She took a sip and replied that she’d had enough.

Jerome and Okie allowed her to stand, then pushed themselves up, noisily knocking back their benches. As if they needed to attract any more attention to themselves, Cassie thought, and pulled her overcoat tighter. The men attracted lots of stares as they bent over, practically in half, to make their way out of the smoky dungeon.

Cassie and Okie stood on the corner watching Jerome cross Broadway. He turned and waved before heading to his dorm on campus. Cassie waited for Okie to start walking and then snuggled her cheek into the soft suede of his jacket and matched him stride for stride. When they’d first started dating, she’d chided him to shorten his stride so she could keep up. Ever since, he’d taken pains to moderate his pace. He could be such a gentleman.

As they passed the tall windows of the University Bookstore, his reflection towered over her. He could be imposing, and like at The Sink, intimidating. Worry gnawed at the edges of consciousness, but before it could take over, she recalled the first time she had met him. It had been in the room she called her hiding place at Norlin, the main library on campus. It was in a corner room on the third floor, small and crammed with bookshelves. The musty smell and sensation of age-old wisdom was comforting. Small windows near the ceiling let in enough light for her to know the time of day. Rarely would she be interrupted and usually when she was, the intruder would back out of the door with a muttered apology.

One afternoon over a year ago, the doorway had been filled with one of the largest human beings she’d ever seen. His shoulders nearly filled the space between the jambs. Short, straight brown hair covered the top of his head like a beanie. He had a tanned, ruddy complexion and arresting, soft brown eyes. When he took a step into the study room, another darker face peered around his arm. A hint of panic had stolen into her chest. The three of them froze, like awkward statues, but his eyes had held only apologetic curiosity.

Giving voice to her musing, Cassie said, Remember when we met, Okie?

He slowed and looked at her quizzically. Huh?

Her gloved hand slid down his arm and clasped his hand. She pulled slightly away so she could more clearly see his face. I asked if you remembered when we met. Up in our room in Norlin, remember that?

Sure, I remember, his voice was low and soothing in the chilly night. How could I forget?

You and Jerome, you can be pretty scary guys to a girl all alone, you know? Fondness warmed her insides as her fingers threaded through his. But, you’re just a big pussy cat. I felt your sweetness that day and knew I didn’t have anything to worry about.

He glanced at the bump on her nose that made