The Rules of Magic (Practical Magic 0)(73)

PART FIVE





Gravity





It came on the wind, the way wicked things must, for they are most often weighted down with spite and haven’t the strength to lift themselves. On the first day of December 1969, the lottery was held. Men between the ages of eighteen and twenty-six would be drafted to fight in Vietnam according to their birth dates. Lives were interrupted and fortunes were exchanged. A cold drizzle hung down and flurries of snow fell in swirls. There were no stones thrown or drownings, no pillories or burnings. Those chosen were computerized, their fates picked at random.

Life went on despite the lottery: traffic headed down Broadway, men and women showed up for work, children went to play. The world breathed and sighed and people fell in love and got married and fell out of love and never spoke to one another again. Still the numbers drawn had the weight of ruin and sorrow; they turned young men old in an instant. A breath in and a man was chosen to walk on a path he’d never expected to take. A breath out and he must make the decision of a lifetime. Some would leave the country, some went to jail, some were ready to take up arms and die for the country they loved despite the heartbreak of leaving families and friends. All were torn apart. It was said that fate could not be altered, except by one thing, and that was war.

Because Vincent was born on the fourteenth of September, his was the first number drawn, the 258th day of the year. He was in a bar on the Lower East Side when it happened, a no-name place for lost men where the drinks were cheap and the company was rough. He hadn’t wanted to be with William or his sisters on this day and see their shock and fear because he knew this would happen. He’d always known this was to be his lot, and he’d wanted to be alone when they called his number. He’d seen his fate when he was fourteen and had been foolish enough to gaze into the black mirror in the garden shed. His aunt had warned him not to look, but he’d wanted to know what his future held, and then, like anyone who can see what will be, he regretted his actions. Life is a mystery, and it should be so, for the sorrow that accompanies being human and the choices one will have to make are a burden, too heavy for most to know before their time comes.

He came home plastered, nearly unconscious, dragged to the front door by two somewhat less drunken men, who had decided to help when Vincent was booted onto the street. They were veterans and they pitied him the war of his time. Theirs had been terrible, but it had also been just and worth fighting. Franny gave them each a five-dollar bill, thanked them, and let Vincent sleep it off in the parlor. He looked cold and alone, his skin a faint blue color. The next step after being called up would be an order for a physical, and then, if he passed, induction by May of that same year.



Franny had little choice. After all this time, Haylin was still the only one to whom she could turn. She took a cab uptown, to Beth Israel, in a frantic state, urging the taxi driver to go faster, not caring as he skidded through changing stoplights.

“You’re going to get us killed, lady!” the driver cried.

Feeling guilty that she’d placed him in peril, Franny tipped the driver twenty dollars when he got her to the hospital in no time flat. In admissions she got the runaround until a nurse found her pacing outside the ER searching for Dr. Walker. Franny was clearly so distressed that the nurse pulled her aside in the corridor.

“He’s not here anymore, honey.”

The nurse handed Franny a tissue, for she clearly thought that tears were to come. “He did what a lot of our young interns and residents are doing. He joined the navy as a doctor in order not to be drafted.”

“What does his wife have to say about that?” Franny asked. Emily Flood. She could call up her image in an instant, so cheerful and friendly and so damned good-natured.

“The doctor’s not married,” the nurse informed her.

“Yes he is,” Franny insisted.

“I filed his records from personnel. Trust me, there’s no wife.”

Franny called from a pay phone. He was not in, the housekeeper said, but she could take a message.

“Tell him it’s urgent,” Franny pleaded, leaving her phone number and address. “I have to see him. Do you understand what urgent means?”

“I do,” the housekeeper responded. “It means you want what you want.”

Which was true, but for good reason. Franny went home and waited by the phone. When Jet came in with tea, Franny said simply, “We won’t let him go.”

“Of course not,” Jet said.

At dusk there was a knock at the door. The sisters exchanged a look. They knew who it was.

“He’ll help you,” Jet said. “All you have to do is let him.”



An icy drizzle was falling, but Haylin stood there without a hat or an umbrella. Franny threw open the door so swiftly she startled him, even though he was the one who had come to call. Harry had trotted after her and he now guarded the threshold protectively.

“May I come in?”

Hay was formal and he did not move to embrace her. It had been a long time, after all, and their last parting had been awful. When Franny nodded, he entered the vestibule and stomped the rain from his shoes, then took off his wet rain gear. Under his coat he was wearing a navy uniform. Stunned, Franny took a step backward. She knew he had joined up, yet the sheer reality that he was in the armed services threw her. The Hay she’d known would have fled to Canada, chained himself outside the Pentagon, perhaps even gone to jail. But this was a grown man before her, a doctor, and one she barely knew.