The Unwilling(19)

“No. I’m sorry.” I shook my head, then turned across the narrow street and drove us out. Chance craned to look behind us, then sat low in the seat, arms crossed. On the four-lane, I finally spoke. “You made your point, okay? It’s a shitty street. She’s poor.”

“Hey, man, drive away. Ignore the deeper truths.”

“You’re mad at me?”

“I want you to know what you’re getting into.”

“I don’t care if she’s poor.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Stop the car.”

“What? Why?”

“Just stop the car. Look at me.”

I pulled off the road and stopped on a wide spot that was half-gravel and half–red dirt. A rickety table stood in the shade of a locust tree beside a hand-painted sign that advertised produce for sale on weekends. I imagined corn and peaches and carrots, an old couple in an old truck. “Why should it matter to me if Becky Collins is poor?”

“Because she’s already being dishonest with you. If she does it again, you should understand the reasons.”

“You’re being ridiculous.”

“Say it goes five dates, or even ten? She won’t introduce you to her parents. Trust me on that. She won’t let you pick her up or take her home, either. And she’ll have some big old buttons, too, and you’d better know ’em so you don’t push ’em by accident. Clothes and shoes, for instance. If they’re nice, they’re borrowed, so be careful with compliments. Think twice about expensive restaurants, too. Same thing with birthday gifts, Christmas presents. Not too expensive. She won’t be able to do the same…”

“Wait a minute. Wait.” I held up a hand. “You’re trying to help her?”

“Of course I am, you dumb shit. She’s a good girl. You’re my best friend.”

I sat for a moment in stunned silence, thinking at last of the poverty in which Chance had been mired for his entire life. Father long gone, his mother worked three jobs, the best of which was running a cash register at the local drugstore. Chance’s house was as bad as any on the street we’d just left, and I knew for a fact I was the only friend who’d been there.

Ever.

“Hey, man. I’m sorry. I should have trusted you.”

“Just don’t screw it up, okay?”

Back on the road, I thought about Chance’s worn clothing, his single pair of blown-out sneakers. He acted as if dressing that way was a choice. He’d been doing it so well and for so long that I’d forgotten it was an act. Chance brought his lunch in a brown bag. At school, he didn’t even buy milk. “You want to come over?” I asked.

“With your mom around? No thanks.”

The comment could be taken two ways. My father earned a cop’s salary, but my mother came from money, and it showed. The nice house. The fine clothes. We decorated for Christmas, and did it in style. Chance combed the local woods for a tree that was green and the right shape. I usually helped him drag it home and set it up. “You want to do something else? Pinball, maybe? They have a new machine at the Gulf station on Innes.”

“Nah. Take me home.”

It was one of those days now. Talk of poverty had invited in everything else that was real, and that included graduation, the future, Vietnam. Twelve days from graduation, and the draft was out there, and waiting. As if to reinforce the thought, we passed a billboard five miles down: HAVE YOU REGISTERED FOR THE SELECTIVE SERVICE?

IT’S THE LAW!

They wanted our names, addresses, the best way to fill the ranks. And it wasn’t my brothers alone who’d made it real. We both had friends who’d gone and died. “How did it feel to sign those papers?”

I asked it to make conversation, but Chance averted his eyes. “I haven’t done it yet.”

I opened my mouth and closed it. Once a man turned eighteen, the law allowed thirty days to sign up. I still had time, but Chance’s birthday was three months before mine. “Are you serious?” I asked.

“It’s a bullshit law.”

“But still a law.”

“It’s a bullshit war.”

It occurred to me then that we’d not spoken of Vietnam in months, and I realized now that the reticence had come from Chance. If I raised the subject, he laughed it off. If I pushed, he deflected in some other way. I’d been so caught up in my own frustrations, I’d not thought twice about it. But my best friend had just revealed more in two short sentences than he had in three long months.

A bullshit law …

A bullshit war …

I wanted to push, but knew at a look he wouldn’t have it. The silence continued until I stopped at his house: a dingy cube with a blue tarp on the roof, where it leaked around the chimney. “You want me to come in?” I asked.

“I told Mom I’d clean the kitchen.”

“I can help if you want.”

“Nah, I’m good.” Chance climbed out and closed the door. “Don’t forget what I said about Becky Collins. You might not see the chip on her shoulder, but it’s there and it’s big.”

“I’ll remember.”

“Tomorrow, then.”

“See you at school.”