The Unwilling(70)

He looked lost, but gathered up the threads of his conviction. “When Robert died, it killed me. It killed us all, I know. But then I lost Jason, too, not in the same way, but the boy I’d raised was gone, just…” He opened an empty hand. “But I still had you. I had you and your mother and this chest full of fear, this mountain, Gibby, this mountain of fear that if I slipped or made a mistake, I might lose you, too. An accident. The war.

“A few hours ago, I learned some things about your brother’s past that help me understand the man he’s become, not just the anger and the quiet but that maddening inflexibility of his. He’s not the son I remember—not even close—but parts of him are still there, buried maybe, but not gone and not imagined.” He rolled his heavy shoulders, all but begging. “I needed answers, son, and decided to go looking. Maybe I should have done it sooner. Maybe it would have made a difference.”

“What kind of answers?”

“Things he won’t talk about. His training and the war, the things he did there.” He held up a hand, forestalling my questions. “It’s classified, son, stolen information. I could go to prison for knowing what I know.”

“I have a right to know, same as you.”

“I can’t allow you to take that risk.”

“I’m eighteen years old. That’s not for you to decide.”

“You live under my roof. So yes, it is.”

My hands clenched. His were fisted, too. “Is that your final word?”

“It has to be.”

“Then I would like to be alone.”

He searched my eyes, but I kept them cold and unforgiving. Even so, he lingered as if the rift between us was a wound that time alone could heal.

There weren’t enough hours in the day.

I made sure he saw that, too.



* * *



Chance was outside when his mother stepped onto the porch. She had coffee in one hand, but looked tired. The sun was barely up. “Have you fixed it yet?”

Chance considered the bicycle in the dirt where he knelt. He’d gone over the curb too hard, and blown a tube, damaged some spokes. “The tube is patched, but a couple of the spokes are broken through.”

“Well, leave it for now. You have a phone call. It’s Gibby’s dad.” She shrugged as if the world rarely made sense and she’d long ago stopped trying to understand it. “Take the call, then come eat your breakfast.”

They had a single phone, so Chance crossed old, brown carpet and sat on the old, brown sofa. “Hello.”

“Chance, good morning. It’s Bill French. I’m sorry to call so early, but I need to talk about Gibby.”

The call was brief but troubling. In the kitchen, Chance’s mother spoke from the stove. “What was that all about?”

“It was strange.”

“Here. You can eat while you talk.” She put a plate on the table. “Go on. Before it gets cold.”

Chance ate some corn muffin; picked at the eggs. “He wants me to come over. He said Gibby needs me.”

“It’s a school day.”

“He’s not going to school. I think something might be really wrong.” Chance waited until she lit a cigarette, and crossed her arms. “Can you give me a ride?”



* * *



The drive was out of her way and would make her late to work, but Chance’s mother didn’t complain. And when she parked and looked at her son, the smile came as easily as always. “You tell that Gibby I love him.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“And this one’s for you.” Chance leaned close to take the kiss on his cheek. “You be a good boy.”

He climbed from the car, watched her go, then mounted the broad staircase. A note was on the door.

Hi, Chance. Go on in. I had to leave for work, but Gibby’s in his room.

Thanks for this.



Opening the door, Chance stepped into a familiar space that seemed eerily quiet. He and Gibby went way back, so he remembered the Christmas parties and the lively kitchen, the thunder of steps as Jason and Robert chased each other up one stairwell and down another. His envies had been simpler then. Brothers. A father. Even now, it was not about the money or the house. Nor was it a dark kind of envy. Maybe it wasn’t envy at all. But there was a steadiness to his friend.

And then there was the war …

Chance lived in such fear of it! It’s why he flirted shamelessly and picked fights and never backed down, because none of those things would kill him, or blind him or take his face. He’d seen that at the airport, once: a soldier with his skin melted from the hairline down. Since then, Chance had lived in dread of his eighteenth birthday, dreaming of all the ways to die in Vietnam, not shot cleanly like Robert, but disemboweled or impaled or tortured to death in H?a Lò Prison. He hadn’t registered for the draft, and if he ever did, he wouldn’t go if they called him. He was afraid and Gibby was not, a simple truth too painful to look at straight on.

So was it envy Chance felt?

It felt more like resentment.

That was impossible, though, and way too dark, so Chance made his way to Gibby’s door, ignoring an unusual desire to turn and leave. Opening the door, he said, “Dude, you okay?”