At a signal from his mother, the waitress approached the table and, in chagrin, Bucky watched her whisk away the cake to be taken to the kitchen and sliced. They wouldn’t be skipping dessert after all, and he wouldn’t be able to escape the question he’d known was bound to pop up.

“I won’t be sure until I finish investigating my options,” he replied. “I want to sign up with whatever organization will let me put my engineering degree to good use.”

“Oh, I see,” she said, but, clearly, irritatingly, she did not. Ever since the war began, his friends, classmates, parents, and his father’s close business associates had noticed that the usually decisive Bucky seemed mysteriously disinclined to discuss his military service “options” after graduation, which made them wonder if he was holding out for a noncombatant but essential government job stateside. Was Sam Barton, model of young manhood, pride of his parents, star athlete, class leader, school hero, taking the safe and cowardly way out?

The girl flopped a hand carelessly. “Oh, well, who can blame you if you want to play it safe? Those Nazis are horrible people, and the Japanese are worse. The atrocities they’re committing make your blood curdle.”

Penny shot her a scathing look. “Good God, Babs! What gave you the idea that Sam wants to play it safe? He wants to use his professional skills in the most effective way for the war effort. And I doubt you can see anything given the amount you’ve had to drink.”

Penny’s reprimand signaled the end of the fun. The cake was served in near silence and hardly touched during strained conversation. Penny refused a serving, saying, “I’m watching my figure so Sam will.” After the first round of coffee, everyone folded their napkins and pushed back from their plates. It was Saturday evening, and most had to be in their rooms on the university campus by twelve. Bucky would be driving his parents home to Oklahoma City and staying for the rest of the weekend. Anticipating that his father would drink more than usual at the party, Bucky had insisted on being the one to drive their car, but he really wanted an excuse to keep an appointment at seven on Monday morning. He had arranged to meet a man at a coffee shop before catching the bus back to Norman for his midmorning finals.

Behind the wheel of his parents’ Cadillac, Bucky noticed that his father’s expansive mood, encouraged by the beer, had vanished. Horace Barton had purchased the car in anticipation of the nation going to war. Automobile manufacturers would be converting their plants to military production of arms, munitions, trucks, tanks, and planes, he predicted, “and the home front will not see another new civilian car roll off assembly lines until the end of the war, whenever the hell that will be.”