I’m a little surprised, but also thankful, that Mom doesn’t ask me if I have a backup strategy for the draft. Chances are she’d be somewhat less than thrilled with Plan B:

This little piggy went to market.

This little piggy stayed home.

This little piggy got chopped off. . . .

Mom presses her cigarette out in the grass and then drops the butt in the wooden basket half-filled with dandelions and crabgrass. I try to picture what her life will be like without Dad — and without me, for that matter. Just her and Alan.

“You’ve started writing again?” I ask.

She looks up. “You heard the typing?”

I nod. “Do you ever regret giving it up?”

“You mean when I was a journalist? No. I wanted to have a family.”

“And now?”

Mom draws herself up. “We make choices. Some we can undo; some we can’t. You find a way to cope.”

Something about her answer makes me feel like it’s a question she’s asked herself many times before. For a few moments we sit together in the warm sunlight beside her bed of flowers. Maybe getting divorced won’t be such a bad thing. She could stay here with Alan, have her gardens, maybe have some kind of a social life as well. Live in the house without having to see Dad or suffer his oppressive presence. As a kid, you can’t imagine how your parents’ getting divorced could be a good thing. But I’m not a kid anymore, am I?

In my room, the latest batch of mail is on my desk. My heart skips at the possibility of a letter from Robin. It’s been ten days since I last wrote, saying how much I still love her, vowing to change, and reminding her of the many more good times than bad we’ve had. Since then I’ve repeatedly imagined the letter she might write in return, the one in which she describes coming to her senses and realizing what a ridiculous mistake her dalliance with Samuel has been. The one in which she vows true love forever and asks if I can ever forgive her for briefly straying with the moose rustler. (You bet I can.)

But the only letter on my desk is from Chris.

7/24/69

Loogie,

I don’t think I’m gonna make it. My hands are all swollen and infected from jungle rot. I can’t even grip my K-bar without it sliding loose from pus and blood. I’m worn down to the point where I can’t hardly get up in the morning. And why should I? I ain’t doing no good here. None of us are. We are all just waiting to die.