Monday, July 21

Bang! The crash upstairs makes me jump.

“What was that?” Rudy asks on the phone from Saskatchewan.

“Nothing. Someone dropped something.”

Musclini is in his refuge, the attic gym. Sometimes when he finishes a set of lifts, he drops the weights to the floor. We mortals below startle. Angry Zeus hurling thunderbolts from the heavens.

I’m in Mom’s bedroom. After they put the addition on the house, she decorated this room with flowery wallpaper, soft overstuffed furniture, and heavy drapes. In contrast, the walls of the paterfamilias’s bedroom are off-white. A painting of a seascape hangs in a frame over the bed. There’s a mirror, some teak Scandinavian furniture, and window blinds. Reminds me of a motel room. (Did he not expect to stay long?) Outside this evening, rain splashes down. Near the window in Mom’s bedroom is a small writing desk with her gray Smith Corona portable, a half-finished page in it and half a dozen typewritten pages on the desktop. I remember, when I was younger, hearing rapid typing from behind a closed door, and once, an excited few days when a story of hers was published in the Saturday Evening Post. But it’s been a long time since I’ve heard the clatter of those keys.

After what Milton said last night, I waited fitfully until this morning’s snack break at the factory to call Charles from a pay phone. I knew he’d probably be at work at Creedmoor, but I wanted to leave him a message to call me as soon as he could. But someone at the American Friends office told he was away. I asked if I could speak to different counselor but was told that Charles is in charge of my case and I’ll have to wait until he returns.

As soon as I got home from work, I called Rudy, who’s just finished telling me that in his opinion most draft counselors are either idiots or scam artists. (Before fleeing to Canada, he spoke to one who offered to get him a draft deferment for five hundred bucks.)

I ask him if he thinks the personal moral code argument for CO status is still worth trying.

“In a broad-strokes way? Sure,” he says. “It’s being pushed by the Central Committee for Conscientious Objectors. The idea is that if we keep trying, sooner or later some draft board somewhere will accept it and set a precedent.”

“So . . . no draft board’s accepted it yet?” I ask.

“Not that I’ve heard of.”

Fuck! Sure would have been nice if Charles had mentioned that three weeks ago!

“I hear you can flunk the physical by smoking cigarettes dipped in ink,” Rudy says, trying to be helpful. “Cough a lot during the examination. The ink stains your lungs. Looks like tuberculosis on the X-ray.”