“That’s—there is nothing wrong with a pastor attending to one of his parishioners.”
“Jesus Christ. The fact that you even have to say that.”
A drum intro, congas, drifted from the function hall, followed by another cheer. The last of the alumni smokers were heading inside. As if music ever solved anything. No more war, man. Gotta put a stop to that war. Clem’s disgust with the hippie-dippie Crossroads people intensified his disgust with his father. He’d always hated bullies, but now he understood how enraging another person’s fear could be. How the sight of it incited taunting. Incited violence.
His father spoke again, in a low unsteady voice. “Mrs. Cottrell and I were making a delivery to Theo’s church. We got a bit of a late start, and then there was—”
“Yeah, you know what? Fuck that. I don’t care what your story is. If you feel like going and boning some other woman, it’s a free country. If it makes you feel better about yourself, I don’t fucking care.”
His father looked at him in horror.
“I’m out of here anyway,” Clem said. “I wasn’t going to tell you this tonight, but you might as well know it. I quit school. I already sent a letter to the draft board. I’m going to Vietnam.”
He dropped the snow shovels and stalked away.
“Clem,” his father shouted. “Come back here.”
Clem raised his arm and gave him the middle finger as he went into the church. The entry hall was empty. Laura Dobrinsky had left two butts and a mess of ashes on the floor. He paused to consider where else to look for Becky, and the door behind him burst open.
“Don’t you walk away from me.”
He ran up a flight of stairs. He still hadn’t checked the parlor or the sanctuary. He was halfway down the hallway when his father caught up with him and grabbed his shoulder. “Why are you walking away from me?”
“Take your hands off me. I’m looking for Becky.”
“She’s at the Haefles’ with your mother.”
“No, she’s not. Becky is sick of you, too.”
His father glanced at Ambrose’s open door, unlocked his own office, and lowered his voice. “If you have something to say to me, you could pay me the courtesy of not walking away before I can answer.”
“Courtesy?” Clem followed him into the office. “You mean, like the courtesy of leaving Mom at the Haefles’ while you entertain your little lady friend?”
His father turned on the light and closed the door. “If you would calm down, I would be happy to explain what happened tonight.”
“Yeah, but look me in the eye, Dad. Look me in the eye and see if I believe a word of it.”
“That’s enough.” The old man was angry now, too. “You were out of line at Thanksgiving, and you’re very much out of line now.”
“Because I’m so fucking sick of you.”
“And I am sick of your disrespect.”
“Do you have any idea how embarrassing it is to be your son?”
“I said that’s enough!”
Clem would have welcomed a fight. He hadn’t thrown a punch since junior high. “You want to hit me? You want to try me?”
“No, Clem.”
“Mister Nonviolence?”
There was Christian forbearance in the way his father shook his head. Clem would have loved to at least shove him against the wall, but this would merely have fed his Christian victimhood. The only thing Clem could hit him with was words.
“Did you even hear what I said in the parking lot? I quit school.”
“I heard that you were very angry and trying to provoke me.”
“I wasn’t being provoking. I was conveying a fact.”
His father sank into his swivel chair. A blank sheet of paper was in his typewriter. He rolled it out and smoothed it. “I’m sorry we got off on such a wrong foot. Tomorrow I hope we can be more civil to each other.”
“I wrote to the draft board, Dad. I mailed the letter this morning.”
The old man nodded to himself, as if he knew better. “You can threaten me all you want, but you’re not going to Vietnam.”
“The hell I’m not.”
“We have our differences, but I know who you are. You can’t seriously expect me to believe you intend to be a soldier. It makes no sense.”
The complacency of his father’s certainty—that no son of his could be anything but a replica of himself—inflamed the bully in Clem.
“I know it’s hard for you to imagine,” he said, “but some people actually pay a price for what they believe in. You and your little parishioner can go and be the nice white people at Theo Crenshaw’s church. You can pull some weeds in Englewood and feel good about yourself. You can march in your marches and brag about it to your all-white congregation. But when it’s time to put your money where your mouth is, you don’t see any problem with me being in college and letting some Black kid fight for me in Vietnam. Or some poor white kid from Appalachia. Or some poor Navajo, like Keith Durochie’s son. Do you think you’re better than Keith? Do you think my life is worth more than Tommy Durochie’s? Do you think it’s right that I get to be in college while Navajo boys are dying? Is that what you’re saying makes sense to you?”