It satisfied the bully to see his father’s confusion, as it dawned on him that Clem was serious.
“No American boy should be in Vietnam,” he said quietly. “I thought you and I agreed on that.”
“I do agree. It’s a shitty war. But that doesn’t—”
“It’s an immoral war. All war is immoral, but this one especially. Whoever fights in it partakes of the immorality. I’m surprised I have to explain that to you.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not the same as you. Dad. In case you hadn’t noticed. I don’t have the luxury of being born a Mennonite. I don’t believe in a metaphysical deity whose commandments I have to obey. I have to follow my own personal ethics, and I don’t know if you remember, but my lottery number was nineteen.”
“Of course I remember. And you’re right—it was an immense relief, for your mother and me, that you had a student deferment. I seem to recall you feeling the same way.”
“Only because I hadn’t given it any thought.”
“And now you’ve thought about it. Fine. I understand why student deferments seem unfair to you—you raise a legitimate point. I also understand feeling obliged to serve your country, because of your lottery number. But to go and serve in that war, it makes no sense.”
“Maybe not to you. To me there’s no alternative.”
“You already waited a year—why not wait one more semester? Most of our troops are already home. Six months from now, I doubt they’ll even be taking new recruits.”
“That’s exactly why I’m doing it now.”
“Why? To make a point? You could do that by giving up your deferment and conscientiously objecting. The son of a CO, from a family of pastors—you’d have a very strong case.”
“Right. That’s what you did. But you know what? The man who took your place in 1944 was probably white and middle-class. That’s a moral luxury I don’t have.”
“Luxury?” His father banged the arm of his chair. “It wasn’t a moral luxury. It was a moral choice, and the fact that most Americans supported the war made it harder, not easier. They called us traitors. They called us cowards, they tried to run our parents out of town—some of us even went to prison. Every one of us paid a price.”
Recalling the pride he’d once taken in his father’s principles, Clem felt the reins of his argument going slack in his hands. He gave them a savage tug. “Yeah, luckily for you, plenty of other people were willing to fight the Fascists.”
“That was their own moral choice. I grant that, under the circumstances, their choice was defensible. But Vietnam? There’s no defense whatsoever for our involvement there. It’s senseless slaughter. The boys we’re killing are even younger than you are.”
“They’re killing other Vietnamese, Dad. You can sentimentalize it all you want, but the North Vietnamese are the aggressors. They signed up to kill, and they’re killing.”
His father made a sour face. “Since when do you parrot Lyndon Johnson?”
“LBJ was a fraud. He signed the Civil Rights Act with one hand and sent ghetto boys to Vietnam with the other. This is what I’m talking about—moral hypocrisy.”
His father sighed as if it were pointless to keep arguing. “And you don’t care how I might feel as your father. You don’t care how your mother might feel about it.”
“Since when do you care about Mom’s feelings?”
“I care about them very much.”
“Bullshit. She’s loyal to you, and you treat her like garbage. Do you think I can’t see it? Do you think Becky can’t see it? How cold you are to Mom? It’s like you wish she didn’t exist.”
His father winced. The punch had landed. Clem waited for him to say something else, so that he could knock it down, but his father just sat there. He was defenseless against Clem’s superior reasoning, his intimate knowledge of his failings. Into the silence, through the door, through the floor, came the pulse of a distant bass guitar.
“Anyway,” Clem said. “There’s nothing you can do to stop me. I’ve sent the letter.”
“That’s right,” his father said. “Legally, you’re free to do as you please. But emotionally you’re still very young. Very young and, if I may say so, very self-involved. The only thing that seems to matter to you is moral consistency.”
“It’s hard work, but somebody’s got to do it.”