When her parents, at Christmas dinner, in a rare moment of unity, lamented Clem’s betrayal of the family’s pacifism, she didn’t say a word in his defense. When Tanner, to her surprise, declared that he was blown away by the courage of Clem’s moral convictions, she insisted that Clem was just being an asshole. When Clem proceeded to send her a letter, apologizing for missing the holidays and laying out his rationale for quitting school, she crumpled it and tossed it in her wastebasket, because he hadn’t apologized for insulting Tanner, and when he began to leave phone messages with her mother, asking Becky to call him at such-and-such time on such-and-such day, she ignored them.
The night before he caught up with her, in February, she’d accompanied the Bleu Notes to a cocktail lounge surprisingly more crowded than it had been in January. Parties of older women had claimed the tables nearest the band, and they were obviously there—drinking away, spending money—because of Tanner. Halfway through the second set, Gig Benedetti himself showed up and joined her at a table in the rear. Gig did the booking for a great many bands, and it pleased her to think that by letting him admire her looks and touch her elbow, by letting him believe they had a private understanding, she’d increased his attention to Tanner. “It hurts me to say it,” Gig said, “but you were right. He’s better off without what’s-her-name. He’s packing in the ladies, and that’s dynamite.” To be complimented on her intelligence, and to see the adoring expressions of Tanner’s fans, to hear their tipsy hooting when he strapped on his twelve-string and played a solo number, and to know that she was the girl who got to be alone with him: she was almost too happy with her life to breathe.
She came home, well kissed and well petted, at two in the morning. Not many hours later, she was awakened by a ringing phone, her mother knocking on her door. The light in her window was still gray. “Leave me alone,” she said. “I’m sleeping.”
“Your brother wants to talk to you.”
“Tell him I’ll call back after church.”
“Tell him yourself. I’ve had enough of taking messages.”
The intensity of Becky’s irritation cleared the sleep from her head. She threw on her Japanese robe and stamped past the doors of her sleeping father and younger brothers. In the kitchen, she fumbled with the phone, pressed its cold plastic to her ear, and heard her mother hang up on the third floor.
“Sorry to wake you,” Clem said. “I didn’t know what else to do.”
“How about calling at a decent hour?”
“I already tried that. Like, eight times.”
“Give me your number. I’ll call you back after church.”
“I have a job, Becky. I can’t just talk when it’s convenient for you. Which apparently is never.”
“I’ve been really busy.”
“Right. Although somehow you’re free every night for your boyfriend.”
“So what?”
“I just don’t get why you’re avoiding me.”
He seemed to think he owned her. She seethed with silent irritation.
“Is it that thing I said about Tanner? I’m sorry I said that. Tanner’s fine. He’s a perfectly decent guy.”
“Shut up!”
“I can’t even apologize?”
“I’m sick of you poking around in my life.”
“I’m not poking around in your life.”
“Then why did you call me? What did you wake me up for?”
Over the phone lines, from some unpicturable room in New Orleans, came a heavy sigh. “I’m calling,” Clem said, “because everything’s gone to shit and I thought you might sympathize. I’m calling because I’m fucked. The draft board fucked me over.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means they don’t want me. Their quota was tiny, and they’d already filled it. I could still theoretically get called up, but not for Vietnam. Everybody there is coming home.”
Far from sympathizing, she was wickedly pleased his plan had failed. “You’re probably the only person in America who’s sorry we’re getting out of Vietnam.”
“I’m not sorry, I’m just frustrated. I thought I’d be in basic training by now.”
“Then maybe you should volunteer. If killing people is so important to you.”
Another sigh in New Orleans, more patronizing. “Did you even read my letter? It’s not about wanting to fight. It’s a question of social justice.”