He sets his paper cup down and straightens up, bringing the paper close to his nose as he reads the headline: “‘Boston students stage hunger strike to protest draft.’”
Somebody swears then. Someone else hushes him, and the men go quiet while Mr. Hudspeth reads more.
“‘In protest of what they called America’s atrocities in Vietnam, students from Harvard and Boston University staged a public hunger strike in Cambridge on Saturday.’”
Dad pulls a cigar from his pocket and strikes a match as Mr. Hudspeth goes on.
“‘At a demonstration in which students spoke for several hours on topics ranging from colonialism to capitalism to segregation to feminism, student leaders declared their conscientious objection to the war in Vietnam and announced a hunger strike. Students then began burning draft cards.’”
The same man as before swears again, only nobody hushes him now. The men are quiet. All we hear is the ceiling fan’s chain clinking above.
The gum’s soft and chewy enough now, and I start blowing a balloon.
Mr. Wistar shakes his head. “Rich college boys,” he mutters, “refusing to fight their own war. Almost can’t believe it.”
“Almost,” says my father around his glowing cigar.
“It ain’t just rich college boys,” Mr. Hudspeth says. “It’s Hollywood actors too. It’s politicians, like that Kennedy boy, egging them on.”
I start blowing another balloon, knowing their talk will be boring and about politics now.
Mr. Hudspeth goes on, “When we graduated high school, the boys lined up outside recruiting stations. Actors and auto mechanics. Made no difference.”
Mr. Wistar splays his fingers and starts counting. “Clark Gable. Jimmy Stewart. Tyrone Power.”
Mr. Hudspeth says, “Now, it’s different. Now, if you’re famous, you don’t have to go to war.”
My yellow balloon pops. With gum hanging across my chin, I go suddenly very still.
At the counter, the men murmur agreement. There are sighs. Some headshakes.
Mr. Hudspeth picks up his paper cup and leaks more brown juice into it.
Dad makes blue clouds of smoke with his Primo del Rey.
The men keep talking, but their conversation drifts back to where it began: the town, the weather, the crops. Though they are only a few feet away, I barely hear them. An idea is near. Hidden. Close. I don’t know what it is yet, but I feel it.
Beside me, Frankie chews his gum and blows bubbles. Eventually, he hops down and walks from chair to chair, chewing as he goes, stopping to look at some of the magazines stacked on the windowsill.
But I stay absolutely still. My idea is floating beneath my waking mind, like a granddaddy trout easing along under the water’s surface. I close my eyes, try to concentrate. The voices of the men fade, and I hear other sounds in the barbershop: the hum of the ceiling fan and the jingling of the metal cord hanging down as its end traces circles in the air over my head. I start chewing again, slowly, hoping maybe that will lure the idea up from the dark, up into the sun.
I come back to the voice of a man: my father, calling my name.
“Jack.” My father is already at the door, dark cigar trailing smoke. “Come on, son.”
I sigh to no one but myself as I clamber down from my seat. Mr. Hudspeth leans over the counter, over the newspaper with the pictures of students burning their draft cards, and takes my hand and gives it a good shake.
I hold on to his hand for just a moment, hold and hope that maybe that will bring the idea. Nothing.
“You all right, boy?” Mr. Hudspeth asks.
I blink. “I just wanted to thank you for the gumball, sir.”
He smiles. Yellow teeth below a bristly, red mustache. “Good, aren’t they?”
I nod. He spits again into his cup. I let go of his hand.
Frankie and I follow my father out into a hotter, emptier Main Street. The breeze is gone now, and the sun beats down as we walk back to church.
We find Pete, Will, and Ma waiting for us on the steps. I look for Anna May, but she and the other kids have gone. It’s only my family standing against the emerald cornfields.
I’m still chasing that idea in my mind when we climb into the Ford for the ride home, but like so many other fish, it’s gone deep.
Evening comes, soft and velvety. After dinner, Will argues with Dad about politics and Senator Kennedy in the back room. On the television, Walter Cronkite tells them both, though they ain’t listening, “That’s the way it is.”
Ma sends Frankie and me upstairs to wash. I let Frankie go first in the old white tub with the claw feet. I lie on my bed and wait and watch for the first stars in the purple dark outside my window.