“Preparing for the summer, the federal government has designed a system of priority airlift for troops to areas of civil disorder. The Pentagon and the air traffic control network will cooperate in using reserved altitude assignments for troop airlifts . . .
“There is strong belief in some quarters of Democratic political leadership that President Johnson will accept a draft to run for a second time in his own right as the party’s nominee for president . . .
“Despite the rising hopes of peace talks, a fresh contingent of US soldiers arrived in Vietnam yesterday to the Mekong Delta region . . .” 1
I don’t stay to hear the rest of it. Color or no, I don’t want to watch television any more tonight.
I leave and take the big staircase down to the first floor and from there head out the back door.
I am going to see Butch.
We’ve got him set up in an empty kennel behind Mr. Halleck’s house. It’s far bigger than the shed he used to have at Stairways. He’s stretched out in the dirt when I come up, but his tail starts to beat the earth and I know he’s happy to see me. I sit down next to him, rub his big head, and scratch behind one of his pointy ears.
It’s a rose-colored twilight above us. Low clouds of blue and black lie along the horizon. High up in the atmosphere a jet traces a slow line behind them.
“It’s different here, isn’t it, boy?” I ask him.
He yawns.
Wish I could go down to Apple Creek. Hunt through the mud for salamanders. Skim some stones.
The back door opens and I look up. Pete.
Hands in his pockets, head bowed, he strolls casually over to where me and Butch sit. He sits down too.
“I read that article in the paper,” Pete says. He talks funny from the swollen lip. His right eye is still bruised and dark from where Caleb hit him.
I pluck grass.
“That was a great story Frankie wrote.”
“M-hmm.”
Pete looks down. In the sky, that jet is slipping behind the first long black cloud.
“You been worried all summer about me leaving, haven’t you?”
Pete’s words surprise me. I nod and pluck more grass.
“I’m grateful, but you don’t have to worry, Jack,” he says. He reaches over and steals a piece of grass from my pile. “I’m going to be just fine. And so are you.”
I sigh. “But what if you’re not fine, Pete? What if something happens?”
He looks at me.
“So what if it does? Would that make me love you any less? Would you love me any less?” He shakes his head; a wave of feathery blond hair drops down over his eyes. “Impossible.”
Tears well up in my eyes. It seems to me I done more crying this summer than any other.
“I just wanted to keep you safe,” I say through my tears.
“You’ve always been a fixer, Jack. But sometimes you have to let things go. Let them be. Maybe they get broken. Maybe they don’t. But you don’t have to worry, because nothing stays broken forever. Nothing’s permanently lost. Knee-Deep Meadow’s burned up. It will grow back. Stairways is burned down. Dad and Ma will rebuild it. You wait and see.”
“But Pete, a person is different. Once you’re killed, you’re killed.”
Pete shakes his head.
“People are the least killable things there are. They have a piece of forever in them. And nothing can take that away. But”—and here my brother leans over and touches his shaggy head to mine—“I don’t think you need to worry about that. Because I’ll be coming back.”
I look at him.
“Do you promise?” I ask.
“I won’t promise something I can’t. I love you too much to lie to you, Jack. But I’ll tell you I believe in my bones I’ll be coming back.”
There’s flinty purpose in his green eyes. He means it. He really means it.
A few days later, we have a last supper for Pete in Mr. Halleck’s dining room. Ma prepares a real feast: sirloin steak, roasted potatoes, sweet corn, fresh salad, and applesauce. Mr. Halleck joins us. So do Anna May and old Sam Williamson. Pete sits at the head of the table, hair brushed, dressed in a button-down shirt which he’s got tucked in like it’s Sunday and he’s going to church.
After a dessert of ice cream and peach cobbler, Mr. Halleck pours everyone a glass of sweet-tasting wine from a dark green bottle and we move into the living room to listen to Anna May play on the piano. She asks me to sit next to her on the bench and sing along, and for a preacher’s daughter, she sure knows some fun ones.