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The bus climbs a long, narrow hill. Josie exits at the last stop, which is the Fort Dix entrance. Used primarily by the army for basic training, the camp unfolds for miles. It’s a short walk down a hill from the camp to the coffeehouse, which was once a storefront that housed a restaurant. Now the front plate-glass window is covered with posters of Ho Chi Minh, Che Guevara, Huey Newton, Dylan, Joplin, which afford some privacy, though the glass front door keeps visitors in sight. The coffeehouse faces a high bank of rock-embedded dirt, and in the distance terra-cotta roofs dot the landscape as if it’s some ancient town.

She works at the coffeehouse on weekends and most evenings but manages the entire enterprise, which includes buying supplies as well as organizing people to be there. Entering, she hears Ron Jace strumming his guitar, his plaintive voice erratic as Ben fiddles with the speakers. Lowell, wearing a camouflage jacket over a T-shirt, sits with two GIs. Leila, the newest member in their coffeehouse collective, is listening in. Maisie leans against the wall talking to a soldier who looks too young to be a soldier. Nina is showing some magazine pages to an older man, and she wonders if he’s from Fort Dix. Each face is engaged—a still life of devotion. She’d love to photograph the moment. Caption it: We’re doing all we can.

She gets busy refilling supplies: stuffs two jars with peanut butter and ginger cookies, pours milk into the ceramic cow, and then replenishes a cup with quarters that allow soldiers to call home on the wall pay phone outside the back room. Earlier, she called Miles to ask if he could spend several hours at the coffeehouse. He said he was too busy. She asked him point-blank what was keeping him so preoccupied. “Too many things to enumerate,” he replied, closing off further probing, which annoyed her. Does he even go to classes anymore? His only comment about his father taking off was that no one should be surprised.

She’s sleeping here tonight to avoid waking at dawn to return for a delivery of chairs and other supplies. She forgot to leave Melvin a note. She’ll phone him later. Like Miles, he hasn’t spent any time here. She can vouch for the fact that he’s busy around the clock with Panther business and often doesn’t get home till two or three in the morning. She tries not to obsess about the new Harlem friends he tells her about, Rosemary and several others. It’s petty to be jealous. Having such thoughts reminds her of the narrow thinking of some of the people she grew up with. When he does get home, he’s too exhausted to talk; making love, though, that’s another kind of energy.

A tall soldier in dress uniform enters and stands hesitantly near the door. She hands him a cup of coffee, introduces herself, and invites him to sit with her at a nearby table. He’s Corey Selwyn from North Dakota.

“God, that’s far,” she says.

“I suppose.” His voice deep.

“Just arrive?”

“Finished basic last week.”

“Waiting?”

He nods. His gaze flicks past her to the others in the room. Men in ponytails, women in Gypsy skirts, different from North Dakota, she’s sure.

“Have you gotten into the city?”

“I visited the Empire State Building. Everything’s so tall.”

“Even New Yorkers get dizzy looking up.”

He smiles slowly and his cheeks dimple.

“How old are you?”

“Nineteen last month.” He swipes at his hair, pale as a winter sun, though his complexion is ruddy. He hasn’t touched the coffee.

“I bet you’re homesick?”

“I miss the stars. Even on night patrol here, only a few are visible, no chessboards.”

“Chessboards?”

“Come see what real night looks like, what a big sky can do.”

“What can it do?”

“Float you through the universe on a diamond-studded carpet.”

“How poetic,” she says.

“Then you could meet my three border collies. They run for miles, then circle back.”

“I’ve never had a dog.”

“That’s too bad.”

“So how do you feel about the army?”

“It’s different,” he says.

“Different than what?”

“A lot of people living together with no time or space to wander around. I’d love to see what’s on the far side of my barracks, take a long stroll through camp, but it’s forbidden.”

“I hear several soldiers disappeared after basic last week.”

“There’s talk about it, but everyone’s more concerned about where we’re headed next. I suppose Vietnam.”

He makes Vietnam sound like a new word instead of the one etched in her brain. “My brother’s in Nam right now.” She rarely talks about Richie. Is superstitious that if she calls attention to him, the forces of the universe might seek him out to punish.

“Is that why you’re doing this?” His chin points at the room.

“We opened the coffeehouse to talk about the war, to offer information so soldiers will learn there are other options than going to fight.”

“What options?”

She shares with him some of Vietnam’s history as well as how some men are refusing to be drafted, that there’s a difference between military propaganda and what she and her friends are trying to do here, that their mission is to save lives, souls, and future self-respect.

“I’ll probably be shipping out before there’s time to absorb all that.”

“Take some of our reading material. Guns aren’t the only weapons; being armed with knowledge is good too.”

“Do you talk the same way to every GI who comes in? I mean, are you always this serious?”

“I’m determined to do what I can to stop the war. One way to achieve that is if soldiers refuse to fight.” Ron Jace’s voice, smooth, melodic, filters into the space.

“You like to dance?”

“Yes, but it’s not allowed here.”

“Somewhere else, then?”

“I’m working. I can’t.”

“That’s a true shame.”

“Will you stop by again?”

“All depends on when I ship out, doesn’t it?”

Exhausted, she locks the front door. Ben, also staying the night, will help her with the cleanup and with the delivery in the morning. The coffee urn needs to be washed, ashtrays emptied, the floor swept. All the stray paper cups bundled into bags with other trash. She sighs, begins to empty the urn of old coffee. Talking to Corey made her sad, his sweetness so uninformed. Maybe the coffeehouse isn’t the best way to reach soldiers; maybe Richie was right that what she tells soldiers might be more upsetting than enlightening. She believes knowledge is power. But once they’re in Nam, how much power does knowledge offer?

Ben props himself against the wall to roll a joint.

“Let’s finish cleaning up first,” she says.

“Hey, I’m productive when I’m high. Inhale, pick up trash, exhale, sweep. Who’s the guy you sat with?”

“Corey. Could be I made a friend who might take another look at the war. Maybe. Who knows? That’s just it. I’ll never know. What about the soldiers you talked with?”

“One was really interested in some of the history. The other thought we were royal phonies. He asked if outside forces were sponsoring this coffeehouse bullshit. I told him he’s off the mark, that my daddy’s a Soviet, my mom is Chinese, so I would know.” He flashes a wide smile of perfect white teeth.

“Do you believe everything you tell them?”

“Every damn syllable. Why?” His merry eyes take her in.

“I was just thinking . . .” She’ll never know if Corey lives or dies.

“What’s fizzing in that beautiful head?”

“I told Corey why it was wrong to fight the war. But he’s probably going to fight anyway.”

“Therefore he knows more than the next guy in the unit. He’s really cannon fodder if he doesn’t have a handle on what’s going on. Hey, you did what you could, so . . . put your worries away.” He mimes holding a microphone as if to sing.

“No singing allowed.”

“Of course not, my little Stalinist.”

“Shut up. I am not.”

“Okay, but a minor rigidity keeps that posture straight. And you sure do not take anything lightly.” He inhales a toke deeply, which makes a slight hissing sound.

“Why should I?”

“Fun? How about that, Josie?”

“If I wanted fun, I’d do other things.”

“Like?” He straddles a chair, his expression eager.

“Travel, see a thousand flicks, spend hours reading novels. None of which there’s time to do now.” She certainly wouldn’t choose to sleep in a windowless back room filled with boxes and musty smells.

“Wrong answer, muffin. The movement is about bringing sunshine into the misery of daily existence. Why else do this?”

“Because racism and body bags are . . .”

“That’s the point, Josie. Everything is rotten in Empireland, and the movement needs to be an example of why it’s worth fighting to change it.”

His playful expression, that go-easy attitude, implying it’ll all work out in the end—it scares her.

“Got you speechless, did I? Here, take a drag.” His eyes steady on her, he places the joint in her mouth. His fingers brush her lips. Thin smoke curls up between them. She inhales the sweet taste, lets the smoke rest inside her before exhaling.

“I don’t see things the way you do, Ben. So much that’s bad needs to change; trying to turn it all around is serious business. How can anyone feel easy about that?”

“Ah, good woman, you’ve made my point. If we’re going to spend the next many years revolutionizing a society already so uptight the Puritans would feel right at home, we’d better take some pleasure doing so.”

“Doesn’t it excite you to be a part of making history?”

“Absolutely.”

“Wouldn’t it be great if someday the workers who want their salaries but hate their jobs would be able to get satisfaction from both?”

“Of course.”

Unlike her father, he’s never been stuck in a job where the day never seems to end. He grew up in a family that gave him a sense of entitlement she can barely imagine. Still, he’s always ready to do the most unglamorous work with a smile.

“Why did you stay here tonight?”

“To protect you,” he teases, throwing up his arms to cover his face.

“Well, thanks, mister, but I do fine on my own.”

“Actually, we haven’t hung out recently.”

“In case you didn’t notice, this place has turned into a full-time event, plus there’s my job.”

“I notice everything, sweet pea; don’t you ever think otherwise. Your big eyes, your curly caramel locks, the bubbly energy in your petite body, the—”

“Enough, Ben.”

“Let’s creep into one sleeping bag.”

“No thanks.”

“What’s the problem?” His tone slightly pleading.

“You know what’ll happen, and I’m not interested.”

“Oh, monogamy shit. Do you think Melvin shares your philosophy?”

“Why do you say that? If you know something I don’t—”

“Whoa there, I’m surmising, that’s all.”

“Shit, Ben. Take your ego for a walk, will you?”

She begins to pick up trash, remembers she has to call Melvin. She does. No one answers. He doesn’t like her to call him at the Panther office and give the feds more information about his private life.

Ben sweeps the floor, then begins emptying the ashtrays. Busy at their chores, neither one says anything for a while. When they’re done, she turns off the front room lights, and they retire to the back room. Ben climbs into the spare sleeping bag, arms crossed beneath his head, burning roach dying in the ashtray, which she empties down the toilet. She tightens the sheet on the cot, lifts the blanket off a shelf, then switches off the back room lights. A shaft of moonlight opens across the floor.

“Are you angry?” he asks.

“No.”

“It would really upset me.”

“I’m not, Ben. Go to sleep.”

“Resentment’s like a cesspool.”

“Friends forever, honestly.” She stretches out, feeling each vertebra hit the thin mattress. Corey’s face floats into her head. There’s so much about people she doesn’t know. Maybe someday she will travel. Isn’t it one of the best ways to learn about life elsewhere? It’s strange to think that her parents crossed the ocean and she hasn’t even been to North Dakota. That may not be the first place she’d want to visit, but—

Shattering glass explodes the silence. In a blank instant of disbelief, she grabs on to each side of the cot. Something hard whacks against wood. A bomb? A rock? Ben is pushing her off the cot onto the floor while one arm shields his head. She wants to say it’s coming from out front, but fear has her by the throat. Suddenly, there’s a loud gush of liquid. Water pipe? The coffee urn? More glass shatters. The mirrors? Seven years bad luck if they live. Loud pings like chunks of hail on a car top. Rubber bullets? Buckshot?

Ben whispers, “I don’t think it’s the cops . . . not their style. I’m going to see what’s what, then call the police.”

“No, don’t. You can’t call the police.”

“I’m not about to let those fascist pigs, whoever they are, get away with this,” he whispers frantically.

She grabs his arm. “Stuff is hidden in the cellar. I don’t know what. I don’t know where. The police will search. You can’t call them.” Her words quick and breathless.

He stares at her. “I’m going out there. We need people. I’m phoning Lowell.” Down on all fours he begins to crawl out of the back room.

Shots continue to ping off surfaces. Suddenly the moonlight is frightening.

Any minute someone will step through the shattered glass to enter the back room. Terror dries her mouth. She can’t cry out, can’t run; she’s trapped in a horror show.

“Shit!” Ben’s voice rises in a wail.

Afraid to move, afraid not to, afraid to find out what happened, afraid to stay here alone, she crawls out to find Ben lying flat on his back.

“Switch on the lights,” he whispers urgently.

“Are you crazy?” she whispers back.

“The lights. They think no one’s here. It’s the only way they might stop.” His voice raspy.

With racing heart and a prayer for help to a God she never consults, she sidles along the never-ending wall, her fingers searching for the light switch. The fluorescents flicker on, looking like an eerie evening sun. She doesn’t move. The shooting stops as suddenly as it began.

The floor is covered with pieces of glass and mutilated poster faces, a nose there, a cheek here, a horrid singing mouth. She carefully weaves between shards of glass, then clears a space to kneel beside Ben.” His thigh is bleeding through the denim of his jeans.

“Josie?”

“I’m here.”

“I’m so cold.”

His weak voice frightens her. What to do? He needs a hospital. The Vietnamese wouldn’t leave a comrade in a pool of blood.

“Be right back.” She grabs a quarter, dials for an ambulance, then brings out the blanket and covers his trembling body. No doubt the police will show up along with the ambulance. Whatever the consequences, Ben has to be taken care of. She leans close, takes his icy hand. “They’ll disinfect the wound, give you some antibiotics, some groovy painkillers; you’ll be fine. When you wake up, it’ll be a great story. Ben, can you hear me?” She strokes his clammy forehead, bristly cheek, ignores the blood seeping out from under the blanket, and continues to talk to him softly, her words filled with make-believe certainty, until the ambulance siren is at its loudest.

“The ER will take good care of you. I’ll phone our friends and wait here to be picked up.”

The ambulance guys are gentle. They work quickly, slip a tourniquet around Ben’s thigh, and lift him onto a stretcher. Was it buckshot? She’s afraid to ask.

“Are you all right, miss?” A policeman and his partner appear in the doorway.

“Yes, my friends are coming to take me home.” Once again, she prays, Dear God of good people, keep them out of the cellar. The policemen walk through to investigate the damage. They enter the back room, where the door to the cellar is located. She craves Melvin’s presence with a hunger that cramps her belly but won’t phone him, won’t phone anyone yet. If they do find the carton, it’ll be her and maybe Ben who will have to answer for it. Bad enough. Of course, she’ll deny knowing anything.

After what feels like a million years but is only a few minutes, she follows the policemen outside. The ambulance has taken off. They write down her name, but instead of her address, she gives them Johnny’s address. Might as well provide some grist for his paranoia. She answers a few more questions of no importance and promises to be at the town precinct the next day to make a report. As the police get into their car and pull away, she can’t help thinking that Johnny would’ve been more thorough in his search.

It’s too dark to see the adjacent rocky embankment, but she wonders if the shooters are still out there. Wrapping her arms around her torso for more than warmth, she turns to take in the almost-complete destruction of the storefront.

Dawn is breaking by the time Nina drops her off at her apartment. Melvin hugs her hard, says, “Thank God you’re okay, sweet girl. Lowell phoned from the hospital. Ben isn’t hurt bad, just freaked.” Then he whispers, “The carton didn’t get there yet.”

The rising sun, as bright as cooked peaches, streams through the window, but it won’t stop her from sleeping.

A loud noise wakes her. It’s thunder. Lightening shocks the room. Rain pelts the windows. Yesterday comes rushing back. How long has she slept? Melvin, already dressed, is fiddling in the kitchen. He must’ve gotten up late. Maybe she’ll close her eyes again, reach for sleep. “Hello.” Unbidden, the word speaks itself.

“Coffee and cereal? Say yes; it’s all we have.”

“Yes.” Rolling slowly out of bed, her body aches as if she’s been carrying weights up and down steps.

Melvin places two cups of coffee on the table and sits beside her. She tips some dry cereal into a bowl, pours in milk. “I feel weird,” she tells him.

“Of course.”

“Of course?”

“Was that the first time you thought you were going to die . . .”

“I don’t know . . . Yes . . .”

“At least you reached a ripe age without the thought.”

“What?”

“Since I was a kid, I’ve wondered if my demise was close. Still do . . .”

“That’s so freaking sad.” He won’t let her console him, but she tries anyway.

“Yeah, well . . . better to . . . Listen, about Christmas . . . I’ve been trying to convince my mom to visit us for the holiday. She doesn’t like to travel and hasn’t said yes. But if she does come, can she stay with us?”

“Yes, of course.” She’s only spoken to the woman on the phone. Having her visit, well . . . it makes Josie nervous. Melvin told her long ago that his mother worries about his being with a white woman. His father died when he was a baby, but he’s close to his mother. If his mother does visit, she’ll prove that she’s the best girlfriend Melvin could have. “It’ll be great to have her here.”

“Excellent.”

On Christmas Day, her family gathers at Celia’s house. She didn’t join them last holiday, wouldn’t go without Melvin and wouldn’t expose him to their racism. It’s not his job to help them deal with it. But it saddens her that she can’t share him the way that Celia shared Paul or Johnny does Terry. Even Richie would sometimes bring his girlfriend of the month to meet everyone. When Richie returns, she and Melvin will spend lots of time with him. They’ll introduce Richie to their favorite bar. Maybe he’ll stay over now and then.

“I’m off to the office, then a bunch of meetings and so forth. Miles did a stint serving breakfast one morning a few weeks ago. He didn’t talk much, seemed preoccupied.”

“He is, but he won’t let on why. Listen, with the coffeehouse destroyed, I’m free to put in some time before work at the breakfast program.”

“Okay, are you considering going to make that report today?”

“No way. No way.”

“Right. Good. But you need to stay home. Call in sick. Today you need to get over yesterday.”

“I’m over it.”

“No you’re not.” He grabs his leather jacket. “See you later.”

The rain darkens the apartment, adding to her gloomy mood. She could switch on more lights but doesn’t. She isn’t hungry and pushes aside the cereal. Last night seems surreal. Visiting the scene in her head causes some of the terror to return. Did she actually believe she’d die? She isn’t sure, but the possibility of great harm seemed near. Her mother doesn’t revisit disasters that have passed. Doing so is considered a waste of time. It happened. It can’t be changed. The dictum is “No pussyfooting, hand-holding, namby-pamby; move on.”

Friends will soon phone, curious to know everything about the coffeehouse attack. What is there to tell? Whoever they were, they came, shot up the place, and then disappeared. And how is she doing? Fine, a little buzzed out but fine. How else to explain the aftershock of the attack? She hasn’t the words and doesn’t want to delve. So, fine is what she’ll say. Except to Ben, who will want to commiserate after he’s released from the hospital.