-16-

The Bronx bar is familiar. A TV drones on about nothing that could faintly interest her. Several men on barstools glance at her, then return their eyes to the screen. The afternoon light barely reaches into the rear, where music throbs just above low. It’s Saturday and Celia phoned her too early this morning and insisted they meet but wouldn’t say why.

Whenever the phone rings, she prays it will be Melvin, but it’s been two weeks without a word. She tries to convince herself that her sadness is simply due to missing him but hasn’t quite succeeded. Her worries, though, are crystal clear. What if he’s hurt or has been arrested or is under some other duress? Who would contact her? What if something—she has no idea what—stops him from returning? The unanswerable questions follow her like the tail of a kite. She could phone Rosemary to ask if all’s well but, even as she thinks this, knows she won’t dial that number just to be reassured. Though she’s filled her evenings and weekends with even more activity, Melvin is never far from her thoughts.

Celia sits at a back table nursing a glass of white wine.

As Josie is about to settle into a chair, Celia captures her wrist. “Miles is my son. I won’t be shut out. You can’t know anything I don’t know, understand? The boy is gone, snatched away, living or not living with people I’ve never met, but hidden from me. I won’t stand for it, Josie. He’s mine. I have a right to him. I won’t leave here without information. You’re my only link. Look at me. I can’t eat, can’t sleep; he’s in my head wherever I am. I can’t live this way. I don’t give a shit about the army. I don’t care if he’s in Canada, but I must know how to reach him. He’s my breath, my firstborn. No one can keep my son from me, not you or anyone.” Her expression intense, eyes brimming, fingers cold.

“I don’t know where he is now. That’s the truth. He might phone me at work to set up a visit. If he does, I’ll insist he see you. I swear.” She, too, has been worried about Miles. And has tried to reach him through friends and potential conduits, but no luck.

“Tell him that I won’t try to change his mind, that I’ll support his choice not to go into the army. But that he must contact me.”

“I hear you. I will.” And she offers a quick prayer that Miles will contact her. However, talking about him in this place makes her nervous. The bar is a hangout for cops, firemen, and others who favor uniforms.

Her sister pushes back her chair. “I’m getting a refill. What do you want?”

“A beer, any kind.” Her sturdy sister’s desperation is more than upsetting; it’s disorienting. It saddens her to see Celia so vulnerable and close to hysteria. Celia’s the sibling who is expected to and does show up at all family functions, the one for whom and from whom love flows without question or criticism. Josie will try harder to find a way to send Miles another message asking him to get in touch. Suddenly, a flame of anger heats her cheeks. Miles, Melvin, each doing their thing while she and Celia worry and suffer. It sucks.

“Thanks for coming up here. I couldn’t face going into Manhattan.” Celia pulls an envelope out of her pocket. “The draft notice, what should I do with it?”

“Nothing. It’s not addressed to you. Leave it in his bedroom. He never picked it up.”

“But I opened it.”

“If anyone asks, you did so by mistake.”

“Who’s going to ask?”

“Maybe no one, or someone from Selective Service. There are thousands of men not responding to the draft. Miles isn’t the most important one.”

“What if he’s roaming around with no money?”

“He has friends everywhere. Don’t worry. It’s a movement; people take care of each other.”

“With what?”

“Some of us work. There’s food, lodging, cigarettes, movies. We’re organized.”

“I hope that’s true.”

“I haven’t been inside this bar in a long time.” She needs to end talk about Miles. “I used to spend Saturday nights here with friends.”

Those nights feel like part of another life, which they were. Filled with dumb conversations about things they wanted but didn’t have, which, come to think of it, was a lot of things. Money was a big topic, how and where to get it, but no answers were offered. There was always a fair amount of whining about how come other people’s lives were so much easier.

After a few beers, they’d move to another bar and have a few more beers until night descended into predawn. Then two couples to a car, they’d drive to the most littered sites of the Bronx, between the river and the rails or under the Whitestone Bridge, where they’d park and make out.

“I come here sometimes with Denise,” Celia says.

“Oh?”

“Oh what?”

“Just to drink?” she asks.

“They have dancing on Friday nights. It’s Denise; she’s lonely, doesn’t want to come here by herself.”

“Have you danced with men?”

“Of course, even when Paul . . .”

“Yeah, right, even when Paul. Any word from him, anything?”

“Nope.”

“It’s good he went. It might’ve been worse if he’d stayed. You would’ve had to watch him get wasted.”

“That’s so harsh.”

“It’s you I’m thinking about, Celia.”

“Yeah, okay. I don’t want to talk about Paul. Do you plan to visit Ma while you’re up here?”

“No. I have a meeting I need to attend.” It’s true. It’s a run-through for the women’s action. “I called Ma a few days ago. She isn’t a talker, that’s for sure.”

“Not on the phone, I know. She seems to like living with Terry and Johnny, and I don’t think she misses the restaurant either. The money from the sale was put into an account for whatever she needs.”

“Johnny took care of everything?” she asks lightly.

“Is that a problem? Did you want to have a hand in it?”

“A little testy, aren’t you?”

“I’m grateful. With Paul gone and now Miles, I certainly didn’t want to deal with Ma. Anyway, until you have children, you won’t understand the misery when a child is in danger.”

“Children aren’t on my agenda.” She hates these ridiculous conversations.

“We’ll see.”

“Right, everything’s subject to change.”

“But I’m curious, why not?”

“At some point they’ll view me the way some of my friends view their parents. Besides, why bring babies into a society that still lacks peace and justice? So how’s Terry?”

“She’s lost a lot of weight. Some fertility drug. It nauseates her.”

“She ought to go off it.”

“I agree, but Johnny wants a baby.”

“Then let him take the pills.”

Celia smiles, which feels like a victory.

“Whoa, did you hear that!” A shout from the bartender turns their heads. He’s pointing at the TV screen, the volume now loud. A draft board has been bombed.

A sense of irrevocability lands on her shoulders like a lead cape. It’s done, finished, the commitment made, with no way out. Miles is stuck, glued to his decision, trapped in his life. No wonder he’s been so out of touch. Maybe it isn’t his collective. Except it is; she knows that. Of course she does. Poor Celia. What now? Stop, she orders her brain. Focus instead on the bartender’s amazed voice, which has nothing to do with agreement but does contain surprise that someone had the balls to take on Goliath. Yes, that’s what Miles would want her to hear. And think about the draft files destroyed. Imagine them tattered and scattered, all the general’s men unable to fit them together again, thousands of young men’s IDs lost to the draft. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that a good way to save lives? Isn’t that a gift to families? But her throat feels dry, tight, her chest heavy, and she offers up a silent prayer that no one was hurt.

She glances at Celia, who seems oblivious to the import of the announcement. That Miles could have anything to do with the event would seem to her sister as ridiculous as an elephant drinking at the bar. Oh lord.

On her way home, Josie buys as many late-edition newspapers as she can get her hands on. In one, the collective’s brief communiqué is reprinted. The communiqué takes responsibility for the bombing and goes on to explain the connection between destroying draft boards and ending the war. If she weren’t already committed to stopping the war, would the explanation alter her thinking? She isn’t sure. Does that mean she’s not a true revolutionary? That she’s allowing her emotions to interfere with political judgment?

A bunch of scenarios compete in her head: Miles hiding alone somewhere; Miles with friends, all of them congratulating one another on a successful action; Miles depressed; Miles elated. Was it loyalty to his collective that led him to this? Perhaps he disagreed but didn’t want to break ranks or let them down. Desperation, maybe that’s what it was: a sense that nothing is changing fast enough to make a difference. She’s read about radicals in previous revolutions who have been led to commit such actions out of the pure terror of not knowing what else to do to effect change. But Miles is sensitive, kind, smart and many other good things; it bewilders her that he was a part of this. What she can’t get her head around, what she doesn’t want to believe, is the possibility that he had no qualms about the violence of the act.