May. I wonder if Mr. and Mrs. Rosenberg woke up this morning in their cells at opposite ends of Sing Sing and realized that it’s going to happen next month. Forty-eight days to doom.
It’s not even six-thirty, and there’s already steam coming out of Mom’s ears. Something to do with the newspaper open on the table.
Mom looks like a raving lunatic this morning. She’s undone her braid, and the hair’s flying all over in accordion ripples. It’s a lot grayer than I thought.
She slides the Palmetto Sentinel across the table so I can’t miss the letter to the editor that she’s boxed in red.
Just as language separates us from animals, it is the freedoms in this country that separate us from the tyrannical Soviet Union. Personally, I find it impossible to understand why a citizen loyal to the United States, if in fact that is what Rosalie Rafner truly is, would not uphold those freedoms by signing a simple declaration of allegiance. Refusal to do so leads a thinking person such as myself to conclude that Professor Rafner has communist leanings. Perhaps the College should inquire further into her background.
—An American Through-and-Through
“Aw, Mom,” I groan. This has gone way public. The newspaper!
“Not to worry. I’ve already composed my retort.” She hands me a typewritten sheet. “See what you think.”
Dear Through-and-Through:
You clearly do not understand the First Amendment. Try having FBI agents outside your door twenty-four hours a day, spying on you, and threatening you and your family, and then maybe you’ll understand how easily your rights slide away, one small toehold at a time.
—Rosalie Weitz Rafner, a Person of Principle
She gives me a hug; wiry hairs fly in my mouth. “I know it’s been rough, Marty. We’ll get through this. Stay with me on it, will you?”
“That’s asking a lot, Mom.”
“Signing the oath is the first step on the slippery slope, Marty. You understand what your father’s overlooked.”
That’s when Dad comes in, with his glasses buried in his tight curly mop. “I’ve heard this speech before,” he says wearily and pours himself a glass of tomato juice.
Mom hands him the newspaper.
“I read it. It’s cold and calculating. But you must understand this, Rosalie. You’re clinging to the Bill of Rights as a life preserver. It will fail you. We’re going under; we’re drowning.”
My rye toast is going to pop up in a second, and I’m forcing myself to blot out their voices and focus on the big decision—apricot jam or butter—when I see Mom’s shoulders sag. I stand in front of the open fridge, jam jar in one hand, butter dish in the other, as she lets it all hang out.
“I couldn’t bring myself to tell you this yesterday, Irwin. Dean Fennel put me on suspension. He gave my poetry class, my poetry class, to Ed Harvey, who hasn’t written a single lyrical word since World War I.”
Gotta give old Irwin credit. He resists saying I told you so and actually puts his arms around Mom and lets her beat her fists on his nightshirt.
Butter and jam, both, definitely. I’m way out of my league here.
Or why not cream cheese? I’m tearing through the fridge looking for the silver package, slamming the vegetable bin drawer, knocking over a jar of pickles.
Mom’s never this vulnerable, and Dad? He’s actually rocking her and running his fingers through her loose hair.
This is too weird for me. I slam the refrigerator door and spear the rye out of the toaster.
I’ll choke it down dry, then go mow Luke’s lawn.
♢
Turns out Luke watches everything up and down the street, though he hardly ever leaves his lawn chair. I’m mowing, and he suddenly stands up and follows me, limping across the front lawn and shouting over the putt-putt of the mower.
“What . . . happened . . . with you and . . . your friend . . . up the . . . street?”
I nearly whack a rose bush, I’m so surprised. I stop pushing the mower and mop sweat off my face with the bottom of my T-shirt. “It’s sort of complicated.” Yeah, like Connor’s steering clear of me, ’cause his family’s different, not pinko like mine.
Luke nods in that slow-motion way. His heart rate must be down to about twenty beats a minute. Then he says, “It’s . . . because of . . . the . . . communist . . . business, right?”
“Yeah, kind of.”
He’s flicking his way-long finger nails and frowning, with his eyes just dark slits. He’s mad.
“Oh, I get it. You think my whole family’s soft on communism, and that bugs you ’cause you were over there in Korea fighting the commies and got—messed up.”
Luke glares at me, then limps away. His war wounds are probably hurting him in all this soupy humidity. I start pushing the lawn mower again and hear him yell at my back, clear as sunshine, “If that’s what you think, kid, nothing I can do about it.”
I spin around. His whole sentence is a tease. I want more. But he’s already sunk into his chair under the basketball net, with that spacey-spooky look like he’s checking out the rings of Saturn with his naked eye.