God Bless America

The letter came in the mail on the second of June, right after school ended. My class was let out early since it was the first day of summer, and most of us ran home to revel in our blissful seventeen year old freedom. I usually came home to an empty house, but this time saw my brother’s red pick-up truck sitting in our gravel driveway. His tennis shoes were absent from the familiar lineup by the front door, meaning he was probably pissed at something and out on a run. There were only six families close by, scattered on farms within a few miles of town, so I knew he couldn’t go far. I dropped my backpack on the floor and put water on the stove for some after- noon tea and saw a stack of mail with a ripped envelope on top:

Mr. Daniel Henshaw 

2940 Sycamore Ln. 

Hopkins, Missouri 66461

I looked around but didn’t see my brother anywhere. He’d tear me a new one if he caught me going through his mail, but the shoes were still missing from the porch. I called out his name to be sure.

Nothing.

The inside of the letter looked as official as the outside with a black ink stamp reading, “Selective Service System” on the top left-hand corner. 

A draft notice.

My heart skipped a beat in my chest and the tea kettle began to whistle and the front screen rattled as Danny pulled it open against the breeze. I shoved the document back in its casing and turned around, but he was already up the stairs two at a time. 

A door slammed from above. 

I traced the broken seal with my finger. I thought of my walk home from school and threw the envelope down at the table because this was supposed to by my summer vacation and the letter burned in my hands. 

I took the water off the stove.

***

Three weeks later he received his official registration documents after passing the physical exam. For a 6’4 previous high-school quarterback it was no surprise and my father was so proud. When people in town asked about his registration, he told them he’d enlisted. They would congratulate him and call him brave, but he was my older brother and I knew behind that smile he was twenty-one years old and scared as hell.

The night before he left was quiet. My mother cooked his favorite meal, and we spent the evening looking at old family photo albums and pictures of us when we were small. The laughter felt hollow, and the dim light of the fire casting shadows on the wall made me angry, and I wondered why God hated boys born on September 14th. 

I went to bed around the usual time and before I turned off the light, I saw my mom and my brother by the door. She was hugging him and slowly rocking back and forth. It lasted a long time. Maybe she thought if she held on as tight as she could he would stay.

He didn’t.

***

My senior year of high-school started and we heard from Danny every so often. He’d been assigned to a platoon with some other boys from our town and said they stayed together a lot of the time. A few of the guys had siblings who were my age, and Mom had their parents over for dinner every other Friday night to talk about their boys. Sometimes he’d write a lot and sometimes we wouldn’t hear for four or five weeks. Those times were always the hardest. When he did write me, it was mostly to ask about school and whether or not I was understanding math this year (I wasn’t) and to tell me to be good for our parents who he was sure were “under a lot of pressure.” 

My mother would dust his room on Sunday mornings, and I think it made her feel like she was close to him, but the immaculately made bed just served as a reminder to me that he was gone and had been for a very long time.

As an early Christmas present my father told me I could drive the red pickup until Danny got back, and I received a letter from him not too long afterwards telling me not to mess anything up because d****t he loved that truck. It was nice to have a car, but the gas was expensive and the shifter stuck and everything just seemed a lot bigger and lonelier from the driver’s seat.

***

He came home just after my graduation and my mother cried and girls swooned and the keys to the red pickup truck were snatched out of my hand faster than you could say “God bless America.” For awhile he seemed like the same boy who left Missouri for Vietnam eleven months before. But his eyes got darker, and his voice got tired. He stayed locked in his room all day. 

I never asked to hear his war stories because I knew he’d tell me I wouldn’t understand and I also knew that they would all spill out at night when he’d cry and cry about his buddy Sam who got his legs blown clean off by a land mine, or the time half his crew got gunned down while he was walking point from An Khe to Pleiku. 

I don’t know if he remembered the nightmares in the morning. 

I don’t think it mattered.

***

After awhile Daniel stopped eating. His red pick-up truck ran out of gasoline and began to gather dust in the driveway. My mother tried to get him to talk to her but she didn’t understand about Sam who got his legs blown clean off by a land mine. She didn’t understand about the time half his crew got gunned down while he was walking point from An Khe to Pleiku. 

I ate dinner in my room alone.

One day I came home from working in town and saw the local sheriff in the living room with my parents. He said a lot of words to me but the only thing I understood was that a bullet from my father’s 9mm went through Danny’s brain and broke my mother’s favorite vase. It was was a good vase.

Later that night I woke up in a cold sweat with my heart beating fast.

I don’t know if I remembered the nightmare in the morning.

I don’t think it mattered.

Reviews

[alanwgraham]

This is great writing Megan. You have kept it simple and the tone is believable and rings very true. Our continuing ambition to solve the problems of the world by sending young men to die abroad or return broken to die at home is indeed a nightmare.
Well done.
Regards
Alan