Death Coming Up the Hill (3 page)

 

classmate later, but

now you need to focus on

history, okay?”

 

And then he started

writing on the chalkboard. But

all I remember

 

from that class is the

stunning look of the new girl,

her perfume, and my

 

hunger to find out

why I felt like a magnet

attracted to steel.

★  ★  ★

Angela Turner

was the girl's name, and she was

from Los Angeles,

 

“L.A.,” she called it.

Like me, she was the only

kid at home; unlike

 

me, she wasn't her

family's only offspring.

She had a brother

 

in Vietnam. When

I heard that, I felt ashamed

by the “Hell no, I

 

won't go” tee shirt I

had worn to school that day, but

then I remembered

 

that she was dressed like

a hippie, and it surprised

me that she would be

 

anti-war with a

brother stuck in Vietnam.

The newspapers can't

 

print everything, but

I could read between the lines,

and I'd seen enough

 

news clips and photos

to know it was absolute

hell, hell on earth. If

 

I had a brother

in Vietnam, what would I

do? Probably I

 

would oppose the war

but support him as much as

I possibly could.

 

Unfortunately,

I didn't have a brother

or sister to think

 

about. I never

had anyone share my room,

my parents, my life.

 

I grew up in a

house that was quiet as a

graveyard, except for

 

the occasional

explosions that ripped through our

lives without warning.

 

Mr. Ruby's eyes

turned red and watery when

he told us about

 

the Tet Offensive.

“They caught us by surprise, and

we've lost too many”—

 

his voice trembled, and

we all listened, dead silent,

while he took a deep

 

breath and continued—

“far too many of our boys

there.” The sorrow on

 

his face and in his

voice paralyzed everyone.

He looked down at the

 

floor while, spellbound by

his emotion, we waited

for what would come next.

 

He started crying.

Standing in front of us with

tears streaming down his

 

cheeks, Mr. Ruby

looked around, his eyes burning

into us. “It's a

 

shame, you know, a damn

shame that we're in a stupid

war that has led to

 

senseless suffering

for the civilians and the

soldiers on both sides.”

 

Then he went silent,

head down, arms at his side, and

wept like an old man.

 

The tension in the

room made us all prisoners

of Mr. Ruby's

 

anguish. No one moved.

No one laughed. No one knew what

to do. Suddenly

 

Angela rushed by

me and went to our teacher.

Gently turning his

 

back to the class, she

wrapped her long arms around him

and held him while his

 

shoulders shook. Then she

looked at me, looked at all of

us petrified with

 

stupidity. “You

all should leave now. Let the man

have some privacy.”

 

Some kids bolted for

the door, and the stress bled out

of the room like air

 

from a balloon. I

stayed in my seat, watching the

new girl from L.A.

 

giving comfort to

a man who was both teacher

and stranger to her.

 

I ached to know what

it would feel like to have her

long arms around me.

 

The bodies piled up

over there. Hundreds every

week, with thousands more

 

wounded. And we had

problems at home. Race riots

last year were caused by

 

discrimination

that still lingered. Anti-war

rallies stirred people

 

up, too, and sometimes

it felt like America

was ready to blow.

 

I was in the midst

of a different war at

home. No one lobbed live

 

hand grenades or shot

guns, because our conflict was

a war of silence,

 

not violence. The

demilitarized zone was

up in my bedroom,

 

where I went to tune

out and where my parents came

to check on me. They

 

didn't want me to

be a victim of their war,

but it was too late.

 

They never came in

together. Instead, it was

a tag-team mission:

 

Dad walked in, turned off

my stereo, and sat on

my bed like an old

 

friend. He'd tell me how

integrated circuits were

going to transform

 

the electronics

industry. I pretended

to listen, but I

 

was thinking that he

should instead talk about how

another kind of

 

integration might

transform America. When

it was Mom's turn, she

 

talked about all the

stuff she'd done to end the war

in Vietnam. But

 

I told her that I

wished she'd try to end the war

with Dad instead. She

 

listened, I had to

give her that; then a sad smile

darkened her face, and

 

she sighed. “I'm afraid

it's too late for that, Ashe. Your

father and I got

 

married because of

you, and we're still together

because we love you,

 

and that's probably

the best we can do.” Then her

smile faded, and my

 

heart sank. “I'm not sure

how long we're going to last.”

She looked ready to

 

confide something but

paused and asked, “You understand

what's going on, right?”

 

Angela Turner

stopped me after class today.

We stood outside the

 

classroom door, unmoved

by students streaming around

us, and talked about

 

Mr. Ruby's class

and Vietnam, civil rights,

and Martin Luther

 

King, her hero. She

told me about her brother

and her parents, and

 

herself. “Mom and Dad

adopted me when I was

a baby and saved

 

me from who knows what

kinds of crap I would have dealt

with in the foster

 

care merry-go-round.”

She looked at me, hard, like she

was trying to read

 

my mind. The bell rang

and the hallway emptied, but

neither one of us

 

moved. She leaned closer—

so close I breathed in her peach

perfume—and said, “So

 

my real parents dumped

me.” Her eyes stayed on mine, and

I didn't know what

 

she wanted me to

say or do. Finally I

shrugged and said, “So what?”

 

Her glistening lips

formed a smile. “That is a good

question, Ashe, the right

 

question.” For a few

awkward moments no words passed

between us, and my

 

heart thudded so hard

I was afraid she'd hear it.

“Someone said there's a

 

Sadie Hawkins dance

in two weeks. Are you going?”

“Haven't been asked,” I

 

replied. Then her smile

widened, brightened, and she said,

“What about going

 

with me?” A wave of

heat flowed up my neck, and I

felt my face redden.

 

“I'd really like that.”

Her eyes narrowed, and with a

nod she said, “A good

 

answer, Ashe. The right

answer,” and turned and walked to

her next class. As I

 

watched her leave, I tried

not to think about what Dad

would do if he found

 

out I was going

to a dance with a gorgeous

hippie from L.A.

 

Thursday night, I asked

Dad to take us to Coco's

for dinner. “You know,

 

like a regular

family?” He rolled his eyes but

agreed. We sat in

 

a booth near the bar.

An old black-and-white TV

in the corner had

 

the news on, talking

about LBJ's speech last

Sunday, when he said

 

he would try to get

us out of Vietnam and

that he wouldn't run

 

for reelection.

Mom looked nervous, happy, and

pretty, and when she

 

talked to Dad, he paid

attention. They looked just like

a couple on their

 

first date: awkward but

interested. I'd never

seen them like that, and

 

it seemed almost too

good to be true. By the time

the waiter brought my

 

chocolate shake for

dessert, it looked like Mom and

Dad were softening

 

up. After shooting

me an awkward smile, Mom looked

at Dad. “Ashe is the

 

best thing about us,

and we owe it to him to

solve this, no matter

 

what might be coming

up the hill. He deserves a

better future than

 

we had.” Dad nodded

slowly, but before he could

speak, a commotion

 

interrupted him.

Someone turned up the TV

at the bar, and we

 

all turned to watch a

grim-faced reporter clutching

his microphone. “The

 

Reverend Martin

Luther King, Jr., has been

gunned down outside a

 

Memphis motel. He's

in critical condition . . .”

A hush fell over

 

the room, and Mom went

pale white and shaky, but that

changed when some guy at

 

the bar yelled, “About

time!” His buddies burst into

wild laughter, and Mom's

 

face turned furious

red. When Dad started laughing,

too, he dropped a bomb

 

on our night out. Mom

stood, fierce blue eyes blazing. “Come

on, Ashe, we're done here.”

 

As a kid, I dreamed

of becoming a hero.

War movies had taught

 

me that the hero

saved his buddies by diving

on a live grenade,

 

so in our childhood

war games I always played that

guy. Someday, I thought,

 

my valor would earn

me a Medal of Honor.

Things changed when I got

 

older and learned that

real war is nothing like the

movies. I started

 

wondering if I

had what it took to be a

hero. Would I have

 

the guts to cover

a live grenade for my friends?

Would I sacrifice

 

my life for someone

else? Sometimes that's exactly

what a guy doesn't

 

want to learn about

himself. The thing is, there are

all kinds of grenades

 

in life; you don't have

to go to Vietnam to

find them. I knew that.

 

Martin Luther King's

murder knocked the wind out of

Angela. She missed

 

a few days of school

right after, and when she came

back, she looked like she

 

might break if she sat

down too hard. Mr. Ruby

welcomed her to class

 

with a nod, and she

slid into her desk behind

me, leaned forward, and

 

whispered, “Ashe, I hate

what happened to him, but those

riots in D.C.

 

and everywhere else

only make it worse. What is

wrong
with those people?”

 

When class ended, she

handed me a note as she

left the room. “Sorry

 

I'm such a mess,” it

said. “But I still want to go