Rising Fire

by Marcy Dilworth

July, 1970

Mom stepped onto the porch when Dad pulled into the driveway. “Kevin Peters,” she whispered, as Dad wrapped his arms around her. I knew the rest.

Kevin’s sobbing mom had called that afternoon to tell us he’d been killed, shot by a sniper.

I sat on the edge of Dad’s recliner and toed the avocado-green shag carpet he hated and Mom loved. Mom’s whimpers and Dad’s deep-pitched responses drifted through the screen door, unintelligible, while I replayed a memory from last summer, a conversation overheard too well.

“He called him Tricky Dick, like he’s some sort of low-life crook and not the President of the United States.”

“Honey, all teenagers go through a rebellious stage, he doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“No excuse, and no respect for President Nixon or me. David knows I voted for him, support him still.”

Mom continued to make my case. “What he really hates is the war, honey. He knows boys who have already gone. It’s a nightmare.”

“By the time I was his age, I’d already strapped my boots on and graduated from basic training …”

I turned my radio up and clutched a pillow over my head. I’d had enough.

* * *

Dad came in from the porch, eyes full, lips tight. He squeezed my shoulder and said, “Son.” Then he murmured, “get a haircut,” as he continued down the hall.

I said, “Jesus, that’s all you’ve got to say?” to his closed bedroom door.

* * *

I leaned back in his chair and wiped my hand across my eyes. I’d received a letter from Kevin the previous week.

“Man, the most dangerous thing over here in redacted is the lousy mosquitoes. I’m itching damn near to death. Malaria’ll kill you if the dengue fever doesn’t! Can’t wait to come home!” He included a picture, helmet tipped up over half-closed eyes, rifle slung over his shoulder.

At nineteen, I couldn’t imagine my best friend dead. I hoped ducking mosquitoes hadn’t distracted him from the real threats, the bullets and bombs and bayonets. I hoped he hadn’t known he was about to die.

Nothing distracted me from my fear of going to ‘Nam. For years, my family had watched the news during dinner, a military smorgasbord of dead, injured, burned, and scarred guys who looked like me and my friends. Last summer, dad rooted for an intensified offensive while I argued we should bring them all home. Yelling featured in all of our conversations. Since then, he’d barely spoken to me.

* * *

While I was home for spring break, we watched a long report from Richard Threlkeld, a journalist in Vietnam. The footage featured men drowning in sweat, blinded by thick jungle, and literally shaking with fear. Then an attack struck. A soldier with three Purple Hearts got shot in both legs and shouted that he wanted to rejoin the fight. His bravado, while impressive, receded as the shock wore off.

When Dad wasn’t staring at the TV, he was glaring at me.

* * *

Who would enlist for this meat grinder? Fewer and fewer guys, I guessed—the draft had started up the previous December. The draft for my birth year, 1951, had just been held. My new least favorite number was 12.

Mom comforted me with, “Your student deferral will keep you safe.”

Dad sighed and shook his head.

My little sister said, “Does everyone who goes to Vietnam die?”

I excused myself and headed to the bathroom. Staring in the mirror, I tried to imagine this knucklehead (Dad’s term) surviving in a war zone. Whatever skills I’d honed as a kid with Dad in camping, shooting and fishing, I’d abandoned when puberty hit. I took up girlfriends and parties and sports, and developed zero abilities that would keep me alive. Then again, neither had Kevin, even though he’d hunted since we were kids and could outrun his German shepherd.

My college campus had buzzed with rumors that the government planned to revoke the student deferral any minute. Number 12 would be called up. I went to bed and didn’t sleep. Instead, I packed a bag. To take where, I didn’t know.

* * *

Kevin’s mom must have heard about my low number. And Kevin must have complained to her about the mosquitoes, because she knocked on our front door the next morning and greeted me with a can of orange-emblazoned OFF! She said as she shook and cried, “If you have to go, stay safe.”

I stared, my mouth working but producing no sound. Mom steadied me with a hand on my back and said, “thank you,” for me. I leaned into the support, then wondered why she wasn’t more worried about her own son.

I spent the rest of the day panicking and angry. Why should Kevin have died in this pointless war? Why should I? Why should anyone? Poor Mrs. Peters.

* * *

That evening, the TV served up another dinner of enemy fire followed by a dessert of hippies protesting the war. Dad muttered, “Never worked a day in their lives, filthy long-hairs,” then shoved himself away from the table and headed for his shabby den.

“David!” he yelled.

I could already hear what was coming: “What the hell is wrong with you kids today?” and “Goddamn hippies.” I moved towards the front door, but Mom grabbed my arm and said, “Go to your father.”

Dad sat in his father’s threadbare armchair in front of the dead fireplace, waiting for me to take the rocking chair at his side. We gazed at the charred space, which was easier than looking at each other. Sitting there, the rocker creaking, I was reminded of the many fires we’d shared since I was a little kid. Dad would bring me in here when we needed to talk man-to-man and had always treated me with respect. Even when I was a potty-mouthed fifth-grader, or when I picked on my little sister.

I chanced a glance at the rustic mantle and gasped. He’d put the OFF! up there, plus a sheathed Bowie knife, camp utensils, a heavy poncho and a fricking Bible. He wanted to send me to enlist, to go to war before the deferral program even got cancelled. What kind of father? So much for respect and my trust. I stood up. He grabbed my arm, just as Mom had, and asked me to sit down.

“David,” he said, through an unfamiliar thick voice, “you’re my son.”

Here we go.

“You know I’m a conservative man, served in the Army, find quite a bit to like about President Nixon.”

I blinked hard, folded my arms.

“But, like I said, you’re my son. I don’t know where we’ve lost our way, but I don’t think we have any business in this war.”

Dad arranged a pile of kindling in the fireplace. It was nearly Independence Day and sweltering.

“Walter Cronkite says we’re being lied to, and that feels truer every day. I’m not offering my son up to get killed for no reason. I just won’t.”

The scent of Old Spice and sweat drifted over. I turned and saw his clammy forehead. It had cost him to talk this way, to say these subversive things.

“We’re leaving in two days, your mother will help you pack. I got a buddy up at McGill University in Montreal to write a letter saying you’re a student there. You will be or you won’t be, but you’ll be in Canada and you won’t be coming home for a while. That stuff up on the mantle—those are just-in-case supplies. You might need to lie low from time to time.”

I did not recognize this man by these words. But the safety and warmth I had known as a boy filled me; I realized how much I’d missed those feelings. I couldn’t speak without embarrassing us both. I couldn’t tell him I’d already packed.

Dad tossed a match on the kindling and said, “Give me your wallet.”

“Why?” I answered, passing the wallet over just the same.

He picked out my draft card. Eyes blazing, he dropped it in the rising fire.

About the author

Marcy Dilworth is a recovering finance professional pursuing her love of writing. Her flash fiction and short stories have appeared in FlashFlood Journal, Literary Mama, and Writers Resist, among others. She is greatly appreciative of everyone who reads her work.

Marcy lives in Virginia with her family and their precocious rescue pup, Kirby. Find her on Twitter @MCDHoo41.

About the artwork

The illustration is Soldiers Laying Down Covering Fire with a M60 machinegun. Photograph taken by the United States Army in Vietnam in 1966. In the public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.