happy.”
At that moment she hadn’t doubted it. And if, later, as he slept and she thought back over what he’d said, she did have a doubt or two, she told herself she was being foolish. Robby had a first-class mind—their professors all said so—so of course he was ambitious. And if his mother had nurtured that ambition, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. Most people who achieved greatness had at least one parent who had pushed them.
It wasn’t until years later that she realized that perhaps her first instinct had been right.
Chapter Four
L aura might have developed doubts about her marriage over the years, but in the months before her wedding she didn’t have time for doubts—or even for thinking. During the turbulent winter that spanned the end of the sixties and the beginning of the seventies, while the Vietnam War was still raging, things were moving fast for most young people, and Robby and Laura were no exception. As with everyone else their age, their main topic of conversation was the sword of Damocles hovering over the heads of all the young men—the draft lottery.
For the rest of her life, Laura would remember December 1, 1969, when she and Robby and most of the students on their college campus sat glued to the television watching as strangers they’d never met dipped into a big glass bowl and pulled out the little blue plastic capsules that would decide Robby’s fate and that of every American male aged eighteen to twenty-six. Each of the capsules contained a birth date, one for every day of theyear, and a boy’s number on the draft list was based on how early or late in the drawing the capsule containing his birthday was picked. Early meant a low number, late meant a high one. A low number meant you would be going to fight in the war you probably didn’t believe in anymore, if you ever had; a high number meant you could go on living your life.
All over the campus as the drawing continued on that day, spontaneous groans and cheers went up in every dorm. After the drawing was done, the lucky boys with high numbers tried to hide their relief so they wouldn’t be rubbing salt in the wounds of those less fortunate. Many of those with low numbers cried openly in the hallways and the student lounges as hopes and dreams were replaced by fear and anger. Boys with numbers in the middle huddled in anxious groups and tried to calculate the odds of being called up or escaping. Girls like Laura held their boyfriends in their arms and searched for comforting words. By nighttime it seemed as if everyone knew what everyone else’s number was, and most people were trying to get drunk or high as fast as they could. It didn’t matter if they were celebrating or mourning.
Robby didn’t cry or get drunk, he laid down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling with the closed-off look that Laura had come to dread almost as much as the draft itself. His number was in the first third of the drawing. This meant he probably wouldn’t be drafted that spring, so he’d be able to graduate and he and Laura could get married. But Laura estimated that he’d be called up sometime during the summer. Unless they could find a way out.
“There must be something,” she cried. “Didn’t you tell me your father knows some people who are high up in Veterans Affairs? Couldn’t he pull some strings?” There was no sound fromthe bed. “Robby, you have some time. If your dad talks to his friends right now …”
Robby turned and sat up. “My dad pull strings so I can be a draft dodger?” he sneered. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“A draft dodger? What are
you
talking about? You don’t support this war …”
“Draft dodger is what my father will call it. The McAllister men go to war, Laura. They don’t ask questions, they don’t wonder if their country is right, they just fight. Get my dad to tell you sometime about how he saved his buddy on Omaha Beach during the invasion of
At that moment she hadn’t doubted it. And if, later, as he slept and she thought back over what he’d said, she did have a doubt or two, she told herself she was being foolish. Robby had a first-class mind—their professors all said so—so of course he was ambitious. And if his mother had nurtured that ambition, there wasn’t anything wrong with that. Most people who achieved greatness had at least one parent who had pushed them.
It wasn’t until years later that she realized that perhaps her first instinct had been right.
Chapter Four
L aura might have developed doubts about her marriage over the years, but in the months before her wedding she didn’t have time for doubts—or even for thinking. During the turbulent winter that spanned the end of the sixties and the beginning of the seventies, while the Vietnam War was still raging, things were moving fast for most young people, and Robby and Laura were no exception. As with everyone else their age, their main topic of conversation was the sword of Damocles hovering over the heads of all the young men—the draft lottery.
For the rest of her life, Laura would remember December 1, 1969, when she and Robby and most of the students on their college campus sat glued to the television watching as strangers they’d never met dipped into a big glass bowl and pulled out the little blue plastic capsules that would decide Robby’s fate and that of every American male aged eighteen to twenty-six. Each of the capsules contained a birth date, one for every day of theyear, and a boy’s number on the draft list was based on how early or late in the drawing the capsule containing his birthday was picked. Early meant a low number, late meant a high one. A low number meant you would be going to fight in the war you probably didn’t believe in anymore, if you ever had; a high number meant you could go on living your life.
All over the campus as the drawing continued on that day, spontaneous groans and cheers went up in every dorm. After the drawing was done, the lucky boys with high numbers tried to hide their relief so they wouldn’t be rubbing salt in the wounds of those less fortunate. Many of those with low numbers cried openly in the hallways and the student lounges as hopes and dreams were replaced by fear and anger. Boys with numbers in the middle huddled in anxious groups and tried to calculate the odds of being called up or escaping. Girls like Laura held their boyfriends in their arms and searched for comforting words. By nighttime it seemed as if everyone knew what everyone else’s number was, and most people were trying to get drunk or high as fast as they could. It didn’t matter if they were celebrating or mourning.
Robby didn’t cry or get drunk, he laid down on his bed, and stared at the ceiling with the closed-off look that Laura had come to dread almost as much as the draft itself. His number was in the first third of the drawing. This meant he probably wouldn’t be drafted that spring, so he’d be able to graduate and he and Laura could get married. But Laura estimated that he’d be called up sometime during the summer. Unless they could find a way out.
“There must be something,” she cried. “Didn’t you tell me your father knows some people who are high up in Veterans Affairs? Couldn’t he pull some strings?” There was no sound fromthe bed. “Robby, you have some time. If your dad talks to his friends right now …”
Robby turned and sat up. “My dad pull strings so I can be a draft dodger?” he sneered. “You don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“A draft dodger? What are
you
talking about? You don’t support this war …”
“Draft dodger is what my father will call it. The McAllister men go to war, Laura. They don’t ask questions, they don’t wonder if their country is right, they just fight. Get my dad to tell you sometime about how he saved his buddy on Omaha Beach during the invasion of
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