Read Online Being Dead by Vivian Vande Velde - Free Book Online
Authors: Vivian Vande Velde
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too engrossed in making his own point to take it—"the war would have been over about two and a half minutes after it started. This is an issue of fighting Communism, of keeping the people of the world free."
"What's right for us isn't necessarily right for the world," Kevin said. "Especially when the only leaders they have to choose from are corrupt."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dad snapped.
Mom cut in. Very sweetly she said, "Well, none of us has actually been to Vietnam to see and judge for ourselves."
Dad gave her a look of surprised betrayal.
Mom?
Mom
coming in with what sounded suspiciously like an opinion? I knew where everybody else stood on the Vietnam issue: Dad for military intervention, Kevin against, me for not talking about it anymore. But I realized for the first time that maybe Mom wasn't with me. Maybe, even though she never said anything, she had views of her own. Or maybe not Maybe she was just trying to make peace in the family.
Still, the heat of the discussion went down several notches. To Kevin, Dad said, "Do you think I wasn't afraid to fight in a war, too?"
"That isn't...," Kevin started in a huff. But then he sighed. "That isn't all of it."
"I know," Dad said. He patted Kevin's hand, awkwardly, self-consciously. "I also know you'll do the right thing."
The old I-know-you'll-do-the-right-thing ploy.
And Dad was right. Despite his dinnertime complaints, Kevin didn't try for conscientious-objector status, nor did he burn his card or take off for Canada, which a couple of the boys in his class did. He reported for service, which Dad took as a victory for his persuasive ability, so Dad forgave Kevin his lack of enthusiasm.
What he couldn't forgive was that Kevin got killed.
The telegram came on a bright summer Saturday. My mother was in the side yard, hanging clothes out to dry. My father was trying to teach tricks to the brain-damaged puppy he had rescued from the animal shelter three weeks earlier and had named—for some reason clear only to my father—Spartacus. I was just sitting around being hot, wondering out loud why if the Fitzhughs next door could afford an air conditioner, we couldn't; and why if Mary Beth Hinkle's family took their vacation in a cottage at Myrtle Beach every year, we only ever went camping at Stony Brook Park.
Then this car pulled up in front of our house. Out came these two army guys in spiffy new uniforms. I think that was when all three of us knew—then, as soon as we saw them, before the army guys said a word, before they started their slow, deliberate walk up the driveway.
Mom came around front, still holding a clothespin in one hand and a pillowcase in the other. Dad pushed Spartacus away, and when Spartacus kept on trying to pull the stick from Dad's hand, Dad broke it in two and let the pieces drop. I stood up from the stoop, thinking,
This is so like Mary Beth, to be off at the beach when I need her here.
Kevin—the army men and the telegram explained—had been killed when his unit had been ambushed by the Vietcong. There weren't very many more details available, other than that five other men had been killed at the same time.
"
Men"?
I thought, surprised to hear the term applied to Kevin. Kevin wasn't a man: He was my brother.
Fathers are
men.
Uncles
are men. Kids are ... well, they're kids. Had Kevin, at his eighteenth birthday, started to think of himself as a man?
I wondered if the other five dead men were really five more dead kids. I wondered if these same two army men had to deliver the news to five other families. Then I wondered how old
they
were. Their practically shaved heads, and those stupid dress-uniform hats worn so low on their brows, and their I-am-a-rock expressions probably made them look older than they were. Were they eighteen, too? Were they brand-new army guys, just out of boot camp, and was that why they were still here in the United States? Would they be leaving for Vietnam soon themselves, and were
"What's right for us isn't necessarily right for the world," Kevin said. "Especially when the only leaders they have to choose from are corrupt."
"You don't know what you're talking about," Dad snapped.
Mom cut in. Very sweetly she said, "Well, none of us has actually been to Vietnam to see and judge for ourselves."
Dad gave her a look of surprised betrayal.
Mom?
Mom
coming in with what sounded suspiciously like an opinion? I knew where everybody else stood on the Vietnam issue: Dad for military intervention, Kevin against, me for not talking about it anymore. But I realized for the first time that maybe Mom wasn't with me. Maybe, even though she never said anything, she had views of her own. Or maybe not Maybe she was just trying to make peace in the family.
Still, the heat of the discussion went down several notches. To Kevin, Dad said, "Do you think I wasn't afraid to fight in a war, too?"
"That isn't...," Kevin started in a huff. But then he sighed. "That isn't all of it."
"I know," Dad said. He patted Kevin's hand, awkwardly, self-consciously. "I also know you'll do the right thing."
The old I-know-you'll-do-the-right-thing ploy.
And Dad was right. Despite his dinnertime complaints, Kevin didn't try for conscientious-objector status, nor did he burn his card or take off for Canada, which a couple of the boys in his class did. He reported for service, which Dad took as a victory for his persuasive ability, so Dad forgave Kevin his lack of enthusiasm.
What he couldn't forgive was that Kevin got killed.
The telegram came on a bright summer Saturday. My mother was in the side yard, hanging clothes out to dry. My father was trying to teach tricks to the brain-damaged puppy he had rescued from the animal shelter three weeks earlier and had named—for some reason clear only to my father—Spartacus. I was just sitting around being hot, wondering out loud why if the Fitzhughs next door could afford an air conditioner, we couldn't; and why if Mary Beth Hinkle's family took their vacation in a cottage at Myrtle Beach every year, we only ever went camping at Stony Brook Park.
Then this car pulled up in front of our house. Out came these two army guys in spiffy new uniforms. I think that was when all three of us knew—then, as soon as we saw them, before the army guys said a word, before they started their slow, deliberate walk up the driveway.
Mom came around front, still holding a clothespin in one hand and a pillowcase in the other. Dad pushed Spartacus away, and when Spartacus kept on trying to pull the stick from Dad's hand, Dad broke it in two and let the pieces drop. I stood up from the stoop, thinking,
This is so like Mary Beth, to be off at the beach when I need her here.
Kevin—the army men and the telegram explained—had been killed when his unit had been ambushed by the Vietcong. There weren't very many more details available, other than that five other men had been killed at the same time.
"
Men"?
I thought, surprised to hear the term applied to Kevin. Kevin wasn't a man: He was my brother.
Fathers are
men.
Uncles
are men. Kids are ... well, they're kids. Had Kevin, at his eighteenth birthday, started to think of himself as a man?
I wondered if the other five dead men were really five more dead kids. I wondered if these same two army men had to deliver the news to five other families. Then I wondered how old
they
were. Their practically shaved heads, and those stupid dress-uniform hats worn so low on their brows, and their I-am-a-rock expressions probably made them look older than they were. Were they eighteen, too? Were they brand-new army guys, just out of boot camp, and was that why they were still here in the United States? Would they be leaving for Vietnam soon themselves, and were
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