My mother waits for me in the kitchen, her yellow, flowered apron a cheerful contrast to the gloomy avocado wallpaper. My father sits reading his newspaper. He smokes. A long, gray curl rises above the head of Lyndon Johnson, an old man I have seen on the evening news and am only drawn to because of his extraordinarily long ear lobes. The front page story announces that Johnson will not run again for the presidency. "That damn war," says my father. A loud slurp can be heard behind the morning news. And then, like a thud he asks, "when is Bobby coming home?"
It is another morning in 1968. Bobby is my brother, my only brother, the one who comes home from graduate school next month and whose draft status has been the mealtime topic for all of us--despite the fact that he has been 3000 miles away for the last two years. No matter. Bobby's future has become a part of our scrambled eggs, our meatloaf, our sausage patties since he turned 18. His salvation from what what we fear is certain death lies at the Hudson County Draft Board, a place he will visit in early June when sunny California and a college deferment will no longer protect him from the possibility of war.
My mother lifts a pan of damaged oatmeal from the stove. "I burned it. I'm sorry," she says, her eyes not meeting mine.
