Death Coming Up the Hill Read online

  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.

  March 1968

  Week Twelve: 349

  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?”

  March 1968

  Week Thirteen: 330

  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.

  April 1968

  Week Fourteen: 279

  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.”

  April 1968

  Week Fifteen: 363

  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.

  April 1968

  Week Sixteen: 287

  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

  to Sadie Hawkins

  with you Saturday

  night. I’m gonna need you to

  cheer me up, okay?”

  ★ ★ ★

  When Angela picked

  me up that night, Mom was gone

  and Dad was watching

  Lawrence Welk. He just

  waved at me when I told him

  I was going out

  with some friends. Before

  we even got to her car,

  Angela stopped, threw

  her long arms around

  me, and planted a wet kiss

  right on my mouth. We

  stood in the shadows

  of my garage, holding and

  kissing like I was

  going off to war

  the next morning. Then she sighed.

  “I needed that, Ashe.

  God knows, I really

  needed that.” She felt soft and

  strong and smelled faintly

  of cinnamon. I

  struggled to steady my voice—

  “Happy to oblige”—

  and kissed her again.

  We finally drove to the

  dance but never left

  her car. Instead of

  dancing, we talked and talked, not

  about Vietnam,

  civil rights, riots,

  or anything else but us:

  Angela and Ashe.

  April 1968

  Week Seventeen: 302

  After our Sadie’s

  date, Angela wanted to

  meet my family,

  but that was the last

  thing I wanted. My home life

  couldn’t take any

  more drama. I told

  her that my parents were on

  the brink of divorce,

  so a meet-up was

  not a good idea. “But my

  mom would love you,” I

  said, and left it at

  that. But Angela’s too smart

  for that. “What about

  your dad?” She smiled. “Would

  he love me, too?” Trying to

  avoid her eyes, I

  shrugged and said, “Well, Dad’s

  complicated,” and changed the

  subject. How could I

  explain my dad’s old-

  fashioned attitudes about

  war? I didn’t want

  to risk losing my

  girlfriend and my family

  both at the same time.

  ★ ★ ★

  At home, raw tension

  entangled our lives. Mom’s and

  Dad’s orbits rarely

  intersected, and

  when they did, they passed in a

  silence as cold as

  outer space. Most nights,

  Dad worked late, Mom attended

  protest rallies, and

  I’d eat alone, do

  my homework, and go to bed

  without seeing them.

  Sometimes I’d lie in

  bed, wondering if things could

  have been different.

  ★ ★ ★

  I came home from school

  one day and found my mom in

  the kitchen, crying

  into the phone. Tears

  streaked her red cheeks, and when she

  saw me, she wiped her

  eyes, turned her back to

  me, said, “Gotta go,” and hung

  up, looking guilty.

  I knew she didn’t

  want to talk about why she

  was crying. It was

  probably about

  Dad, a rally, or something

  heavy. I had planned

  to tell her about

  Angela, but she didn’t

  need anything else

  to worry about,

  so I headed upstairs to

  tune out. Something was

  going on with her,

  and I didn’t like the tell-

  tale signs. She’d shift from

  being mellow to

  being emotional, and

  then ravenously

  hungry. Could it be

  marijuana? She could buy

  it at those rallies

  or anywhere on