Butchblog

“I don’t think I can do it,” he told his father. “The whole thing scares the hell out of me.”

            “It’s supposed to,” the father said. It was early in the morning, the light just beginning to seep in through the kitchen windows.

            “What are you saying?” He took a sip of the hot coffee. It tasted bitter and slightly metallic, but still good. He’d gotten up early to talk to his father before the older man left for work. He figured he owed him that much.

            “Nobody likes to go to war. You do it because you’re supposed to, not because you want to. You were drafted, son. That’s all there is to it.”

            “That’s not the way it works anymore, Dad.”

            “I think it does.” He stared at his son, wondering why they hadn’t talked in such a long time. Maybe now it was too late.

            “I’ve got some options,” the boy said. He felt his teeth grinding together. “I’m thinking about going to Canada.”

            “Canada?” The father shook his head. “To do what?”

            “I don’t know what. That’s not the important part.”

            “Seems important enough. Jesus Christ, you’re 21 years old.”

            “Yes. I know how old I am.” He didn’t want to fight, but he felt his control slipping away.

            “So, what you’re telling me is that you’re going to be a goddamn deserter.”

            “That’s not how I’d put it,” the boy said. “Anyway, I haven’t decided anything for sure yet.”

            “Well, this is a hell of a thing,” the father said. “A hell of a thing.”

            “I know,” the boy said.

            “I served.” The father rose from his chair, moved toward the coffee pot, then turned to face his son. “Nobody questioned whether it was right or wrong. We defended our country. Every man did.”

            “That was a different sort of war,” the son said, sipping his coffee, and wishing this conversation could end, that he’d never started it.

            “Different how? War is war.”

            “This war is unjust.”

            “Which war?”

            “The one I’m being drafted into. The Vietnamese aren’t doing anything to me. We shouldn’t even be over there.”

            The man sat back down at the table. He sighed, unsure of what to say to this boy, his son, the one who he had had such high hopes for. “So do what you want. I don’t care. Be a draft dodger.”

            “I’m sorry I can’t be who you want me to be.”

            Now the father didn’t answer. He stared into his coffee cup.

            “Dad,” the son called, “I’m not doing this to hurt you. I’m truly not.”

            “Let’s talk about it later,” his dad muttered.

            “Sure we can talk more later, Dad.”  He spilled the rest of his cold coffee into the sink and left the kitchen. He looked back once to see if his father wanted to say anything more, but the old man was still gazing down.