every chance we got, we began to talk to each other, telling each other what we had never told anyone, even Sandy Schutz and Billy Arp. Danny was a talker. Thatâs one of the things I liked about him, he talked about things instead of reading about them. But Danny (unlike me) was naturally reticent about himself. By diligent attention during my years of being his silent shadow, I had learned certain things about him. I knew he wanted eventually to fit into the slot his father had designed for him, the takeover of Hectorâs, and a wonderful thing I thought that, the passing on from parent to child of something as vital and tangible as Hectorâs. It was like Aunt Phoebe and her orchard, and I pictured Danny and me growing strong and wise among the cans and boxes the way my aunt had among the apple trees.
But I knew, too, that Danny wanted to do something on his own first. He and Billy had talked a little about that, letting me humbly listen. Billy wanted nothing more than to go right from high school to the navy, and he talked about basic training the way most seventeen-year-olds talk about the senior prom. He was a boat nut, and he figured on a hitch in the navy followed by college on the GI Bill and a degree in naval architecture, and then heâd go out to the West Coast and build boats. Danny and I listened respectfully to these hopes, but it was a relief to me when Danny let me drag it out of him, once our relationship had progressed to that stage, that he didnât share them. Billy looked forward to going to Vietnam; Danny spent his whole senior year sweating over the prospect of his number coming up, and I sweated with him. We talked of escaping to Canada; the Frontenacs had relatives in Quebec. I began to wonder if, after all, I should learn French. We carried signs to Hartford during Anti-Draft Week in March and lugged them around the capitol buildings, chanting.
The day it was discovered that Danny had a small heart murmur, he cried from relief with his head in my lap. He said heâd rather drop dead of a heart attack in the middle of a basketball game than have to shoot at people and drop bombs. I loved it that he was afraid to go to war and that he had confessed it to me, and as I stroked his bright hair I dropped my own joyful tears on it. It seemed to me that anyone in his right mind should be afraid to go to war, and I couldnât see why there were so many wars, when so many people were afraid to fight in them. I had to blame it on the generals and the presidents and the Billy Arps, but Billy was such a nice, amiable, extroverted kid, who liked messing around in boats and whacking fish on the head, that it made me wonder about the other warmongers. But I picketed with Danny, and wept with him when his own scare was over.
Freed from it, he decided heâd get a job in New Haven and live there for a year or two before he committed himself to me or to Hectorâsâto see the world a bit, but on his own modest terms. New Haven was enough of the world for him, at least at that point. This minuscule ambition, too, was something he confessed only to me, keeping it from Billy (who wanted someday to hitchhike to Alaska) and from his parents (who would have preferred that he stay in the village, gliding smoothly from the graduation ceremonies to Hectorâs produce department). I understood it perfectly, the funny mix of claustrophobia and affection a small town can generate when youâve lived in it all your life. We both wanted to live out our days in the village; we were both small-town people; but we wanted to stand back for a while and get a new perspective on it.
At least, thatâs the way Danny saw it; to be honest, I didnât want a perspective any different from the one I had. Hadnât I, all these years, been standing back from my family and what they represented? Hadnât I been born distanced? School was the only blight on my life. Once I was out, the town
But I knew, too, that Danny wanted to do something on his own first. He and Billy had talked a little about that, letting me humbly listen. Billy wanted nothing more than to go right from high school to the navy, and he talked about basic training the way most seventeen-year-olds talk about the senior prom. He was a boat nut, and he figured on a hitch in the navy followed by college on the GI Bill and a degree in naval architecture, and then heâd go out to the West Coast and build boats. Danny and I listened respectfully to these hopes, but it was a relief to me when Danny let me drag it out of him, once our relationship had progressed to that stage, that he didnât share them. Billy looked forward to going to Vietnam; Danny spent his whole senior year sweating over the prospect of his number coming up, and I sweated with him. We talked of escaping to Canada; the Frontenacs had relatives in Quebec. I began to wonder if, after all, I should learn French. We carried signs to Hartford during Anti-Draft Week in March and lugged them around the capitol buildings, chanting.
The day it was discovered that Danny had a small heart murmur, he cried from relief with his head in my lap. He said heâd rather drop dead of a heart attack in the middle of a basketball game than have to shoot at people and drop bombs. I loved it that he was afraid to go to war and that he had confessed it to me, and as I stroked his bright hair I dropped my own joyful tears on it. It seemed to me that anyone in his right mind should be afraid to go to war, and I couldnât see why there were so many wars, when so many people were afraid to fight in them. I had to blame it on the generals and the presidents and the Billy Arps, but Billy was such a nice, amiable, extroverted kid, who liked messing around in boats and whacking fish on the head, that it made me wonder about the other warmongers. But I picketed with Danny, and wept with him when his own scare was over.
Freed from it, he decided heâd get a job in New Haven and live there for a year or two before he committed himself to me or to Hectorâsâto see the world a bit, but on his own modest terms. New Haven was enough of the world for him, at least at that point. This minuscule ambition, too, was something he confessed only to me, keeping it from Billy (who wanted someday to hitchhike to Alaska) and from his parents (who would have preferred that he stay in the village, gliding smoothly from the graduation ceremonies to Hectorâs produce department). I understood it perfectly, the funny mix of claustrophobia and affection a small town can generate when youâve lived in it all your life. We both wanted to live out our days in the village; we were both small-town people; but we wanted to stand back for a while and get a new perspective on it.
At least, thatâs the way Danny saw it; to be honest, I didnât want a perspective any different from the one I had. Hadnât I, all these years, been standing back from my family and what they represented? Hadnât I been born distanced? School was the only blight on my life. Once I was out, the town
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