I locked my bike good and went in, and after about three minutes of browsing the rain started, and started hard. It was too terrible to manage a brand new bike in, so when I was ready to go I splurged a dime and took the bus home. My mom, who was still mad at me for talking back to her earlier that morning, immediately asked me where my bike was. I told her I left it locked up at the library, so I wouldn't get killed on Feldspar in the rain. The seemed to make her happy, so she let me alone. The only reason I'd fought with her is because she expected me to drink orange juice after I brushed my teeth. I told her I'd drink it later- the taste of orange with toothpaste is enough to make even the prettiest face wince. She told me that a summer flu was running around and if I got sick, not to come crying to her. Well, I avoided the flu with the bus, I guess.

When I turned thirteen, my dad took me hunting. For him, thirteen was a magical number, a momentous number, and maybe it was because he grew up in New York in the Jewish ghettos, though he wasn't Jewish himself, or maybe it was because gramma was a superstitious lady to the day she died, I don't know. But just like my brother a year before me, dad took me on this rite of manhood. I hated it. I was cold, and the food mom packed for us and the other guys was gone in two days, so we had to live off of cold pork and beans and bread. My dad was drunk most every night that week, and so were his friends, and they all laughed at my sour face when I was offered "the traditional thirteen year-old's beer"

I still remember the day before we came back home, because that was the day I saw my first deer. I'd seen plenty in zoos, sure, but never one in the wild, the way it was supposed to be, naturally. I was awed. The snow was blanketed on the tree tops and gave the woods a kind of subdued hush, the kind of quite you can never get at home, even with the t.v. off. The deer was licking some leaves, trying to get the salt off it I guess, and it's little pink tongue looked out of place under that big rack of antlers. My dad leaned over to me, real slow, And said, "This is it, Freddy." His breath smelled like sour Milwaukee's Best. "Remember what I told you- don't jerk the trigger, just squeeze like it's your girlfriend's thigh." I raised the gun up, but I couldn't pull the trigger. I couldn't even touch it. Finally I let the gun drop back to my lap, and let out a sob. The deer must've heard that because he was off like a shot and gone before my dad could raise he own rifle and fired, though he tried anyway.

"Goddamn it, Fred, that buck had at least fourteen points on 'im!" But I didn't care- killing just wasn't for me.

That was the same year president Kennedy died.

My brother Denny was fiddling with his radio, trying to get the war report, when I walked into our bedroom. He was just graduated, and smirked at my library books like the where a burden he'd shed long ago. Denny was a head taller than me, and skinny, and he had a pencil thin mustache. I told him once he could make it thicker if he just shaved it off and let it grow back, but he wouldn't have any of that. He said he had worked too hard on what he gotten already. When I told him it would grow back faster than than the first one, he'd just laughed at me, and said even a day not bein' a man was too long. He wasn't the best with words, my brother, but I knew what he meant.

I flopped down on my bed and started to read Gulliver's Travels but Denny had finally found his station and the dry, crackly voice of the news reporter intruded.

Denny was grinning like there was no tomorrow. He'd already signed up, and was going to boot camp in September. He couldn't wait. But I could. I wasn't going to sign those forms when I turned eighteen.

The clock struck six when I was exactly halfway through my book, and like she did six nights a week mom called us down to dinner. And just like every Wednesday, we were having pot roast , baked carrots and potatoes, my dad's favorite. Actually, the smell had been making it difficult to concentrate since 5:30 or so, And I was glad to be called away from Gulliver. I woke Denny up where he'd fallen asleep next to his radio, probably from a dream about Sergeant York and rushing the pill box and earning the congressional medal of honor. We washed up and went downstairs.

I sat at my place, across from Dad, who was reading the paper while mom sat the table. He still had on his factory ball cap, but he took it off when we said grace and left it off. Just as soon as the bread was passed around, Denny started talking about Viet Nam, and how he was gonna get promoted to Sergeant so fast mom would have to buy another bookcase just to hold all of his citations. Dad joined in the conversation like he always did, telling Denny how much fun boot camp would be and how many buddy's he'd make for life. He pointed at him with his fork, gravy dripping off his chew of pot-roast. "Now matter whatcha do, Denny, whether you run away or kill every last nip, don't you ever leave your buddy."

Denny shook his head, eyes wide, a tiny piece of boiled carrot clinging to his caterpillar mustache. "I won't, pop, I swear it."

My dad nodded, and then looked at his plate to swirl his potatoes through the gravy. "You're about to turn eighteen yourself, Freddy- which branch are you thinking about joinin' up with?"

I swallowed the gulp of milk I'd taken, and looked down at my own plate. Dad and I hadn't gotten along much since that day in the forest, so I didn't know if he was curious or teasing me. But it didn't matter, I had to be honest, if only for myself. "I'm not gonna join any of 'em, dad."

He snorted through his nose at that, and I noticed mom out of the corner of my eye watching rapt and chewing her food slowly. Denny was enthusiastically chomping at his own over-huge piece of roast. "Well, if you don't decide, Uncle Sam'll decide for you, I guess."

"No, dad, I ain't going. I ain't gonna put my name on the selective service roster."

Dad stopped chewing and just looked at me. I decided to look back at him for a change. The he looked at his plate again. "Got to, boy. It's the law."

But I wouldn't waiver. "No pop, I don't believe in killing'. I'd rather go to jail then shoot a man."

Dad pushed his lips together and just shook his head. I could tell he was mad. Well, I was mad too. I was my own person, at least I was at seventeen enough to know I didn't want to contribute to any more senseless carnage. Dad looked over my head, and said, "I guess you'll never be a man, then."

I couldn't believe what he said. I was man, man enough to face up to any authority if it went against my principles. Couldn't he see that? Couldn't he see I was more of a man for letting things live than for killing anything that pissed me off? "What did you say, pa?"

He looked at me, finally. "I said, you're a coward, Fred, your nothin' but a godammned scared little puppy."

I threw my fork down on the floor and bolted over the table, sending the potatoes and carrots flying and squashing the roast with my knees. I hit dad in the chest, and he was so surprised I don't think he even believed what was happening. His chair fell over backwards and I landed on top of him, holding on to his neck and hitting his head on the floor, while his greasy hands tried to push me away. "I AIN'T AFRAID OF NUTHIN' DAD, AND I SURE IN HELL AINT AFRAID OF YOU!" Suddenly the gravity of what I'd done struck me and I got off of him. There was gravy all over my pants and all over his shirt. We glared at each other for a while, and then I ran outside into the rain.

Denny went off to boot camp and mom cried while we waived at him, riding away in the bus. I had never seen him happier. Things between dad and me were cold for a while but he didn't bug me about what I said, and we never talked about that night. School started a week after Denny left, so I didn't have much time to worry about it. I was a senior, and I had to think about what I was gonna do after I graduated.

We got the news Denny died about a week after it happened. It was a telegram. He'd only been in the war for five days. I happened to be wearing the jeans with the gravy stain on 'em that day but nobody noticed, including me, until I took 'em off before going to sleep. Mom didn't cry much- she had cried more when Denny left on the bus. Dad cried a bunch, and most of it right in front of me. We didn't say anything though- I didn't preach about how terrible I thought war was and dad didn't tell me I was all he had left. We just hugged each other until all the crying was done, and then he went to find mom and I went to bed. I lay there for a long time, thinking about Denny, and what I was gonna do in February when I turned eighteen and was supposed to sign up. I didn't want to turn into a long haired hippie, wearing bell-bottoms and carrying signs and getting arrested for smoking pot on government property. I just didn't want to kill anything, ever, if I could help it.

We had a memorial service for Denny, and dad wore his gravy-stained tee-shirt under his dress-shirt. I saw it when he took it off. A month later my mind was made up for me- the war was ending, and no one was going to be drafted anymore. When we heard the news on t.v. dad didn't say anything, he didn't even look at me. But I saw a single tear roll down his cheek. Maybe it was for Denny, but I think it was for me.

And you know what's funny? None of us even knew that when one son gets sent to the war, the others don't have to go. How about that. I mentioned it to dad when he came over to see his first grandson. He didn't say anything, but he smiled big when I told him we named his grandson Denny.