Death Coming Up the Hill by Chris Crowe Page B

kid’s
    Â 
    head. The kid wore a
    baggy plaid shirt, and his hands
    were tied behind his
    Â 
    back. The cop looked as
    quiet as the empty street
    behind them, and the
    Â 
    fog of war cast a
    haze over the buildings in
    the background. The kid’s
    Â 
    eyes were closed, and the
    side of his head looked flattened,
    as if a sudden
    Â 
    burst of air had smacked
    him. Though I couldn’t see the
    bullet, I knew I
    Â 
    was witnessing an
    execution in Saigon.
    In the photograph
    Â 
    a Vietnamese
    soldier looked on, smiling. The
    looks of anguish, joy,
    Â 
    and businesslike death
    in that photo made me feel
    sick to my stomach.
    â˜…  ★  ★
    Nothing good lasted
    at home. Mom attended an
    anti-war rally
    Â 
    again, and Dad flipped
    out. Even upstairs in my
    hideout, I could hear
    Â 
    the yelling. But last
    night was different. Mom used
    to stand up to Dad,
    Â 
    to throw it right back
    at him, but the only voice
    I heard was Dad’s, and
    Â 
    he was really cranked.
    There’d be a lull in his storm,
    and I’d listen for
    Â 
    Mom to shout back, but
    nothing. I heard nothing. A
    terrifying thought
    Â 
    seized me. Had he hit
    her? Was she hurt? In the past,
    nothing could silence
    Â 
    Mom. I crept to my
    door, listening and waiting.
    And then Dad’s roaring
    Â 
    returned, and I felt
    a weird kind of relief. Not
    because of his rage,
    Â 
    but because it meant
    that Mom was okay. I mean,
    even Dad wouldn’t
    Â 
    scream at someone who’s
    unconscious. Mom was still there,
    I knew that, but she
    Â 
    wasn’t fighting back,
    at least not the way she used
    to. Something
had
changed.

February 1968
    Week Seven: 543
    Â 
    I was six years old
    when I realized that my
    parents didn’t love
    Â 
    each other. Dad and
    I were playing catch in the
    backyard, and Mom sat
    Â 
    on the patio
    reading a book. It took a
    little while to get
    Â 
    the hang of it, but
    pretty soon I caught every
    ball Dad tossed to me.
    Â 
    â€œThat’s my boy,” he said,
    and patted my head. I leapt
    into his arms, like
    Â 
    a puppy, and he
    hugged me. While in his embrace
    I pleaded, “Mom, come
    Â 
    on!” She must have seen
    my eagerness, so she set
    her book down and stood
    Â 
    next to us. I looped
    one arm around Dad’s neck and
    reached my other arm
    Â 
    around Mom’s. Feeling
    their love for me, I tugged to
    pull them closer, to
    Â 
    knit us into a
    tight group hug, but Dad leaned right
    and Mom leaned left, and
    Â 
    I spanned the distance
    between them like a bombed-out
    bridge. The love I had
    Â 
    felt fell into the
    gulf between them, and I knew
    they loved me, but not
    Â 
    each other. That’s a
    crummy thing to learn when you’re
    only six years old.
    â˜…  ★  ★
    So I grew up in
    divided territory,
    a home with clearly
    Â 
    defined boundaries
    that my parents rarely crossed.
    Most of the time we
    Â 
    lived under a cease-
    fire interrupted by
    occasional flare-
    Â 
    ups. Sadly, the key
    members of my family
    couldn’t hold
    Â 
    together, so my
    heart was torn, equal shares of
    love for Mom and Dad.

February 1968
    Week Eight: 470
    Â 
    On the board, Mr.
    Ruby had “Orangeburg, South
    Carolina” and
    Â 
    had written below
    that: “3: 17, 18,
    and 19.” I knew
    Â 
    those weren’t the weekly
    Vietnam casualties,
    but they had to be
    Â 
    important somehow.
    What happened in Orangeburg?
    That night, I went to
    Â 
    the Tempe Public
    Library to see what I
    could find about it.
    â˜…  ★  ★
    The library was
    quiet when I entered, and
    the librarian
    Â 
    shot me a look that
    said I better make sure it
    stayed that way. Nodding,
    Â 
    I headed to the
    newspaper shelf that had a
    couple weeks’ worth of
    Â 
    The New York Times
in
    tidy stacks and started to
    go through them. It took
    Â 
    a while, but I found
    a small article