Free War and Watermelon by Rich Wallace Page A

if the war was here,” Ryan says. “If they were trying to kill Mom or Brody or Jenny. I’d be first in line then. But I ain’t about to get ambushed over in that swamp . . . get a bayonet stabbed between my ribs. Why the hell are we even over there?”
    Dad scrunches up his face in a frown. “It’s complicated,” he says.
    â€œIt’s bullshit.”
    We sit there for another ten minutes or so until Dad stands up and yawns. He holds out a hand and pulls Ryan to his feet. They look at each other for a few seconds, not glaring this time, just looking.
    I get up on my own and head inside to see if I can catch the end of the Mets game.

FRIDAY, AUGUST 22:
    Plenty of Grease
    A fter The Price Is Right , Mom asks if I want to go to the swim club with her.
    â€œI don’t know,” I say, switching off the television. “I might go down later with Tony.”
    I feel a little sorry for Mom. I was four when the swim club opened, so she and I went every day. She’d sit under a big umbrella with other ladies and watch their kids splash in the kiddie pool, then she’d take me into the big pool and teach me to swim. For the next few summers we were there all the time, but then I started spending more time with Tony. She’s still there every day, but I hardly ever go with her.
    â€œYou sure are having a busy summer,” she says. “Want lunch?”
    â€œYeah.”
    I sit on Dad’s high stool at the counter while she fries up some ham for my sandwich. “Big scrimmage tomorrow,” I say, “so I figure I ought to rest up.”
    She gives me a small smile and says, “Mmm-hmm.”
    â€œBut maybe I will go with you. Just lie on a towel and get some sun.”
    â€œThat would be nice,” she says. “I’d like the company.”
    I pick up a saltshaker and turn it around in my hand. It’s a tall, clear one, with a few grains of rice mixed in with the salt. I always wondered about that. “Why is there rice in here?” I ask.
    â€œIt absorbs moisture. Keeps the salt from clumping up.”
    â€œOh.” The salt is clumpy anyway.
    I exhale. “What, umm . . . You think Ryan . . .”
    â€œI think he’d better do something soon,” she says. “That application to Drew has been sitting on his desk all summer. So far he filled out the line that asks for his name. You want toast?”
    â€œYeah.”
    â€œGet it. This is almost ready.”
    I put two slices of bread in the toaster and wait. When it pops up, she grabs it and sticks the ham between the slices.
    I take a big mouthful.
    â€œThis is no game,” she says. “Kids like him are the first ones they send to the front lines. It could be too late already; his birthday’s in two weeks.”
    I swallow. The ham sticks in my throat. “Ryan says the war is immoral.”
    â€œI voted for Nixon because he said he’d get us out, but he just keeps digging in deeper.”
    The phone rings and she goes to the hall to answer it. I can hear her talking about some library board issues.
    When she comes back she asks if I’d like her to fry more ham. “There’s plenty of grease.”
    I think about it. “Sure.” I could stand to gain a few pounds.
    She puts another slice of butter in the pan. “ I’ll drive him to Canada if it comes to that,” she says. “They’re not taking my child. Not for this war. Not for some pointless intervention.”
    Â 
    I lie facedown in the grass near my mother’s umbrella, the sun beating down on my back, and think about football and that dance next week and Ryan’s situation.
    The grass smells grassy. Patches of it are very dry, but here by the kiddie pool, there are a lot of dripping children, so it stays well watered.
    I feel a splash of warm water on my back and look up. It’s Tony, wiping his mouth.
    â€œI banged on your door for ten minutes,” he