Christmas Presents and Past. Janice Johnson Kay

you’re only nineteen and still have college ahead of you before you can even consider getting married.”

      Frustration buffeted him. He took a step back from her. “College?” His voice was too loud, and he saw her eyes widen. “What about the draft? Have you forgotten that? They’re saying they might get rid of the student deferment. You know, I might have to go to Vietnam. I might come home in a body bag. So excuse me if I want to live a little first, okay?”

      He walked out, his stomach churning. His parents lived in some pretend world where nice boys and girls followed the life plan laid out for them and didn’t have to worry about shit like getting sent involuntarily overseas to shoot women and babies in little villages carved out of the jungle. They needed to get a clue.

      With it being August now, the late afternoon was warm. Most days, fog massed offshore, ready to roll in by four o’clock, but today the sky stayed clear. When he picked Dinah up, he said, “Do you really want to go to Miguel’s? My mom was hassling me, and I don’t feel like a party.”

      Dinah smiled at him, her eyes soft, and shook her head. Her hair, almost reaching her waist now, shimmered like a length of satin. She had the prettiest hair he’d ever seen, the color between moonlight-blond and pale peach. She had a redhead’s freckles, too, but like her hair they were pale, scattered across her nose and cheeks, and on her chest. In contrast her stomach and breasts were creamy white, and the freckles she said she had on her shoulders and legs were lost in the tan she’d acquired from lifeguarding all summer at the high school swimming pool.

      “Let’s go over to the Point,” she suggested. “We can just walk on the beach.”

      The Point was a finger of land that jutted at an angle, forming a natural bay that had been further enclosed with a stone breakwater to shelter fishing boats. A military radar dish dominated the high wedge of land, but a rutted dirt road allowed local access to the wild stretch of beach on the other side.

      “Why don’t you grab a blanket and some matches,” he suggested. “Maybe we can have a fire later.”

      Will’s was the only car when they reached the top and were able to see the Pacific Ocean stretching onto the curve of the horizon and farther. They had to hike down a switchbacking trail to reach the beach below, where driftwood flung ashore by winter storms nestled against the cliff. The waves surged in a rhythm that felt eternal.

      Not talking much, Will and Dinah walked along the pebbly beach until they found a spot between the water-worn stump of a giant tree and a crisscross of silver-gray logs. He spread the blanket there, and they lay quietly, her head on his shoulder, watching the sun sink toward the horizon.

      It was no more than a fiery orange half circle when Dinah asked, “What was your mother hassling you about?”

      “College. Filling out applications. Saving money to pay tuition.” He was silent for a moment. “She thinks we’re seeing too much of each other. She doesn’t understand.”

      Her hand found his and squeezed. “That our generation knows we may not have forever, the way they thought they did.”

      “There could be a nuclear war tomorrow,” he agreed. “We might only have today.”

      She turned onto her side to face him. “Then I’m glad I’m with you.”

      “I need you,” he said simply, and cupped her cheek, drawing her down until their lips met.

      They made love there, as vivid color spread across the horizon and then faded, as darkness settled and made their faces indistinct to each other. Touch alone was enough. In the last months, they’d become as familiar with each other’s bodies as they were with their own. Tonight especially they moved in harmony, the joining so sweet, Will almost cried. They crested together, their hands clasped, his face in her silken hair, her sigh given to the crook of his neck.

      Afterward, as they lay in each other’s arms, Dinah asked in a low voice, “Do you really wish you were done with school?”

      He nodded. “But I guess I’m glad right now that I’m not, too. You know?”

      “College will give you time. The peace talks have to go somewhere. They just have to!”

      He didn’t say anything. He felt her trying to make out his expression in the dark, but finally she jumped up. “Let’s build a fire.”

      They pulled on their clothes, then tugged apart a small shelter someone had built nearby, piling the pieces. Along with the matches, Dinah had brought the day’s newspaper. He crumpled the sheets, remembering the headlines about U.S. bombers in Laos. Vietnam and the war felt so distant, unreal, and yet loomed over his life as terrifyingly as the monster he’d been sure lived in his closet when he was a kid.

      It occurred to him that then, as now, his parents had tried to banish his fears by insisting the monster didn’t exist. They’d been right about the childhood bogeyman, although the tactic hadn’t made him less afraid, but this time, they were wrong and unwilling to admit it. His dad was proud to have served in World War II, and wouldn’t let himself see that this war was different.

      Dinah lit the match, and they stood in awe as their bonfire caught, crackling and shooting flames toward the black sky.

      Telling himself his eyes were burning because of the heat, Will pulled her up against him. “I love you,” he whispered.

      Her smile was glorious. “I love you, too.” If she saw tears on his cheeks, she didn’t say anything, only kissed him and held on to him as tightly as he held her.

      The Paris peace talks went nowhere. The newspapers reported atrocities committed by U.S. soldiers at a village called My Lai. Some people denied that American boys could have done anything like that, while others wondered aloud whether such horrors might be more widespread than just the one instance.

      President Nixon talked about a “Vietnamization” program that would hand over responsibility for protecting South Vietnam to their own soldiers, but that would require training them first. Will and Dinah went together to the Vietnam Moratorium in San Francisco, part of a nationwide protest held on October 15th. Supposedly a million Americans, including fifty members of Congress, participated in the rallies and vigils across the country. In response, Nixon announced that he planned to withdraw American troops, but it would be on his own secret timetable.

      And instead of ending the draft and going to an all-volunteer army, Congress gave him the authority to institute a draft “lottery” system. Before, men could be called up anytime they were needed until they turned twenty-six. The idea was to end uncertainty. It was hard for guys to start a career or plan to buy a house when they didn’t know if they’d have to serve or not. Now only nineteen-year-olds would be subject to the draft, each possible birthdate to be drawn and randomly assigned a number from 1 to 365. The lower the number, the greater the chance of being inducted. The day you were born would determine whether you went to Vietnam or not.

      So, once the lottery was held, Will would have a good idea one way or the other. Either he’d have a low number and be subject to the draft, or he’d get a high one and be able to go ahead with his life. Rumor had it that the bottom third were likely to be called up to serve, which meant the biggest uncertainty would be for guys whose birthday drew a number such as 125. They might get a draft notice, or they might squeak by, depending on whether their local draft board met its quota or not.

      That fall semester, Will was taking classes at the high school only in the mornings, and working afternoons for the same local contractor who’d given him summer jobs the past couple of years. On December first, the results of the lottery for guys born in 1950 would be announced. The numbers had been drawn, Will had read, from the same glass fishbowl used for the World War II lottery.

      Three of the guys on Will’s construction crew were nineteen and therefore subject to the draft. The foreman said nothing when the beat of hammers ceased and everyone listened to the dry voice coming from the portable radio.

      Guys born September 14th had “won” the lottery and were number 1.

      “Poor