Dad said we’ll talk about it. And we will. Not with Mama, not yet. But it has to be today

June 1964

Mutty had expected high drama — a sharp intake of breath, a look of horror, maybe even a slight skid off the road as his father heard his shocking declaration. He was both relieved and just a little disappointed when Dad continued driving as if nothing earthshaking had just happened.

When Abe spoke, his tone was light. “Mut, you just spent hours with a bunch of aging war veterans. You heard our stories, you got inspired. Fine. But the army is a lot more than a few heroic moments. Wait a few days, think things over carefully.”

“But Dad, I....”

From the back of the car came Annie’s voice, thick with sleep. “Are we almost home, Abie?”

“Yes, sweetheart. Go back to sleep, I’ll wake you when we’re there.”

He turned back to his son. “This is not the time to discuss it. Think it over, and we’ll talk.”

And he sped through the night.

IF

you're in a well-ventilated and uncrowded classroom, if the temperature outside is in the low 70s, and the early-summer sun is gently shining in from the open window, if you're a healthy young male, sitting in a chair — you will not suffocate. You will not choke.

So why did Mutty feel that he couldn’t breathe, that he was being smothered in a blanket of meaningless words and drowning in waves of uncontrolled thoughts?

When the Chem lecturer finally droned to a finish, Mutty felt that if he didn’t get away, he would collapse in a heap of uncertainty and doubt. The MCATs were behind him, and he knew he’d done well. Missing his next class in Advanced Calculus wouldn’t hurt his chances of getting into medical school.

That is... if he was going to med school at all.

He had to admit, he’d been a little hurt when Dad had ignored his announcement that he was going to enlist. Dad had been so... dismissive. Like Mutty was a little boy begging for a toy choo choo train that he’d forget about the next day.

Well, he wasn’t a little boy, he was an adult trying to create a life. And there was a lot more to his decision than just wide-eyed wonder at the army heroes he’d met.

Dad said we’ll talk about it. And we will. Not with Mama, not yet. But it has to be today.

Mutty searched in his pockets, pulled out a dime, and walked over to the public phone booth in the cafeteria.