Chapter Twenty
THE NEXT morning, the hallways at school were buzzing.
“Kenneth’s number got called ninth. It’s so unfair. He’s already got an older brother over there.”
“Thank God my brother’s in college. His birthday was the first one called.”
“My cousin Bill says he’s never been so glad to have been sick all the time as a kid. He thinks maybe that’ll get him out of it.”
“I’m just going to go ahead and enlist as soon as I graduate. Maybe then I can have some say in what happens to me.”
“No way, man. I’m going to Canada.”
“We should organize another march.”
“Yeah, like that’ll do any good . . .”
Last night’s draft lottery was all anyone could talk about.
All anyone could think about. And I was no exception.
I hadn’t slept at all. The sheer helplessness of it, that a government had the power to decide who lived and who died just by reaching into a container and drawing out plastic capsules . . .
But around two in the morning, it had hit me. Maybe I wasn’t powerless after all.
The rest of the night had passed in a blur of notes and harmonies and playing chords on the piano as quietly as I could.
And at the first light of dawn, I drew the double bar line at the end and sat back.
There. Finished. The piece Victor had inspired.
The piece I’d been planning to use for my audition for Whitehall.
The piece I carried in my bag now as I entered the library.
Victor had already arrived. He sat at our usual table near the window, his head bent over a notebook of staff paper. He glanced up when I walked in, but he didn’t smile. He just went back to his work.
My stomach churned as I approached. I hadn’t heard from him since last night. I knew my parents wouldn’t have let me take a call—nothing after 8:00 p.m.—but I’d at least thought I’d have heard the phone ring. I thought he’d have at least wondered how I’d made it home.
“Hello, Iris,” he said.
“Hi.” Was that it? Just Hello, Iris? No I’m sorry about last night or I’m glad you got home safe?
His lack of concern hurt. But however much I hurt, Victor hurt more.
He’d just been told that unless he got into Whitehall, he’d probably be doomed to the jungles of Vietnam.
And I’d glimpsed a little of his up-bringing last night too.
No way in the world could I understand what he was feeling. He needed my support, not my pettiness.
As if confirming my thoughts, he let out a frustrated snarl, tore the piece of manuscript paper from his notebook, and crumpled it into a tiny ball.
I sat down across from him, opened my bag, and pulled out my notebook. I flipped to the finished piece, then opened it and laid it in front of him. I am my beloved’s, and my beloved is mine.
“You finished yours. Good for you.” His voice was as cold as the weather outside. “Is that supposed to make me feel better?”
Heart pounding, I pulled in a deep breath. “Take it.”
He blinked at me, his eyes unfocused through his glasses. “What?”
“Take my piece. For your audition. I finished it last night after . . .” Probably best not to bring up last night. “Anyway, it’s done. You can have it.”
He stared at me. His expression was almost totally without feeling. “I don’t need your pity, Iris.”
What? In all the times during the night I’d envisioned his reaction to my gift, not once did I predict this. I thought he’d be grateful. I must not have explained this very well. Wouldn’t have been the first time. Words weren’t my thing. I did so much better with music.
“It’s . . . it’s not pity.”
“It’s not?” He tilted his head. “Sure sounds like it to me.”
How could I make him understand? “Victor. My parents will never let me go to Whitehall. I never even told them I was going to apply. Mother thinks the only reason for a woman to go to college is so she can find either a husband or a job to tide her over until she does find a husband. And her reasoning is that since we have money, I don’t need a job, so .
. . what’s the point of college?” I laughed, hoping the sound would cover the shattering of my heart.
“So even if I got in, I wouldn’t be able to go.
And I guess I’d rather the work I did not go to waste. ”
“You think I can’t come up with something on my own?” he challenged.
Oh no. This was going from bad to worse. “I never said that, Victor. But you look like you’re having trouble—”
“I am having trouble. But I have to do it on my own. That way my father will know beyond a doubt that I’m talented. That I deserve this and that I can make a living at it.”
I laid my hand on top of his. “You can, Victor. And you will. Whether your father ever believes those things or not, I do. You’ll achieve whatever you set your mind to.
That’s . . . part of what inspired me to write this piece.
It’s for you, Victor. I wrote it for you.
You inspired every part of it. The music, the text . . . everything.”
Finally he seemed to come back to himself. “Oh, Iris. I’m such an idiot. I’m not in my right mind.” He glanced through the music, and his lips curved. “You’d do this for me? You’d offer me your work?”
“Of course I would. In a heartbeat. I’d do anything for you, Victor.” I drew a breath and met his gaze. “I . . . I love you.”
His eyes widened. “You do?”
The love in my heart bloomed into a smile. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.”
He answered my smile with one of his own. “I love you too, Iris. You’re . . . an angel from heaven.”
“I don’t know if I’d go that far.” I beamed across the table at him. “Maybe that could be the text of the brilliant piece you write someday. I know you’ll have an amazing career.”
“With you by my side, Iris? There’s no way I can fail.
You’ll see.” He talked fast, and his cheeks turned pink.
“And when I get into Whitehall, I’ll write to you all the time, and I’ll tell you all the amazing things I’m learning.
And when I graduate, we’ll get married, and we’ll both compose.
We’ll be the next Rodgers and Hammerstein.
” He gestured toward an imaginary sign. “Victor Nelson and Iris Nelson. Can’t you just see the marquee? ”
He went on talking a mile a minute, and my heart welled with joy. It seemed I’d given him exactly what I’d wanted to. Hope. Enthusiasm. A ticket out of Vietnam. All because of the piece that lay open on the table between us.
And he’d promised me everything I wanted. A future with him. Making music together as husband and wife. Surely that was worth sacrificing my composition. I wrote it for him, anyway, didn’t I?
So why were the chords in my soul so dissonant?
Why did part of me feel like I’d just made a terrible mistake?