Twenty-One September 1972 #2
“So very nice,” he agreed. “I have something to tell you.” His voice was suddenly solemn.
“That sounds serious,” I said, trying to lighten the mood.
He said nothing, and I began to feel anxious about what he might say.
“I’ve signed up for the American military.
I leave next week for basic training. I know, at least I think I know, that you won’t like this decision I’ve made, but I’m doing it for us.
” He was talking so quickly that I could barely take in what he was saying.
“When I get back, you can come down and meet me there. I’ll have a good job, and we can make a life together.
Maybe in Boston. Maybe Kiju will come with us. ”
I was stunned into silence. The air around me was colder than it had been a moment ago, the tide seemed to be coming in faster.
“But . . .” I stammered, not sure what I intended to say.
“They might not make me go to Vietnam,” he said, as if reading my thoughts.
I had seen the news, I had listened to the updates on the radio.
We had even discussed it in class. “I might be stationed somewhere else. There’s a lot of American military in Guam, in Japan.
How cool would it be if I got to go to Japan? You could come for a visit.”
“But they are sending everyone to Vietnam, John. I watch the news.”
“I’ll be safe, regardless of where I go. Besides, there are rumours that the war is almost over.”
I needed to say something, anything, to make him rethink his decision. “Have you signed papers yet? Made it official?”
“Well, no, but I’m going to. I’m taking the train down to Boston in a couple of weeks, and my brother, who lives down there, is going to take me in to join up. It’s all arranged. I would love for you to see me off.”
“This isn’t romantic. This isn’t a story from movies, John. This is real life. Why don’t you join the Canadian military? We aren’t caught up in some silly war we can’t win. Be a peacekeeper instead.”
“You know that my brother is in the American military, and I just want to make him proud. I want the chance to serve with him. My dad was in the American military. It’s what we do. Please, Aliet, just support me on this.”
I knew that many Mi’kmaq served in the American military, it was a right in some long-ago treaty, but I never thought, not for a moment, that someone I loved would enlist.
I pulled my arm away, stood up and placed another log on the fire, my back to him. I thought we could have a discussion, but after a few minutes I realized there was nothing more to say.
“Aliet, I don’t want to work in the woods my whole life. I want to do something, to make a difference. Maybe learn a trade while I’m in the service, so I can take care of you. I want you to be proud of me. I made this decision for us.” He walked over and reached for my hand, but I pulled it away.
“How can we have a future if you are dead?”
“You’re being irrational.”
“I’m being irrational?” I asked, my voice rising.
He turned away from me, his eyes focused on the approaching tide, while I watched the fire.
I was really angry with him. But when I turned to face him, ready to rail against his stupidity, he turned at the same time and cracked a smile so big and awkward, I couldn’t help but laugh. And then he laughed, and my anger began to dissipate like the fog.
He leaned over and gave me a kiss on the cheek.
“You make it really easy to be mad at you and really hard to stay that way, you know that?” I said.
“I do.”
John went to the truck and came back with the smallest jar I’d ever seen. It was glass with a little red top, empty. I watched as he dug beneath the tiny stones that blanketed the shoreline until he reached dirt. He scooped up a small amount and placed it in the jar.
“My grandfather told me I needed to gather some earth from home so my spirit won’t get lost when I cross the ocean.” He screwed the lid on tight and put the jar in his pocket. “I’ll always have a piece of home and the memory of this day with me.”
I blushed.
“And I have a favour to ask,” he whispered. “They are going to cut my hair when I join. Shave it all off.”
He pulled his braid around to the front. The wind played with a few loose strands, and I reached up to push them out of his face.
“I want you to cut my hair for me.”
“What? I can’t,” I murmured, touching his braid.
“You know how important my hair is to me. I need someone who understands to be the one to take it from me.” He’d had long hair for as long as I’d known him.
“That’s a huge responsibility. Shouldn’t it be your mother or father?”
“I want it to be you.”
He reached inside the picnic basket and retrieved the scissors that Kiju had packed so we could open the food packages inside.
I took the scissors from him as he turned his back to me.
Part of me wanted to say no, hoping it would make him stay, but I knew I had to do this one thing for him before he left.
I took his braid in my hand, placed the open scissors at the base of his neck and cut.
The braid came away in my hands. He ran his hand from his forehead back to the nape of his neck.
His head dropped to his chin and he didn’t turn to look at me.
I sat, waiting until he was ready. When he turned, he took the scissors and put them back in the basket and gently took his hair from my hands.
From his pocket he brought out a few strands of sweetgrass I didn’t know he had.
He quietly placed the sweetgrass in amongst the hair and wrapped it in the cloth that Kiju had given us in the picnic basket.
“You need to keep it with you until I come home. Then I will take it back from you.”
I felt sick. “What if—” I couldn’t bring myself to say the rest.
“I promise I’ll come back. I promise.”
I leaned over and kissed him, a slow, soft kiss that carried a thousand words neither one of us had the ability to voice.
Later, John dropped me off and left for home. He wanted to get back before dark. Kiju stood in the doorway and watched as he drove away.
“John not coming in for dinner or a quick hello?”
“No,” I said in a low monotone voice.
She pretended not to notice my tone. “How was the picnic?”
“It was great,” I said, as I passed her without making eye contact. I went to my room and placed John’s braid in a small tin box that had once held cookies. I didn’t want to talk about John’s decision, not even with Kiju. I went into the kitchen to clean out the picnic basket.
“What did you do?”
“This and that.” I tried to sound more enthusiastic, and it must have worked.
Kiju reached above me and took down one of her jars of herbs for tea. As I washed the dishes, she steeped the tea. It smelled awful.
“What are you making?”
“A tea for you.”
“I don’t want any tea, especially one that smells as bad as that one does.”
“It’s a tea to make sure that in a few months from now, it’s not you under that tree.”