I

The grinding whir of the cement mixer was a sound Stephen heard in his sleep. He had been shoveling sand and cement into one all summer so the grind was with him like tinnitus, as was the feel of the shovel handle in his hand. Henry Hardtwick, for whom the Hardtwick Christian Academy was named, called it an idiot stick and Stephen was inclined to agree. Hard to argue with a man who had dreamed of a Christian school then grubbed that school out of the dry brown hills of southern California one shovelful at a time.

Stephen Mitchell, tall, toward skinny, sun-bleached brown hair, tanned face and bare upper body tossed the shovel down into the sand pile and pulled a bucket of water out of the fifty-five-gallon drum that served as a reservoir. He dumped the water into the mouth of the mixer then watched for a moment as it thinned the mortar turning inside. After a moment he dipped another half a bucket out of the reservoir and poured it in slowly and studied the mixture as it thinned.

Thinned. The word made him smile because it made him think of Bill Thinning, a friend from college, a friend he had never expected to see again when he left the town of Mason, Tennessee last spring. Stephen finished his freshman year and decided he’d had enough. There had been good things in school, and he learned a lot, but there were plenty of bad things, too—death, betrayal, protests, heartache. He had left Mason College with intention of joining the Marines like his father had during WWII. It seemed a good plan since the draft was looming over him as it was over every male above the age of eighteen. He qualified for an IIS student deferment but keeping up with his studies was remarkably difficult. He ended up on probation after the first quarter, which made the draft blow a chilly wind on his neck so he decided to beat the system and enlist. Besides, the adventure of it seemed tantalizing. It was like joining the Foreign Legion in a slap-dasher novel.

Stephen thought his life was all arranged when he presented his paperwork to the recruiter to begin the process of examinations physical and mental. Even the Marines, always presented as jarheads who didn’t give a damn if you could read or write so long as you could learn to shoot a rifle and make it through boot camp. It wasn’t so. The Marines liked young college people.

Stephen took a battery of tests that reminded him of the SATs and ACTs he took before entry into Mason College. While waiting to go into the room for testing he listened to several of the young men waiting with him. They all were dreading the tests and wondering if they were going to be able to pass them. Stephen thought there was no pass or fail in these tests. They were evaluation/placement tests to decide whether you were going to be a rifleman, a radio operator or whatever. In the end they weren’t hard, but a couple of the questions gave him pause. Questions about scars or identifying marks on one’s body made him remember what his friend Leonard, who had been a door gunner on a chopper in Vietnam, told him about picking up bodies and pieces of bodies that had to be identified by scars or tattoos or birth marks.

Stephen finished the written tests without much trouble, then went off to the physical part of the entrance exam. He expected a “warm body” physical and that was what he got at first.  A dozen young men lined up mother naked, carrying brown folders were asked to bend, stretch, open wide, breathe deep and stand still as doctors, or more probably PAs, went down the line clapping stethoscopes to chests. Make sure the recruit has a heartbeat. Stephen thought and grinned to himself.

When the PA got to Stephen he did as he had done to the man before, clapped scope to chest. “Deep breath,” the PA said.

The stethoscope was still rather clammy warm from all the previous chests. Stephen took a slow deep breath as he had seen the others do. The PA listened to his heart a moment longer then asked, “You have some kind of heart problem, boy?”

Stephen remembered Southern cops calling him “boy” as they included him among his black friends though he was white, and it made him flinch.

Stephen blinked at the man for a moment then said, “No, sir.”

“No shortness of breath, fainting, pain or tightness in your chest?”

“No, sir. I mean, I get out of breath if I run a while, but no more than anyone else I don’t think. My stomach feels kinda funny, but I figure my breakfast didn’t land right.”

“Okay,” the PA said. He turned and stripped a piece of paper off a pad lying on the table beside him. He held out the piece of paper to Stephen, who took it. “Put this with your papers and take yourself right through that door.” He pointed at a door with a fuzzed glass window on top.

“Yes, sir,” Stephen said and stood still.

“Now would be a good time, boy,” the PA said.

“Oh, yes sir,” Stephen said and pulled out of line, taking the few steps to the half glass door and stepped through it. The room was like a waiting room with bent pipe and plastic cushion couches. There was a slide open window which had a desk inside it. Room and desk were empty. Another half glass door was to the left of the desk. Now separated from the other naked recruits he felt exposed and moved the Brown folder to block the view of his “Meat and Veg,” as his father called it.

A balding older man in a white lab coat with a stethoscope draped around his neck stepped through the door bedside the desk. “Right this way, young man.”

Stephen did as he was told and stepped through the door.

The doctor pulled a wide strip of paper from a roll at the head of an examination table to cover it.

“Have a seat on the table,” the doctor said, and again Stephen did as he was told, laying the brown folder beside him.

The doctor put the stethoscope in his ears and pressed the listening part against Stephen’s chest. This one was not pre-warmed like the other one had been. This one was icy cold and it made Stephen pull a short breath and wonder if the thing had been kept in the fridge.

“Slow deep breath, please.” Stephen drew in air and let it out slowly.

The doctor moved the stethoscope a little and said, “Deep breath again and hold it.”

Stephen did as he was told.

After a moment the doctor said, “Okay.” He picked up the folder, opened it, examined the papers for a moment, then settled the folder on the table again. He wrote something on one of the sheets, closed the folder then offered his hand which Stephen, though puzzled, took. “Congratulations, young man.”

Still confused, Stephen said, “For what, sir?”

“You just dodged the draft legally.”

Stephen frowned. “I wasn’t trying to dodge the draft, sir. I enlisted in the Marines.”

“Well, you just dis-enlisted. You have a heart murmur that makes you what they used to call 4F.”

“But…” Stephen began to protest.

“I’d go to your own doctor and have it checked out. Might be nothing at all, just a slightly crooked valve, but it might be something serious that needs treatment.”

And it was done. All his plans collapsed and he was left with nowhere to go. He did go to see Doctor Quixon who gave him an electro-cardiogram and found nothing at all wrong. Stephen went back to the Marines to tell them Quixon found nothing.

The sergeant at the desk just shrugged. “If the doc says no, you’re cleared.” Stephen was stunned. He took the papers and went home.

He spent a couple of days sitting in front of the TV not watching it, just trying to absorb and digest what just happened. At last his father said, “You’re gonna have to do something, Steve. Can’t just sit here like a lump.”

“I guess, Pop, but I don’t know. I guess I could go back to school or something.”

“Not for a couple of months.”

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll just go back to Hardtwick. I’m sure they are looking for people.”

His father didn’t look all that pleased about the idea, but he said, “That would be okay. Give you some time to sort yourself out.”

“I guess so.”

So, he reacquainted himself with the operation of an idiot stick and the formulas for concrete and mortar.

Stephen watched the cement mixer barrel go around for a bit longer, thinking he wanted a cigarette. He had taken up smoking at school and now wished he had not. He had the habit, but it was not good to exercise the habit at work so he smoked only before or after. He suffered the craving during the day.

Dave Wilton, for whom the mortar was being mixed, stepped up. He was dressed in khaki pants and shirt with a dirty Dodgers baseball cap on his head. “Earth to Steve,” he said.

Stephen looked up at Dave. A couple of years before Dave would have been Mr. Wilton to him, since Wilton was a teacher at Hardtwick during the school year, but when they worked together at grubbing Hardtwick out of the hills he became Dave.

“Batch is ready. Where’s the wheelbarrow?”

“Still up there. I’ll get it after lunch.”

“Lunch time already? Morning just disappeared.”

“If you say so. Let’s eat.”

Stephen looked into the mixer again then took the bucket, and poured a splash more water into it. “That oughta hold it till we get back” he said taking his T-shirt from where it was hanging on the fence. He pulled it on.

The two walked down the covered walk way toward the break room. It was the teacher’s lounge during the school year. Now all the people working used it for a lunch-break room because of the two soda machines and the fridge. Stephen dusted himself as he walked. A cloud of gray cement dust puffed every time he brushed his hand over his pants. They didn’t look much better for the effort.

Inside the break room there were several people seated around the tables in various stages of lunch. Stephen glanced around not really noticing who was there until his eyes landed on Sherry Kinert. Seeing her sitting alone at a table made him smile. He went to the fridge, took out his bag lunch, bought a Pepsi from one of the soda machines and went to Sherry’s table.

“Hi Steve,” she said.

“Hi. You got paint on your nose.”

She wiped at it with the back of her hand. “Guess I got as much on me as I got on the wall.”

Stephen grinned. He and Sherry were good friends who’d painted many walls together. They’d had some precious hours together before he went off to Tennessee last year, but not this summer. Everything had been too confused, too shaken up.  Stephen didn’t want to bring Sherry into his troubles. He had too many good memories of her.

“You’re getting ready to head for Tennessee again?” she asked.

“I reckon,” he answered.

“You don’t sound too sure.”

“I’m not. I didn’t expect to be going back, but apparently the Lord had other plans for me so I’m off to Mason College again.”

Dave who had been listening said with a small laugh. “That’s the way it goes. You wanna make God laugh, tell him your plans.”

“Yeah, I guess that’s true,” Stephen agreed.

“When are you leaving?” Sherry asked.

“You trying to get rid of me or something?”

“No, just curious.”

She smiled and Stephen felt the smile in his guts, and lower.

“Tuesday morning next week I’m eastbound on the big silver bird.”

Sherry blinked at him a couple of times and actually looked sad that he was leaving. “Will you write me?” she asked.

“Maybe. If I have time. If you’ll write me back. Nothing more discouraging than writing letters and not getting any back.”

“I’ll answer any that you send.”

“Okay. Fine. Maybe I’ll write you a story or something.”

This sounded like an idle boast, but in fact wasn’t. Since Dr. Marchant told him he had some talent as a writer he had been fooling around with some stories and even some poetry. Still he never referred to it except jokingly. He had started keeping a journal, burning up the pages with all the craziness concerning his heart and the Marines.

They sat side by side quietly eating, not quite touching, but only an inch from it. They looked at one another in quick glances and smiles.

Dave got up when his sandwich was through. “Okay, you two. Knock it off. Time to go back to work. I need Mud!”

Stephen glanced up at him. “Ugh, need wheelbarrow. Bring Barrow, I give you Mud.”

Dave raised his right hand like a cigar-store Indian and said, “Ugh. Chief-Mud-in-the-mixer.”

Stephen laughed. “You better watch out. My Apache ancestors take offense at being mocked and they might just scalp you.”

Dave lifted his Dodgers cap to show he was balding. “Not much to worry about.” He laughed, and went out.

Stephen stood up to follow him. He glanced back at Sherry and was caught by the memory of kissing her in the dark as they looked over the city lights when parked on Mulholland Drive. The memory made him want to lean over to kiss her again right now, but he didn’t.

The afternoon went on as had the morning, except hotter. Stephen tended the mixer and when called for, brought a load of bricks to the upper level where Dave was working. He was putting brick caps on a hollow stone edging that ran along the sidewalk.

After he offloaded the bricks, Stephen stood for a moment catching his breath and looked around the campus. He’d worked at Hardtwick since he was fourteen and could point at several of the buildings where he had carpentered, cemented, roofed or painted. He was very much a part of the place, not just a graduate. Blood, Sweat, and Tears. The school taught him the three R’s but also Scripture which ultimately made him go off to college with the idea of becoming a minister. His Mason experience left that plan in rags. There was just too much in the faith he could not believe, and too much in science which could not be refuted, so he was slowly restructuring his own belief system. Every day as he wrote in his journal he cut away at the unbelievable, stitching in reality as he went. He found he was more and more amazed by the power of God. This was not the piddled, jealous little God he had been taught at Hardtwick or in church. The Creator of the universe was much bigger and more powerful than anything these people could believe in.

Dave looked at the remains of the wheelbarrow of mortar, the one that had been mixing at lunch. The barrow was near empty. He looked at his watch and said, “I think we’re done for today Steve. I’ll finish this course and put the last of the mud down the hollow stones. “

“Okay. I’ll go clean out the mixer and head for home.”

“This it for you?”

“Yeah, I guess so, Dave. I’ll use the weekend and Monday to finish packing and say my goodbyes. I’m gone Tuesday morning.”

Dave stood and offered Stephen his hand. “Great working with you, Steve.”

“Thanks, Dave. I was just thinking we’ve put an awful lot of work into this place.”

“True enough,” Dave said grinning. “Dug a lotta ditches.”

Stephen laughed too, remembering when Henry Hardtwick handed him a shovel and said, “See if this fits your hands.”

“See you at church Sunday?” Dave asked.

“Yeah, probably,” Stephen said turning away.

Half hour later Stephen slid into the driver’s seat of the black Rambler sedan and pushed in the cigarette lighter. He thought of the Rambler as his though it belonged to his family. He stuck a Marlboro between his lips and drove out of the parking lot. As he was reaching the street the lighter popped out and he lit the cigarette, drawing in a long breath of smoke. He now regretted having ever started smoking, but he didn’t have enough will to quit cold turkey. He was smoking far less now than when he left Mason, but he would have liked to quit altogether.

And the thought was gone. Replaced by thoughts of Sherry Kinert. Wonder if I should ask her out before I go? he thought, then discarded the idea. Her folks were still strict even though she was in college now, so it would probably have taken an act of Congress to get their permission. Besides he didn’t want to let go of the money that would be involved in a date. He thought of the paycheck in his wallet and wished it were fatter, but since it wasn’t, he was going to have to be squeeze-nickel about it. He was going to have to wash dishes once again.  He didn’t look forward to the miserable steamy dish room Still it was better than the boring library work he started out with. It was also farther away from Cathy Powell. He still had scars from his dealings with Cathy Powell and the Baptist Student Union. Thoughts of her made his stomach sour, as did thoughts of Mary Ann Younger.

Stephen had thought never to see either of them again when he left Mason last Spring. but now he was going back. He remembered the grip of Mary Ann’s legs around his waist. He rather looked forward to feeling it again, but there was a certain pinch of guilt involved in the memory.

He left those thoughts when he went into the bank to deposit his check. The account was nothing like as fat as it had been last year. Last year he’d managed to pay the whole year’s tuition and most of the books from his savings, but this time he was going to have to rely more on his folks. He was not happy about that. There had been a huge blowout when Stephen ended up on academic probation at the end of the first quarter, but he had been able to say It was my money! Not yours that was lost, when his mother wailed about the loss. This time he wouldn’t have that club to use if the need appeared again.

At home he hollered, “I’m home,” as he came through the door and went directly to the shower, dropping his cement-dusty clothes in the laundry room.

Showered and combed Stephen pulled on gym shorts and T-shirt then walked out the front door with cigarettes in hand. He went to the back bumper of the Rambler which was parked in the drive way, sat down and lit a cigarette. His folks knew he smoked, but he still tried not to smoke in the house, a habit he’d picked up from his father.

“Hey Steve,” Leonard Turros, who was walking by, shouted. Turros was a Latino, dark tanned with curly black hair and black eyes. He looked tough, and was. It was odd to see him walking.

“Hey Len. Where’s your car? What’s up?”

“Phil has it.” Philip was Leonard’s younger brother. “He had to go down to Burbank.”

“What for?”

“Looking for a job. Place over there looking for a machinist trainee. Thought he might get it, maybe get into an apprentice program.”

“They let him do that being draft age? I figure they wouldn’t let him start if he was likely to be pulled out by Uncle Sugar.”

“If he can get into the program, he can get a deferment.”

Stephen nodded. Leonard had been drafted, done his time and gotten out around last Christmas. He tried mightily to make Stephen understand how bad Vietnam was. When he heard Stephen enlisted in the Marines he came around and threatened to punch Stephen in the nose, for being stupid. “Are you fuckin’ crazy, you stupid cabron? You could get killed over there!”

“You didn’t,” Stephen had countered.

“Pure luck. And I wasn’t a Marine. They are all bullet-catching crazy motherfuckers. I thought you had more brains than balls.”

When that came out of Len’s mouth Stephen started to laugh and after a moment Leonard began laughing with him, shaking his head. “You gonna get killed over there. Pinche Loco Gringo.”

When news of Stephen being 4F got out Leonard came to see Stephen again, even going so far as to knock on the door and ask for him which almost never happened. “God was looking out for you, cabron.” he told Stephen.

“Bullshit. I was all ready to go when He kicked the props out from under me.”

Leonard lifted an eye brow. “I don’t know what use God has for a crazy-ass gringo like you, but you’ll be more useful alive than dead.” He offered his hand and after a moment Stephen shook it. “Maybe so,” he said. “Maybe so.”

Now they sat quietly and smoked. “When you leaving?” Leonard asked.

“Tuesday morning.”

“Wish I could get outta here.”

“And go where?”

“I don’t know,” he sighed. “That’s the trouble. I don’t know. Maybe to Mexico or something. I could always get a job smuggling pot.”

Stephen looked at his friend, not quite sure if the other was joking. He knew Leonard and Phil smoked pot some, but he didn’t think they smoked heavily enough to want to get into smuggling the stuff. “That could get you killed for sure, Len,” he said.

“Yeah, I guess. Still, better than sitting here.”

Better than sitting here, Stephen thought. Better Mason than Vietnam, I guess.

Leonard dropped the butt of his cigarette and ground it out under his foot. “You wanna go get a beer?” Stephen wasn’t technically legal to drink yet but Leonard was. A few times he went into the store at the corner and brought out a six pack of Mexicali. It was cheap and tasted all right. Stephen was not much of a beer drinker, but he enjoyed sitting in the back parking lot of the store sharing a drink with his friends.

“Naw, I better not. Mom almost has dinner ready so I better not.”

Leonard stood up from the car bumper. “Adios, cabron,” he said and turned to go.

“See ya, pachuco.”