When I opened the card, a newspaper clipping fell out onto the present she’d sent me. It was from a newspaper called the Harwich Journal. In the top margin, above the headline, Carol had written: This time I made it — Purple Heart! Don’t worry, 5 stitches at the Emerg. Room
& I was home for supper.
The story’s headline read: 6 INJURED , 14 ARRESTED AS DRAFT OFFICE PROTEST TURNS INTO
MELEE. The photo was in stark contrast to the one in the Deny News where everyone, even the cops and the construction workers who had started their own impromptu counter-protest, looked sort of relaxed. In the Harwich Journal photo, folks looked raw-nerved, confused, and about two thousand light-years from relaxed. There were hardhat types with tattoos on their bulging arms and hateful grimaces on their faces; there were long-haired kids staring back at them with angry defiance. One of the latter was holding his arms out to a jeering trio of men as if to say Come on, you want a piece of me? There were cops between the two groups, looking strained and tense.
To the left (Carol had drawn an arrow to this part of the photo, as if I might have missed it otherwise) was a familiar jacket with HARWICH HIGH SCHOOL printed on the back. Once more her head was turned, but this time toward the camera instead of away from it. I could see the blood running down her cheek much more clearly than I wanted to. She could draw joke arrows and write all the breezy comments she wanted to in the margin; I was not amused.
That was not chocolate syrup on her face. A cop had her by one arm. The girl in the news photo didn’t seem to mind either that or the fact that her head was bleeding (if she even knew her head was bleeding at that point). The girl in the news photo was smiling. In one of her hands was a sign reading STOP THE MURDER. The other was held out toward the camera, the first two fingers making a V. V-for-victory, I thought then, but of course it wasn’t. By 1969, that V went with the sparrow-track the way ham went with eggs.
I scanned the text of the clipping, but there was nothing there of any particular interest.
Protest . . . counter-protest . . . epithets . . . thrown rocks … a few fistfights . . . police arrive on the scene. The story’s tone was lofty and disgusted and patronizing all at the same time; it reminded me of how Ebersole and Garretsen had looked that night in the rec. You fellows have disappointed me. All but three of the protesters who had been arrested were released later that day and none was named, so presumably they were all under twenty-one.
Blood on her face. And yet she was smiling . . . triumphant, in fact. I became aware Phil Ochs was still singing — I must have killed a million men and now they want me back again
— and a shake of goos eflesh went up my back.
I turned to the card. It bore the typical rhymed sentiments; they always come to about the same, don’t they? Merry Christmas, sure hope you don’t die in the New Year. I barely read them. On the blank side facing the verse, she had written me a note. It was long enough to use up most of the white space.
Dear Number Six,
I just “wanted to “wish you the merriest of merry Christmases, and
to tell you I’m okay. I’m not back in school, although I have been
associating with certain school types (see enclosed clipping) and expect
I will return eventually, probably fall semester next year. My mom is not
doing too well, but she is trying, and my brother is getting his act back
together. Rionda helps, too. I’ve seen Sully a couple of times, but it’s not
the same. He came over to watch TV one night and we are like strangers
… or maybe what I really mean is that
we’re like old acquaintances on trains going in different directions.