“The point is that sooner or later it had to get to Adam,” Abby says in the same low voice, as tight as a clenched fist. “Eventually Adam had to take a stand that would equal your own. He couldn’t do it by ducking out of the draft because you were too expert at defending draft dodgers; how can a boy be heroic if he knows his father may charge to the rescue? So he hit upon a brilliant variation.” She pauses and then quickly says, “Did you help him with his variation, Sam?”
“I did not”
“Didn’t you advise him to drop out of school.?”
“No.”
…and publicly declare he wanted the Army to draft him?”
“No.”
“He dreamt that all up himself.”
“Yes.”
“With no help from you, right? All by himself, he figured it would be news if the son of the noted lawyer who’d defended those draft dodgers suddenly dropped out of college and told the world he was ready and willing to die alongside the farm hands and factory workers who were being asked to do so every day of the week. No immunity and no favors. “Let the nation know,” he told the newspapers, ‘that it is destroying all of its young men in this senseless war, not merely those it may consider expendable.' Does that sound like Adam to you?”
“It was Adam.”
“Adam who was struggling by on a C average, Adam who never in his life was a good student, Adam who.
“I knew nothing at all about his idea until that day at Sugarbush when he told me.”
“If that’s true, Sam…”
“It is true.”
“Then why didn’t you tell him it was a bad idea?”
“Because his mind was already made up.”
“If his mind was made up, why was he asking your advice?”
“He wasn’t He was only telling me what he planned to do.”
“And you encouraged him.”
“I told him to do whatever he thought was right.”
“You told him to get drafted and get killed, that’s what you told him!”
“Abby, for Christ’s sake..
“You knew he’d get attention because he was your son, Big Sam Eisler, Baltimore Five. You knew he’d be putting his head on the chopping block — little hippie bastard wants to get drafted, fine, let’s accommodate him!”
“He was about to become a man! Did you want me to cut off his balls?”
“No! I wanted you to save his life!”
“He was doing the right thing!”
“He was doing the wrong thing!”
“For himself, for his conscience..
“The hell with his conscience! Where’s his conscience now, Sam? Dead. He proved nothing. He proved they could draft him. He proved they could kill him. That’s what he proved. And you helped him do it”
“Abby, Abby…”
“And do you know why, Sam? Because you didn’t have the guts to do it yourself. You may have convinced Adam you were a big hero, taking a stand against the war by defending those kids, but there’s one thing he didn’t know — one thing I’ve known for a long long time. You’re a phony, Sam. You’re as phony as every other man your age in this country. You made all the goddamn mistakes, and now you’re sending your sons out to correct them. The only trouble is there won’t be any sons to inherit their mistakes. It’s the end of the line, Sam. It ends with you. Because you did nothing to stop what’s…”
“I’m doing something now.”
“Too late. He’s already dead.”
She stops in the middle of the sidewalk again. She knows I will not walk away from her. I am huddled against the fierce wind that rips in off the mountain. There are tears in my eyes.
“Sam,” she says, “come home with me. Forget all this.”
“No.”
“It’s wrong, you know it’s wrong.”
“It’s right.”
“It’s against everything you believe!”
“It’s lor everything I believe.”
“Do you believe in murder?” she asks, her voice rising.
“Quiet, Abby.”
“Do you?” Her voice drops to a whisper again. “Because that’s what it is, Sam. You are going to kill a man, and that’s murder, and I don’t know how you can possibly justify it, I honestly..”
“I believe in what I’m about to do.”
“Yes, like all the others who did the same damn thing.”
“This is different.”
“How? You do this, Sam, and you’re no better than they are, you’re the same kind of animal.”
“Thank you, Abby.”
“Oh, don’t, Sam, please don’t give me that injured look. This time you know I’m right.”
“You’re always right, aren’t you, Abby?”
“And don’t turn this into a stupid argument! I’m talking about your life here!”
“Yes, Abby, that’s just the point. It’s my life.”
“I thought I was a part of it”
“No. Not this time.”
She draws in her breath. A dull look of resignation comes into her eyes. She expels the breath. “I always knew you were angry,” she says, “but I never knew you were mad. You’re here to blow up a bridge, you tell me, you’re here to kill the man who killed your son. Do you know what I think, Sam? I think yes, you’re here to kill the man who killed your son, and I think you know who that man is, and I feel very sorry for you, I feel very goddamn sorry for you.” She turns away from me, and suddenly presses the back of her gloved hand to her mouth. “I want to go back to the hotel,” she says. “I want to pack. I think there’s a seven o’clock plane. I think I can make it if I hurry. Let's go back. I’m cold, Sam. Let’s go back. I’m cold. I’m cold.”
We are standing outside the gate to her airplane. I have carried her valise to the gate, and now I hand it to her and she looks into my eyes and says, “I lost you both last April,” and then hesitates and says, “He was my son, too, Sam. I loved him more than breath,” and turns, and walks toward the waiting aircraft without looking back at me.
Wednesday, October 30
I have been unable to reach Sara.
I keep calling the apartment, but there is no answer, and I assume that she and Gwen are both in class. But at eleven o’clock, Gwen answers the phone and when I ask her when she expects Sara, she answers coldly, “Isn’t she with you, Mr. Sachs?”
“No, she isn’t”
“Well then, I don’t know where she is,” Gwen says. “She hasn’t been spending much time here lately.”
“Wasn't she there last night?”
“No, Mr. Sachs, she was not here last night,” Gwen says.
“Will you leave word that I called?”
“Yes,” she says abruptly, and hangs up.
I put on my overcoat and go down to the lobby. Ralph, the desk clerk, is just about to leave, explaining a stack of notes and messages to his relief, a young redheaded girl wearing eyeglasses with tortoise-shell rims. She glances up as I approach and then goes back to her scrutiny of the pink and yellow slips on the desk. Ralph wraps a muffler around his throat, picks up two law texts and begins to walk past me.
“Just a second,” I say.
He stops. His eyes avoid mine. “Yes, Mr. Sachs?” he says.