Chapter II
"On a more serious note, let me make a toast to this beautiful fall day, and an enjoyable outing with two lovely ladies."
Mattie wiped a tear from her eye and held out her glass of beer. The three clinked their glasses merrily, after laughing at a comment Jerry had made at the expense of a very stuffy dean at the school.
"Jerry, you're awful." Fran chided him, trying not to laugh again. She smoothed her short, gray bangs to the side. "Poor Dean Myers. He's not here to defend himself."
"Well, Fran, he should not have made that comment about Lady Bird Johnson," Jerry chuckled. "I had to take up for the former First Lady, didn't I?" His blue eyes squinted in amusement.
"I suppose." Fran laughed at her husband, then turned to Mattie. "To change the subject, Mattie, I can't wait to get those apples and start baking. The weather just begs for hot apple pie, don't you think?"
Mattie nodded as she sipped her beer. "Yes, I'm looking forward to..."
"NO MORE WAR! NO MORE WAR! NO MORE WAR! NO MORE WAR!"
"STOP THE KILLING! BRING THE TROOPS HOME! NO MORE WAR!
Her voice was drowned out by shouts from outside the bar, and the three turned to look out the multi-paned window behind their booth. At least two dozen young people, in jeans, tee shirts and jackets, some with twisted bandannas wrapped around their heads, hand-made signs held high, walked down the sidewalk in front of the bar and their loud chants dissipated somewhat as they moved further away.
"Well, it's everyone's right to protest." Fran turned around and they eyed each other warily. "I applaud their committment to their cause."
"I don't recognize any of them, do you?" Jerry turned back around, and ran his hand over his thin, graying hair. He reached in his pocket for his pack of Marlboro's and pulled out a cigarette, flicking his lighter, and taking a deep drag, exhaling above their heads.
"No, none from Brooksford College that I could tell." Fran sipped her beer. She rummaged in her purse and pulled out a cigarette, holding it between her lips for her husband to light. She turned her head as she exhaled the small cloud of smoke, and rested her elbow on the table.
"I think the violent protests are increasing in size and frequency now that the war has escalated." Mattie sighed soberly. "And now, it's reached our little town."
"Young men are heading to Canada, I understand, so as not to have to show up for service if their number is called in the draft." Jerry frowned, cradling his beer glass. "The first numbers will be called out over the radio next month." He took another puff of his cigarette and a swig of beer and sighed heavily.
"Can you blame them?" Fran looked from one to the other. "The number of casualties is so horrific now. Eighteen hundred soldiers killed recently. We're losing an entire generation of young men to this God-awful war."
"And, yet, what can we do?" Mattie lamented. "Our hands are tied by the politicians who make life and death decisions for our country."
"Nixon promised 'peace with honor' in his presidential race and his inaugural speech." Jerry mentioned as he picked up his beer again. "Let's see if he can deliver." He eyed them both seriously and flicked the ashes in the round glass ashtray on the table. "Our country is being torn apart. Look at the riots at the Democratic convention last November. The party splintered into four groups and ended up with Humphrey as the candidate, for God's sake."
"Well, I was glad to see those horrid Dixicrats with George Wallace leave the party. What an abhorrent platform of segregation and hatred." Fran sipped her beer and they turned again as the protesters walked back in front of the bar, then the trio turned back as the burly bar owner stormed past their booth and headed to the door. He peered out at the vocal group, shouting at them to leave, then slammed the heavy black door, and huffed past them.
"Damn protestors," he muttered as he passed them. "Outside agitators. They need to be arrested. I'm calling the police." He disappeared into the back of the bar.
"I think this is where we take our leave, what do you think?" Jerry stuck his cigarette in his mouth, pulled out his wallet, and squinted through the trails of smoke at the tab the waiter had dropped off. "No, don't even say it, Mattie," he laughed, the cigarette dangling from the side of his mouth as she lifted her hand to protest. "This is our treat." He tucked the bills into the black leather bill presenter, then retrieved the cigarette and exhaled.
"Thank you so much." Mattie smiled and sipped the last of her beer, as Jerry and Fran finished their cigarettes, and the three slid out of the booth and pulled on their jackets. As they headed out the door, they noticed that several police cars had now stopped in front of the protesters, and the officers were getting out to question the young people. The beautiful fall leaves spiraled down around them as the trio headed in the opposite direction from the protesters, toward the Coulter's car, and they glanced back over their shoulders as they walked down the sidewalk lined with small, quaint shops and eateries, Mattie pulled her rust corduroy jacket more tightly to her chest and looked up for a moment at the sight of the turquoise-blue sky, the splendor of the foliage, and the cool, crispness of the fall air and suddenly felt a wave of sadness fill her heart, and she sighed, thinking how it must be for so many young men to face such awful deaths in a country half-way around the world, and for what, exactly? She wasn't sure anymore. And, for a young man to soon have his number called out - to report to duty. That was almost surely a death sentence. She suddenly thought of the highly-acclaimed anti-war musical, "Hair," that was now playing on Broadway. She'd planned on seeing the show at some point, but now wasn't sure she wanted to see it for entertainment purposes. Now she was thinking that these brave, young demonstrators had more to lose than her own generation, who seemed to airily discuss and muse over the latest political news, just as they'd done over their beers, not having to worry about losing their lives in the process.
They slid onto the seats of the green and white, 'sixty-six Chevy Impala, and fell into a silence as they shut their respective doors. Jerry pulled out from the parking space, and Mattie turned her head to peer out the back window, seeing that the police were hand-cuffing a couple of the demonstrators and attempting to get them into the back of the police cars by pushing down on their heads as they leaned into the backseat. One of the young men turned his head as it was lowered and looked directly at her, and she frowned at his accusing glare. She turned back around, and tried to concentrate on whatever Fran was saying, but all she could see were his eyes. She wasn't to blame for the war. What could she do about it? Their collective mood changed to somber reflection as the car headed slowly down the tree-lined streets of Brooksford toward the apple orchards of Bristol nine miles away, and the serenity of the White Mountains.
******
Mattie peeled and sliced the last of the McIntosh apples she'd brought home from their trip to the orchards, and scraped the pile from the cutting board to the large glass bowl on the counter. She added brown sugar, flour, salt, nutmeg, cinnamon, and lemon juice to the apples and tossed it with a wooden spoon until all the slices were evenly coated. Humming to herself, she scooped out the fragrant slices into the glass pie plate lined with the rolled-out dough, and laid several pats of butter on top of the sugary dome. The second rolled-out dough round fit nicely on top, and she crimped the edges and cut three slits in the top, brushed the dough with a little egg wash, then slid the pie into the hot oven for an hour of baking. Smiling to herself, she placed the bowls and utensils into the sink, deciding to wash everything later. Right now, she wanted to relax in front of the fireplace and read her newest book on Roy Lichtenstein while her pie baked. She wiped her hands, replaced the dishtowel on the oven handle, and walked into the living room to grab the book, realizing that she'd left the television on. As she made her way to turn it off, she noticed that a special news bulletin was on, and she leaned forward and turned up the sound, watching the newscaster with consternation as she leaned on her cane.
"...repeating, for tho
se just tuning in. There is a terrible situation at the state college in Dunbarton, Pennsylvania. The National Guard had been called in to quell a particularly large gathering of anti-war demonstrators, and have had to resort to tear gas, and water hoses...wait, wait just a moment. We have more information coming in now." The anchor laid his cigarette down on the glass ashtray in front of him, and turned off-camera for a moment. He turned back to the camera, and Mattie leaned down to hear the report. "I have some very bad news here, folks," he paused. "It is our understanding now that several students have been shot by the National Guard. They're using real bullets on these students. It's mayhem there, from all accounts. That's all we are hearing right now, but we will pass along each bit of news as we get it..."
Mattie's hand had flown to her mouth as he mentioned the shooting, and a chill went up her spine at the thought of the Guard shooting a defenseless student...a student. She turned and almost lost her balance as she walked to the sofa and sat down. She absently smoothed her blue jeans down where they'd caught on her prosthetic, took a deep breath, and kept her eyes on the screen as she picked up the beige receiver on the end table, turning quickly to dial.
"Coulter residence."
"Fran, have you heard the news about the college shooting?"
"Yes, oh my God, Mattie, it's awful, isn't it?" Fran's voice was low, but tense. "The president just called in the department chairmen for an emergency meeting. Jerry's leaving in a few minutes."
"Are they expecting something to happen here?" The thought of her close-knit, peaceful college in such turmoil made her cringe. She noticed the announcer picking up a piece of paper and looking very somber as he read it to himself. "Fran, I think it's worse. Hold on."
"I just received this update. Three of the students shot by the National Guard have died." He looked straight up at the camera. "My friends, this changes everything. I don't know what to say." He picked up his cigarette, flicked off the ashes and took a shaky drag, holding it between his fingers as he blinked slowly and exhaled. "We don't know how this happened, but, be assured that our news organization will do everything in its power to get to the truth of this horrible event."
"Oh, Fran, three of the students died."
"Mattie, mark my words. Our little college will be changed forever if demonstrations start up here." Fran's voice broke. "I'm so worried now. Haven't your students talked to you about their concerns? Mine have, and I'm sorry to say, that I didn't give very good answers. What can we say, really? Our hands are tied. We can't encourage them to protest, even if we agree with their concerns."
"I know, we've spent a few minutes here and there talking about the war, but, I couldn't dwell on it, since there was so much material to cover for my classes." Mattie felt close to tears. "Let me know what Jerry says when he gets back. Maybe they'll call a faculty meeting Monday afternoon to let us know what to expect."
"I'll call if I hear anything."
"Thanks, Fran." Mattie placed the receiver on its cradle and stared at the television, no longer hearing the announcer's words, as a feeling of dread constricted her chest. She leaned back on the sofa and closed her eyes. Minutes later, the sound of the kitchen timer jolted her from her brooding and she rose and grabbed her cane and walked numbly into the kitchen to take her beautiful pie out of the oven.