The real story

I ask my father why he registered for the draft. He doesn't give me a good answer. He looks me in the eye, but not for long. I believe him anyway, I believe everything he says.

"Most of my friend's were going to school and getting their college deferments. But I chose to work and do what I wanted to do," he says this and gives a small shrug.

I hear myself on the videotape saying, "Right, uh-huh." every so often, too often. I see the edge of my hand flutter past the screen, hear myself cushion every word, providing answers with my questions: "So did you think you'd be drafted - or were you just 18 and not really thinking about it?"

My friend Cori asks if he will tell me the whole story, if he will leave anything out. "No," I answer without hesitation. "I know he will tell me the truth." And he will, I believe he will. The question she didn't ask is this: Do I have the guts to ask the right questions? Am I willing to travel that far? Am I ready to become a believer?

It's been a month since our first interview. Since I first said the word Vietnam. The questions I asked stopped at the San Francisco airport. They stopped in California, miles and miles before he went to that other place. If I let this go, my father would never bring it up again. He would tell me tasteless jokes and help me remodel my house. He would confide in me like a friend, watch my dog whenever I go out of town. I see his old young face and I know I have to do this.

I'm looking to the sky for direction now, questions that don't have right answers. I want to cover my eyes, crawl under the table. But I know only a fucking wimp would do that. My father wears all weather boots now. They cradle his soft dark brown feet. They are ageless, wrinklefree, yet he hikes more than anyone I know. I'm thinking of investing in some expensive Rockports this winter. Really go all out. Sky's the limit, you know?