SEPTEMBER 1962
SPOKANE, WASHINGTON
MIKE
When Mike first met Zane on the second day of freshman year at Shadle Park High, his lip was swollen and split along the right side. It had been altered the night before by his father, Vice Commander Michael Kurilla. Mike hadcommitted the crime of rolling his eyes when his father was talking about how his unit, the 92nd Strategic Aerospace Wing, was up for a big award. They were the best at ‘being ready’ to go to war with Russia and could deploy their Atlas-E intercontinental ballistic missiles in under fifteen minutes if needed. Mike, who didn’t believe a nuclear war would actually happen, was sick to death of hearing about it.
From an early age, Mike knew his father regretted giving him his name. It should’ve gone to his younger brother, Charlie, who was his father’s son—athletic, studious, and a rule-follower. By age nine, Charlie could make a bed that would please even the harshest drill Sargent. Mike was lucky if he could find his sheets in the mess that was his side of the bedroom.
By the time the Vice Commander smacked his son across the mouth and his thick gold Korea Military Service ring that read ‘Freedom is Not Free’ split Mike’s lip open, his mother, Donalda, was already on her fourth gin and tonic. She got up to prepare an ice pack for her son before being ordered back into her chair at the dining room table. The rest of the meal was eaten in silence, with Mike carefully sliding his fork into the left side of his mouth while he cleaned his plate. Outside, neighborhood kids played and dogs barked, and Mike longed to join them. Or better yet, make a quick exit from their bungalow on Hemlock Street and never return.
Donalda, in her more sober moments, would tell Mike they should be glad they weren’t living on base anymore, becausethat had been hell, remember?And it was true. The family of a high-ranking officer was under constant scrutiny, and two of the four Kurillas had never measured up. Donalda didn’t wear pearls and house dresses. She didn’tbake or exchange casserole recipes with the other officers’ wives. She wore pants that were too tight, smoked enough to satisfy Humphrey Bogart, and wouldn’t cook so much as heat things up that came from a can.
Donalda wasn’t cut out for military life. She had dreamed of being an English professor at Yale or Cornell, although back in 1948 there was no chance of that happening for a woman. But her mother, seeing that Donalda was whip-smart and ambitious, sweet-talked her husband, Donald (a dentist) into paying for their only child to attend Amherst College for Women. There, she flourished, devouring every book, play, poem, and novella she could get her hands on. She was a star student, and the faculty had flirted with the idea of hiring her as an instructor someday.
Then along came Captain Michael Kurilla, with his dreamy hazel eyes and that blue hat that made him three inches taller. They ate spaghetti and meatballs at a cozy place in Little Italy, then went for a long drive in his Pontiac Catalina Hardtop (with the top up due to the rain). They parked near a cliff overlooking the city and made love in the backseat with thoughts of war and drama and romance filling Donalda’s mind while Michael filled her with a son.
And that was that.
Donalda the future professor became Mrs. Kurilla the drunk disappointment, who would stop her husband from fulfilling his own dream of being Commander. And their eldest son was an apple that had landed right under her tree. By thirteen, Mike was already sneaking booze from his parents’ liquor cart and topping up the bottle with water to hide his new habit. But he wouldn’t turn out to be a drunk like his mother. Mike was going to get the hell out ofSpokane as soon as possible. And once he got away from his parents, he wouldn’t need to drink anymore. But until then, he’d let it ease him to sleep at night.
So, on that hot September day, when Mike met Zane, he was not only sporting a fat lip, but a queasy stomach too. The music teacher, Mr. Monds, a man in his mid-thirties who was in a rush to do everything (including go bald), haphazardly handed out instruments at the beginning of class based on each student’s size. The scrawny Zane and diminutive Mike both silently willed their new teacher to give them saxophones—Mike, so he could cosplay his mother’s favorite, John Coltrane, and Zane, who wanted to play the cool jazz of Stan Getz. Instead, they were each given trumpets and told to go sit on the far left in the second row.All the way to the end. You’ll be sharing a stand.
Zane plopped down in his chair and held his hand out to Mike. “I’m Zane.”
Mike sized him up before answering, as any good military brat learns to do. He felt an instant stab of jealousy that Zane was sporting the greaser look, while he hadn’t been allowed to stray farther than a flattop from a typical buzz cut. But other than the offending hair, he seemed harmless enough. “Zane, as in Zane Grey?”
The other boy nodded. “My father’s favorite author.”
“I’m Mike, after my father’s favorite person—himself.”
If Zane listened to his reply, it was hard to tell because he was already craning his neck to look at their teacher. “Do you think he’d let me switch instruments?”
“Nope,” Mike answered, eyeing Mr. Monds, who was passing a flute to a girl in a plaid skirt. “Not a chance.”
“Yeah, probably not.” Zane flipped up the locks and opened the black case to reveal a tarnished old trumpet thatdefinitely had a multitude of lips pressed against its mouthpiece over the years. “I really wanted a saxophone.”
“I’m more of a sax guy myself. Ladies love saxophone players.” The truth was Mike had never even held a musical instrument before, so he had no idea what kind of guy he was. And his knowledge of what ladies loved was even lower. “I don’t want to take this stupid class. Band is for nerds.”
The conversation paused there because at that moment, the prettiest girl either of them had ever seen sat down in front of them. She had long, blonde curls that she flicked over her shoulder, nearly smacking Mike in the face. He and Zane grinned at each other, both far too excited about a girl who towered over them. Zane leaned in and whispered, “Would you get a load of her?”
“I think I’m going to like music class.”
That afternoon, the pair walked home together under the afternoon sun, their palms sweaty and sore from carrying their tattered trumpet cases. When they had worn out the topics of the pretty blonde girl, the kid who got caught with chewing gum, and the terrible cafeteria food, the conversation led to where Mike knew it would.
“How’d you get that fat lip?”
“Had a tussle with a grizzly,” Mike said, ashamed to tell his new friend the truth. He could tell Zane’s dad didn’t hit him because if so, he wouldn’t have asked. “But don’t worry, I let him live.”
Zane laughed at his answer then got quiet, and Mike knew he was putting it together. After a minute, Zane’s face lit up. “Hey, do you want to come over to my house? Mymom’ll let you stay for supper. I think it’s roast chicken night. Or maybe tuna casserole.”
“Either is great with me.”
Zane’s house was exactly what Mike knew it would be—clean, safe, and better than his in every way. Zane’s mom, June, was the type of housewife they’d cast in an Ovaltine commercial, one with an unending supply of home-baked chocolate chip cookies in a jar on the counter and fresh, cold milk in the fridge. Her smile faltered when she saw Mike’s lip, but she didn’t say a word about it. When Zane asked if he could stay for supper, she said yes without hesitation. “You should call home and ask your mother if it’s all right.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He would pretend to call and get her permission. Donalda would be passed out on the couch by now.
Over the coming months, going to Zane’s became the best part of Mike’s week. A refuge. Sometimes he’d have a black eye or a bruised arm. Sometimes his clothes were stained and smelly. Other times, he’d be clean and unmarked. Whatever condition he arrived in, June smiled brightly and pretended everything was fine (although occasionally, her eyes watered). Sometimes, she’d find an excuse to wash his clothes, like if their dog, Jupiter, jumped up and put paw prints on his pants that only she could see. Once, when it was particularly bad, she ‘accidentally’ spilled a glass of milk on him, then said, “Oh my heavens, Mike. I am so sorry. Zane, go get Mike some clothes and I’ll wash these.”
