“But your brother’s Canadian,” Davey said, sounding keen to continue the conversation. “Why’s he there?”
“I guess he’s the opposite of you.” She shook her head, jostling Joey from her thoughts. She didn’t want to wreck the day by being sad or angry. “I’ve never met a draft dodger before.”
“I prefer ‘war resister.’?”
“Far out. Whatever you call it. We should be loving, not fighting. Why are we sending our sons and brothers to kill another country’s sons and brothers? In the end, no one wins except big corporations and government. It’s all about money to The Man.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Davey breathed.
She laughed. “Cool. This is a love-in.”
He chuckled and produced another joint from his pocket. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Why not?” she said.
The face painter had fallen asleep and was quietly snoring. A girl in a beige, lacy dress danced behind her, not noticing or caring that the music had stopped. She spun so fast her feet barely touched the ground, and the sun took advantage of the angle, making it appear as if she was naked. It was a beautiful illusion. What was the girl seeing? Sassy wondered. What did she hear?
“You know who’s coming on soon, don’t you?” Davey asked. He squinted as he lit the joint and drew in the smoke, then he slowly let his breath out through his teeth so it hissed on the exhale. “Leonard Cohen.”
“I saw him once at the Riverboat. His poetry was out of this world, but in my opinion, he has a terrible voice.”
“Ah, so you’re more than a nightingale. You’re a critic.”
“I’m a singer. Someday I’ll be famous.”
Davey brought back that slow smile, and she felt her cheeks warm. “Out of sight. Now you gotta tell me your name so I’ll know who to watch for.”
“I’m Sassy.”
“Sassy. Very cool,” he said.
Over the course of the afternoon, between loud music sets that drowned out attempts at conversation, they talked. To her delight, she rediscovered a package of Starburst candies in her pocket, and they feasted on those. Eventually, he asked more about Joey, wanting to know why he’d chosen to go to Vietnam. She wished he hadn’t asked. Almost a year later, it hurt to think of her brother over there. When she let herself remember, what she saw was the apology in his expression. She hadn’t accepted that apology, and he’d goneanyway. Off to war. Off to die. God, she had hated him and his selfishness in that moment. When had he gotten so cruel? When had fighting another country’s war become more important to him than his sister?
She didn’t hate Joey anymore. She’d changed. She still missed him constantly, but now instead of anger, she mourned for him. She’d never admit it out loud, but she knew what happened to men who went to war. Even if he came back physically unharmed, he’d never be the same. War broke people.
Davey didn’t seem to understand that Sassy was trying to sidestep thinking about her brother, so she gave him a different sort of answer. She told him their father was a bigwig in the city, and a rich man, so she figured Joey’s move was rebellion.
“I’m not about to rebel,” she admitted, feeling smug. “Dad made me a deal. If I hold down a full-time job, he’ll pay all my bills for three years, including rent.”
“Sweet,” he said, awe in his voice.
“Yeah. Joey couldn’t have gotten that deal. He doesn’t do anything that people tell him to do.” She scowled. “Like stay home.”
She’d gotten occasional letters from her brother, grimy and stained, telling her Vietnam was a terrible place and that men over there were either dying or going crazy, but when she wrote back and begged him to come home, he said he couldn’t. He and his “brothers” had a job to do down there.Try to understand, Sass.
She couldn’t. Never would.
“I don’t want to talk about Joey anymore,” she said. “It’s bringing me down. Tell me about you, Davey the Dodger.”
His family had a small farm. He had three older sisters, a mom, and a dad, who would probably never speak to him again. The only thing he missed about his home was his dog, a good old hunting hound named Bowzer. When she asked him what he liked to do, Davey said he liked to paint, but he wasn’t any good at it.
Sassy leaned in closer, increasingly attracted to him. She studied the lines on his face and the light scruff around his jaw. She wanted to touch his cheek.
“So you can’t sing and you can’t paint. What are you good at?”
“Cooking. It’s like art, only you can eat it after.” He grinned. “I’m real good at cooking. And I’m starting to get active in, like, the movement, you know? Like, with organizing protests and stuff like that. Somebody asked me to set up a sit-in last week, and I didn’t think it’d be my thing, but pulling all the details together was cool. Went off without a hitch.”
“So, like, you could have run today’s show?”
