Death Coming Up the Hill Read Online Free

different.
    â˜…  ★  ★
    I came home from school
    one day and found my mom in
    the kitchen, crying
    Â 
    into the phone. Tears
    streaked her red cheeks, and when she
    saw me, she wiped her
    Â 
    eyes, turned her back to
    me, said, “Gotta go,” and hung
    up, looking guilty.
    Â 
    I knew she didn’t
    want to talk about why she
    was crying. It was
    Â 
    probably about
    Dad, a rally, or something
    heavy. I had planned
    Â 
    to tell her about
    Angela, but she didn’t
    need anything else
    Â 
    to worry about,
    so I headed upstairs to
    tune out. Something was
    Â 
    going on with her,
    and I didn’t like the tell-
    tale signs. She’d shift from
    Â 
    being mellow to
    being emotional, and
    then ravenously
    Â 
    hungry. Could it be
    marijuana? She could buy
    it at those rallies
    Â 
    or anywhere on
    campus. It was hard to think
    my mom had become
    Â 
    a pothead, but who
    could blame her? Maybe getting
    high helped her deal with
    Â 
    her failed marriage and
    all the crap going on in
    the world around her.

May 1968
    Week Eighteen: 383
    Â 
    Angela and I
    had our first “disagreement”
    over a movie.
    Â 
    She wanted to see
    Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner,
    but I wanted to
    Â 
    see
Bonnie and Clyde,
    and as we argued about
    it, I felt myself
    Â 
    acting like my dad.
    I stopped. Arguing. Talking.
    Looking, listening,
    Â 
    that was better, way
    better, and the longer I
    looked at her, the less
    Â 
    I cared about what
    movie we went to. I just
    wanted to be with
    Â 
    her. Standing outside
    the theater, watching the
    soft curve of her lips
    Â 
    and the light from the
    marquee glittering in her
    chocolate brown eyes,
    Â 
    I wondered when Dad
    stopped feeling this way about
    Mom. When did they start
    Â 
    to care more about
    ideas than each other? I
    took Angela’s hand,
    Â 
    pulled her to the box
    office, and bought two tickets
    to
Guess Who’s Coming
    Â 
    to Dinner.
Even
    if I had known in advance
    that she was going
    Â 
    to cry through the whole
    movie, I wouldn’t have changed
    anything that night.

May 1968
    Week Nineteen: 562
    Â 
    Angela’s parents
    welcomed me into their home,
    and their kindness stirred
    Â 
    a rush of envy
    in me. They appeared to be
    everything I’d hoped
    Â 
    my own family
    could have been. Mr. Turner,
    a political
    Â 
    science professor
    at ASU, shook my hand
    like we were old friends.
    Â 
    â€œAngela’s told us
    a lot about you, so we’re
    glad to finally
    Â 
    meet the famous Ashe
    Douglas.” We sat around their
    kitchen table and
    Â 
    talked and laughed and ate
    peanut butter cookies and
    filled the room with a
    Â 
    warmth I’d never known.
    But I wrecked it all when I
    asked about their son.
    Â 
    â€œKelly?” Angela’s
    mother faded like someone
    had punched her off switch.
    Â 
    â€œHe . . .” A panicked look
    to her husband, and he slid
    his hand over hers,
    Â 
    patting it gently
    while he told me they hadn’t
    heard anything from
    Â 
    Kelly, Angela’s
    older brother, for a while.
    â€œArmy mail isn’t
    Â 
    very efficient,
    especially coming out
    of Vietnam, and
    Â 
    our son’s never been
    much of a letter writer,
    but still, we worry.
    Â 
    When you’ve got a boy
    at war, it’s tough not knowing
    if he’s okay or
    Â 
    not.” Angela nudged
    me with her foot and nodded
    at the door. “I’m sure
    Â 
    he’s fine,” she said. “But
    he should know we need to hear
    from him more often.”
    â˜…  ★  ★
    Angela walked me
    outside and told me how her
    brother’s silence had
    Â 
    tied her family
    up in knots. “Dad handles it,
    but it’s killing my
    Â 
    mother. She can’t stop
    worrying about him, if
    he’s dead—or worse.” When
    Â 
    I wondered what was
    worse than dead, Angela said,
    â€œMissing in action.”

May