Don't Talk to Me About the War by David A. Adler Read Free Book Online

graduating high school at the end of June and enlisting in the navy.”
    I sit again and ask, “Do your parents know?”
    “Sure. It was Dad’s idea. He said it will make a man of him.” Charles pauses and then says, “I’m not too happy about it. I’ll miss him, and then, you know, maybe he’ll get hurt. Some people think that soon we might be fighting in Europe.”
    Charles and I talk a bit about the war. I don’t tell him, but the only reason I know so much about it is because of Beth. Charles knows about it because at dinner that’s mostly what his family talks about. His parents think we should prepare to defend ourselves, get ready to enter the fighting.
    “George agrees. That’s one reason he’s joining the navy, and anyway, he likes water and boats. And he’ll get training, maybe for a job he can do when he gets out. He’ll also get to travel.”
    I look at my watch. It’s almost five o’clock. “I’ve got to go,” I say.
    “Sure, and thanks a lot for helping me.”
    When I’m at the door I turn and look at Charles. He’s still there, in his chair, but he doesn’t even see me leave. I guess he’s thinking about George. That’s a big thing, joining the navy.
    On my way home, I pass the school. It’s so different now with no kids there, so quiet. I stop for a moment and look at it. The two large front doors are closed now. The shades are all set exactly halfway down. That’s how Dr. Johnson wants them, so they look neat from the outside. I stand there and I wonder if Dr. Johnson takes his jacket off when he gets home. Probably not. I bet he sleeps in his suit, with his vest still buttoned, and not in a bed. He just leans against a wall, at attention, with his legs together, and falls asleep. That’s what I bet.

7
    I Count My Blessings
    I enter the lobby of our building and go upstairs. Mom is sitting by the dining table with two of her friends from church, Mildred Muir, who bakes great cakes and cookies, and Denise Taylor. Mrs. Muir is wearing pants. Now, lots of women do, but not Mom or Mrs. Taylor. They only wears dresses and skirts.
    “Hi, Tommy,” Mrs. Muir says, and puts a large slice of chocolate cake on a plate for me. “Have some cake.”
    “Thank you.”
    I take it into the kitchen and pour a glass of milk. I’m sure they’re talking about Mom’s stiff legs and shaking hand. I try to listen, but I can’t. They’re whispering.
    I finish the cake. It was great. I tell that to Mrs. Muir and go to my room.
    At dinner, Mom is in a good mood. This seems to be one of her better days, and she liked having visitors. I wonder how she can seem so steady some days and so shaky on others.
    “Denise told me I should see a doctor,” Mom says, “but not because she thought there’s anything wrong. She said I should do it for both of you, so you don’t worry, so I made an appointment.”
    “I’m glad,” Dad says.
    “I feel fine now, but you keep telling me to go, so I’m going. I just want him to say there’s nothing wrong with me, so then you can stop worrying. I’m going Monday.”
    “I’ll go with you,” Dad says.
    Mom’s appointment is in the morning, at ten o’clock.
    After that, we’re all in good moods, as if the doctor has already said Mom is okay.
    I am glad it’s Friday night, so I don’t have to go to school tomorrow and can sleep late. Dad always tells me he wants me to go to college, to become more than a clothing salesman. But I can’t imagine nine more years of school. That’s what it would take to get through eighth grade, high school, and college. Nine more years!
    I do homework Saturday morning until I’m too bored to go on. In the afternoon, I tune to the Dodgers game, but there’s just music and talk. They’re in Philadelphia and the game has been rained out. It’s raining here, too, so I don’t go out. I just read some old issues of Sporting News and a book I have about Babe Ruth.
    Sunday morning there’s a knock on my door. I look at the