Page 48 of Echoes of a Silent Song
Blair’s heart went out to Thalia.“I’m sorry he disappointed you.”
A group of sympathetic girls—most from Madrigals—surrounded Thalia then, and Blair surrendered the girl to the care of her friends.As they departed, she glimpsed Callum escorting Ryden gently but firmly out the side door and into the cool night.
Maybe the fresh air would knock some sense into Ryden.If not, then perhaps a ride home with his parents or a jaunt in the back of a police cruiser would do the trick.Much as she loved these children, they were still children, and sometimes they made incredibly stupid decisions.
But if she were honest, she was grateful too.Because Ryden’s stupid decision might have just saved her from making a colossally stupid one of her own.
Chapter Eighteen
December 1,1969
ISAT BESIDEVictor on his worn, floral-patterned living room sofa.The small black-and-white television set flickered from its cabinet in front of us.His mother bustled around the kitchen, putting dishes away.In the corner stood a weathered aluminum Christmas tree draped in ornaments and tinsel.
At first glance it would seem like any ordinary Monday night.Instead it was anything but.I constantly wiped my hands on my skirt.Victor seemed a million miles away.I could only guess at his thoughts—knowing that in just a few moments, when the first-ever draft lottery went live over the airwaves, his life could change forever.
Even if they did draw his number, he wouldn’t have to go right away.He and I both knew that.But a deferment would only get him through graduation in June.If he didn’t get into Whitehall, then what would become of him?
The SPECIAL REPORT logo flashed across the screen.Beside me, Vic gasped.I squeezed his hand.
“Is it starting?”Mrs.Nelson poked her head in from the kitchen, still wiping a dish with a threadbare towel.
“Yeah.”Victor’s voice croaked.
The announcer was still talking, sounding way too perky, but it didn’t matter what he said or what explanation he gave.Nothing, no matter how eloquent, could make this anything other than what it was.All Icould do was pray with everything in me that September 7—Victor’s birthday—would be the very last number they called.
Onscreen, old men in suits milled about.Men far too old to fight and likely far too old to care about the lives that would change—the lives that would end—based on what they did.One introduced another, some congressman or something, but I could barely hear over the roar of blood in my ears.The congressman walked over to a huge clear container filled with little capsules.He had to reach way, way in to choose one but still plunged his hand deep.Under any other circumstance Victor would’ve probably made some wisecrack about how this old fuddy-duddy was almost too short for the task at hand, but he was silent.If he was anything like me, he couldn’t summon the oxygen to speak.
The congressman chose a capsule and handed it to the man who’d introduced him.The camera zoomed in on the man’s hands as he opened it and unrolled a tiny scroll of paper.He wore a large ring, and ...were his hands shaking?They looked a little unsteady.Or was it just that my entire body trembled and so everything seemed a little wobbly?
“September ...”the voice said, and my heart stopped.He paused for what felt like an entire year.Not the seventh.Not the seventh.Please, Lord God, not the seventh.
“Fourteenth,” he finished.“September fourteenth, zero zero one.”
All the air whooshed out of my lungs.My hand tightened around Victor’s.He’d dodged the first birthday bullet.I turned to him with a smile, but he still stared at the screen, stone-faced.The men in suits were reloading.It was far, far too early to celebrate.
Another, younger man drew the second number.“April twenty-fourth.”
I could breathe again, just for a moment.The announcer handed the little scroll to another man, who pasted it onto a large bulletin board just beneath the first date—002, the number to the left read, and the announcement confirmed it.“April twenty-four is zero zero two.”
“December thirtieth.”
“December thirty is zero zero three.”
“February fourteenth.”
“February fourteen is zero zero four.”
With each date they called that wasn’t Victor’s birthday, my lungs opened just a fraction.They hadn’t drawn the number I’d dreaded.His birthday was only one of 360 or so left in that bucket.Each time there was a less than 1 percent chance that they’d call his.A greater than 99 percent chance that he’d get to stay home.
October eighteenth was next.
Then they said the month I longed not to hear.“September ...”
Not the seventh not the seventh—
“Sixth.September six is zero ...”
I folded in on myself.September 6.The day before Victor’s.It felt like fate.A sign.Like God had answered all my fervent prayers for Victor’s safety.
