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radio static, and Ira wants desperately to tune to a new station.
“You’ve been sleeping with a flat-footed conscientious
objector for three years; you damn well know I think the ‘right
thing’ can go shove a war bond up its ass,” says Ira, straight-
ening and slipping on his briefs. “They’ll stamp a 4-F on my
forehead or throw me in a CPS camp before they take me. But
that doesn’t mean they have to take you.”
“My number could be up tomorrow, Ira,” Freddie says, and
Ira hears him sit up, the headboard creaking as he leans against
it.
“Then why give it to them to call?” Ira asks, pulling his
undershirt over his head.
“Come back to bed,” says Freddie. He sounds tired and
maybe a little scared.
“No.” Ira shoves one foot then the other into his slacks,
hitching them around his waist before threading his belt through
the loops. “Don’t ignore the question.”
Freddie sighs, and there’s a thick note of resignation in the
sound that Ira wishes he didn’t hear.
“Because I’m able to serve, and I owe my service. Because
I want to protect my country. Because—” and Freddie hesitates,
for just a moment, before continuing. “Because if my mother
won’t get a wife and kids from me, the least I can do is give her
this.”
Ira drops his hands and looks at Freddie, equal parts in-
credulous and angry. His trousers gape open at the waist, the belt
forgotten.
“Oh, I see,” Ira says, and the words come before he can
stop them. “You want to play the star-spangled hero, fine. You
want to go overseas and rah-rah all the way to victory—fine.”
Ira grabs his shirt from the chair, and the movement sweeps the
newspaper to the floor. “But let me tell you something, Freddie.
I’m not some girl, and your mother knows that. If you’ve got
something you feel like you need to prove, you don’t need a gun

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