Anthem

by Deborah Wiles

  “We have money for a hotel,” said Molly. Her hundred-dollar bill carved a canyon in her pocket.

  “I insist,” said Phyllis. “The other kids are at their dad’s, and there is plenty of room, even with Drew here.” She smiled a benevolent smile at a boy sitting at the opposite end of the table. He wore glasses with thick black frames and had a very neat crew cut.

  Drew said, “I do not take up much space. I am in Sylvester’s room on the bottom bunk. Norman could take the top bunk, although Kyle usually sleeps there when he is not at his father’s house in Memphis.”

  Kyle groaned, either at Drew kicking him out of his own room or at the mention of his father’s house, Molly didn’t know which.

  “Exactly what I was thinking, Drew,” said Phyllis. “Do you mind a top bunk, Norman?” She grimaced in her son’s direction. “I’m sure Kyle won’t mind the couch for a night or two.”

  “No, ma’am,” said Norman. “I appreciate it.” He cast a glance at Kyle, who shrugged.

  “And, Molly, you can sleep in Felicia’s room.”

  Molly tried a smile. “Thank you … very much.”

  “Thanks for the ride from the garage, too,” said Norman.

  “Yeah,” echoed Kyle. “Really cool of you, Mom, all of it.”

  Phyllis gave her son a look that spelled trouble. “We will speak later, young man.”

  Kyle’s face turned the color of the ketchup he’d used to smother his meat loaf.

  Phyllis turned her attention back to Norman and Molly. “Shall I call your parents and let them know you’re safe?”

  “Oh, I called from the service station,” Molly said.

  “Yes, dear, but you should let them know where you are now! I’m sure your parents are worried — did you tell them you broke down?”

  “Well … no,” said Molly. “I kind of skipped that part.”

  “You know, Norman,” said Phyllis, “it’s unsafe to be out there on the road alone —”

  “He’s got me with him,” Molly pointed out.

  “You know what I mean, sweetheart,” said Phyllis.

  Molly wanted to tell Phyllis that she was not her sweetheart, but she kept her mouth shut.

  “It’s just too dangerous,” Phyllis continued, “both of you out there on your own, so young. Who knows what could happen to you. It’s scary.”

  Kyle poured more ketchup on his meat loaf. “Not as scary as the missiles out at the air force base.”

  Drew piped up. “ICBMs aren’t scary when maintained properly, although a high-pressure line did rupture on August 8, 1965, killing fifty-three people who were working in the area.”

  “What?” Phyllis looked alarmed.

  “Yes,” said Drew in a matter-of-fact voice. “They suffocated when welding sparks ignited the hydraulic fluid from the high-pressure line, which instantaneously consumed all the available oxygen.”

  “My heavens,” said Phyllis, her hand to her chest. “Is that what they teach you in Young Engineer’s School?”

  “They want us to be careful,” Drew explained. “So we need to know the risks. And the history.”

  Molly spoke up. “I’ve heard of ICBMs. Intercontinental ballistic missiles. Aren’t they supposed to be used to bomb the Russians if they try to invade us?”

  No more Land of the Free, Home of the Brave, buddy boy. Don’t you understand anything?

  “That is possible,” said Drew, “but I am not interested in bombing the Russians. I am interested in space travel. When you send a man in a rocket into space, he has to come back without burning up on reentry. I am going to work on reentry systems one day.”

  “When you send an ICBM into space, the reentry vehicle comes down on your target, wearing a nuclear warhead,” said Kyle. “There are nuclear warheads in those silos.” He pushed back from the table.

  Norman paused with his fork halfway to his mouth.

  “That is correct,” said Drew. “But only in war. I am not interested in war.” He sneezed into his napkin and gently put it back in his lap. “Titans are used to launch space capsules as well. Or they were. They launched the Gemini capsules, and one day they will launch other payloads into space, maybe even a space station. Saturn rockets are launching Apollo space capsules, and will launch Neil Armstrong, Edwin Aldrin — nicknamed Buzz — and Michael Collins into space next month, on July 16, 1969. A reentry vehicle is attached to the capsule and will bring them home safely.”

  “He knows everything,” snarked Kyle.

  “Not everything,” said Drew, unoffended.

  Phyllis sighed and started clearing dishes from the table.

  “But I know a lot about Titan II rockets,” Drew continued. “There are fifty-four of them. Eighteen are at sites in Arkansas, supported by Little Rock Air Force Base, sitting in silos underground. So I cannot see them, but I know that each one is one hundred and three feet tall, ten feet in diameter, and weighs one hundred and fifty tons. That’s three hundred thousand pounds.”

  Molly suddenly felt very small.

  “They can be up and out of their silos in less than a minute after launch command. Each silo is at least seven miles from the next one — that’s how powerful they are. They can travel at fifteen thousand miles per hour.”

  Silence followed Drew’s monologue.

  Finally, Norman spoke. “Groovy.”

  Phyllis ran soapy water in the sink. “Let me help,” said Molly, remembering her manners.

  “Well, I gotta go,” said Kyle, on his feet.

  “Oh, no you don’t, young man,” said Phyllis. She jammed dishes into the dishwasher as Molly held them out to her.

  “Mom!” Kyle pleaded. “You know I can’t stand it there!”

  Phyllis grabbed a dish towel and dried her hands as she walked back to the table. Kyle took a step backward.

  “You left your brother and sister there by themselves!” said Phyllis.

  “They love it there!” Kyle protested.

  “You hitchhiked home!”

  “I’m alive!”

  “You won’t be when I’m through with you!”

  “Mom.”

  “How long will it take to fix your bus?” asked Drew.

  “Probably two days,” said Norman, grateful to Drew for changing the subject. “They have to get a part.”

  “What is wrong with it?”

  “Broken oil seal. And maybe a pinhole leak in the oil hose.”

  “I wish I could ride with you to California,” said Drew. “And I could, if your repair takes longer than two days.”

  “You could?”

  “I mean I would like to,” said Drew. “You will have to drive through Flagstaff, Arizona, to get there.”

  “Yes!” said Molly, surprised.

  “The Lowell Observatory is there,” said Drew. “And the Clark Telescope. It has mapped the moon.”

  “It has?”

  “Yes. When President John F. Kennedy said, ‘We choose to go to the moon!’ in 1961, there was no map of the moon.”

  “There wasn’t?”

  “I would like to see the craters of the moon through the Clark Telescope. I would like to visit the meteor crater there, too. A meteor slammed into the earth fifty thousand years ago, and the good news is that the astronauts used the crater to learn how to drive their lunar roving vehicle, or LRV, on the moon. We will see them do this on television on July 20, 1969.”

  “Drew,” said Phyllis as she stretched Saran Wrap over the leftover green beans, “I’m sure you will get to the crater and the telescope another day.”

  Drew didn’t answer Phyllis. “When my school here is over, I will go to California to another one. It is at Vandenberg Air Force Base, where I will watch a Titan II test launch. I would come with you on your trip if I could.”

  Phyllis shut the refrigerator door too forcefully. “Drew! Even if it takes their bus three days — or four, or seven — to be repaired, it’s too dangerous to ride across the country by yourselves. I know we are just your host family while y
ou are at this school, but I’m telling you just the same, and I’m sure your own mother would, too, it’s too dangerous.”

  “We’re used to danger,” said Molly.

  “How so?” asked Phyllis.

  Norman took over. “We hiked on the Appalachian Trail last year. No problem.”

  “By yourselves?”

  “Might as well have.” Norman offered no further explanation.

  “I am here by myself,” stated Drew.

  Kyle brought his plate to the sink. “Mom, I was hitching home to you.”

  “I’ve told you a hundred times not to hitchhike!” said Phyllis, a slightly hysterical edge to her voice.

  “Everyone does it,” said Kyle.

  “If everyone jumped off a bridge, would you?”

  “I know,” said Kyle. “I’m sorry. I didn’t want to miss band practice.”

  A skitter fluttered across Norman’s shoulders. “Band practice?”

  WIPE OUT

  Written by Bob Berryhill, Pat Connolly, Jim Fuller, and Ron Wilson

  Performed by the Surfaris

  Recorded at Pal Recording Studio, Cucamonga, California, 1962

  Drummer: Ron Wilson

  “And leave your laundry in this basket,” instructed Phyllis, giving the last of her commands for an overnight stay that included not leaving the top off the toothpaste and not flushing in the middle of the night.

  “You must need clean clothes, traveling all the way from Charleston, and you have a long way to go yet.” She seemed resigned to Molly and Norman’s fate. “I’m doing several loads of laundry tonight — I have to work tomorrow and need my uniform. Drew can help me fold.”

  She walked out of the bedroom and Drew followed her, blowing his nose into a napkin. “I might have a cold. Do you have Vicks VapoRub?”

  Molly couldn’t decide if she should put her underwear in the basket or not. It made her shy to think about anyone else seeing it. But if she didn’t, she had a feeling Phyllis would ask her where they were. So she did.

  Norman dumped his four oxford shirts, four T-shirts, four pair of white socks, and two pair of khaki slacks into the basket. No underwear. Molly took hers out of the basket just as Phyllis returned to the bedroom.

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake!” said Phyllis, hoisting the basket to her hip. “I’m a mother! You think I haven’t seen underwear before?” Molly dutifully dropped her underwear back into the basket. Phyllis stared at Norman until he followed suit, and then she disappeared. Kyle appeared in the doorway and said, “C’mon, let’s get out of here while we still can.”

  Norman left Hal Blaine’s cymbals in their zippered case on the top bunk at Kyle’s house. He stuffed his drums into the trunk and back seat of Kyle’s car, wherever he could fit them. Molly had to sit on her cousin’s lap. She held Kyle’s guitar and rested her feet on his amplifier. She wore her shoulder bag with the strap across her chest.

  “Why do you need a purse?” Norman said. “I can’t fit you in here as it is!”

  “Why do you need a snare drum?” Molly retorted. The hundred-dollar bill was now in her wallet, as she was afraid to leave it anywhere by itself. She needed it with her.

  Norman turned his attention to Kyle. “You didn’t say anything about band practice when I was taking my drums out of the bus!”

  “It wasn’t exactly the time to mention it when my mom had steam coming out her ears.”

  “Oh. Right.”

  “You’re lucky we had a van to pick you up in. We may not have it much longer.”

  “Why not?”

  Kyle rubbed his thumb back and forth against his index and middle finger. “Moola. My dad has it, we don’t.”

  Of course. “I hear you, man,” said Norman. “I know that story.”

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “I hope I don’t have to sell my car.”

  They growled across town in Kyle’s GTO and parked on the street in front of his bandmate Steve’s house. It was an enormous two-story place with gas lampposts, a wide manicured lawn, and perfectly placed maple trees. “Steve’s got the drums, so we meet here on Tuesday nights. And the neighbors are nice about it. Leave your kit in the car for now.”

  “Hey!” said Steve, waving a hand and walking down the long driveway to the car. “We didn’t know if you were gonna make it.”

  Kyle introduced everyone. “Steve on drums. Dave on lead guitar. Matt on rhythm guitar, Dennis on keyboards, me on bass. Everybody sings but me.”

  “Big band,” said Norman.

  “We’re good, too,” said Steve. “Nice to meet you!” He had very neat hair and lots of very white teeth. Everyone had very neat hair and very white teeth. They were all very … white.

  Dennis arched his eyebrows at Molly appreciatively. “Do you sing?” he asked. “We could use a girl singer.”

  Molly blushed. Dennis was cute. “No” was all she said.

  “Norman here’s a drummer,” said Kyle.

  “Yeah? Want to sit in?” Steve, clearly the leader, asked.

  “I’ve got my kit in the car,” said Norman.

  “Set it up!” said Steve. “Show us what you got!”

  “First we practice,” said Kyle. “We’ve got a gig this weekend.”

  “A gig!” Norman sighed. Mr. Harter had probably found another band by now. It had only been four days but it felt like they’d been gone four months.

  “Yep, we’ve got a gig at a club out at the air force base on Saturday night,” said Steve in a perpetually cheery voice. “Some colonel’s daughter is turning sweet sixteen and she asked for us!”

  “She could have asked for the Coachmen — they’ve recorded their own songs,” said Dave. “They have records.”

  “So have the Romans,” said Matt, “and they show up in togas, with their equipment in a trailer painted to look like a chariot!”

  They were all perpetually cheery, Molly decided.

  “Who would want guys in togas playing their party?” scoffed Dennis.

  “We don’t have anything close to this scene in Charleston!” said Norman. He was now perpetually cheery as well. Molly rolled her eyes, spotted a folding chair near Dennis’s electric piano, and said, “Can I sit here?”

  “Wow, sure!” answered Dennis. “It’s my lucky day!” He shot Molly a huge grin. Her cheeks burned and she looked anywhere but at Dennis.

  The band played raucously through “Paint It Black,” “Satisfaction,” “Hang On Sloopy,” “Gloria,” “Wild Thing,” “Day Tripper,” “Dizzy,” and “Hanky Panky.” Every song they practiced had a great guitar lick for Dave or rhythm hook for Matt or bass line for Kyle or drum track for Steve, or some melodic drama for Dennis. They sang, they harmonized, they switched parts and started over, both with instruments and voices, as they tried to improve each performance.

  They were good. Norman told them so. “Far out!” And Molly added, “Weekly Top Forty songs all!” She was smitten in spite of herself, especially with Dennis.

  “We have to be good, to get the gigs,” Dennis said. “And we have to play the hits. There’s a lot of competition out there.”

  He smiled his toothy smile at Molly and once again she blushed. She crossed her legs and bounced her foot in time to the next song.

  Neighborhood kids showed up enthusiastically as the hour went by.

  “You’ve got groupies!” said Molly.

  “Yeah,” said Kyle. “It’s fun.”

  Steve’s mother brought out a pitcher of lemonade. “We’ve got a little meeting going on inside,” she said. “You know how attorneys love to talk shop! But don’t stop, we love it!”

  Norman was in rock-and-roll-band heaven. He was hammering out the beat with his hands on a large red toolbox, using it like a pair of bongos.

  A little boy brought some cookies from next door to share and the band took a break. Dennis wolfed down his snack and ruffled the hair of the big-eyed boy who brought it to him, drank a glass of lemonade in one gulp, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and then cast anot
her smile at Molly, who finally couldn’t help but smile back.

  “No, thank you,” she said primly when Dennis offered her a cookie. But inside, her mind buzzed. Oh, this is nice! This attention. I like him.

  And she knew: This is what it would have been like for Barry, if he and Norman had started their band. Norman was a geek, but Barry was a god. He only had to smile. The girls would have been all over him.

  Molly closed her eyes and wished Barry were here to see this, instead of wandering lost through San Francisco, sleeping under bridges or in parks, like Marvin Gardens had done. She sighed. How long before they could get back on the road to find her brother?

  She opened her eyes to see Steve banging his sticks together and counting off. The band flew into “I Saw Her Standing There.” Dennis pointed at her and sang: Wooooo!

  Norman began to set up his kit as the band went right into “Secret Agent Man.” The younger kids ran around on the driveway and pew-pew-pewed each other, James Bond–style, and the little girls danced and twirled. Dennis smiled at Molly, who was still in her seat, foot waggling. She reddened and uncrossed her legs, crossed them again in the opposite direction, and watched Norman as he set up. But she could feel Dennis’s eyes on her.

  She felt curiously moved by the thought of a one-hour boyfriend in Little Rock, Arkansas. Her heart, that unfeeling organ, beat a little harder, and her breath came a little faster, as she decided she would fall for Dennis. In Little Rock. For one hour.

  Norman sat behind his drum kit and held up his sticks. “Ready for anything!” he said.

  “Okay, you animals out there!” Steve called. “Here comes what you’ve been waiting for! Our signature number!”

  The driveway kids screamed and came running. The musicians readied themselves in an instant.

  “Keep up!” Steve yelled to Norman. He whooped in a high-pitched cackle that made Molly cover her ears. Then he yelled, “Wipe ouuut!” and there were drums.

  “Whoa!” said Molly. She was on her feet with expectation, as was everyone else in the garage, in the driveway, or wandering by. Steve set the pace — fast — and Norman kept up. He’d played “Wipe Out” more times than he could count. At home, he’d stack his favorite 45s on the turntable so the records would drop, next by next, as each finished playing, like they were in a jukebox, and he could learn the drum parts by playing along.