The last time I saw Erica in May of 1970, it was a glorious spring evening with a stunning sunset. The first time I met her, five months earlier, it was an overcast, icy morning.

At the start of the semester at Queens College, she sat a few desks away. Since it was an American Civil War class, the professor thought it hip to ask us for our views of the ongoing Vietnam War. We each had a chance to explain our position in a few sentences.

“I became against the war,” I began, “because of talks with my friends when we hung out and because of a lot of the music I listened to.”

Erica pushed back her dirty blonde hair. “In other words,” she cut in, “pop tunes on the radio and alcohol-induced raps with your buddies influenced your decision. That doesn’t sound too heavy.”

“No,” I said softly. “People like Phil Ochs and Bob Dylan don’t do pop tunes. They do serious stuff. I could name more.” 

“Please don’t,” she muttered.

Despite a rolled-out-of-bed appearance, to me, she looked great. Right away, I wanted her to like me, and for once, I didn’t fly off the handle and stayed focused. “That led me to pay more attention to the news on TV.  And I read the papers, you know. I don’t make such important decisions over a few beers or songs.”

Erica placed her middle finger on her nose and slowly scratched it. “My dad is a Korean War vet. And my cousin is in Vietnam now, serving loyally. To me, going against the country’s mission isn’t right. That’s turning your back on our boys. Is it possible you lack courage?”

“Courage is knowing when to be afraid,” I responded. “But being able to recognize that a mission is wrong is wisdom.” Erica would later tell me that when I uttered wisdom, the professor rolled his eyes. The teacher intervened, directing another pupil to offer his position.

For most students, you could tell one’s stance by looking at them. Of the nine against the war, the five of us who were guys sported various lengths of hair and beards. With a chevron mustache, I had the least coverage. Of the six who supported it, four of them  were clean-shaven guys. In those days, appearances implied one’s political beliefs. Long hair, goatees, and shopworn threads marked you as being counterculture and, very likely, against the war. More mainstream ways of dressing, the casual styles that were similar to one’s elders, suggested that one preferred the status quo.

As the others took their turns, I found myself glancing at Erica’s soft, gray eyes and pale skin. I would learn that she was half-Polish and half-German. Her purple maxi coat, buttoned up because of little heat in the room, reached down to her ankles and concealed an average build. She knew I was checking her out because I caught a glimpse of a smile from her. Despite our testy exchange, we connected.

After the others voiced their takes on the conflict, the teacher appointed Erica and me leaders of two groups that, for the first two weeks of the term, would debate different outcomes to the Battle of Gettysburg. My section would argue that if the South had won, they still would have lost the war. Erica’s faction would try to explain how the Confederates, had they been victorious, would have eventually defeated the North. Over that time, as the weather turned from freezing to tolerable, she switched to jackets and dressed in jeans and sweaters in colors that clashed. Her casual, unpolished look and her uncombed hair suggested “bohemian,” but her politics were all establishment. Appearances can be deceiving.

My attraction to her grew. And she knew how to get at me.  

In our discussions with the rest of my group, she was diplomatic, never overbearing or superior. With me, she’d throw in a dig, a jab, and maybe a touch of sarcasm. Maybe do a quick smirk or widen her eyes to imply, Do you believe what you just said? How did I respond? At the end of a class, going out the door, I asked her to have lunch with me.

“Not till we are done with this project,” she responded, waving her arm. “If not, I won’t be nice to you.”

“But you’re not being nice to me.”

“You’re imagining things,” she answered, walking down the hallway, her back to me. A couple of guys, overhearing the exchange, covered their mouths to conceal their grins.

Two weeks after completing the Gettysburg assignment, when our schedules aligned, we grabbed some grub. It was the afternoon; the cafeteria was not crowded so we had a table for ourselves.  That’s when she told me about the professor’s eye roll after I had stated that I had wisdom. “I’m sure the teacher thinks you lack maturity as well.”

“I think that wisdom is why he made me the head of my group. He showed deep insight in picking me.” I took a bite from my burger. “By the way, I still don’t see your argument on how the South could have won the war had they defeated the Union at Gettysburg. I wanted to talk to you about it.”

“No, it’s over.” She was eating a salad, picking at the lettuce and tomatoes, and not much else when she reached over and snatched a couple of fries off my plate. She dipped them in my paper cup of ketchup. “We were on opposite sides of a topic. That’s why I wouldn’t get together with you until we were done. You’re impatient and quick to open your mouth, and what comes out is usually wrong. I don’t want to discuss it any further. It’s over.”

“Well, then—” I drank some of my soda and thought for a moment. “What do you want to talk about?”

“I don’t know.” She stopped eating.  With her elbows on the table, she leaned forward, rested her chin on her hands, and smiled. “You asked me to lunch. You should have a list of questions.” She pointed to my jeans. “Maybe there’s one in your pockets.”

Her attitude and the way the horizontal stripe sweater draped over her polka dot jeans spun my brain. I could not pigeonhole her. I took another sip. “What’s your major?”

“Clever question. Take a guess, its history, specifically, the US Labor Movement and Women’s Suffrage.”

“Therefore, you are big on the rights of women?” 

She stared into my eyes and tilted her back. “Can’t you tell?”  

“Oh, man.” I had to laugh. I knew she liked me, but I had to get used to her teasing ways. I was a cat, trying to paw at a moving string, a string she was pulling. “Where do you live?” 

“Another clever question. In Sunnyside.”

“Oh, I live in Astoria.” Awesome! I was only a fifteen-minute bus ride away from her neighborhood. “Since you’re a history major, how about we see a history movie? I assume you like historical movies?”

“If they are reasonably accurate, I do.”

“Want to go see Patton? The one about the World War II general? They say the film has its facts right.”   

“Are you asking me on a date? To a movie where people kill each other? I suppose that’s better than  asking me to see a horror movie with heads being chopped off.” 

I needed to spar back. Couldn’t let her get all the jabs in. “Dumbo the cartoon is out again. Is that more your speed?” 

That caught her off guard. For an instant, she froze. But she turned it around. “For that, I get more fries.” 

“Help yourself.” As if I was going to stop her.

Taking another handful, she said, “A cartoon might be better for you on your own, early in the day, when the little kids go. No, we can do Patton. I think it’s a way for you to get my analysis and make yourself smarter.” She laughed at her comments. She had me over a barrel, and I was loving it. “Of course, I don’t know much about General Patton, and it concerns me that I’ll have to depend on you to determine the accuracy of the movie.”

When she went for more fries, I pushed the plate over. “Why don’t you just finish them?”

“You finally got the idea. This salad isn’t cutting it.”

“So, you’ll go? Maybe I will enlighten you with my knowledge and wisdom,” I smirked. 

“Oh God, you and your wisdom,” she rolled her eyes. “What took you so long to ask me out?”

“Jeez! Maybe it took this long because you wouldn’t talk to me till now.” 

“I don’t know about you.” Taking the last two fries, she reached across and stuck them in my mouth. She wiped her hands and pulled the sleeves of her sweater over them. “But the answer is yes.” And then she tilted her head slightly and whispered, “I would really like to.” 

***

On Saturday night, after the film, we stopped at the White Castle on Queens Boulevard for burgers and shakes. I then walked her to her place a few blocks away.  Neighborhoods in Queens are a mix of apartment buildings and private residences, mostly two-story homes. Most of these are set off from the shopping districts, but the sounds of buses and trains can usually be heard, not to mention the car horns and the police sirens. 

We entered the lobby of her apartment building and waited for the elevator. The light was dim. Taking her hands in mine, I tried to pull her close, but she leaned back and said, “I get to pick the next thing we see. It ain’t all going to be history flicks, you know.” 

“And—what may that next flick be?”

“Love Story. We’re going to go see Love Story next week. It’s playing at the Triboro Theater. It’s on Steinway Street.”

“I know where it is.” I put my arms around her waist. This time she leaned forward, wrapped her arms around my neck, and kissed me for a full minute; it was unlike any first kiss I ever had. The elevator arrived. She stepped into it and said, “See you in class.” As the elevator slowly started up to take her to her third floor, I sensed myself rising up with her.  By the time I walked out into the night, I was completely afloat in Sunnyside. 

The Triboro was one of the old movie palaces that dotted the United States, built in the 1920s. Entering one was like visiting a mansion that once belonged to a long-gone rich dude and was now open to the public for checking out. Depending on the specific theater, the décor could be a funky mix  of architectural styles, like in the movies about ancient Greece or Rome. Most featured a crazy, grand staircase,  statues of toga-clad women, big-ass  chandeliers, and plush carpeting. Back then, we took theaters like this for granted. However, by 1974, the Triboro would be torn down to make way for apartments.

We sat on the balcony. The film was a big hit, and the theater, which could seat up to 3,000 people, was nearly full. Before the movie began , Erica looked up at the twinkling lights in the ceiling that were made to mimic the stars of the night sky.

“I feel like we are in another time,” she murmured. “Like a hundred years ago.”

“It does make me feel like we’re in a dream.” I took her hand and kissed it. “Maybe it’s because of you.”

The theater lights dimmed; the stars brightened; and the movie began.

When we exited the theater, she couldn’t stop crying. “Are you okay?” I asked.

“The movie. It’s so sad. Don’t you think?”

We went to the side and stopped by the display case with the poster of the film. Gazing at the photo of the two leads, she ran her fingers over the image of Ali McGraw. As the theater emptied, I realized that most of the women were trying to hold back tears, and the men tried to act tough by staring in the directions they were going. I was the odd guy out. 

“I did like the music.”

“Really, Mike, that’s it?” Wiping her eyes with her jacket sleeve, she shook her head. “Weren’t you moved by these two people and how they loved each other?”

“I don’t know.” I wanted to be honest andsay I didn’t think much for the film, but I had to pick my words carefully. “It’s just that they meet … get married. They’re living their lives, and the next thing you know, she’s dying. Not much of a plot.”

Her eyes narrowed at me. “You felt it was phony?”

I truly liked her and didn’t want to have a public disagreement because I thought the film was just okay. I took a deep breath. “I think I was into it … completely. Then the movie sort of changed gears, and now, the girl is dying. I admit—I expected something different.”

“So, what you’re saying is that if she had lived, it wouldn’t be much of a story, right?”

She was seeing right through me. “Well … sort of yes.” 

“Mike, we saw Patton last week, and there’s freaking bullets and bombs and people getting killed, and you talked about military strategy and what an effective general the man was. And now, you can’t experience the emotion between these two people?”

 To say anything else bad about the movie would have been plain stupid. I placed my hands on her face. “What’s affecting me is that you’re  crying. I don’t like it. I want to see you happy.” 

She glanced at the sidewalk. “I am happy in a sad way. It’s a sad movie that makes me feel good.”

”Come on.” I took her hand, and we meandered down Steinway, the shopping avenue, not saying much, going by the closed stores. She stopped by a few windows to check the merchandise. In one alcove, I kissed her forehead, and she smiled. 

“How about we get some ice cream? It’ll make you feel better.”

At the ice cream parlor, we took seats in the rear section, in a booth covered in orange vinyl. Two tables over, a nurse and a soldier, the only other people in the back, sat next to, rather than across from, each other. Dressed in her white attire, the woman leaned her head on the man’s shoulder, staring silently at the empty dishes before them. He looked sharp in his Army dress uniform. Against the deep green jacket and trousers, the polished brass buttons on the pockets and shirt reflected the parlor lights.

Charlie, the owner, brought us the sundaes we ordered. “Mike, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

“Charlie, this is Erica. She goes to Queens College, too. She lives over in Sunnyside.” 

 “Nice to meet you, Erica.”

“This ice cream is great.” A bit of chocolate syrup drooled out of her mouth. I handed her a napkin. 

“Impressive.”

“Shut up,” she said, wiping her chin.

Charlie laughed and pointed to the couple. “You’ll excuse me; I need to see those two.”

At the other table, the nurse raised her head and checked her watch. “Mick, I start my shift in thirty minutes. We need to go.” The soldier took out his wallet.

“No charge,” Charlie said. “How long are you home for?”

“Thank you. Been home for two weeks, but I leave in two days.”

Erica noticed the soldier’s single chevron stripe patch on his shoulder. “Private, where will you be stationed?”

“Saigon.”

“My cousin’s there,” Erica said. “He’s in the Fourth Infantry. Good luck to you.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” Private Mick smiled; the nurse did not. It was as if we weren’t there.

After finishing, we took the short bus ride to Erica’s. Although it was nearly empty, we sat in the back. It felt more private.

“What’s the matter, Mike?”

“That kid—Mick. His face is haunting me.” I had my arm around her, her head against my shoulder. “He looks younger than me. And his girlfriend was anxious.”

“They’re our age,” she murmured. “I don’t think they were sad. To me, they were proud.

Doing one’s duty is not easy.”

“In one way, it’s like the movie we saw tonight. Only the roles are reversed. The couple is just living their lives, and suddenly, he could die for no reason.”

Erica raised her head. “You’re being dramatic. And there is a reason we’re fighting there. Don’t forget that. The government needs to adhere to its mission  of containing the communist threat and not letting it spread. You major in history. That’s been the strategy for the past twenty or so years. And it’s worked.”

“Erica, don’t you see that this war is a waste? It’s been going on since the 50s.  All we do is send more soldiers, more airpower, and more bombings, and the results don’t change. And just last week, we sent troops into Laos … some have been killed.”

“Mike, no. We can’t deliberate on this. Let’s not go back to the first day of class.” She placed her head back on my shoulder. “I really like being with you.” She laughed a bit. “Even if you didn’t cry during the movie.”

“Then we won’t talk about it.” I kissed her forehead. “Hey, your hair smells nice.” 

She looked at me and crossed her eyes. “That’s all? Just nice? I think you need to do better.”

I remembered some over the top TV commercials on perfumes so I imitated one. “Let’s see … the aroma hypnotizes me in a way that I’ll think of you obsessively until the next time I see you.” 

Erica pulled away, looking at me, surprised. “Oh, that is so much better. You finally said something right tonight.”

“So, what’s in your hair?”

“I’m not telling. You have to guess.” 

“It’s some kind of flower, I think.”

“You’re a regular genius. You need to be specific.”

I groaned. I knew nothing about plants, let alone fragrances.

We got off the bus, and I walked her two blocks to her home. We’d see each other in school and decide what to do next weekend. Riding back, and with the scent of her hair swirling around me, I wondered if Erica’s desire not to debate the war was because, deep down, she knew I was right and that her concrete faith in the government’s mission had begun to fracture. As for me, could I submerge my beliefs for the sake of being with her?

***

Being together was easy; we liked many of the same things.  

For meals or snacks, we usually grabbed pizzas or went to Charlie’s or to the White Castle near where she lived. One evening, we went to Radio City to see the film, Airport. No war, no one dying, just a good thriller. We caught a concert at Queens College. The Byrds were playing. We went with my best friend, Gus, since he had a car. He didn’t have a date, but Erica didn’t mind. After the show, after we dropped Erica off, Gus told me that Erica was outta sight. 

On another weekend, we went to the Hayden Planetarium. I had a surprise for her. After the sky show ended, we crossed the avenue and sat on a park bench outside of Central Park. I reached into my pants pocket and withdrew my high school ring, which had a chain through it. I handed it to her. 

At first, she gazed at it silently, and I thought she might not want it. Then she started tearing up and said, her voice garbled, “No one ever gave me their ring before. Thank you.” She looped it around her neck. “My cousin, Millie, you’ll meet her one of these days … thinks I fall for guys too quick. Maybe she’s right, but this is worth it because I’m really happy tonight.”

In mid-March, her cousin Millie threw a party at her place. Her parents were out for the night. Erica wanted to find a guy for her and asked if I could bring an acceptable person. She explained that Millie played sports and had a strong sense of herself. She didn’t care for pot-smoking, self-absorbed dudes. I suggested Gus. My buddy was an Eagle Scout; he didn’t drink, and he went to church. And Gus had a ‘67 Ford Fairlane. Guys with cars usually impress girls. Since she was related to Erica, I figured she would be good-looking. That would please Gus. But I also surmised that, as Erica’s cousin, Millie could be quite assertive. That might scare Gus. When it came to chicks, he had a knack for clamming up or saying the wrong thing. 

“Gus tends to be quiet, only talks when he thinks he’s got something significant to say.” 

“I noticed that at the concert,” Erica said. “Millie might go for that.”

Gus didn’t pay much attention to the way he looked.

Of average height and a bit stocky, he had a full beard. He wore brown cords that were almost bare at the knees and regularly had on a sweater that had once been blue but now had random white blotches due to a boneheaded application of bleach. Fortunately, he took a daily shower. I had seen girls fall for guys with lesser attributes. While Millie knew of the potential setup, I didn’t tell Gus. I knew he’d get anxious and withdrawn if he suspected anything.

When Erica said Millie played sports, I didn’t realize it was basketball until we arrived at the apartment. Taller than most of her guests, Millie’s short, dark brown hair bobbed back and forth as she moved around the apartment like she was in a game, ducking and sliding past people. Erica and I took over a loveseat once another couple got up. Being somewhat inconsiderate to the others, we laid across the cushions and faced each other. That didn’t last long. 

“Uh-oh,” Erica said. “Millie is staring at us, or really me. She’s a lot like my mother. She doesn’t approve of us lying here. We better get up.” Erica sat up, but I, instead, shifted and laid my head on her lap. My legs hung over the side. 

Millie hurried over and stood before us. “Listen to me. First of all, sit up Mike. This ain’t your bedroom. I need the space for people to hang out.” I did as told. “Second—” she looked at Erica.”I think you are moving too fast.” Then at both of us. “You two should slow down. Get to know each other a little better.” 

Before we could respond, Gus, juggling a pair of a pizza and a can of soda, approached us.

“Gus, you didn’t get to talk to my cousin Millie. This is her place.”

“Cool,” Gus replied, biting into his slice. “Chill party.”

“She’s the best player on her basketball team,” Erica added. “If they make a playoff spot, it’ll be thanks to her. They call her ‘The Hawk’ because nothing gets by her.”

“The Hawk? Far out,” Gus said, his mouth half-full and looking up at Millie. “Do you know that hawks can see eight times better than humans? It’s true. I have a merit badge in bird study.”

“No shit?” Millie said.

Thinking she was impressed, Gus continued. “They can gobble down rabbits and squirrels, among other critters. They immobilize their prey by using their beaks and talons to tear apart the flesh. Anything they can’t digest, they upchuck. Like splat!”

Millie turned, her eyes burning into her cousin, and mouthed, “This is the goofball you want to set me up with?”

With our matchmaking attempt dead on arrival, clueless Gus yawned and found himself a chair.

Millie sat on the arm of the loveseat, leaning over Erica. She spoke low to her but didn’t care if I could hear. “Erica, you need to slow down. I know you. You like guys too easily.”

Erica turned to me. “You heard her. What do you say to that?”

I clinked her glass. “I don’t think we are moving fast enough.You think we should get married in a week or two?”

“Maybe in May after school ends. We should know more about each other by then.” 

“The both of you are smartasses,” Millie said. “Please be careful.”

***

In late-March, Erica invited me to dinner to meet her parents. Since her father was a vet, I made sure to read up on the latest news to discuss events intelligently in case any topics came up. They lived on the third floor of a six-story building that dated back to the 1920s when the neighborhood was developed. Entering their apartment, I swore that I saw her father’s face grimace at my mustache, and then instantly transform into a polite smile of feigned tolerance.

I had made the poop list. I also saw a set of family photos on a table that included a young man in an army dress uniform. Had to be her cousin in Vietnam.

While Erica and I shared the couch,  her father sat on a recliner. Mrs. Alexander remained standing. “Can I get you a soda, beer, wine, or a mixed drink?”

“A Coke is fine.” I figured I was being tested. Let’s see if the boyfriend is an irresponsible drinker.

“It’s okay if you’d like one,” Mr. Alexander offered. He was in his mid-forties, with short black hair. He walked with a slight limp, but he looked pretty strong to me. Slim cords and a buffalo plaid shirt added to his vigorous appearance.

“It’s fine with us,” her mother offered. 

“We’ll both have wine,” Erica stated.

“I like your mustache,” her father said. “Nice and clean. It looks sharp. I was thinking of growing one myself since it’s in style now.”

“Not while I’m around,” interjected his wife, still on her feet. 

“Mom, I think it would look cool on Dad. You should let him try it.”

“No, no,” she laughed. “Enough with the hair. I don’t want people to get the wrong idea about us.”

“What do you mean by that, Mrs. Alexander?”

“Oh, I don’t want people to think that my husband is a wanna-be hippie, a radical who disrespects the government.”

“I don’t think a mustache indicates anything.”

She chuckled and shifted gears. “So Mike, you are in Erica’s history course.”

“Yes. We take Civil War history.” Avoid bland one-or-two-word answers. Say more and sound intelligent. “We’re now discussing the Battle of Shiloh and what came of that fight.”

Her mother poured us the wine. “Which was—?”

“Um … which was that both sides recognized that the struggle would take longer and be bloodier than anticipated. The Union would eventually go all out to win. A full victory at any cost was needed to achieve a full reunification of the country.”

Her mother bent down close and handed me the glass. “Sort of what the US needs to do in Vietnam.”

Erica leaned across, blocking her mother’s view of me.  “Hey Dad, Mike is a big Mets fan.”

Mr. Alexander perked up. “We went to game four of the World Series last year!” 

“Wow! Oh man, you were there? That’s the extra-inning game Seaver pitched, right?”

“Yep. I have the ticket stubs and an autographed scorecard from Gil Hodges.” He went to a cabinet and brought it for me to see.

We proceeded to discuss the World Series and weighed how the Mets might repeat as champions. Mother and daughter went into the kitchen. I felt loose and no longer expected to be ripped apart. I had been wrong about Erica’s dad; he was fun to talk to. His job had been as a mailman, but a war injury to his leg began to surface and impede his walking. He was transferred to working the sales window. I asked him how it happened; he preferred not to discuss it. His comment was: “It was a long time ago.” 

Dinner was quite good. Mrs. Alexander prepared and cooked the meal—steak, potatoes, and broccoli. She also served a delicious apple pie. Erica’s mom indicated she’d be interested in hearing, the next time we met, whether any of the Civil War strategies might apply to the Vietnam conflict. I did not look forward to that. It could be like the first day of class.

Shortly after dinner, after thanking and saying good night to her parents, Erica and I went for a walk. The weather was unseasonably warm for March.

“Your parents are nice. I was nervous about meeting them, especially your dad since he’s a vet.

I figured he’d be all over me if he knew my views on the war. But I really like him.” I envisioned myself going to ballgames with him. “Your mom made me a little anxious. I thought she was going to give me the third degree on Vietnam.”

“Daddy’s cool. With Mom, just stay off the subject. Don’t give her a lead in by yapping about the Civil War. Play dumb. You’re good at that.” 

“Really? I’m good at playing dumb? Very funny.”

Making our way toward Queens Boulevard, a multi-lane thoroughfare, we came to the train trestle that runs above it. Rather than the stark black skeletal structures common to most of the city’s elevated track lines, this section is a series of concrete-covered arches. Their cream color tones make for a friendlier fit with the businesses and apartments that face it from either side.

“Mike,” she said, stopping by one of the staircases to the platform. “Let’s take the train and go down to the Village. There’s a place I want to see.”

We took the train. In less than 30 minutes, we got off at West 4th and strolled a few blocks to Washington Square Park, which, although not the physical middle of Greenwich Village, is certainly the emotional heart of the community. Tonight, it was crowded, mostly with young adults heading to the large, circular fountain, which is surrounded by a low stone wall. For over a hundred years, people have gravitated to it, stepping over or sitting on the ledge and enjoying the water spray up  high as if it heralded the arrival of spring.

“Erica, this is such a cool place. Can you feel the vibe in the air? A lot’s happened here and in the nearby streets.” I did a full turn-around, extending my arms as if the park belonged to me. “There’s a ton of  writers and artists who work here. Dylan, Hendrix, and others played  in the clubs. Pete Seeger lived here in the 1940s. So did Woody Guthrie. I won’t get into it except to mention that the area has been a source of protests. It’s hard to ignore that when we’re in such a historic location.”

“Mike, I’m hip to the history. That’s why I wanted to come down here. To see a place I studied about. I know that you’re the music guru. For now, let’s just take in the night.” She interlocked her arm with mine and then gestured to several musicians who had created their own small concert pockets along the fountain wall. In addition to guitar and keyboard players, artists had set up chairs and easels, painting their impressions onto canvases as roller skaters skillfully zipped through them.

“Imagine if the world was like this park tonight,” I remarked. ”Music playing, people singing, and couples like us enjoying it.”

“I don’t know, Mike. I think that’s a bit naive.”

“I disagree. The spirit of the ‘60s is now flowing into the ’70s. It’s a tidal wave.” 

“You’re an idealist. I don’t think things will continue as they are.”

We stopped to hear a young man strum his guitar and sing, True Love Ways. She leaned her head on my shoulder and hooked her arm around mine again as she swayed gently to the slow melody. “That’s a lovely song,” she said. “I’m not familiar with it.”

“It’s an old Buddy Holly ballad. It was released after his death.” I motioned to the singer. “It’s funny. He resembles and sounds like Buddy Holly. He’s lanky and even wears glasses.” Placing our arms behind each other’s backs, we moved closer to the singer when he finished. 

“That’s a nice Buddy Holly tune,” I told him. “You sang great.”

“Thanks, man. You be cool.  Peace out.”

Continuing our ramble, we watched an artist chalk his version of the evening onto the concrete. He raised his arm, motioning for us to stop. He focused on us, started sketching, studied us a few more times, continued to draw, and then, finally, gave us a thumbs-up.

We went behind him to view the results. “Wow, great job.” I dropped a dollar into a coffee can. “It really looks like my girl and me. We’re immortalized.”

He laughed. “At least until it rains.”

A few yards over, a woman with a clarinet jammed with a male saxophonist.

“I know that one, too. She’s playing St. James Infirmary, a classic jazz piece from the 1920’s.”

“Of course you do,” she said,  grabbing my hand and pretending to bite my finger. “You’re so smart that it’s obnoxious.”

A thin, bearded man who had long, uncombed hair and was wearing an oversized, dark raincoat, stood still with his eyes shut, shaking his body and snapping his fingers to the beat. With his mouth moving but no sound coming out, he resembled a sleepwalker. A quarter of the way around the fountain, three violinists and a bass player performed Handel’s Water Music Suite. We sat on the stone ledge to listen.

“You know,” I kissed her cheek, “this has become a popular wedding intro as the bride goes down the aisle.”

She poked me in my side. “We’ve only been together for two months. Kinda rushing things, aren’t you?”

“Oh no, not me. I’m thinking of other couples. Then again, True Love Ways would be a fine wedding song.” 

“I prefer the Love Story theme.” Erica smiled, and as she shook her head in mock tolerance of me, the sleepwalker, his eyes now open, approached us and obstructed our view of the quartet. He leaned forward, glanced left and right, and then whispered, “Hey, got some scratch? I’m trying to get bus fare and make my way to Canada to avoid the draft. Or else I gotta show my face to the board in two weeks.”

Erica gripped my jacket sleeve. “I also came to see Buddy Holly play,” he went on. “He’s right over there. He pointed to the musician who had sung True Love Ways.

“Buddy Holly died,” I stated. “He did live here for a time and was known for hanging out in the park, but that was like twelve years ago.”

She squeezed my wrist .

“Oh. That’s too bad. You think that he might be …” his eyes widened. “… visiting from the beyond? Buddy wore glasses, you know.”

“Um … yes, he did, but that’s not him.”

“I guess that’s what confused me.” He planted his hand on my free arm. “Hey, do you know we’re standing on top of dead people? This was once a potter’s field. There are thousands of dead beneath us.”

Erica yanked at my jacket sleeve. “Mike, we have to go now. Remember, there’s a place I want to see.”

“Hey, before you two leave, how about a couple of bucks? I don’t want to die in the war.” 

I gave him two dollars.

“Thanks, man. Appreciate it.” He made the peace sign, holding two fingers up in a V, and drifted toward others in the park.

Erica pushed my arm away. “I don’t believe you did that. You may have helped him break the law.”

“I got rid of him.”

“You would have given it to him anyway.” 

“So what? I may have helped save a life.”

“Mike, if he makes it to Canada, that makes him a draft dodger.” She stood still and serious. “You know that my cousin, along with thousands of American soldiers, are fighting in that war. How do you think I feel about that? I worry about him constantly. Doing what you just did dishonors him and the others. They’re protecting us and our way of life, as well as the people over there. I’m not being naïve in stating that if North Vietnam overruns the South, those people will be sacrificed.” She was talking down to me, and I didn’t like it. “Mike, do you think I’m wrong?”

I didn’t answer.

“You know I’m right!” She turned and sprinted toward one of the park exits.

To me, the war had gone on far too long, with no end in sight. It was a losing situation, a killing machine taking the lives of American kids. I gazed at the park scene, so casual and friendly as if there were no cares in the world. I hated being lectured to, but I had promised not to debate her. How could I when her cousin was overseas?

I got up and jogged after her.

Leaving the park, she hurried across an avenue into a deserted, low-lit side street of multi-story office buildings. Old and imposing, from the turn of the 20th century, their ground-level windows were gated up, which cast a spell of claustrophobic solitude, making me feel like I was entering a tunnel.

I caught up with her. We slowed down and walked silently to the next corner. As I tried to think about how to make up with her, a brass plate on a building wall seized her attention. Erica rested her hand on it. “This is why I wanted to come down here.” A soft wind picked up, so I buttoned my jacket.

The plaque stated that, in 1911, a fire broke out on the top three floors of the building, the 8th through the 10th, in what had been the factory rooms of the Triangle Shirtwaist Company. 146 garment workers, the vast majority of them girls, ages 14 to 23, died in the blaze. Erica scratched her head. “I studied this in one of my classes. This was a horrible disaster, which led to the formation of unions and changes in safety regulations.” She stared straight up; her eyes focused on the top floors. Following her gaze, I watched a fog, which was like a dark gray shroud beneath a cloudy night, begin to spread out over the cornice. But Erica, I sensed, was seeing something different. She stepped backward toward the curb, still fixated on the top floor. She shook her head, inhaled deeply, and spoke softly, not to me but to the empty space by me as if addressing an invisible group of people. “The workspaces were a firetrap. The doors were locked, the ventilation was poor, and the place was overcrowded. The girls were at the mercy of the owners.” She raised her arm. “And, out of desperation, nearly half of those girls jumped.” She pointed down to our feet. “And they fell here.” She then came to me, placed her hands on my shoulders, and brought her face next to mine. “Mike, they fell right here. I’ve seen the pictures. Most were our age or younger.” She covered her mouth. “My God, we’re standing in a morgue. We’re surrounded by the victims.”

“Erica, you’re making me anxious. Please tell me you’re okay.” She didn’t respond. It was as if she hadn’t heard me. I swore that, even though it was just her and I on  the dark, vacant street, which was creepy enough, she had somehow time-traveled to 1911 and could see the people fall before her.  She walked slowly on the sidewalk, making turns and side steps as if she saw where the bodies lay and was trying to avoid stepping into them. 

From a few feet away, she called to me. “Please hold me.” I hurried over, and she buried her head against my coat, crying. “Don’t say a word,” she whispered. “Too much has happened here.” Her body trembled as if chills had overcome her. I tried to warm her by embracing her and stroking her hair. After a few moments of silence, we looked at the upper floors of the building. The dark mist continued to expand and lower. 

“Being here makes it so real,” she said. 

“Erica, it’s in the past.”

“No! That’s not how it seems to me. It’s happening now. A lot of things are converging in my head. Think about it. One block away, it’s all bright and airy, and then that weird guy appears out of nowhere, like a ghost, thinking Buddy Holly’s alive … talking about the dead under the park. And now, this fire where there’s dead above and below us. And the dead in the war. Everything’s connected.”

“It was a long time ago.”

“You don’t understand.” She broke away from me and scrutinized the desolate street. “It’s present, and I’m overwhelmed. I feel them. They’re here.”

I grabbed her shoulders and gave her a gentle shake. “Erica, come back to me. Maybe it’s your concern about your cousin getting to you. It could be that.”

“And you don’t think he should be there. You don’t support our involvement.” 

“It’s not the right or the wrong. That’s not my point. It’s you I’m worried about.” 

She leaned against me and shut her eyes. “Maybe you’re right.”

I thought I’d  lighten her spirits by asking her about her hair. “ I think your hair smells like a rose.”

She smiled a bit. “Are you trying to distract me by guessing the fragrance?” 

“Maybe. Isn’t a rose the most popular flower?”

“Yes,” she answered. “But you’re wrong about the fragrance.”

“You know what?” I kissed her forehead. “In a few weeks, when the term ends, let’s sneak away from our parents and go somewhere to spend a few days together. We’ll come up with some story for them.”

She raised her head. “This is what you’re about thinking at this moment?” She half-gazed, half-glared at me. “You want sex?”

“It’s not what I meant. For an instant, I thought I lost you. It’s like you disappeared. I didn’t realize how much I care for you.”

“And I care about you. But Mike, we disagree on this war. Can’t you see what I see? I have relatives that my family disagree with on the war, but they’re people we don’t always see. We don’t live with each other. When we get together, it’s easy to avoid bringing up the war. Now imagine if you and me are always together. We can’t pretend  that the wall between us doesn’t exist. How do we reconcile that?”

“I don’t know. But I know, now, how much I don’t want to be without you.”

It was late. The fog thickened, and the drizzle became rain and fell softly. The gentle, magical air of the evening had already faded. With her arm in mine, we turned and headed back across the park, past the artists and musicians packing up, past the people leaving, and then back past our dissolving chalk portraits in the ground.

***

For spring break, the professor suggested that a trip to the Gettysburg battlefield might prove enlightening. From Queens, it was about a four-hour drive. Rather than wait for the end of school, Erica and I saw an opportunity and said we’d go. We could tell our parents that it was an assignment—true—and others were going with us—also true. But we weren’t going with our classmates. Instead, our friends would join us. To save money, Gus and Millie agreed to share a room with two beds. Erica and I would have our own. I assured Erica that Gus, as a former Boy Scout, was a true gentleman. Millie was safe. Erica confided that Millie didn’t take chances. Besides being athletic, pepper spray always accompanied her. If Gus tried anything or even started going on about his merit badges, he’d be a goner.

Gus drove us out in his ’67 four-door Fairlane, a case of red wine in the trunk and one of the bottles in my lap. Great to have a friend who doesn’t drink. Some two and a half hours into the trip, we rode into Lancaster, Pennsylvania, the heart of the Amish community. None of us had ever been there or seen any place with sweeping countryside and picture-book farms. Having known only city life, we found ourselves mesmerized by the sight of the Amish people riding their horse-drawn carriages on the near-empty roads and how they always pulled over to let us pass. They wore hand-made, plain clothing, mostly solid colors; the women wore bonnets and the men, wide-brimmed black hats. We had traveled into a land where people lived as if it were a hundred years ago. Nearby hamlets had names like “Bird in Hand,” “Blue Ball,” and “Intercourse,” which amused us to no end.

“Ah, Intercourse,” I said. Erica and I in the back seat glanced at each other and raised our eyebrows.

“Try to control yourselves, you two,” Gus laughed as he drove. Millie sat stone-faced, arms folded, staring through the windshield.

As the evening settled in, we felt more out of place. In one of the towns, we went to eat in a diner, but since Gus had a beard and long hair and the girls wore flared jeans and bright-colored blouses, the locals stared at us as if we were a team of shoplifters. In appearance, some of us resembled the characters in Easy Rider, the film about two motorcycle hippie travelers who clash with the small-town residents they encounter. The movie was fresh in our minds. To avoid a possible confrontation, rather than eat in the restaurant, we bought sandwiches and found a picnic table on a hillside overlooking the farms. We set a pair of battery-charged lanterns on the table. Sitting down, the girls set the food and opened bags of pretzels and chips to share. By the time the sun began to set, we were on our third bottle of wine and, to say the least, feeling very loose.

Erica stood and pointed east at the darkening horizon. “Look, a moonrise. You sure don’t see this in Queens. Millie, come with me.” Erica took a bottle.  The girlswalked along the crest of the hill. 

Gus grabbed a handful of pretzels. “So, tonight’s the night?”

“Yep. Tonight’s the night!”

“Are you prepared? Did you bring condoms?”

“Hey! Are you my father? Don’t worry about me.”

“I just need to know if I should start saving money in case I become a godfather in nine months?” 

Before I could respond, the girls returned from their short walk.

“Erica and I were talking,” Millie said, “ about how weird some of the looks were from the Amish in the diner.It was creepy.”

“Millie, those weren’t Amish,” I said. “Those were just the town people.”

“They looked at us weird because they probably think we’re radicals,” Erica said. “I have to admit that it bothers me  because I’m with this group. These people might think I’m un-American.” She sat back down across from me and drank from the bottle. “Am I supposed to announce to them that Millie and I don’t share your views?”

“Erica—” Millie took her cousin’s arm.“Calm down. Take it easy.”

“This involves you,” Erica replied.

“We don’t mind your views,” Gus said. “We accept you two for who you are. But come to think of it, the Amish men have beards like me, and they have their own style of clothes, as do we. So why should the locals be suspicious of us? What’s the difference? Aren’t we acceptable?” Gus tried to make a joke. “Aren’t we lovable? At least I think I am.”

“The Quakers might think you’re lovable,” Millie laughed. “They’re the ones who accept everyone.”

“ You have your information wrong,” I said. “The Quakers are  known for not taking up arms. The Amish, the ones in this area, live their lives without modern technology. I’m sure that, if we talked to them, they would have differing opinions on just about everything. The crazy thing is that the Amish and the townspeople get along … to co-exist. But us, we’re seen as a threat.” 

“So, which is the group that loves one another and turns the other cheek when struck?” 

“Um, Millie,” I said. “Since we’re all Christians, that would be us. You should know that.” 

Erica pointed to me. “Hey, be nice to my cousin.”  

I didn’t care for that gesture, and Gus noticed my frown as he picked up a sandwich. 

“Hey guys,” he said, trying to make the air lighthearted. “I guess that explains the threatening looks we get.” He took a bite. “We’re Christians.” He mimicked the Roman Emperor’s thumbs down sign. “Into the Coliseum with Mike!”

I threw my arms up. “Great, now I’m being thrown to the lions for trying to enlighten you.”

“The locals looked at us weird, not because of our clothes, but because they assume we’re all against the war,” Erica stared at the wine bottle before her, lost in thought, similar to the night near Washington Square by the memorial to the Triangle Fire. “They sure don’t approve.” 

“Enough!” Millie countered, glaring at Erica. “Please, can we get off the politics? I don’t want to talk about this.”

 I spoke up. “This place is new and strange to us. Maybe for the locals, they see us the same way. They’re not used to seeing outsiders like us; therefore, it’s disconcerting for them.” Instead of shutting up, I added, “I bet most of them are against the war, too.”

“Damn it, Mike!” Erica snapped. “How do you come up with that? Most citizens in this nation support the conflict. You know, what President Nixon calls the Silent Majority.”

“You don’t know that,” I shot back. Raising her voice at me  pissed me off. “We young people in this country have a movement going, and it’s growing by the day.”

“No, Mike, you are wrong. You protesters make all the noise and get the headlines, and, in turn, appear more numerous and important than you are.”

“What are you saying?” I got up, the wine making my legs wobble. “It’s phony? Is it just a few people? Look around you; we’re everywhere. Zillions of us!”

Erica rose as well, her hands leaning against the table. “My God, Mike, it’s one thing to be a dreamer, but now you’re being delusional.”

I stepped around the table and went right up to her. “Dreamer? Delusional? Do you think I’m a dreamer? Your beloved cousin who is overseas,fighting for a lost cause,he’s the dreamer. God forbid; he dies. His sacrifice will be a delusional act. But his death would most certainly not be an illusion!”

Her hand whipped across my face. “That’s Millie’s brother you’re talking about!” One of her fingernails, sharp as a drill point, tore into my skin. It dragged across, carving a line of blood near my mouth. I grabbed her wrists.

“Mike!” Gus jumped up and pulled me away from Erica. “Cool off! That’s your girl. You don’t talk to her like that! She supports the war; you’re the pacifist. And you’re the one who looks like he’s going to strike her.” He pushed me further back. “Don’t be an asshole. Don’t go near her until you come to your senses. Start by not drinking anymore. All of you, stop drinking.”

Millie huddled around Erica and took her arm. She led her along the hillside, away from us. I took out a handkerchief and blotted the blood on my face. From his backpack, Gus withdrew a small bottle of iodine and dripped a little on the wound to help disinfect it.

We became two separate groups and barely spoke to each other as the night deepened. There were no lights in this region, and the ride to a motel was as silent as the pitch-black roads.

We didn’t spend the night together and never made it to Gettysburg. At the motel, the girls took one room, and we guys took the other. I didn’t sleep well, and as the sun began to rise, I went out, beyond the parking lot, and gazed at the scenery. Soon, Erica came out and stood a short distance away, also contemplating the rolling terrain and some cows and sheep in the distance.

I raised my voice. “You’re right. You don’t see this in Queens.” I stepped slowly toward her. “I’m truly sorry for what I said last night. It was awful.” She took equal strides away from me. I stopped. “Gus should have socked me a few times. I deserved it.”

After a minute, with a soft blowing wind the only sound between us, she motioned to me to come over.  When I reached her, she took her finger and traced the long scratch on the side of my face. “I got a good shot in.”

“And it stings like hell.”

“Good, you earned it.” She was not joking. I nodded. 

“No challenge from me on that.”

She turned her back on me to gaze at the countryside. We then started to walk along the road, remaining silent and shielding our eyes, while taking in the sunrise. I watched the wind blow her hair. We stopped, and she placed her hand on my shoulder.  “Look at how beautiful these places are. This is what we fight for and preserve.”

She pauses, taking in the view for several silent moments. “Mike, I think this war will divide us forever. You and me. We don’t see eye to eye and can’t avoid arguing about it. I don’t think we ever will. I still love you, but Millie’s right. I fall in love too fast. I’m anxious about us. We can’t avoid it. This is bound to explode and consume us.”

Both of us had no clue about how right she was. I went over and kissed her. “I’m so sorry.”

The car ride home was somber. The girls sat in the back and said little to us. I tried apologizing to Millie, but she wouldn’t even make eye contact with me. It would have been a sign of wisdom for Erica and me to have ended it there and part as friends, instead of enemies.

We had less than three weeks left.

***

Our relationship reverted to earlier, more casual dates as if trying to rewind and start over. But things had changed. Millie kept insisting Erica drop me. In hindsight, I guess we were trying to have it both ways. Go to a school event or party, be together, and ignore the political elephant sitting between us.

“How about,” I suggested, “when school ends  we sneak away and make up for the missed night we planned.”

“I don’t think so. I won’t risk my emotions on that. Things are too fragile between us. I need more time to see what happens before we go there.” Then, on April 30, 1970, President Nixon went on TV. He announced that US forces had crossed into Cambodia, a country that, in terms of policy, was off limits to us to try and eliminate North Vietnam troops there. My nightmare about the war expanding was happening.  

Gus and I were in a bar the next night. I banged my mug on the table, splashing some of the beer on myself. “I don’t believe it. It keeps getting worse.”

“Need to control yourself, man.” He raised his hands. “You gotta have patience.”

I pointed to the TV above the bar, showing the late news. “How can I have patience when you hear what Nixon did?”

“Have another beer.” 

“Nah.”

“Well, Mike, get a load of this. You won’t believe who called me.” 

“I have no clue,” I replied. “Who called you?”

“Millie, Erica’s cousin. She asked me to go see her play basketball.”

“Really? That is a surprise. That’s like asking you on a date. Erica sort of set our second date before I could ask her, but this is different. Millie actually called you up. I’ve heard about girls asking guys out, but you’re the first person I know that it’s happened to. What’s the world coming to?”

“At her party, I didn’t have any hots for her, but after our awful Pennsylvania weekend, I found myself kind of thinking about her.”

“Good for you, Gus, but what about the war? What are we going to do about it?” 

“You think I should bring flowers? Or is that too forward?”

“Yeah, sure, why not? But what about the war?”

He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know. I’m against it, of course, but try to understand that my old man always brought me up to respect the government … to be a loyal American. And, in Scouts, those ideals are reinforced. For now, all I know is that as long as I am in school, they won’t draft me. I’m safe for now.”

My buddy just didn’t feel the same way about things. He wasn’t fully committed.  “Gus, how long is this war going to go on? Think of it. My Civil War class is all about the 1860s when the country split in two. Now, today, it’s happening again. Are we going to be fighting 50 years from now? Is this country going to be divided then?”

“They are bringing a large contingent of troops home. They did announce that the other day,” Gus offered as if that could placate me.

“It still leaves over 300,000 soldiers there. In the meantime, they’ve stretched the war into Laos, and now Cambodia. I don’t care that they say it’s a temporary thing. It’s getting wider and bigger.”

Gus threw his arms up. “Well then, what is Mike, the firebrand, going to do?” 

“I don’t know. Maybe impale myself on the White House fence.”

The next day, I had a better choice. The president’s decision resulted in outrage across the country, especially among students, but also from commentators and critics of the war. Protest marches were scheduled all over the nation. Over the weekend, I joined one that commenced at Washington Square Park. Signs and banners that shouted “Bring the troops home” and “End the war now!” hovered over us as we made our way to Union Square, a half-mile north. Erica wasn’t aware of my being in it  because she and her parents were in South Carolina to attend a wedding. She agreed to get together after school on Monday and if the weather held out, to go down to Astoria Park for a picnic dinner. 

The climate cooperated, and at the park, we looked for a spot to sit. The easy hill sloped down to the water, which was framed by the two bridges that crossed the East River into Manhattan.

Barges, sloops, and motorboats navigated up and down the powerful flow. We set a blanket, a bottle of wine, and a radio down beneath a large tree. In full bloom, the tree’s white flowers formed a soft, wavy canopy above us. A familiar fragrance drifted down, but I couldn’t put my finger on what it was.

“Erica, what kind of tree is this?”

“Dogwood.”

I recalled the bus ride after Love Story when her head lay on my shoulder and the night in Washington Square when I tried to cheer her up by guessing the fragrance in her hair. Those memories were crystal clear. I would never forget them.  “That’s it! That’s what your hair smells like.”

She smiled and said, “Millie invited Gus to one of her games.”

“I know. I was surprised. I didn’t think there was anything between them.”

She opened a bag of chips. “She considered him a doofus until he stood up for me that night in Lancaster. It really impressed her. He earned her respect for that.”

I tried to think of something clever. “Well, maybe she can teach him some basketball.”

“And he can teach her how to tie a square knot.” Erica poured wine into a pair of plastic cups. “Here’s to a new romance.”

“Ours or theirs?”

The instrumental theme to Love Story came on the radio. “Our song!” I leaned over and kissed her. “Here’s to the night we saw the film, where we first heard it.”

“Yes,” she laughed. “The song was the only thing you liked about that movie.” She turned dreamy.  “Whenever I hear it,  I connect it with that night. I think I always will.”

She took a sip and half-smiled as if knowing something was about to happen. Of course, she did not, but, in retrospect, her reaction should have been no surprise.

Even though the city buildings blocked part of the sunset, the diminishing light glowed between the skyscrapers and turned the sky bright red with streaks of purple and blue. Erica leaned back against the tree.

“Can I lay my head  on your lap?” In better times, I would not have asked, but I was uncertain. I hoped some form of physical contact could bring us closer again.

She considered it, and finally, said, “Sure.” I placed my head down across her jeans and stretched my legs out onto the grass. Across the river, as the tune continued, we watched the sun descend. 

We still had time left.

In a minute, the serenity would end. The song on the radio would not finish; a reporter would interrupt. The piece of paradise we now shared had a ghostly harpoon, an invisible javelin—a spectral missile hurling down at us. Once it struck, it would split us apart for good. However, the spirit had not broken yet; it remained soft and tranquil.

We still had time left. The sun, halfway down, shimmered red. 

In moments, a  newsman would cut off the music and would report that at an antiwar protest at Ohio’s Kent State College, the National Guard had fired their weapons. That four students, protesting the war, were shot. That they were shot dead. That nine others were wounded. That outrage, horror, and disbelief would follow. That thousands of college students across the nation would go on strike. That the war would drag on for another five years. That when Erica turned to me and said, “Mike, calm down, I’m sure it’s an unfortunate accident.” I became enraged. 

That the two of us could no longer find a middle ground and suppress our divisions. That we would lash out at each other, right there in the park, in full earshot of strangers, shouting about loyalty and betrayal. It did not matter that we both might be right and both might be wrong. That we would storm out along a park walk, and when it forked into two directions, we would split off, out of each other’s lives forever.

We still had time left. The missile, the spike, in the guise of the news bulletin, had not struck yet. As the sun dipped and its beams split and fired their rays between the spaces of the offices and dwellings, Erica and I took in the air as it floated up from the river, humming along to the melody. Looking up, I inhaled the fragrance of the dogwoods, gazing at the clusters of white petals above her, turning into shades of mauve.

With one hand, Erica covered her eyes. With the other, her fingers touched my forehead. Then gently, slowly, she brought her hand down, like a curtain falling, over my eyes.

We both were sheltered, for one more moment, from the blinding rays of the setting sun.