Loss of Innocence by Richard North Patterson Page A

the war why you worked for Bobby?”
    “There were several reasons, some balled up in the war. The Americans dying in Vietnam are mostly black or poor. And the Vietnamese are funny little brown people, easier to kill without thinking about them much. Do you really think we’d be napalming the French?”
    “I couldn’t say,” Whitney responded mildly. “We did a pretty good job of firebombing Dresden.”
    He gave her a brief keen look. “A fair point,” he said. “Except that I get letters from a high school friend who had to leave college and got stuck in Vietnam. Johnny and his buddies are scared out of their minds, some screwed up on drugs, and ended up doing some bad stuff no one talks about. Hard to blame them. But what’s left is a body count of ‘enemies’ on the evening news.”
    Whitney recalled wondering how our troops could kill so many and make so little progress. “You really think you’ll have to go?”
    “You mean like there’s a choice? Or are you talking about Canada?”
    Once more, she felt discomfort at Peter’s privileged status. “Canada, I guess.”
    “I’m an American,” Ben answered with the edge of scorn. “I worked for Bobby because he cared about a lot of things—like raceand poverty. That was worth the risk of dropping out. Canada is for the kids who hope McCarthy can save their lily-white asses.”
    Silent, Whitney watched the seagull skittering on the sand nearby, hoping for a bite of discarded sandwich. On reflection, Ben’s caustic words echoed with the half-serious joke of her college friends: “If they kill all the guys we know, who’ll be left to marry?” Some went to rallies; others to candlelight vigils. But their chief concerns were personal. Perhaps Charles’s advice to Richard Nixon had been right. “My dad thinks that if the draft went away, the protests would, too.”
    Ben glanced at her with sharpened interest. “Why not? Then our ruling class can fight their wars with other people’s kids. Not that I don’t grasp the virtues of survival—you’re a long time dead, and as near as I can tell there’s no future in it. I just decided that avoiding death is not the point of living.”
    Whitney had no response to this. Sitting back, Ben rested on flattened palms as he squinted at the water. Covertly, Whitney studied his clean jawline and strong nose, the profile of a warrior on a coin. Unlike Peter, there seemed to be little gentleness in him. “So,” Ben said abruptly, “is your fiancé going to work? Or is he sweating out the war?”
    Reluctant, Whitney answered, “He’s found a job on Wall Street.”
    “Impressive. Which firm?”
    “Padgett Dane.”
    “As in ‘Whitney Dane’?” Ben queried with a smile. “Wonder how he survived the application process. Still, isn’t he worried about the draft?”
    Whitney wondered how to stop this conversation. At length, she said, “He’s going into the National Guard.”
    Ben laughed out loud. “Who arranged that, I wonder?”
    “Wonder all you like,” Whitney snapped. “Just tell me when it’s over.”
    “It’s over,” he said amiably. “I just don’t think your fiancé will be writing a supplement to
Profiles in Courage
.”
    Angry, Whitney stared at him. “On Dogfish Bar I could simply walk away. But on this boat you’ve got a captive audience. So I hope you’re enjoying this conversation—if that’s what this is. I’m not.”
    Ben raised his hands in mock surrender. “I apologize for offending you,” he said in a tone so penitent it was nothing of the kind. “Far be it from me to disparage the man of your dreams.”
    “You really are obnoxious,” she retorted coldly. “I’m sorry about your life but more than happy with mine.”
    “Did I say you weren’t?” he said, then skipped a beat. “What kind of life, by the way? Will you be working?”
    “Thanks for your interest,” Whitney said, and then decided to annoy him further. “Perhaps, as my mother says, I can ‘use my