June, 1967

When God created the world, he only afforded Michigan just so many good-weather days. He caused the bookends of the year to be winter and the months between to be warm enough for the earth to almost thaw before it was to freeze solid once again.

And somehow, in his infinite wisdom he had chosen to call it good.

In the deepest of winter, I often questioned the soundness of mind that made my ancestors think that Michigan was a good and fine place to settle. But it was in spring, when the whole world came back alive and I forgot the cold, that I swore to never leave my home state. Leaves turned the forests back to green, and flowers speckled bright red and yellow and orange across the lawns and fields. Purple lilacs bloomed on the bush below my bedroom window, smelling like heaven itself. Finches molted tawny feathers to show off their brilliant goldenrod. Robins returned with their trilling song, and just-hatched chicks peeped from their nests, discarding pretty blue shells on the ground.

Every year it caught me by surprise, the return of life to Fort Colson. But by June I'd fallen into the routine of longer days and leaving my jacket at home, letting the sun warm my bare arms.

I certainly would have liked to enjoy the sunshine. Instead, I stood looking out the big window of Bernie's Diner, dripping washrag in hand, wishing the view was of something other than the five-and-dime across the street. It was the perfect day for sitting on a dock, dipping my toes into the waters of Chippewa Lake.

Old Chip. That was what my brothers and I called it. Where we all learned how to swim and row a canoe and catch fish. Growing up without Frank around hadn't been a walk in the park. But having a mother who was unafraid of getting muddy and hooking a worm on the line made it a little bit easier. Especially for my brothers.

The sound of clattering pots or pans from the kitchen snapped my attention back to my job. I wrung the extra water from my rag and scrubbed down the tabletops, wiping away the breakfast crumbs to make way for the lunch plates. A couple of girls I knew from high school walked along the sidewalk past the diner window, wearing minidresses and bug-eyed sunglasses that seemed all the rage that year.

Using my knuckle, I pushed up my plastic-framed glasses and hoped they wouldn't notice me. Bernie's dress code only allowed white button-up shirts and slacks — no jeans. On my own I was a certifiable L7 square. The uniform didn't help matters at all.

The girls looked in through the window. Sally Gaines with the perfectly coiffed auburn bouffant and Caroline Mann with her diamond engagement ring sparkling in the sunshine. Sally's mouth broke into an impossibly perfect smile and she waved, her fingers wiggling next to her face.

I knew that it was not meant for me. As far as girls like Sally and Caroline were concerned, I was less than invisible. I didn't even exist.

Turning, I saw my brother behind the counter, lowering a crate of freshly washed glasses to rest beside the Coca-Cola fountain. The glasses clinked together, but delicately, sounding just a little bit like chimes.

"You have an admirer," I said, stepping away from the window.

"Great," he said, thick sarcasm in his voice. Not looking up at the girls, he took one of the glasses and put it under the fountain, pulling half a glass of pop for himself. "They're good tippers at least."

"For you." I watched him take a few drinks of the Coke before moving on to setting the tables with silverware wrapped in paper napkins. "I don't have the advantage of flirting with them."

"You've got a point," he said. "I am charming."

"And I'm a nerd."

"Nah, you're peachy keen."

"Well, thanks." I looked back to where the girls had stood. They were already gone.

"I have my meeting today," Mike said, finishing off the last of his pop. "The one I told you about."

"When?"

"After lunch. Bernie told me I could leave a little early."

"Did you tell him what it's about?"

"No." Mike put his empty glass on the counter. He lowered his voice to just above a whisper. "I kind of gave him the impression that it's a doctor's appointment."

"And he bought it?" I asked. "You know you're the worst liar in the world, don't you?"

"He didn't seem to doubt me." He poured himself another half glass of pop and drank it all at once. "I didn't want him trying to talk me out of it."

"Do you really have to do this?" I asked.

"Yeah," he answered, covering a silent burp with his fist. "Unless you have any other ideas."

"Canada's only a few hours away."

He raised his eyebrows and made a humming sound. "I'm not sure that's a great option."

"What did Mom say?"

Shrugging, he walked around the counter, checking the ketchup bottles from the tables to see which needed refilling. He carried the half-full ones back to the counter in the crook of his arm.

"You told her, didn't you?" I asked. "Please tell me you did."

"Not exactly." He lined the bottles up on the counter.

"What do you mean by 'not exactly'?"

He cringed. "Not at all."

"Golly, Mike," I said, hoping it didn't sound too much like a scold. "You should have asked her about it. She might have had some ideas."

"I'm almost twenty, Annie. I'm an adult," he said, making his voice deeper. "It doesn't matter anyway. They're sending me whether I like it or not. I might as well just volunteer and at least have some say over things."

"I guess."

"She's going to be furious, though. I know she will be." He moved behind the counter again and wiped the bottles down with a wet rag. "I don't know how I'll tell Joel."

In the thirteen years since our baby brother was born, Joel loved no one as much as he did Mike. If he ever tired of such undying admiration, Mike rarely let on. He took to the role of big brother near perfectly.

"Why haven't you told him?" I asked.

"Gee, I don't know," Mike answered, uncapping the ketchup bottles. "I tried. I just didn't have the heart."

"You aren't abandoning him, if that's what you're worried about."

"Maybe that's it."

"Still, you have to tell them sometime."

"I will," he said. "Don't worry."

"The sooner the better," I said.

"I'll know more about what's going to happen after my meeting with the recruiter." He sighed. "It's a pickle, that's for sure."

"Maybe they won't want you."

"Come on, buddy, you're going to hurt my feelings."

"Oh, get out of here."

"Soon enough, sis." He turned toward the kitchen. "Soon enough I'll get out of here all the way to Vietnam."

* * *

If there was any consolation to be had for missing out on summer, it was that Bernie let me read during the lulls of the day, provided I had all my silverware wrapped and tables clean. I'd just settled onto the stool behind the cash register with book in hand when the bell over the door jingled with the arrival of someone. Regretfully, I shut the book and put it back on the counter. Scout Finch would just have to wait a little bit longer.

My mother stood just inside the door, purse hanging from her bent arm, and looking every bit the lady in her red blouse and tweed skirt. She'd worn her hair down that day with the ends in upturned curls.

She'd never been one to lie about her age. In fact, I'd heard her more than once brag about being over forty. "Just over," she'd say. The conversation inevitably...