Death Coming Up the Hill

All rights reserved. For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.

www.hmhco.com

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Crowe, Chris.

Death coming up the hill / Chris Crowe.

pagesÂ cm

Summary: Ashe Douglas keeps a weekly record of historical and personal events in 1968, the year he turns seventeen, including the escalating war in Vietnam; assassinations, rampant racism, and rioting; his first girlfriend; his parents' separation; and a longed-for sister.

ISBN 978-0-544-30215-0

[1. Novels in verse. 2. Coming of ageâFiction. 3. Vietnam War, 1961â1975âFiction. 4. Social changeâFiction. 5. Family problemsâFiction. 6. Dating (Social customs)âFiction. 7. United StatesâHistoryâ1961â1969âFiction.] I. Title.

PZ7.5.C79De 2014

[Fic]âdc23

2013042812

eISBN 978-0-544-30174-0
v1.1014

976

for the 16,592

in 1968

April 1969

Week Fifteen: 204

There's something tidy

in seventeen syllables,

a haiku neatness

that leaves craters of

meaning between the lines but

still communicates

what matters most. I

don't have the time or the space

to write more, so I'll

write what needs to be

remembered and leave it to

you to fill in the

gaps if you feel like

it. In 1968,

sixteen thousand five

hundred ninety-two

American soldiers died

in Vietnam, and

I'm dedicating

one syllable to each soul

as I record my

own losses suffered

in 1968, a

year like no other.

January 1968

Week One: 184

The trouble started

on New Year's Eve when Mom came

home late. Way too late.

Worry about Momâ

and about Dadâknotted my

gut while Dad paced the

living room like a

panther ready to pounce. “Where

the hell is she, Ashe?

Those damn activists .Â .Â .

I shouldn't have let her go.

Well, that's the last time,

the absolute last

time she mixes with trouble-

makers. It ends now!”

He looked at me like

it was somehow
my
fault, but

I knew better. He

had to blame someone,

and I became an easy

target. But it made

me angry at himâ

and at Mom, too. Why couldn't

they just get along?

What I wished for the

new year was peace at home, in

Vietnam, and the

world. A normal life.

Was that too much to ask for?

The door creaked open,

Mom stepped in, and Dad

pounced. I crept up the stairs, closed

my door, and tuned out.

âÂ Â âÂ Â â

Later, Mom tapped on

my door and came in, timid

as a new kid late

to school. And she smiled

even though she'd just had a

knock-down, drag-out with

Dad. There was a light

in her that I hadn't seen

in a long, long time.

She wanted to check

on me, to make sure I was

okay, to tell me

that May 17,

1951, was the

best day of her life

because it was the

day I was born, and even

though things had been rough,

she had no regrets.

Not one. Then she hugged me and

whispered that maybe,

just maybe, there was

light at the end of this dark

tunnel. “You never

know what's coming up

the hill,” she said, then left me

alone, worrying.

January 1968

Week Two: 278

Even though he won't

admit it, I blew up my

dad's football career.

They say he had a

future in the NFL,

but his senior year

at the U of A

he quit football because he

got my mom pregnant.

Mom's parents disowned

her, and to them, she and I

no longer exist.

She has a scrapbook

filled with photos and clippings

of Dad when he played

defensive back for

the Arizona Wildcats,

and my favorite

action photo shows

him leaping and reaching for

an interception.

The camera had caught

him right when he snagged the ball.

His head's back, and you

can't see his face, but

you can see his taut forearms

knotted with muscle

and the big number

seventeen on his jersey.

Even as a kid,

I recognized the

strength and grace in that picture,

and I knew he'd been

special, talented,

and I made up my mind to

be like him one day.

Maybe I'd never

be as good as he was, but

I thought that if I

worked hard and became

a great athlete, somehow that

would make up for his

loss. It turned out I

was wrong. I never had to

prove anything to

Dad. His love for me

was as sure and solid as

the U.S. Marines.

Too bad he didn't

feel that way about Mom. He

resented her for

the mistake that killed

his football career, the same

mistake that forced him

to marry her. Back

in 1950, things worked

that way: if a guy

knocked up a girl, he

married her to make it right.

It doesn't happen

like that nowadays.

It's 1968, and

young people believe

in free love, and there

are plenty of ways to take

care of a mistake.

By getting married,

Mom and Dad did the right thing,

and they have been good

parents to me, and

I'm grateful to them both for

putting up with each

other for my sake.

I wish there was some way I

could make it right, make

them
right, but ending

the long, cold war between them

was as likely as

a black man being

elected president of

the United States.

It's not going to

happen, but, man, wouldn't it

be great if it did?

January 1968

Week Three: 218

Mr. Ruby, my

U.S. history teacher,

wrote a number on

the board to begin

every class. Today it was

“two hundred eighteen.”

His gray hair was slicked

back, like always, and his shirt-

sleeves were rolled up, like

always. The faded

Marine tattoo inside his

wrist showed while he wrote

on the board. Then he

asked, “What's the significance

of this number?” I

didn't respond, but

I knew exactly what it

meant. I read the news.

Every Thursday,
The

Phoenix Gazette
reported

the casualties

from the previous

week. But nobody in class

knew that. They guessed all

kinds of dumb answers,

and no one even came close.

They don't like thinking

about dead soldiers

in Vietnam; neither did

I, but I couldn't

help looking for that

news article every week

and skimming it for

the casualty

report. Usually it's

just numbers, but if

some guy from Tempe

or Mesa or Phoenix was

killed, they'll mention his

name and maybe print

a photo of him dressed in

his uniform and

staring like he's dead

serious. Well, now he's just

dead. Looking into

his steely gaze made

me feel hollow, sick, and sad.

I looked anyway.

January 1968

Week Four: 471

Things mellowed out at

home. Motorola kept Dad

busy, and Mom stopped

attending rallies

at ASU. She's not a

hippie or some kind

of freak, she just feels

too much. What's going on in

Vietnam sickens

her, and what's going

on in America makes

her sick, too. Well, it

doesn't really make

her sick, it makes her
mad.
And

when she's mad, she's got

to do something, and

back then, that something had been

attending protest

rallies in Phoenix

or over at ASU.

Most nights she was gone,

and that really burned

Dad and ignited a war

at home. I learned how

to navigate the

no man's land between them, but

then for some reason

their tactics changed, and

instead of battling, they

ignored each other.

Something on New Year's

Eve changed Mom; she seemed to have

finally found peace.

âÂ Â âÂ Â â

How does a guy deal

with being torn between two

people he loves? I

knew I was lucky

that I hadn't had to choose

between Mom and Dad.

They're opposites thrown

together because of me,

and they had managed

to keep a shaky

truce for so many years. But

it was difficult.

My dad was a flag-

waving hawk who thought it was

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