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history, art. He’d talked about going on to study archaeology or history; he’d talked about becoming a classics professor himself. He’d talked about law school and following his father’s path.
    Lydia was proud of his wide interests. She was proud that he’d moved into regions that were unknown to her, mastering knowledge that would never be hers. This was one of the delights of being a parent, wasn’t it? Watching your children stride steadily past, outstripping you, knowing that they were carrying on the life of the family—whatever it was, the essence, genes, some kind of tribal presence—into another region, one that was distant, rich, remote. Astrophysics, intellectual property, ancient Greece: places where her mind would never go would be explored by her children.
    Lydia waited, ready to applaud Conrad’s decision. This was like unwrapping a present.
    â€œI’m joining the Marines,” Conrad said. His arms were crossed like a barricade across his chest.
    Marshall sat up straight and carefully folded the paper closed. His eyes were pale and intent, like a benevolent hawk’s.
    â€œThe Marines?” Lydia said, stunned. Her mind went blank. “The real ones?” she asked stupidly. She had no idea what she meant. She tried to think what exactly they were. Why were they called that, marine ? What connection did they have to the sea? Why did they wear those white gloves?
    â€œThe real ones.” Conrad looked from one to the other.
    â€œWell,” Marshall said soberly. “That’s quite a decision.”
    â€œWhen do you go?” asked Lydia.
    â€œRight after school, this summer, I’ll go to officers’ training school at Quantico,” Conrad said. “Next year, after graduation, I’ll go in for good.”
    â€œQuantico,” Lydia repeated, mystified. For good? How could it be good?
    â€œThat’s where the training school for officers is,” Conrad said. “It’s in Virginia.” There was pride in his voice: another shock for Lydia. He was proud of this.
    â€œTell us more, Con.” Marshall folded his hands on top of the paper. “Tell us why you’ve decided on this.”
    â€œSo, I want to do something big. I don’t want to just go into some graduate school and get another degree. I want to do something that has consequences. This is the biggest challenge I know,” said Conrad. “I want to see if I can do it.”
    Marshall nodded. “I can understand that.”
    Lydia looked at him, betrayed. Marshall had nearly gone to jail for protesting the war: How could he suddenly understand this strange martial urge? The wish to join the Marines.
    All of it bewildered Lydia: the pride in Conrad’s voice, the understanding in Marshall’s. Suddenly she was confused and excluded. This was something the two of them seemed to have been sharing all along, a private language she didn’t speak. She’d thought they’d all shared the same world, but they had not. Her son, her husband: Where had they been leading this secret life? The one that only they knew about.
    â€œThis is a big change, isn’t it,” she asked, “from majoring in classics?”
    She tried to sound supportive and interested instead of appalled and frightened. Conrad was an intellectual; how could he choose to enter a totalitarian system? And he was compassionate. She remembered him as a child, coming into the kitchen and carrying a tiny wounded rabbit, soft in his hands, bright-eyed and desperate. Rabbits, chipmunks, snakes—Conrad was the one who tried to save them all. Saving had been his mission. Why would he now choose a world of violence and killing?
    And anyway, weren’t the Marines a last resort—for misfits, people who were so violent and misanthropic they couldn’t function in the outside world? Weren’t they for someone who needed a rigid iron rule to suppress