Over dinner, she learned that Blue’s name had once been Bonnie, and that she’d grown up outside of Cleveland and attended OSU. Scout had once been Scott, and he and Devon had been graduate students at the U of M together before, as Scout put it, “we chose another path.” Bethie also learned that Scout’s main crop on the farm wasn’t corn or zucchini but marijuana, and that there was a lab set up in the basement where he was manufacturing acid, using the recipe that he and Dev had perfected in Ann Arbor. Bethie picked at her pasta, wishing the cavernous dining room were a little more brightly lit so that she’d be able to tell exactly what she was eating, and what was a mushroom and what was a dead fly. (“Hey, it’s protein,” Scout had said, after a slightly hysterical Connie told everyone that she thought she’d swallowed a beetle.) After dinner, the guys went down to the basement. Bethie could hear conversation and laughter floating up through the holes in the floor, while the girls did the dishes. Blue explained in an apologetic tone that they were a little short on beds and blankets and pillows, and there was only one functioning toilet in the house. “ ‘Functioning’ is a little generous, babe,” Scout said, climbing up the stairs with a joint burning between his fingertips. “Honestly, if you’ve just got to whiz, the woods are a better bet.”
Bethie tried to smile as Dev took her hand. “Come on,” he said, walking her toward the backyard. “There’s a tent.” Bethie followed him out into the darkness, hearing a mosquito whining in her ear, and almost tripping over an abandoned rake. You could be home right now, with a real bed and a functioning toilet, and a summer job selling sheets and towels at Hudson’s, she thought, and tried to tell herself that this was an adventure. When they rounded the corner, she saw that the tent was wonderful, like something out of a children’s book, a tall white triangle, its circular base covered in rugs and pillows, its canvas walls sheer enough to admit the moonlight’s glow. Bethie and Dev sat on a blanket, underneath the star-shot sky, smoking a joint. Dev laid a tab of acid on her tongue, and when they made love, Bethie could feel the world swirling around her, the dirt warm beneath her back, the silvery moon and the stars moving, in a stately waltz, above her head. The darkness hid the farmhouse’s peeling paint and broken shutters and the way the doors didn’t quite line up with the frames. Warm golden light shone through the windows, and in an upstairs bedroom, Bethie could see Blue holding Sky against her chest, sitting in a rocking chair, her lips moving as she sang him to sleep.
“Beautiful,” she murmured, as Dev rolled off her, taking her hand.
“What’s beautiful, Alice?” he asked.
“Everything,” she said, her voice dreamy, and Dev laughed and rolled her against him, tucking her into his arms. It was wonderful, being with Dev. Better than wonderful; it was fair. With her uncle, sex had been a thing taken from her. She and Dev took from each other and gave to each other in equal measure. It was just the way it should be. When he woke up, she would tell him that. She’d explain what had been done to her, and tell him how much he meant to her.
“I love you,” Bethie whispered, finally giving voice to the words she’d said in her head a hundred times. Devon held her, and didn’t answer. When Bethie rolled on her side to look at him, she saw that he’d fallen asleep. His eyes were closed, his mouth was open, his black hair tangled. Bethie combed her fingers through it and eased a pillow underneath his head. She knew that he loved her, even if he’d never said so. He told her she was beautiful all the time, and in the clearest sign of his affections, he never made her pay for the drugs he gave her, a courtesy she’d never seen him extend to anyone else.
Bethie decided that she would gladly abandon her dreams of fame and fortune as long as she could be with him, wherever he went. They would be wanderers, travelers, moving lightly through the world with nothing more than backpacks on their backs. Anyplace there was a college or a university, anyplace there was a concentration of young people who wanted to open their minds, Dev had friends, or could make them, and Bethie would be at his side. She couldn’t imagine being without him. She loved his lean body, his black beard, his glittering eyes, his smell. She loved how he called her Alice and pulled her onto his lap, as if she were no bigger than a doll. She loved how he had looked past her sprayed curls and her starched party dress and seen her adventurer’s heart. She loved him, and she would make him love her, if he didn’t already, and they would be together forever.
* * *
When Bethie woke up in the morning, the air in the tent was humid, and her skin was unpleasantly sticky. Devon was gone, the tent’s flap was open, and Bethie opened her eyes to see Sky staring down at her dispassionately. Someone had given him a shirt, a men’s undershirt that hung down past his knees. “I like your shirt,” Bethie said.
“It’s a dress,” Sky said disdainfully, and wandered off. Well, at least he didn’t pee on me, Bethie thought. There was that.
Bethie pulled on her own dress and inched into the sunshine. Connie hurried over to whisper, “You do not want to go in that bathroom. Believe me.” She gave a dramatic shudder, and Bethie went into the woods to do her business before joining Connie and Marjorie, who’d found a garden hose. The girls rinsed off for as long as they could stand it underneath the icy blast. The men were already piling things into the van. Scout gave them each an apple, “grown right here, on the land,” before they all climbed aboard and set out for Rhode Island.
On the first day, when there’d been five of them, they’d been tight but relatively comfortable. With seven adults and a squirmy toddler, the van felt unendurably crowded. Flip wanted to listen to music, like they had on the first leg, all of them singing, but as I-95 brought them closer to New York City, Devon insisted on the all-news station that delivered traffic reports every ten minutes. (“Isn’t it funny,” Connie murmured, “you put a guy behind the wheel of a car and he instantly turns into your dad?”) Two of the men sat up front, Dev behind the wheel and Scout in the passenger’s seat, riding in comfort while everyone else was shoulder to shoulder, thigh to thigh, with Sky in the very back of the van, on top of a pile of luggage, with his T-shirt hiked up to his waist, dreamily tugging his penis toward his feet, letting it snap back, and doing it again. (“I guess they don’t believe in giving him toys,” Connie whispered when Bethie alerted her to the situation. “He’s just making do with what he’s got.”) Bethie sat in the third row, in the middle seat, with her arms pressed tight against her body, smelling clary and lavender oil, marijuana and body odor. In spite of the smells and her discomfort, the pot and the pills Dev had given her that morning suffused her limbs with a pleasant heaviness, making her drowsy and content. She felt like a cat basking in the sunshine, and couldn’t wait until they arrived. Dev said they’d be able to pull a blanket up close enough to the stage so that they could hear. Bethie imagined it, being close enough to touch Odetta or Joan Baez as she curled up next to Dev, with his body warm against hers and his clever fingers combing through her hair.
* * *
Traffic slowed once they got off I-95 outside of Providence and made their way along the back roads to Newport. Dev steered the van through heavy traffic, over a suspension bridge that carried them over the water, toward the sprawling fairgrounds and the city’s downtown, and Bethie felt her heart speed up, eager for a glimpse of the Atlantic, which she’d never seen. She’d pleaded with Devon to drive them past Newport’s famous mansions, and he’d agreed, but from her seat in between the three other women she saw the grand summer houses in pieces—a glimpse of roof here, a peek of lawn there, a sliver of the glinting water, then just more cars. The sidewalks were full of people, some of the men in tie-dyed T-shirts or chambray work shirts, some of the women with bare feet and long dresses, or crowns of flowers in their hair. My people, Bethie thought. She couldn’t wait to jump out of the car and join the throngs. The drugs were still working, giving everything a honey-dipped glow, and everywhere she looked there were young people playing guitars or harmonicas, banjos or fiddles or even blowing into jugs, singi
ng, repeating lyrics back and forth, trading songs. As soon as Devon stopped the car, Bethie could hear the music, and feel it, too, the thudding of the bass and the pounding of the drums, through the windows and right up through her feet.
“C’mon,” she said to Marjorie, grabbing the other girl’s hand. They left the men to sort out the tents and found a concrete bathhouse with a row of stalls and sinks and mirrors made of polished metal. Bethie breathed through her mouth while she used the facilities, washing her hands and splashing water on her face. Marjorie stripped off her purple cotton tank top. She wasn’t wearing a bra, and Bethie saw her breasts, small and almost triangular, set far apart on her chest, with nipples that pointed toward her belly. Marjorie grabbed paper towels, squirted soap from the dispenser on top, and scrubbed her breasts, the back of her neck, and her underarms. “Ugh! That farm! That kid! That bathroom!”
“We’re here now,” said Bethie, feeling a smile stretch her face. Outside, the crowd swept them up and carried them toward a makeshift-looking wooden stage. And there was Joan Baez, surprisingly small and slender, with her wavy hair blowing and her dark eyes wide and intent, standing in front of the red-and-white-striped backdrop, singing “Long Black Veil.” “Look what I’ve got,” Marjorie whispered, reaching into her pocket. Marjorie had wide hips and narrow shoulders and big, slightly bulgy blue eyes that made her look a little like a frog. But a friendly frog, Bethie thought, as Marjorie opened her hand to reveal two squares of acid, both of them stamped with a cartoon likeness of Goofy.
“Is it Dev’s?” Bethie asked. Marjorie nodded. Without hesitation, Bethie slipped the tab on her tongue. The bitterness should have been the first hint that something was off—Dev’s blotter was normally tasteless, or even slightly sweet. This stuff made her face crinkle, and she had to struggle not to spit it out, but Marjorie seemed fine, so Bethie let the tab dissolve and waited for the drugs and the music to take her somewhere wonderful.
Time passed. Bethie could not have said how much. Instead of feeling the familiar upswelling of bliss, she felt a rising unease, the sourness in her mouth gathering into a sensation of foreboding in her belly. When she felt hands grabbing at her from behind, she turned around. “Hey!” The man who’d touched her raised his hands, grinning at her, palms out in the universal gesture of apology. He had bare feet, crusted with dirt, and blue jeans, but on top of them he wore a white lab coat, and above that Bethie saw her Uncle Mel’s face, floating in the twilight. Her mouth dropped open. Uncle Mel reached out and squeezed her breast, hard enough to hurt.
Not real, Bethie thought. Dev had told her what to do if she ever ended up on a bad trip. Breathe. Keep calm. Go somewhere safe. Hold still and wait. I’ll find you, and I’ll take care of you. Remember that nothing you are seeing is real. Bethie breathed in and out slowly, once, twice, three times, before turning to her right, looking for Marjorie. But Marjorie wasn’t there. In her place was Cheryl Goldfarb, wearing Queen Esther’s crown. “I was better than you were,” Cheryl said, through her red-lipsticked mouth. “They only gave you the part because everyone felt so sorry for you because your dad was dead.” Of course, that didn’t make sense—Bethie’s father hadn’t been dead when she’d been Queen Esther; he’d been at the performance, cheering for her. Bethie turned away, pushing through the crowd, as someone whispered slut and someone else whispered fat-ass.
Bethie kept moving, eyes down, ignoring the voices that called her names, who said that she was a whore and a liar and not as talented as Cheryl Goldfarb. The air felt thick and clinging and hard to breathe. A black cat with green eyes and white socks on its forepaws began to follow her, padding along at her side. A gray-and-black calico cat joined in behind the black cat, and an orange tabby fell in line. Next came a sleek gray cat with a white shield on its chest, and a fluffy brown cat with its fur wild and tangled. Bethie stopped, turned around, and looked at the cats, blinking. The cats sat down in a row and blinked back.
Not real, she thought, walking more quickly, until she was jogging, then running, and every time she turned there were more cats, dozens of them, an army of cats following her on their little feet, which so cunningly hid their claws. Queen of the cats, she thought, and remembered the Cheshire Cat in Alice in Wonderland. He told Alice he would see her again when she played croquet with the Queen.
Bethie stopped to catch her breath and looked around, trying to remember where the van had been. Somehow, she finally found a tree that looked familiar, and a car she recognized, a little VW Bug painted cheery blue. Three rows past the Bug was the Vanagon, with Sky standing guard by the driver’s seat. He was naked again, his white T-shirt puddled at his feet, and he stared at her with his dirty fingers plugged into his mouth. Bethie pressed her hand against the stitch in her side, trying to catch her breath. “Hi, honey,” she said, when she could speak again. The little boy stared at her blankly. Or maybe he was looking behind her. Bethie was afraid to turn around to see if the cats were still there. “You took off your dress.”
“It’s a shirt,” said the boy, lifting his nose disdainfully into the air.
“Do you know where Devon is?” She realized, as soon as she’d spoken, that the boy was unlikely to even know who Devon was, let alone where. Sky gave an indifferent shrug. Bethie reached for the van’s door.
The metal handle was feverishly hot against her palm as she gripped it. Bethie dragged the door open, feeling it grind on its tracks. A cloud of smoke came billowing out into the open air, along with the scent of pot and sweat, but when Bethie peered into the van’s dim interior, no one was there. Bethie turned, looking left, then right. Sky had vanished and she was all alone. She kept walking, head down, pushing past the barefoot girls and boys with harmonicas and tambourines. Johnny Cash was singing, still. “A, B, C, W, X, Y, Z, the cat’s in the cupboard but he don’t see me.” The music was moving all around her, it was twining like vines around her ankles and wrists and waist and throat, it was tripping her, choking her, and Bethie could taste blood in her throat, like hot copper. I want my mom, she thought. I want my sister. I want someone to save me. I want to go home.
“Hey!”
A boy fell out of the sky and landed in a crouch right in front of her. Bethie gave a little scream, jumping backward, and the boy straightened up, laughing. “Don’t be scared, I was just . . .” He pointed up. Bethie followed the path of his finger. There was a tree, and the tree was full of people, boys and girls who’d climbed up to straddle the branches, to get a better view of the stage.
“Oh,” she said. The boy put his hand on the small of her back, smiling. In the glimmering near-darkness, Bethie saw white skin, dark eyes, and beads around his neck. “Come with me,” he said. “You look like you could use some taking care of.” Bethie let him move her past the tree into a field, where there was a tent, and a group of boys, and sleeping bags, unzipped and spread out on the ground.
All she wanted to do was lie down, close her eyes, and wait for this terrible night to be over. “Don’t worry,” the boy was saying, “you’ll be fine. Bad trip? Bummer,” he said, when she nodded. She went with him, following along, weak with gratitude, letting him help her into a spot on the sleeping bags, as two, three, and finally four boys dropped out of the tree and came to join them. She shut her eyes, willing the world to stop spinning. It wasn’t until the first boy had her dress off, one hand over her mouth, clamping off her screams, and the other hand working between her legs that Bethie realized she’d made a terrible mistake.
Jo
Jo woke to the feeling of something shaking her in the shoulder, and Shelley’s insistent voice saying, “Look at this.” When Jo didn’t open her eyes, Shelley rolled the magazine into a tube and poked Jo’s shoulder and the side of her head.
“Five more minutes,” Jo murmured. She was still half-asleep, her eyelids heavy, her limbs warm and relaxed in the warmth beneath the covers in the bedroom of Shelley’s apartment, which her parents had allowed her to keep over the summer. In her dream, there’d been an
old woman, a rambling mansion with turrets and towers and gingerbread trim. Was the mansion her prison? Was it a paradise she’d worked her whole life to obtain? Was the house somehow magical, letting her live different versions of her life from start to finish, then sending her back to the beginning again? In her head, Jo began to gather the threads that she could tie into a story, maybe one she could submit to the school’s literary magazine. After Shelley poked her again Jo sat up and looked at the page Shelley held open. It was an ad for the Peace Corps, black text on a yellow background. NOW THAT YOU HAVE A DEGREE, GET AN EDUCATION, it read.
“Shelley,” Jo said, struggling to keep her voice steady, even when what she wanted to do was rip the magazine out of Shelley’s hands and throw it at the wall. “We have a plan. Remember?”
Jo was ready to move to New York and start her life as a writer, with Shelley at her side, but Shelley had sidestepped and made excuses and had finally announced that what she wanted to do was travel; to take one big trip and see the world before they settled down. “My treat,” she’d insisted, and Jo had agreed to let her pay for the tickets. On August 14, they’d take their backpacks and board the plane to London. They’d see India and Turkey and Iran and Nepal; they would stay in an ashram in Goa and climb mountains in Tibet and float together in the sunshine in the warm waters of the Indian Sea. They had their tickets, a timetable for the buses, and reservations for three nights at a guesthouse in Istanbul recommended by one of Shelley’s fraternity pals’ older brothers. After that, they had no set agenda. They’d go where they wanted to go, and stay until they were ready to come home. Jo hoped it wouldn’t be for months, maybe even as long as a year. The world wouldn’t look twice at two young women, recent college graduates and best friends, traveling together. She and Shelley could share a room, even a bed, without arousing anyone’s suspicion, and if someone did get suspicious they could pack up and move on to another city, even another country. Jo planned to try to do some travel writing—she had made a list of magazines, with names of editors to whom she could submit pieces. She figured that she could make money teaching English, in a pinch, and if even that didn’t work out, she could wash dishes or clean houses, doing whatever it took to keep them afloat.
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