"It sounds like love."
May's face flushed. "I know," she said weakly, "I know, but we can't let it happen, not now." She struggled with the words to explain. "It's hard really . . . because each of us has a dilemma, something to resolve. And we both know—and we can't let each other get in the way because that could stop us in our tracks. Oh God, K, I don't know if this makes any sense at all but there it is. I've never felt this way about anyone, and I'm terrified I never will again. Every time I'm with him my whole body practically shrieks with wanting, but I can't. Not yet."
"Your mother," Karin said.
May nodded, looked away, lifting her eyes to the hills. "My mother," she repeated. "I keep thinking it is going to fade, and one day I'll wake up and she'll be gone, out of my mind, out of my thoughts, no more questions, no more pain . . . she will just have faded away and I'll be free of it, free of her. But it isn't going to happen, not like that."
Karin waited.
May put her hand on Karin's arm as if to steady herself. "I've got to find her," she said, "there is no other way."
They walked up Euclid Street, each deep in thought, May setting the pace. When they reached the steep part of the hill, Karin stopped, winded. "I need to sit," she said, collapsing on the steps to someone's house.
Looking up at May she said, wistfully, "You never see Hayes at night?"
May laughed. "Remember that party I went to a couple of weeks ago? You were so surprised that I would go? I went because it was given by a good friend of Hayes's, and I was pretty sure he would show up. He did."
"And?"
"And we spent most of the evening together. The room was packed, full of smoke and noise and it was hard to talk. I was sitting on the edge of the piano bench and the phone was behind me. To make a call, Hayes had to lean into me and balance himself by putting his hand on my shoulder. It was just so . . . strange . . ."
"Strange?"
May sighed and laughed. "That I wanted it so much, the touch . . . I could have stayed there forever, with my face pressing into his chest."
"That's not strange, May. That's wonderful."
May smiled. "It was, it really was. I felt so connected to him, so important. When he put the receiver down he let his hand rest on my arm for a few seconds and I felt perfectly content. Then his friend Arnie, who was giving the party, called out to Hayes to come into the kitchen and he pulled me along. He could have taken me anywhere and I would have gone."
"But he didn't," Karin said, wryly.
"No, he didn't."
"It sounds like some kind of water torture to me—being together yet not allowing yourselves to be together."
"Very often I think to hell with it," May answered with sudden bitterness, and then, more softly: "Passion casts such a strange light. Sometimes, when I have to stifle it, if makes me feel almost . . . incandescent."
"If I see you glowing in the dark, I'll know why," Karin offered, dryly. "Why don't you just go after him, for what you can have together now?"
"Because I'm afraid he'll say we shouldn't see each other at all, and I'm not ready to take that risk."
To hide her surprise, Karin shifted the subject: "When you and Hayes talk, does the subject of Sam ever come up?"
"Hayes thinks that Sam has reason to be mad at his particular world."
"Well I don't agree," Karin snapped back. "He still holds it against me for going off with Andy Diehl that night. It's as if I did it to spite him—all actions revolve around Sam. It is perfectly obvious that his parents care about him, care deeply. His life hasn't been any bed of thorns."
May decided not to answer. Sam had become a sore point. Karin went on, "Have you thought that Sam might be one of the complications, as far as you and Hayes are concerned?" When May didn't answer, Karin continued: "Has it occurred to you that Hayes is everything Sam wants to be and never will? Sam is mad at the world, and blames it on his being Japanese and coming from a poor family, and he can't see that neither has anything to do with it."
"No, you're wrong there," May flung back at her, "race has everything to do with it, and poverty doesn't help."
Karin stared at her, and for a moment a flare of anger threatened to overcome them. Then Karin started laughing: "Do you realize we've switched positions? Great political theorists, we two."
May caught her breath and came back with: "What do you expect of a geophysicist and an art historian?"
Philip Ward lived high in the Berkeley hills, in a house surrounded by a high wall painted the color of siena. From the street you could see nothing of the house. Inside was another world entirely with a beautifully tiled courtyard, dominated by a pepper tree, a fish pond bright with carp, the house itself, all plate glass with French doors that opened onto a profusion of flowers. Camelias in full, pink bloom were reflected in the gothic windows.
"Not too shabby," Jeremy said as they entered.
When a maid, in black uniform and white apron, took their coats, Jeremy murmured again, "Not shabby at all. Maybe it pays to write potboilers." They made their way into the living room, which struck May as more like the main hall of a British hunting lodge with its rough, heavily beamed roof, and huge stone fireplace. The floor was covered with deep red Oriental carpets and it was furnished in oversized linen-covered sofas and English antiques.
"Karin says they aren't potboilers," May told him, raising her voice just enough to cause Jeremy to look around to see if she had been heard. As they stood in line to meet their host, May had a chance to study Philip Ward. He had to be nearing sixty, she knew, but only his hair—which was thick but silver—gave it away. His face was surprisingly youthful, and his build, while slim, was athletic. She took note that he was wearing a tweed jacket which would have been tailored in England, and the kind of tan acquired on a tennis court. What surprised her was his manner: she had expected flamboyance but he was, rather, restrained. He smiled and listened attentively to what each guest had to say, tilting his head in a way that made it seem he closed out the rest of the room and concentrated on the person whose hand he took, and held perhaps a moment longer than one usually would.
"Reade?" Philip Ward repeated when they were introduced and he was tilting his head toward her. "I don't suppose you happen to be related to Kit Reade McCord, do you?" She was surprised. She had expected him to name her father, most people of Ward's generation did. When she told him her connection his voice became vibrant with interest. "I knew Kit years ago—I manage to keep track of her through the business pages. I notice she is still good at keeping her name out of the society columns."
May smiled. "She hires someone to do that for her, I believe."
"I met your father once as well," Ward went on. "It was a great honor. I admired him." He said this in such a straightforward, disarming way that May answered, "Thank you."
The wife of the chairman of the department swept down on them in a storm of words, arms out to claim Philip Ward. May moved to leave, but Ward caught her by the elbow and told her, with what seemed a certain urgency, "I will need to speak to you again before you leave."
Jeremy made for the bar, where he stood, entranced by the choices. He murmured: "Chivas Regal or Johnny Walker Red, Heitz's Cabernet or Stoney Hill Chardonnay. Christ. Coming with me?" May took a glass of chardonnay and drifted away from Jeremy as soon as she could, approaching a group of women standing by the window.
"We're discussing our host," one of the women said, pulling her into the group. "I'm Marge Fromberg." She introduced the others, all faculty wives, and said, "I hope you don't disapprove of a little academic gossip."
"I've only just met our host," May answered, "so I won't be able to contribute . . . I'm afraid he struck me as charming—does that disqualify me?"
The women laughed. "Join the club," Marge answered. "Philip is a charming scamp—except on the tennis courts. He plays with my husband twice a week and I understand he does not take the charm onto the court. Of course, that's probably sour grapes on Hank's part, because Phi
lip usually beats him."
"Who cares about charm?" another of the faculty wives put in, lowering her voice to add, "I wish my Joe looked that good."
"Philip is big on health," someone offered.
"Would that Ariel had been too," another said, and the mood darkened.
"Ariel was Philip's wife," Marge explained to May. "She died of lung cancer a year ago. We figure this is Philip's 'coming out' bash. His reentry after a year of mourning. Not formal mourning—he simply has done no entertaining. And he's a wizard at it, believe me. He loves to mix people, interesting groups of people—Philip and Ariel gave wonderful parties."
"Oh yes," Eleanor added, a touch of acerbic in her tone, "they worked hard at leading interesting lives."
"Are there children?" May asked.
"A boy and a girl," Marge answered. "Thea is thirteen, a lovely child. She should be here," she said, scanning the crowd, "and Daniel is sixteen."
"Has anybody seen Daniel?" someone else asked. "Or has he been allowed back in the house?"
"Daniel is away at school," Marge answered evenly. "Philip says he is doing very well—it's been a rough year for all of them." She smiled at May and said, "I think I'd better mix a little, so Philip will ask me back. He frowns on ladies who congregate."
May stayed only long enough to hear one of the women say, "I do believe Marge was trying to tell us not to speak ill of the dead."
May moved about the room making polite conversation for almost an hour before going to look for Jeremy. She found him in deep discussion with a pale young man he introduced as, "one of the chancellor's fair-haired boys." May had no idea what that meant, and decided she wasn't interested enough to ask. Jeremy put his hand on her arm possessively and returned to the conversation. May wanted to wriggle out of his grasp. She did not like cocktail parties, did not like having to make conversation, did not like talking to someone and having him scan the room over her shoulder. But now she did just that: scanned the room so she didn't have to get involved in the conversation, all the while trying to figure a way to convince Jeremy that it was time to leave. Philip Ward caught her eye and motioned her to join him.
"I'd forgotten how annoying these kinds of parties can be," he told her, "all silly talk, and usually not with the people you want to talk silly to." She smiled. "Before we're interrupted again," he went on, "I wanted to ask if you and your friend—Dr. Wemers is it?—might like to come again. I'm hoping to do more entertaining this spring—smaller dinner parties, where we might have a chance to talk."
She did not answer for a long minute. "I would like to come," she finally said, "but without Jeremy if you don't mind."
"I don't mind in the least," he said, eyes sparkling.
It gave her the courage to ask, "Could I bring a friend? Karin Rolofsen is her name. She's read your books and she wants to meet you."
"Good," he answered, touching her arm in confirmation, "I like her already. And now I get the feeling you are ready to go? Shall I tell Wemers that you're waiting for him in the foyer?"
"Yes, please," she said, grateful to him for helping her escape.
That spring of 1969 the campus and the center of town shook under a revolutionary barrage: birdshot and bottles, rocks flying, fire bombings, tear gas and shattered glass. It was a war zone, a long, steady scream of resistance, of change. Almost daily through January and February demonstrations boiled over, waves of students surged down Telegraph Avenue. Trash cans were heaved through plate glass windows, and the police moved in swinging billy clubs.
They found their marks: somebody's child, yesterday's polite kids who had been raised to be seen and not heard, to speak when spoken to, above all to be polite. They had been children with shining faces and neatly cropped hair who had in the short years of their coming of age assumed a righteous indignation. They grew their hair long and wore rag-taggle clothes their parents did not approve of, sprinkled their vocabularies with four-letter words, and announced they didn't trust anyone over thirty. If they happened to be black they were saying "Freedom Now" and "Burn, Baby, Burn." If they were white, and of draft age, they were chanting, "Hell No, I Won't Go" and burning draft cards.
They fought for a "People's Park" and they spoke in the name of the People, though in fact this was a presumption. Many, perhaps most, of the people of the land believed these student rebels to be spoiled, disrespectful children of privilege.
All the old slogans came into play, and I could not help thinking of May's father, who had been bloodied in labor disputes on the San Francisco waterfront fighting for another generation's rights. Quite purposefully during those months I chose to work on Porter Reade's papers from the 1920s, the period when he was a student at Berkeley. "It is exciting to me to see how intensely Sally feels about these issues," he wrote his mother about a woman who had once been his tutor, "and how she translates that intensity into action. It makes me feel that people who are totally convinced, who know what is right and stick with it until they can make others see, are the ones who will change the world." Attached to the letter was a yellowed copy of the words to "The Internationale." He had underlined the two lines that read:
The earth shall rise on new foundations.
We have been naught, we shall be all.
I could close my eyes and see him still, a tall and gangly young man full of fire, of righteous indignation. There were times at the Peace Coalition office when I was certain I heard him in the next room, holding forth on some political issue. "Your father would have been in the thick of this," I told May.
"That's what the Revolutionary Student Army people keep telling me," she answered, her voice bitter. "They want me to march at the head of their line, in what they call 'my father's place.' Isn't that wonderful? The man's dead, and they still want to use him."
Police and demonstrators engaged in running battles. A new style came into vogue: bandanas, bright red and electric blue worn cowboy style so they could be pulled over the nose and mouth whenever police—some in low-flying helicopters—flung out canisters of CS gas.
One sunlit morning the National Guard rolled into town, hundreds of men in battle gear standing in army trucks, bayonets drawn. The heavy silence was broken by the slow-rolling, ominous rumble of those trucks and the responding low recitative of the disaffected—the students and the street people and the blacks joined by a strange amalgam of townspeople, all those against the war, against racial discrimination, against poverty, against what some—but by no means all—of them called "The Establishment" and the "Pigs" and the "warmongers." In truth, against mistakes made by all the generations that had come before them, mistakes they wanted to correct now, all at once, and for all time.
One afternoon I stood at the window of the Peace Coalition's second-floor office, looking down at the gathering storm. May stood next to me; Karin was late.
"She'll have trouble getting across the street," May said.
"Perhaps she's already on this side," I answered, hoping it was so.
A strange, animal sound lifted from the crowd. It seemed to signal a movement down Telegraph Avenue. A distance away we could see a line of police in riot gear blocking the whole of the street. Directly below us, a rangy young man in a buckskin coat held a cigarette lighter high, touched it to a rolled-up paper, and used the torch to set fire to a trash can; a whoop rose with the flames; a bottle bounced soundlessly off a plate glass window, and then we heard glass shattering and a fusillade of bottles and rocks was flying, and war cries pierced the air.
May gripped my arm. "Look, just under the bookstore sign," she pointed. A blond girl wearing a knit Peruvian cape was trying to push her way through the human maelstrom, which had washed over the sidewalks. What the girl could not see, but we could, was the current of movement that snaked down the center of the street. She was knocked down, and for a moment we couldn't see her at all. Then we saw that she had been caught up in the rush of it, was being pushed ahead, swept away. She was being carried into the line of police who stood, club
s raised in anticipation.
At that moment Karin appeared, out of breath, in the doorway behind us. When we turned back to the window, we could no longer find the girl in the Peruvian cape.
Philip Ward did not equivocate. He supported the student antiwar movement. While several of the men gathered at his table did not agree with him, most had assured their wives they would not become embroiled in a heated argument. Philip Ward's table was viewed by some as the last civilized place in Berkeley.
Karin bought a dress for the occasion at one of the shops that made new dresses in old styles: an ankle-length blue tie-dyed silk of cornflower blue, trimmed with velvet and bits of old brocade which she wore with boots. With her hair loose and curling over her shoulders she looked like a Renaissance princess. May put on what had become her "dressup" uniform, effected so she did not have to think about clothes: a heavy cream-colored silk blouse edged in braid and a leather miniskirt from a Paris boutique which made them for her in a variety of colors. Tonight she wore the aubergine, with matching shoes.
A young girl opened the door. She had long, Alice-in-Wonderland hair caught up with a blue ribbon and was wearing a long dress, but it was her face that completed the fairytale effect: she looked like the little princess in the tower.
"You must be Thea," May said.
"Let them in, love," Philip Ward called, and then he appeared behind his daughter and her smile became radiant.
Gift of the Golden Mountain Page 16
