And Yesterday Is Gone

by Dolores Durando

  “Oh my gawd, look at that gas gauge.” Her voice hit a high C. “Damn you. Don’t you dare let us run out of gas.”

  “We wouldn’t be worrying about gas or money if you hadn’t insisted on a motel every night. You might miss that big love-in if we hitchhiked. We’ll get there when we get there.”

  “One night in that damn tent was one night too many. How in hell did you think a Coleman stove would keep us from freezing in March—and how was I so stupid to believe you? You great outdoorsman, you! I nearly froze my ass off keepin’ that Coleman heater warm and cookin’ over a campfire. I ain’t no pioneer,” she bitched.

  “I’ve got you all the way from Maryland, haven’t I? Almost a week listening to you. Damn, it will be so good to deliver you to your sister.”

  Suddenly she shrieked, “Turn. Turn. You’re in the wrong lane—the San Francisco exit is over there.”

  The tires screeched and the car swerved violently. With a bang, the Coleman stove hit the back of the front seat and the tent settled around me like a shroud. I begged for breath.

  Judging from the sound of the grinding brakes and wildly honking horns, we must have crossed at least four lanes of traffic. Even buried as I was, I could hear the cursing drivers as they maneuvered around us.

  Am I going to survive Carlos only to die in this shit-filled backseat with these maniacs? I thought.

  Then his trembling voice found its way out. “You damn near got us killed. Roll us a joint.”

  “You’re shakin’ so bad you probably won’t be able to hold it,” she answered.

  “Try me.”

  The secondhand smoke drifted back and even relaxed me. But the quiet didn’t last long.

  I could feel her bounce up and down on the seat. I guessed she’d seen the skyline and was almost hysterical.

  “The sun shining through the mist,” she said, “makes the city look as though it just dropped out of the sky and floated down.”

  He must have been impressed, too. “You’re right—for once. This is a beautiful city. I’ve never seen such houses—and so big, built right on the hilltops, too. Never dreamed I’d ever see the famous Golden Gate Bridge. Maryland is a world away.”

  “Thank God,” she answered. “Where is that map? We want eleven- hundred Haight Street. My sis said it’s about four blocks from Ashbury.”

  “Will you look at those mansions? Those hippies are living high on the hog if they’ve got a commune in this neighborhood. Look…”

  “Pay attention to your driving,” she snapped. “You almost killed us once.”

  “Yeah? Who screamed ‘turn’?” He then interrupted himself to say, “This is Ashbury Street.” A few minutes later: “Haight Street—what number again?”

  “Stop, stop. That’s it—there on the left. Look, there’s people dancin’ on the porch…”

  The car screeched to a stop. She leaned over and the horn sounded—seven short bursts.

  I recognized that old sound: “Shave and a haircut, two bits.”

  “Are you crazy?” he demanded. “Maybe this isn’t even the right address.”

  The car door slammed and I could hear her heels hitting the sidewalk. His door opened and the instant it closed, I was digging out. Finally I was on my feet—the first time I’d stood erect since Juan had pushed me into the pickup. I leaned back against the open door, feeling the sensation slowly flow back in my body. It stung so bad, my knees trembled.

  I saw him start up the walk toward the people on the porch, and I staggered away from the door.

  Some people were dancing, some singing; obviously, it was a party. I could see, and plainly hear, two hysterical women hugging and talking, then doing it all over again.

  I got my legs under me and started up the walk behind the driver. Thinking that if everything is free and everybody loves everybody, maybe I can get a bath and a free meal.

  Nearing the bottom steps, the music slacked off and the conversation quieted. I felt like a bug on a pin. I knew what I must look like with those ratty jeans I’d worn most of nine months, one filthy old shirt pulled over another one even worse, socks with my bare heels showing and shitty boots. The only decent thing I had was the jacket my Ma had given me, with the inside lining packed with five Baggies of pure Mary Jane, and the thirty-eight dollars I had lifted off my stepfather still hiding in a seam. My hair was long and stringy—the dirt had taken the curl right out of it. For that I was thankful. And how I smelled—sheep piss, manure of many days’ accumulation, months of only cold showers with no soap. And wrapping around it all, the cold, clammy sweat of fear that clung to me like skin.

  I stopped when the driver turned and said, “Where in hell did you come from? I could smell you before I saw you.”

  “From the backseat of your car,” I answered, “and it sure as hell doesn’t smell much better.”

  “Damn you, I’ll have to pay someone to tow it away. When and how did you get in there? I ought to take a swing at you,” he said.

  “Better not, I’m in kind of a touchy mood,” I answered.

  Someone, some guy, came down from the porch, a guitar slung over his shoulder, and laughed. “C’mon, pilgrim, you sure can use a bath. Where’re you from?”

  “I just got off a mountain ranch in Calaveras County, and a bath would be a dream come true.”

  The crowd parted, then continued the festivities as we walked through a ten-foot doorway into an entry hung with oil paintings of old people—probably the founding fathers.

  “Take off those dirty boots,” he said. “These are Persian carpets and my mother is fussy. She and Dad are wintering in the Bahamas this year.”

  I stumbled along beside him up the stairs, then down a long hallway separating the bedrooms. As we passed, I could see mattresses, bedrolls, blankets on the floor, as well as ornate furniture pushed up against the walls.

  He turned into a bathroom that was bigger than Ma’s entire house. I could only stand and stare at the big bars of pretty soap, the marble bathtub that would have accommodated an entire family.

  He turned on the water and as the tub filled, I stripped. That didn’t take long. He fumbled around in a drawer and found a toothbrush. “I’ll be back with some towels and clothes. I’ll burn these,” he added, lifting my clothes with two fingers and stuffing them in a basket. Then he tossed me a brush with a long handle. “Enjoy,” he said, closing the door.

  I sank deep into that heavenly hot water. Only my nose escaped. Suddenly I realized he’d taken my jacket, too—my Ma’s Christmas present. “And my stash—my stash,” I groaned.

  I leaped from the tub, the force splashing water over the walls and floor, and rushed after him stark naked, yelling, “Wait, wait—my jacket. I want my jacket.”

  There were people in every room, but the crowd pushed to make a path in the hallway for this crazy, naked man screaming for a jacket, on a dead run for a fellow in front of him carrying a basket with a guitar bouncing on his back. Sensing my imminent approach, the guy dropped the jacket; I caught it before it hit the floor.

  I heard some other guy laugh and say, “That cowboy sure knows how to make an entrance.”

  A girl added, “Yes, he presents himself very well—very well indeed. I intend to look him up when he’s clean.”

  I rolled up that jacket as tight as I could and wedged it between the commode and the wall. It had been in worse places.

  I lay in that tub until my skin was so wrinkled I was embarrassed to look at myself. Although I did notice muscles I hadn’t had before—guess digging postholes in the frozen ground hadn’t been all bad. Now that I had scrubbed my hair until I had almost exposed my scalp, it was blond and curly again, and I had a healthy growth of stubble on my chin. I thought I had probably taken a couple layers of enamel off my teeth with that toothbrush.

  Half asleep in the warm water that at last was draining clear, I was startled awake by the appearance of a girl in the open doorway—I guess they don’t knock in San Francisco—carrying towels and some
clothes. She tossed them on a chair and said, “C’mon down—we’ve got a big pot of spaghetti and Digger bread that the Diggers sent over. They bake their bread in coffee cans.”

  “Diggers?” I said curiously.

  She hesitated in the doorway. “Oh, they’re an organization that doesn’t believe in buying and selling. They provide free food, clothing, a place to crash for people who need it, and even medical help. A fix, too, if you need it bad enough.”

  “Wait a minute and I’ll come with you. Turn your back.”

  She giggled. “Too late for that. I saw it all in the hallway,” she informed, laughing all the way down the stairs.

  The huge smoke-filled room was filled with a moving sea of noisy people, and with wonderful aromas of fresh bread and hot spaghetti.

  I filled my paper plate to the ultimate capacity, then piled half a loaf of bread on top of that. Looking for a place to sit, I spied my benefactor against a wall with his guitar and an empty plate in front of him, a roach smoldering in a saucer. He motioned me over.

  “Sit, Cowboy. You sure smell a lot better.” He grinned. “You really gave me a scare.”

  He played a few chords as I ate ravenously. People milled around and sang along, and traded pills of every color.

  “This must be heaven,” I said.

  “No, this is San Francisco, man, home of the flower children.” He sang, “If you’re going to San Francisco, be sure to wear some flowers in your hair…You’re going to meet some gentle people there…

  “Turn on, tune in, drop out. Here—have a drag.”

  When my plate was clean for the second time, I looked up. Beads, flowers, feathers, long hair and beards seemed to predominate—I seemed to fit right in with my donated tie-dye shirt and bell-bottoms.

  I hadn’t slept since Thursday night and this was Saturday. I was warm, clean and so full of food, I fought to stay awake, but it was a losing battle.

  “Hey man,” I said, “where can I sleep?”

  But as I got to my feet, I saw that he was already asleep with his guitar resting upside-down on the empty plates. I made it up the stairs and turned into the first bedroom I came to. There were several couples there in various forms of relaxation. One of them pointed to a mattress with a blanket in a corner and I stepped over and around some people, then collapsed on top of it. Hazy thoughts blew through my mind, just as my eyes closed. Did last night really happen? Did I really shovel dirt over a murdered man? Too much weed, I had to be hallucinating—never happened. And I slept.

  Then I could smell that kerosene lantern. I looked up into those bulging eyes and twisted away to hide from that accusing stare and from the blood that dripped down on my face.

  His voice sounded clear, the bloody gash in his throat quivering when he asked, “You love them sheep yet, kid?” Someone was screaming as I frantically threw shovelful after shovelful of that wet, black dirt and heard the soft thud as it covered his face. But his eyes never left mine.

  I fought, but my arms and legs seemed immovable. As I faded back into reality, the last words I heard were, “Another time, señor.” Carlos’ mocking promise.

  My roommates released me and went back to bed, muttering, “Where’d he score the acid? Someone ought to be with him when he trips.”

  My throat was raw from my own screams and I was wet with the clammy fear that only let me doze in and out of sleep for many nights to come. I wanted to go home. I wanted Ma and Sis.

  CHAPTER 6

  Carlos turned and drove through the rolling countryside in a neighborhood made up of white fences, elaborate barns and discreetly placed houses. The hills were dotted with sleek horses that would never have known anything but the best.

  The shabby, smelly truck was buzzed through the iron gate that proclaimed the property to be a thoroughbred breeding and training facility. He pulled up to a large house that sat sequestered amid a grove of eucalyptus trees.

  Before the engine stopped, large double doors were flung open and several well-dressed men strode out and deferentially, almost reverently, opened his door, enveloping him with a boisterous welcome.

  The keys were tossed to a grinning workman who drove the truck into the wide aisle of a barn and parked it beside a spotless Mercedes and an equally gleaming Bentley. The tall doors rolled and closed quietly on half a million dollars’ worth of grass stained with Ollie’s blood.

  The man who sat at the head of the table that evening was not the same man who had driven in. This man, his huge frame draped in an expensive suit, who lifted a glass of vintage wine in toast, was a far cry from the barbaric-appearing man who had arrived only this morning. But under that fine linen shirt beat the same heart.

  His eyes widened, but only slightly, at the appearance of several young women, exquisitely gowned, who appeared from nowhere. None were seated until Carlos made his choice.

  The festivities lasted through the night and into the next day, but on the third day, it was all business. The women, with one exception, had been sent back to the city.

  The men, sequestered around a long table, were interrupted only by the appearance of food.

  Plans were being made to enlarge the operation.

  “I’ll need at least two men to start the new field—and double the supplies. Now let your barn help enjoy the mutton.”

  When the truck appeared as if by magic, it was fully loaded with extra supplies and two young Mexican men.

  “I’ll be back soon—I liked the accommodations,” Carlos said as he closed the door.

  The truck pulled away and the woman waved indifferently, pulling her fur coat tightly about her. Two men in the back clutched the tarp tightly to keep themselves and the supplies out of the wind.

  The windshield wipers worked furiously as the heavily loaded truck moved toward the Calaveras Mountains.

  She lay asleep, her legs curled under her, her head on Carlos’ thigh, his hand caressing through the long, auburn hair, then sliding about in the luxuriant fur.

  The two men, wet and cold, huddled beneath the tarp that struggled to free itself from the desperate clutch of their hands, cursed the gringos, the driver, the rain and prayed for their destination to appear.

  The younger Mexican spoke through chattering teeth, “I’d sooner swim the river.”

  “Not me, at least nobody’s shooting at us.”

  • • •

  At the ranch, Lupe agonized. What if? What if? What if Steve had been discovered? Her life would be on the line. Juan would probably get off with a beating. All too well, she knew Carlos’ murderous temper.

  She watched the pickup bounce up the driveway and stop at the bunkhouse, surprised to see strange men unloading supplies. Why there? she wondered.

  Carlos was carrying something up the walkway. After pushing the door open, he stepped in and kicked it shut as he released his hold on the woman in his arms. She swayed against him, her coat slid to the floor in a soft heap around the high-heeled shoes. She smiled vacantly at Lupe.

  Carlos steered her to the bedroom where she collapsed on the bed with the same vacant smile. He covered her with the coat.

  Fear and rage made Lupe’s voice tremble as she demanded, “Who is this woman? Why is she here?”

  With a smile, Carlos answered, “She is my woman, my cook.”

  A fleeting memory of a time she had been all Carlos had ever needed forced the words, “Since when haven’t I been your woman, your cook?”

  “Since Ollie.” He sneered. “You go down to the bunkhouse and cook for those new men. Help the gringo with the sheep. It gets chilly down there—take a blanket.”

  “Carlos, are you crazy? You know I won’t sleep in the bunkhouse. I won’t go—and to hell with the sheep.”

  His eyes glittered. “You? You’ll tell me what you’ll do?” His voice was hardly above a whisper. He stepped closer and held her by the arm with one hand; a finger of the other traced a line below her chin from ear to ear.

  He dropped her arms and hissed, “Get out.�
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  • • •

  Two days later, the rain still fell, washing away the dirt that covered the roots of the hillside brush and causing streams of water to cascade down the steep slopes of the canyon. When the downpour paused momentarily, the men rushed up the eroded path to the safety of the tent.

  Carlos watched through the rain-streaked window, but turned when he smelled the scorched eggs, heard the sizzle of the coffee as it boiled over.

  The woman slumped at the table, barefoot, seemingly unaware of the cold. Her carelessly tied satin robe revealed the naked body beneath. Her mouth was slack, her blue-green eyes nearly closed, and her long auburn hair hung uncombed. The beautifully manicured fingers fumbled with a syringe.

  Carlos cursed, then laughed as he scooped her up as effortlessly as though she were a child and tossed her on the rumpled bed. The ivory- skinned gringa lay like a silken doll—her long-lashed eyes were always half-closed in a dream sleep where he could not intrude. She was always available, accepting, but detached from his reality, rousing herself from her golden sleep only to relocate the position of the needle, then to retreat again to her world.

  Better she and her heroin go back to the city, Carlos thought as he watched her insert the syringe between her painted toes, then close her eyes and turn her back to him and his world.

  He felt rather than heard the door open and turned to see Lupe on the threshold. A blanket flung around her shoulders, her hair wet and clinging to her face, a long, ugly scratch showing red against her cheek.

  “I told you not to come back,” Carlos growled.

  “Carlos,” she pleaded. “I can’t stay down there. I can’t work with those sheep. I’m terrified of that old ram—someday he’ll come through that fence at me—and the gringo is gone.

  “I struggled with one of those strange men all night, but I can’t stop him. He’s so brutal—look at my face.”

  “Pretend it’s Ollie.” Carlos grinned.

  “What I’ve done, I’ve done for you,” she answered.

  He gave a short, ugly laugh.

  Desperation overriding her fear, she spoke through clenched teeth, “You murdering son of a bitch.”