by Chris Rush
“I’ve explained the situation in detail.” Bonny lowered his voice. “Sir, it is intolerable. He must leave.”
My dad rose, not to exit but to overpower. “Father Boniface, it is your job to keep my son busy until May. Then he’ll leave. And at that point, I’ll decide if my donations to the monastery will terminate or not.”
The meeting ended, and my father took me out for an early dinner. At an empty steak house, we ate our T-bones in absolute silence. Under the table, I kept folding and unfolding my napkin, terrified to imagine what Bonny had told my father.
Dad had three Manhattans. I had three Cokes. Our silence was a kind of endless falling, but by dessert I calmed down a bit, eating ice cream while my father smoked.
I loved him for saving me.
In the car, he said, “We will not speak of this again, to anyone. I’ll tell your mother you were caught shoplifting.”
* * *
FOR THE REST of the school year, I was placed in permanent detention. Every afternoon, after classes, I sat in a cold stone room, alone. Pauly was not permitted to visit.
When I finally told him that I wouldn’t be coming back to St. John’s, he looked away.
“Pauly, we’ll still be friends.”
We both knew that was impossible (two boys in separate schools, likely several states away). When Pauly got up from the log we were sitting on, I told him not to leave. So we sat together, suffering in silence, holding back our tears.
* * *
FATHER PETER, my religion teacher, saw me one afternoon as I was walking past the formal gardens. He grabbed my arm and took me inside. Late May: flowers in full bloom. We walked gravel pathways, past beds of yellow and pink hydrangeas, through decaying colonnades, under trellises of red rose. At a stone grotto against the hillside, we stopped. In the shadows was a worn marble statue of Pan dancing, lute to the sky—a forgotten wild boy covered with moss.
“Italian, sixteenth century, a copy of something much older. Do you like it?”
“Yes.” It was beautiful, unbearable.
“Chris, don’t forget all this. And don’t forget God. He loves you. It upsets me that you’re leaving. You were one of our best.”
Among the ruins, I began to weep.
6.
The Help
“SHOPLIFTING?” MY MOTHER SAID. “When we give you everything?”
I was relieved to see her so invested in my father’s lie.
She frowned and then dropped the indignation. Businesslike, she rearranged her turtles, a legion across the coffee table.
When I asked her if I should stay home for good now, she pretended not to hear me. There were brochures for new schools on her desk—fortunately no monasteries or military academies. Mom asked if I was still interested in archery.
I’d never mentioned archery once in my life.
I didn’t bother to remind her who I was. She was jittering around at that point, sorting papers, writing checks. Dressed in tennis whites, like a vaudeville nurse—slim as ever. I wondered if she was on diet pills, like Pauly’s mom.
“I have to go,” she said, suddenly grabbing the car keys. “There’s tuna salad in the fridge. Stay out of trouble.”
* * *
THAT SUMMER, my whole family came and went, always on the move: golfing, sailing, trips to the beach.
For my baby brother, there was a new nanny. A pretty girl with rosy cheeks and long brown hair. Oonagh Brady, imported from Ireland through an agency. It was her first time away from home, the Rushes her first job.
She was nineteen, and tiny as a child. Like me, she blushed easily—and she was sad, too; I could tell. We chatted and she told me about Ireland, about her big Catholic family, the little grocery shop her father ran. She wore barrettes in her hair, shaped like blue butterflies.
Sometimes, when we were talking, my father would come in and say, “Leave the girl alone.”
Shouldn’t he have been happy to see me sitting on the couch with a girl?
Then I have a new thought: maybe he wants her for himself.
* * *
WHEN I MET with Valentine to give him his money, he seemed pleased, even surprised. With the profit I’d made selling the acid, he suggested I buy a jar of mescaline. “It’s about six hundred doses,” he said, “if you put the powder in capsules. You could make some money.”
“I’m not at that school anymore.”
“Yeah, your sister told me. Take it anyway,” he says. “You’ll make new friends.”
But that summer, there was only Oonagh.
* * *
WHAT I USUALLY did was put a spoonful of mescaline in some OJ and watch TV, timing the drug to come on just as everyone went to bed. Everyone except Oonagh. At ten, she would join me on the couch.
The first night, I asked her if she wanted some Tastykakes. “They’re really good,” I said.
“No. But a wee taste of your father’s whiskey would be fine.”
My parents were asleep, so I obliged her. And, like God, I overpoured.
Soon, Oonagh was drunk, and I was tripping. In the middle of The Tonight Show, she kissed me, her mouth like booze and cigarettes. I sat half-frozen while she did all the work—placing my hand under her blouse and onto her breasts. As she moaned and groaned, I tried not to laugh—she seemed terribly serious about the whole situation.
Did she know I’d only just turned fourteen? Puberty had arrived only a month before, when I woke up from a wet dream. Since then, I’d gotten pretty good at masturbation. It hadn’t yet occurred to me that I needed any help.
A few nights later, Oonagh and I ended up in the yard, wandering around after midnight. I told her about St. John’s—I could hear myself bragging—and without warning, Oonagh took off her clothes and waded into the pool.
I could see her pubic hair, wavering in the blue.
She said, “I’m waiting, you fool.”
“Very funny,” I said, splashing her with my foot.
* * *
THE NEXT NIGHT, I got into the water with her, wrapped my long arms around her tiny body. It was thrilling, to feel her warmth in the cool water. She pushed her belly against my hard-on. It felt good, but when we got out I was trembling, maybe even afraid.
“Come to my room,” she said.
“That used to be my room, when I was little,” I told her. “Now I’m downstairs.”
“I know. I like your statue,” Oonagh said, with a wink. “The Virgin. I also want to sleep with a virgin.”
“Ha, ha,” I said.
I went to her room, but she passed out before we could do anything.
* * *
WHEN DONNA CAME home from college, it was a relief.
My sister was excited, telling me about her new life, her new boyfriend, Vinnie. “He’s so great,” she said. “Very spiritual. We’re sharing an apartment. Don’t tell Mom!”
She paused, then went off on a tangent. “Vinnie thinks Mom and Dad use their money to control me. Which makes sense. They think money is everything. I love them, but all Mom cares about is what other people think—and Dad is just a workaholic who has never faced his grief. That’s what Vinnie says.”
“What grief?”
“You know, his dead brothers and everything.”
No, I didn’t know. Dad never even said their names. My uncles had died a long time ago. I was about to ask my sister more when she leaned toward me. “Is that lipstick?”
“What? No,” I lied, rubbing my hand across my mouth. I’d stolen it from Donna’s bedroom, curious to see how it would look. It looked good.
“Chris, don’t get too weird, okay? Hey, listen, Vinnie and I are going to Powder Ridge—it’s this rock festival in Connecticut. Do you wanna come with us?”
“Yes!” I screamed.
When Donna asked Mom if I could go, unbelievably Mom said yes. I heard her tell Donna, “Your brother does nothing but sleep all day. Get him out of here, please!” Mom thought it would be good for me to spend some time with my collegia
te sister.
Donna’s new boyfriend arrived in his dad’s Buick Regal. With carefully trimmed beard and brooding blue eyes, Vinnie looked like a modern-day Jesus. He was very polite to my mom; sweet and soft-spoken. What impressed me most was that he had on an embroidered white smock that matched my sister’s perfectly.
Vinnie and Donna: decorated with daisies and drippy with love.
The Powder Ridge ski resort—now rock festival—was a long drive. By dark, we were either lost or close. Then we saw the freaks. After parking the car on the side of some road, we followed a mob of kids marching in the dark. It was hard to understand what was going on.
Then, at the top of the hill, we saw the madness. From off the road and out of the woods, thousands of bodies were swarming toward a floodlit valley below. We ran to join them, stumbling down a dusty ski trail. On either side, flashlights wobbled, bonfires burned. I heard drums pounding and people yelling—it was the Island of King Kong. Civilization—canceled in Connecticut.
Vinnie dropped the gear in the middle of the trail and we put up our tent—a big white canvas box. He carefully unrolled his sleeping bag as Donna lit a cinnamon-scented candle. Then they just sat there, staring at each other.
Vinnie said he was sleepy. Donna fake-yawned in agreement.
Oh. I understand.
I told them I was going for a stroll.
In a surge of bodies, I was swept down the mountain toward the stage. All along the way were makeshift pharmacies laid out on blankets and hunks of cardboard. By lantern light, all kinds of drugs were seductively displayed. “Speed! Temple balls! Chocolate mescaline!”
A blond boy in the doorway of a tent pointed at me—with a long silver spoon. Calmly, he stated the facts. “Purple psilocybin. Two bucks a dose.”
I gave him my money and he dipped the spoon into a glass jar.
“Open up,” he said, and moondust flew into my mouth.
* * *
DOWN AT THE STAGE, under fierce electric light, the kids looked stunned. Their eyes were huge, trying to take in the End of Our Parents’ World. I joined my peers, sitting in the dirt—endless joints passing from hand to hand. On a small screen at the back of the stage, an out-of-focus cartoon shimmered. It was Disney’s Alice in Wonderland.
Everyone cheered her on—Alice was our hero.
As the cartoon ended, a young man in glasses took the stage. From a rumpled paper, he read announcements into a mike. Some mother had lost her kid. Someone else had lost car keys. Then, as if to be funny, the man gave us a little advice. “All you space cadets out there, we know some of you might be getting a little high.”
The audience roared in response.
“Well, we love you, too,” the man said, “but whatever you do, don’t eat the green acid. It’s strychnine, and it’s poison.”
The word poison swept through the crowd. There was screaming and confusion. The girl next to me threw up what looked like miniature hot dogs. I got up to leave. Suddenly, the psilocybin was merciless. Moving against the crowd was like fighting an octopus. People touched me and I could read their minds: hungry, high, horny …
After a long time, I found our tent, found Donna and Vinnie sound asleep, naked on top of their sleeping bag. I stared at them, watching them breathe by cinnamon candlelight. My sister’s thigh was wet. I turned away.
Too high to sleep, I got out my sketchbook, and by the flickering candle I drew trees, monkeys, castles on fire. I sketched till dawn.
* * *
DONNA AND VINNIE were up early and before long had stacked a pile of liverwurst sandwiches on the cooler. They were wound up, talking excitedly about all the music we were about to hear: Sly and Zeppelin, Melanie and more.
I got up, got dressed, had a Fresca for breakfast.
With liverwurst and reefer stowed in Donna’s purse, the three of us headed out for the show. As the white-smocked lovers held hands, I lagged behind them in red bell-bottoms, purple sneakers, and a dash of Donna’s perfume. The ski trail was full of new arrivals, shiny and clean, but the area in front of the stage was a mess of unconscious kids, garbage, and gear, with a faint whiff of poo.
It was August 1, burning hot by ten in the morning. The three of us stood there sweating in the sun.
I said, “I wonder which band will come on first?”
A black kid in a bathrobe explained the situation, “The pigs cut the juice. No electricity. No music. It’s a total fucking rip-off.”
We didn’t quite believe it until an amplified voice came over the speakers. “People, I know most of you have heard the bad news. The festival has been canceled. The roads are blocked and we have no electricity, just this one little generator. We’re really sorry. There’s a court order. Apparently Connecticut is scared of its own children. I’m supposed to tell you all to go home. We’re really sorry.”
The crowd screamed, “No! No! No!”
Kids raised their tickets in the air, screaming, “Thirty bucks, motherfucker!”
I said to Donna, “People don’t need electricity to sing. Or roads. Zeppelin could parachute in or take a helicopter.”
She looked at Vinnie. Vinnie shrugged. “Fuck this. Let’s get out of here.”
My heart sank. I told them I’d catch up.
Not far from the stage, under a beat-up tree I found a girl selling LSD. She stood behind a homemade sign that might have said LEMONADE. That day it said CALIFORNIA’S BEST ACID. Orange hair and freckles, the girl was maybe twelve or thirteen. She gushed, “These tabs are from Berkeley, handmade with gold glitter by my friend Gregory, who is super interesting. One dollar, or three for two. I took one this morning to stay clear. It’s really fresh.”
I smiled at her, in love with love.
Freckles said, “Let me show you the product.”
She poured a hundred hits from her Man from U.N.C.L.E. thermos. I bought three. Without the benefit of lemonade, I swallowed the tabs and wandered back toward the tent.
Who needs rock ’n’ roll when you have rock ’n’ roll pills?
Thirty-five thousand kids agreed. There were flags and fires on the mountain, tanks of nitrous hissing like bombs. Topless girls smoked hookahs and sipped warm beer. Amphetamine Eagle Scouts built lean-tos from underwear and lost maps. There were dogs and babies, whistles and flutes.
* * *
DONNA GAVE ME a motherly look. “Chris, I can’t believe you dropped acid—again!”
She knew I’d been tripping all summer.
“You can’t take it every day!” She shook her head at the little monster she’d created. I asked her if we could please stay a little while longer—that I didn’t want to trip in the car. My head rolled around as I smiled at her.
“Well, I can’t deliver you to Mom like this. She’ll blame me.”
So we all went outside and watched guys playing Frisbee and drinking Bud. One dude wore nothing but an American flag around his waist. Each time he threw the Frisbee, it fell off. Everyone laughed.
American Flag had a crew cut, which pretty much meant Vietnam. I thought of Donna’s missing boyfriend while watching the boy in front of us—who seemed like the happiest person in the world, throwing a Frisbee, wrapping his wang in red, white, and blue. He was so handsome—I hoped he wouldn’t have to die. Or kill. As he caught the pink saucer, stroboscopic trails followed him, frame by frame by frame. I began to think of the awfulness of the war, of dead bodies piled in the sun. Maybe the glitter-acid was coming on a little too strong …
Then, the weird noises began, stopping and starting, eeek, oook, blech, argggh. It took me a while to realize they were coming from my mouth. It seemed like someone else was talking. Donna said, “Chris, what’s wrong?”
“I feel sick or something.” I lay down in the dirt.
“Vinnie, get him some water.”
Donna held me, and Vinnie put a cup to my lips. Rocked by a pair of daisy angels, I calmed down, pretending I was their baby. After a while, the worst feelings passed. But I felt so incredibly tired.<
br />
Later, Vinnie walked me to the Port-O-Sans so I could shit.
With his arm around me, he said, “Shitting always helps.”
* * *
AT HOME, I decided I should fuck the nanny—for the experience.
At Thrift Drugs, I looked for protection. I spotted the condoms behind the counter. The shop clerk was staring at me, an old lady in a fuzzy sweater. “Can I help you, young man?”
I could never have said the word condom to an old lady. Instead, I shoplifted a package of contraceptive foam from one of the shelves. The box informed me that foam was “the Modern Contraceptive.”
That evening, I handed Oonagh the package, telling her that if we were going to have sex, we needed to be careful. Drunk, she laughed at me, saying: But you’re a child. I informed her that I was also a person who manufactured sperm.
Oonagh agreed to apply the foam.
Suddenly modest, she asked me to leave the room.
In a few moments, I heard a scream.
When I ran back in, Oonagh was in tears. The can was defective—the nozzle had come loose. Her crotch was a science fiction mess of yellow foam; a huge blob crept across the sofa. I gave her my T-shirt to wipe herself off.
“Don’t worry, Oonagh. I’ll just tell Mom I threw up.”
* * *
AFTER POWDER RIDGE, Donna was never around.
Then, one afternoon, she stayed home and helped Mom make spaghetti and meatballs for dinner. Donna used too much red pepper and my brother Danny spit up at the table. I remember all of us laughing at the commotion—such a small thing, but in my mind it’s like this little shred of light before a shadow falls.
After supper, Donna knocked on my door to tell me she was running away with Vinnie. “He’s coming by at eleven. Don’t tell Mom and Dad. I’m leaving them a note.”
