Clover Blue

by Eldonna Edwards

  “Wasn’t she married to that Mexican painter?”

  “Yup. Diego Rivera. Look here; it says they lived in separate houses that were connected to each other.”

  I snicker. “Huh. Maybe that’s why Goji lives in his own shack.”

  “Maybe it’s the other way around. Maybe the sister-mothers wanted their own space and that’s why he lives alone.”

  I raise my eyebrows. “Maybe . . .”

  “Well, I love the idea. If I ever settle down I’m just going to live next door to my old man instead of with him.” She glances over at my notebook. “What’re you working on?”

  “Goji wants me to learn about how Catholic priests colonized Native Indians.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I asked him which religion is the truest one.”

  She laughs. “Big mistake.”

  “It’s actually kind of crazy how the religion spread. It says here that there’re over twenty Spanish missions in California.”

  “I remember visiting one once with Ruth. It felt like being in the Wild West. I think it was named San something.”

  I stifle a laugh. “I’m pretty sure they all start with San. San means saint.”

  Harmony opens her next book and pretends to be absorbed in a painting.

  “I didn’t mean you’re dumb or anything.”

  She ignores me.

  I stand up. “Okay, well I’m going back to my own house now.”

  Harmony smacks me on the leg. “Cut it out.”

  “Kidding. Sirona said the reference librarian might be able to find articles on something called microfish.”

  Harmony bursts out laughing. “It’s pronounced microfiche not microfish.”

  I feel my cheeks blush hot as I slide out of my chair next to her at the varnished wooden table. I head to the reference desk, where a new young librarian directs me to the film cabinet. The drawers are listed by years and publications. Rows and rows of envelopes line every drawer, each envelope containing a plastic film card. I carry my list of missions to cross-reference the area, looking for local newspapers starting with the San Francisco Chronicle and working my way down to the Los Angeles Times and the San Diego Union Tribune. I take a couple film cards from the middle including one each from San Luis Obispo and Santa Barbara newspapers.

  I love this machine. I’ve probably spent an hour spinning the slides, zooming, and printing articles about the missions. Curiosity about their history is overtaken by my interest in the architecture. My favorite mission is the one in San Miguel, just north of a town called Paso Robles. Compared to the photos of current cathedrals, these little buildings all seem plain and understated. I pull up more photos and print them out. Not just for me, but because I think Harmony might like to draw them.

  I drop the cards in a basket for the librarian to refile and start to carry the printed papers back toward my sister. Halfway there the thought hits me like a rock. I stop at a huge California map on the wall and trace the roads until I find Freestone. Remembering Willow’s words, I look for lakes near the center of the coastal region. Lopez Lake. Santa Margarita Lake. Lake Nacimiento. Atascadero Lake. These are the only bodies of water anywhere near Highway 101 that Willow and Wave would have driven past on their way back from Santa Barbara that day.

  My heart pounds in my chest as I retrace my steps. I find the card for the San Luis Obispo Telegram-Tribune dated 1967–1968 and slide the film under the lens. I scroll through the dates until I reach August 12, 1967. Nothing about a missing child. Most of the stories feature the upcoming county fair. I move to the following day, August 13.

  As soon as I see the tiny picture on the third page in I know it’s me. Under the photograph of the smiling boy is the name Noah Michael Anderson. The headline reads: “CHILD GOES MISSING AT ATASCADERO RECREATION AREA, PRESUMED DROWNED.”

  Beneath the title it says, “A search party was called but the child has not been found. Police ask anyone with information to contact them.” The story describes how the family was attending a church picnic when their little boy wandered away from the group. I zoom to the next page. A smaller headline, further in, reads, “DIVERS SEARCH FOR TODDLER’S BODY.” I scan the next few days and find one more story: “BOY’S BODY POSSIBLY TAKEN BY COYOTES.” The last article includes a photo of Howard and Delores Anderson staring blankly into the camera. Howard and Delores. My parents.

  They look tired. And sad.

  My hands tremble as I hit the print button and watch the papers slowly inch out of the machine, facedown, one on top of the other.

  “The library’s closing.”

  I nearly jump clear out of my seat at the sound of Harmony’s voice behind me.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. Didn’t realize you were so engrossed in . . .” She leans over my shoulder to read. I grab the film card and stuff it back in the envelope.

  “Yeah, the stories are pretty interesting.” My hand is sweating so badly the envelope nearly slides out of my fingers.

  “Right on. I’m sure one of the Olders will bring us back to the library again so you can finish your research.”

  “Yeah, no big deal.”

  She points to the slot on the side of the machine. “Don’t forget your papers.”

  I pull the pages off the tray and shove them inside the book I’m checking out.

  She narrows her gaze. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine. Just tired from squinting at all that fine print.”

  She reaches for my book. “I’ll check our stuff out while you get Moon and Aura.”

  I pull the book away. “I’ve got it.”

  Harmony throws up her hands. “Sheesh. You don’t have to be so crabby about it.”

  “Sorry. I just want to be sure I get an extended checkout on this one in case I need more time.”

  “Fine. I’ll collect the Youngers. Sirona’s probably already waiting in the parking lot.”

  “Okay, I’ll meet you out there.”

  As soon as she’s out of sight I fold the papers and slip them inside my jeans pocket. I return the microfiche and walk toward the front doors, three words swimming over and over in my head.

  They kidnapped me!

  It’s all I can do to keep it together over dinner. I have so many questions. Goji has always told me that being here at SFC was my destiny. But how does a three-year-old purposely get himself lost and wander into the arms of a couple of tripping yogis? There must be more to the story. There has to be.

  I stare at the flowers in the middle of the table, trying my best to act normal. Mr. Fuller leaves a bouquet at the gate every day for Lotus. Tonight it’s red roses. Wave told Mr. Fuller to “be the honey instead of the bee” if he wants her back. Mr. Fuller has obviously taken Wave’s advice to heart. I know it’s selfish, but I’m hoping he fails. Lotus is the wise and gentle Older I didn’t know we were missing.

  Lotus passes a huge bowl of brown rice to Goji. “You should teach classes,” she says to him.

  Unlike the rest of the family, Lotus doesn’t get stars in her eyes when she’s around Goji. She listens intently but she never loses herself to him like the others do, especially the women.

  Goji waves off the idea with a swipe of his hand. “Saffron Freedom Community attracts those who are looking for freedom and individuality. You are the perfect example. I have no desire to try to convert the world.”

  “But people need to be exposed to the spiritual connection between humans and nature like you’ve created here. They’re not going to find it at a PTA meeting.”

  Willow scoops a mound of rice onto her plate. The muscles in her long arms bulge as she balances the bowl; the same arms that probably carried me to Wave’s van that day at Atascadero Lake.

  She smiles at Lotus. “You mean like an ashram for the community?”

  “Maybe. Or just offer classes through community education. I think people would be really interested.”

  Goji slowly chews his food before responding. “We’re already a sp
iritual community. You can call it an ashram or a commune or some other name, but I’m not interested in being anyone’s guru.” He turns to Lotus. “Thank you for your affirmation, sister. I don’t care to call more public attention to our family. The reason we’ve been together for so long is because we’ve created a safe haven undisturbed by prurient curiosity in our open lifestyle. We don’t need people showing up with stars in their eyes, hoping for a panacea to fix all their problems.”

  Lotus nods. “I understand. Maybe you could write a book of essays on various topics instead. You could publish under an alias if you don’t want to attract attention.”

  I wait for Doobie to pass the veggie stir-fry. He definitely has stars in his eyes. Not for Goji but for Lotus. He hangs on to her every word. Wave finally taps him on the shoulder to get his attention. “Oh, sorry man. Here you go, Blue.”

  The conversation moves to our studies when Goji asks about my research at the library earlier. My heart beats so hard I’m convinced everyone can hear it thumping like a drum against my chest.

  “I learned that Catholic priests monitored the American Indians and extinguished their languages.”

  Goji nods. “It’s true. Many tribes no longer have members that speak the native tongue. It’s lost forever.”

  Rain’s mouth turns into a pout. “That’s so sad.”

  Goji pats her hand in the way you would a kitten and turns back to me. “I look forward to reading your essay, Clover Blue.”

  I feed most of my dinner to Sunny, who always waits under the table for one of us to drop a scrap of food. The printed newspaper articles are practically burning a hole in my pocket. I just want to go hide somewhere in private where I can read them again.

  Goji stands and carries his plate toward the dishpan. “Let’s have a fire tonight. These winter evenings are getting so cool.”

  I help Doobie start the fire, but when Wave asks me to play a song I shake my head. “My throat’s a little dry. You go ahead.”

  Sirona rushes toward the kitchen, probably to make tea to soothe my throat. Goji drapes a wool blanket around Rain’s shoulders, rubbing her back with his hand to warm her. Rain smiles, little flames reflected in her blue eyes. Harmony sits next to me on a log, leaning against my shoulder for warmth. Her hair smells good, like the outdoors has planted itself in every strand. I never get tired of smelling her hair.

  “You’re shaking,” she whispers.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cold.”

  Wave sings a Harry Chapin tune, his newest favorite. All the Chapin songs are stories. This one is about a little boy who changes schools and his new teacher makes him paint flowers in perfect rows of red and green instead of all the colors the boy loves. The song brushes against a growing sadness that I’ve felt ever since reading the newspaper stories about my disappearance. I take a sip of the tea Sirona made and swallow the cry in my throat.

  Harmony nudges me. “You wanna go for a walk?”

  “No thanks. I think I’ll go to bed early. I might be coming down with a cold or something.”

  “Can I walk with you to the tree house?”

  “Sure.”

  As soon as we’re out of earshot of the others she pulls me to a stop. “What’s going on with you? You haven’t been yourself since we were at the library this afternoon.”

  It’s nearly impossible to hide anything from Harmony, but I try. “Nothing’s going on.”

  She dips her chin and purses her lips. “If you say so.”

  “I say so.”

  I head up the ladder to my bedroom. Now that Doobie has moved in, I rarely have any privacy. I need to be back for evening meditation so I only have a few minutes to myself. I carefully unfold the papers to read the articles more thoroughly.

  Pastor Reed was quoted as saying that a sibling lost track of the toddler, who was last seen playing in the sand between the lake and the nearby woods. Witnesses report that it was a very busy day at the lake with temps hovering in the high nineties. While there is no evidence of foul play, police have not ruled it out.

  I run my finger over the word sibling, again and again. Seeing the photo of the three-year-old me I suddenly feel caught between two worlds. In the past I’ve tried to brush aside my curiosity about finding my former parents. Over the years I’ve accepted living here as a gift, reminding myself how lucky I am to be surrounded by people I love and who love me. I belong here but maybe I belong there, too. Or maybe I don’t belong anywhere. Maybe everyone who once knew me has long forgotten Noah Michael Anderson.

  “Blue?”

  It’s too late to hide the papers and it wouldn’t do any good anyway. She’s already seen me crying over them. I don’t say a word as she picks up the wrinkled pages and reads. When she looks up, her eyes overflow with love. She hands me the blurred copy of the little boy’s photo.

  “Is that . . . is this you?”

  I nod. “I think so.”

  “I thought you said you were adopted by SFC?”

  “I was. After Willow and Wave brought me here.”

  Still gripping the newspaper articles, Harmony looks out my window, toward the others sitting around the fire. “You mean took you here.”

  “Apparently Wave and Willow were tripping on ’shrooms. Willow thought I was sent to her or something. After they brought me here Goji declared that I was seeking them. That I was meant to be here.”

  Harmony crawls on the bed and faces me, sitting on her feet. “What are you going to do?”

  I gather up the papers and stuff them in one of my books. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing?”

  “I can’t. If anyone finds out what happened, everyone here will go to prison.”

  “Everyone?”

  “Except maybe Rain, since she doesn’t know. And Lotus, of course. I’m not sure how much Sirona or Coyote knows since I was already living here when they joined.”

  Harmony crosses her arms across her chest. “I’m too young to go to prison.”

  “That’s the thing. They’d probably take you and Moon and Aura, put you all in foster care. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

  “But your parents! What about your parents? Don’t they deserve to know you’re alive? And your sisters or brothers?”

  When I don’t answer, she grabs my knees and says, “Blue, look at me.”

  I raise my head and look into Harmony’s face. For the first time I see her for the wise human being she’s become instead of the little girl I grew up with.

  “I can’t, Harmony. I can’t lose you. Or them. Or any of this. I love you all so much.”

  “But aren’t you even a little angry? They stole you. It’s not right!”

  “Of course I’m angry. But that doesn’t change how much I love them. They were only a few years older than we are now. And they were tripping.”

  “That’s not an excuse.”

  “I know. But I can’t. . . .” I gather up the papers and slide them under my pillow. “I just can’t.”

  The light burns out on my headlamp and we’re left with a small beam of moonlight gently lighting my tiny room. Harmony leans forward and kisses me on the cheek. It feels different, this kiss, different from the hundreds that have gone before.

  “I understand,” she whispers. “But it’s still messed up.” We climb down the ladder and head toward the meditation circle. I don’t need to tell her to keep this between us. I already know she’ll protect my secret like she protects everything that’s dear to her, fiercely and with the loyalty of a faithful warrior.

  23

  January 1978

  Sirona sold us on the idea of building a sauna. She says it will detoxify us from all the pollution we breathe but can’t see. We built it with boards from the Czech’s old barn that blew down and paneled the inside with cedar. My job is to help gather rocks for the wood-burning heater. Our property is peppered with rocks so they’re not hard to find. What’s hard is wheel-barrowing them back. If I load too many, the tire goes flat and I have to refill
it with the bike pump. It feels like I’ve already made a hundred trips. I’m sweating so bad you’d think I just came out of a sauna.

  I’m glad winter is here. Not just for relief from overheating but because I don’t feel as comfortable being naked around the others as I used to. I’ve noticed that Harmony has started covering herself with a towel when she finishes a shower, so it’s not just me. I don’t get how the other guys can walk around naked all the time around naked women without getting boners. I guess you grow out of it. I hope I grow out of it before summer gets here again.

  Wave laughs from the roof of the sauna when I accidentally tip the wheelbarrow too far to one side and the whole pile of rocks tumbles out on the ground. “I think we’ve got enough, Blue. How about you come up here and help me with the shingles?”

  I climb the ladder and join him up top. “What do you think of this sauna idea, Wave?”

  “I like it. You know we used to have a sweat lodge back in the early days.”

  “What’s a sweat lodge?”

  “It’s kind of like a tent with a dirt floor and a pile of rocks near the door. We brought hot rocks inside with a shovel and ladled water over them to create steam.”

  “Just so you could sweat?”

  Wave carefully lays a shingle, overlapping the one above it. “Sweating was a by-product but it wasn’t why we did it. The lodge was more of a spiritual thing. We chanted and prayed inside.”

  “Didn’t it stink in there with all those sweaty people?”

  Wave points to a pile of shingles next to the ladder. “Give me one of those, will ya?”

  I peel off a shingle and hand it to him.

  “I imagine if I walked into a sweat lodge in the middle of a sweat it might stink, but when you’re in it, I mean really in it, you’re not focused on smells.”

  “What are you focused on?”

  He smiles. “Connecting with everyone. Connecting with yourself. Getting that hot is a transcendent experience. Sometimes I hallucinated or had visions.”

  “Were you stoned?”

  “Occasionally. But the deepest experiences I had in the lodge, the memorable ones, were when I was completely straight.”