Eve smiles. ‘They’ll be going to the moon next.’
The smile is genuine enough, a little crooked. There are worse women he could’ve chosen, after all; women less inclined to honor the parameters of words on paper.
‘One thing I don’t understa-nd—’ Rosaline hears her voice crack, but presses on. ‘You coulda stayed quiet? You coulda had him all to yourself.’
‘No one can have all of Father,’ Eve objects priggishly. ‘He belongs to the people.’
‘But you coulda been his wife, if you wanted. It woulda been, dontcha think, more …?’
Comfortable? Respectable? Sane? Rosaline doesn’t know how to finish the thought, and Eve’s face isn’t giving any clues; those steady, slate-blue eyes too devoid of self-interest to want anything more.
‘I want only what’s best for the Temple.’ Eve passes the paper back.
‘Well … I’m glad we’re on the same page.’ Accepting the paper, Rosaline smiles feebly at her unintentional pun. ‘Thanks for coming by, Eve.’
Eve’s mouth opens to correct Rosaline, closes again. She takes up her bag and gives Rosaline a strange, sidelong look. ‘Thank you … Rose.’
A strange young woman. Or maybe not so strange. Maybe entirely typical of the new generation. As they walk downstairs, Eve asks after Rosaline’s back pain, and Rosaline says, oh, well, the worst is over. Rosaline looks at Eve’s smart leather tote again and says, that’s nice, very versatile. ‘It was a birthday gift from my mother,’ Eve explains, then looks bashful: because the gift was clearly expensive, because she has a mother who buys her such gifts, because this mother is probably the same age as Rosaline. Walking out to the porch, Eve predictably refuses Rosaline’s second offer of a hot beverage — ‘I shall have a coffee when I get to the Publications Office.’ Then that crooked smile again, and turning on her heel, treading carefully past the withered roses, down to her red car, and if Rosaline never had to see this young woman again, if she were to fall off the face of the earth forever, she wouldn’t mind at all.
But though there are thorns today, there is no blood.
Book Two
Children of the Revolution
1.
They all remember where they are the day Father is shot down in the Temple parking lot.
Fourth of July, 1972. One of those God-sent Evergreen Valley days, so hot the air is wavering, and not just from barbeque smoke. Hillsides scorched gold. Silver-white dime of sun. Sky hard and blue as a vase you want to pitch something at, just to see it break.
The day Father is shot down, Roberta ‘Bobbi’ Luce is in the woods beyond the Jones’s vineyard, riding Magic Dancer. Riding with her butt in the air, since every time it hits the saddle, it’s another whack from the paddle. Seventy-five whacks for necking with Wendy from school — not because Wendy was a girl, but because she was non-Temple. Seventy-five whacks, agreed on communally and administered by Sister Regina, another lezzie, just to show it wasn’t about that. At the time, it seemed worth it, thinking of Wendy’s black hair waterfalling down her back, her way of shaking it off her face to light a cigarette against Bobbi’s, to press her lips against Bobbi’s. But now Bobbi’s ass is a motley of turquoise and red, and Wendy doesn’t want to neck anymore, says it was a mistake, she’s no dyke, and nothing seems worth much, everything just hurts … like Magic Dancer, hearing that firecracker, POP!, whinnying, rearing up, throwing Bobbi off her back and butt-first against the dirt.
The day Father is shot down, Darnell ‘Darl’ Patterson is in the Jones’s driveway, shooting hoops with the guys as the girlfriends look on. His girl, Hedy Gore, thick-thighed in torn jeans and stringy pumpkin-orange hair and that pert white-chick nose all rimmed with red, same as her eyes. Lately, looking at Hedy, nothing but stringy hair and red eyes, and sure, she’s always been a little rough around the edges, a city kid with a surprising knack for farm life, just like him, but Darl hoped maybe she’d make an effort for Fourth of July. Wash her hair, maybe. Put on one of her flowery dresses and show the white slopes of her shoulders, the red fur of her armpits. Show off her body — no baby to worry about ruining it now, and since when did Hedy like babies? Hedy, who’s always going on about overpopulation, how humans are poisoning the oceans, tearing down too many trees? Of all the chicks Darl’s been with (and there’ve been a lot), Hedy’s the last he’d expect to get the blues over an abortion. An abortion they would’ve agreed on even if it wasn’t for that committee of white chicks talking them into it; no way was Darl going to give up his only chance at college to be a dad at twenty. No way, when his own brother Julius got shipped back to Oakland with an opium habit and no legs just last summer, and his cousins Randy and Benji getting shot at somewhere in the jungle right now probably. No way is Darl sentimental enough to believe mixed-race babies are going to save the world … you need a revolution for that, and revolution’s tough. Revolution means being ready at the first gunshot, POP!, and Darl’s dropping the ball to run to it, he’s ready.
The day Father is shot down, Charles ‘Che’ Brodsky is trying to make moves on Flora Armstrong around the back of the bandstand. Trying, since it’s not easy making himself heard over Danny Luce’s drum solo, and his version of making moves is arguing with her about Israel. ‘Call me a Zionist,’ Che says. ‘All I’m saying is, Sadat is hostile and Israel has every right to defend its borders.’ Flora snaps back, ‘Borders? You mean stolen land?’ Flora has eyebrows like Joan Crawford, a kohl-rimmed stare like Theda Bara, earrings that look big enough to knock him out, but just ten minutes ago she sang ‘Feelin’ Good’, and Che could actually see the birds flying high, the sun in the sky, the good feelings. ‘I mean defensive depth territory, and we wouldn’t need it if the Arabs recognized the State of Israel.’ Flora laughs. ‘We, Charles? Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. You’re from Queens.’ Che laughs too, adjusts his saxophone strap. ‘Flora, you can do better than ad hominem attacks.’ But, of course, he is from Queens, and she’s from Harlem, and here they are in Evergreen Valley, discussing conflicts in the Middle East between sets, and he’d have to be a masochist not to appreciate his luck. Flora says, ‘Oh, I’m just getting started,’ and starts giving him the stats on displaced Palestinians, and he has to lean close, Danny has stomped on the bass drum, a big hollow POP! that makes the crowd scream.
The day Father is shot down, Leticia ‘Tish’ Bud-Hurmerinta is hunched over a plate of collard greens at the picnic table, trying to make her sister-in-law Polly eat. Tish isn’t normally the kind to make anyone do anything, but Eric’s worried about his sis, and honestly, she’s worried. The way the weight has slid off Polly these past months. The way, sixteen, chubby Polly suddenly looks like a lollipop. ‘C’mon, try a little,’ Tish coaxes. ‘There’s no bacon bits. I checked.’ Polly shakes her lollipop head. Eric, who’s supposed to be staying out of it, cuts his eyes at Polly from across the table. ‘C’mon, greens. From the earth. Au naturel, ma chérie.’ Polly’s favorite subject at school is French, with Evelyn Lynden. Tish has noticed Polly’s green eyes hungering after Evelyn, and other slim white women: Terra, Frida, Mona. ‘I can’t, Tish,’ Polly whispers. ‘It’s like eating slime.’ Tish sighs. ‘Don’t let Antonia hear you say that,’ Antonia being Tish’s mom, who didn’t spend all that time in the kitchen to have her greens compared with slime. ‘Goddamnit, Polly!’ Eric barks. ‘You sound like a privileged bitch!’ Tish shoots him a look, though deep-down she agrees; she wouldn’t dream of turning her nose up at food that way, and not just cause she’s skinny. The kind of skinny that can put on a turban and pass for a starving Biafran woman onstage, even if she was stuffing her face with Antonia’s famous red velvet cake ten minutes earlier. ‘Please, Polly. You’re so beautiful. We just want you happy and healthy.’ Polly’s eyes flash with tears, same eyes Eric’s got, real pretty. Like it weighs a ton, Polly lifts the fork to her lips. Nibbles. Sputters. ‘Goddamnit, Polly!’ Eric slaps the table, then looks surprised at the noise,
an air-puncturing POP!, and across the parking lot, Father’s falling.
The day Father is shot down, Wayne Bud is crouching in the vineyard, aiming a rifle at Father’s gold shirt. A moment he’s been practicing for weeks, but still it seems insane to Wayne, the press of his finger on the trigger, the shattering POP! Then the predictable chaos: women shrieking, dogs barking, Father’s gold shirt flowering red. The rush of bodies, wanting blood for blood. A pitchfork waves over the top of the vines, like some kind of parody of a lynch mob. Wayne flattens himself against the dirt, heart rabbiting, mouth watering at the injustice. Too smart for this shit. Smart, as in he actually enjoys calculus, chemistry, physics, his colossal pre-engineering course load. Smart, as in maybe he got off a bit too much on the challenge of planning a realistic-looking assassination attempt. Too smart for this shit, Wayne repeats to himself as the boots get closer, the dogs. But just in time, Brother Gene hollers, ‘Other way, Father says!’ and the mob swerves like a cloud of birds, and never again does Wayne want to be in the position of needing a fat old white cop to save his skin.
How long Wayne stays on his belly, sun soaking the back of his shirt, he doesn’t know. After a while, the screams turn to sobs, prayers. Smoke curls up from the grill in a hopeful little wisp. Wayne army-crawls to the other side of the vines, cradling the rifle like Brother Gene taught him in last week’s training session. At an understated jog, he starts downhill to the woods.
If anyone asks about the rifle, it’s to shoot Father’s shooter.
No one will ask him in the woods, though. Wayne’s reasonably sure about this, and it’s what makes that wall of evergreens so desirable. No one to ask questions. No one to see the heave of his chest, the sweat on his brow. Goddamnit, he’s not supposed to be so emotional.
The earth is scattered with pine needles, pale green spots of sun. Antonia, his mom, will be weeping, he supposes. His big sis, Tish, comforting the younger ones: Ignatius, Henty, Elly, Shondra, Angelique. Alice, whom he’s not dating anymore, never was, if he’s honest, will be crying on Billy’s shoulder, and though Wayne can’t begrudge them this, it makes him feel as though he’s standing in the snow outside a well-lit house full of mourners.
The revolutionary life is lonely, he reminds himself, thinking of that poem from Evelyn Lynden’s French class about the partisan, traversing shadowy frontiers alone.
Only, Wayne isn’t alone. Feet are clopping the earth again, foliage crashing, and he barely has time to duck before the shape emerges: chestnut-brown, big as three men, snorting and whinnying. ‘What the …?’ he mutters, though in fact he recognizes the horse. When the white girl comes trudging red-faced through the bushes after it, he isn’t surprised.
‘Magic!’ she whistles. ‘Here, Magic!’ She strides forward purposefully, trips on a branch and falls flat on her ass. ‘Ow-wow! Magic Dancer, damn you, get over here!’
At that, she starts to cry, and this doesn’t surprise Wayne either, though in all the years he’s known Bobbi Luce, she’s never been much of a crier. And he has known her years. Since Indiana, epic snowball fights and ball games, Cowboys and Indians; she always had to be an Indian, was totally stubborn about it, and totally annoying. An annoying kid in general, Roger and Danny’s little sister: too young to be an equal playmate like the older girls (Tish, Su-mi, Alice, and Minnie), too prissy; even if she played the tomboy, it was always in a prissy way, like she wanted to be congratulated on her originality. He remembers her interrupting a ball game once to proclaim she’d seen a sasquatch, provoking a mass hysteria. Another time, gluing herself to him at some church event and telling him everything she knew about Clydesdales, till he snapped back (eight years old, but already surly as hell), ‘So what? Do you want a medal?’ Wayne never would’ve talked to his sisters that way, or Alice and Minnie, or Su-mi, but it seemed justifiable with an annoying white girl like Bobbi, and she hadn’t cried, just stared at him with those bluey-green eyes and that big nose, almost like a third eye.
But now she’s crying, and Wayne doesn’t know what to make of it.
He does it because he’s bored. Because, even if it was for the good of the Cause, he feels bad for shooting Father, making all those women cry. Because, loner tendencies aside, he’s a Temple kid; kind and helpful to a fault. ‘Hey, horse girl! Why the long face?’
Bobbi yelps. Then she’s cry-laughing. ‘… What the hell, Wayne?’
Another thing about Temple kids: they’re good liars. Have to be, what with Father constantly trying to read their minds. ‘Johnny Bronco lost his frisbee,’ Wayne bluffs.
‘Well I lost my horse,’ Bobbi harrumphs, wincingly dusting off the seat of her jeans. ‘Some idiot decided to let off a firecracker in broad daylight. Did you hear?’
Wayne grunts noncommittally, tactfully stares away from Bobbi’s ass, which is shapelier than he gave it credit for. ‘She’ll be back soon,’ he reassures her. Since she kind of looks like she’s going to cry again, he adds, ‘… Want me to catch her?’
‘Pshhh. Good luck.’
It’s not a yes, but he’ll take it. He throws a glance at the bracken where the rifle is concealed, then dashes off. It’s not long before he locates Magic Dancer — ears pricked, flicking her shiny black tail. Wayne clucks his tongue. Magic Dancer side-eyes him, blinks her long lashes, starts trotting over … then, skittish as a cat, scuttles in the opposite direction.
By the time Wayne gets hold of the horse, the old sweat has dried into a crust at his collar, and new sweat is dampening his neck. He tries not to feel too much like a stable boy as he leads the horse back to Bobbi. ‘She’s stubborn like you.’
Bobbi is crouched by the bracken, rifle in hands. Wayne is sliced by the apprehension that he knew she might find it, and he’d left her alone to do so anyway. Why? So he could bring her precious pony back? So he could get away from her tears? So he could get away from the gun?
You’re not as smart as you think, he chastises himself. And you’re not much of a revolutionary.
Mock-alarmed, Wayne cries, ‘Jesus, Bobbi!’
Bobbi looks warily from him to the horse. ‘I thought I heard a firecracker.’
He shrugs. ‘It’s Fourth of July. Maybe you did.’
‘It is yours, right?’ She looks at him with those irritating pale eyes.
‘Why would you say that?’ Wayne snaps, but he sounds a bit like his kid brother Henty, that time they caught him smuggling snails into the house by the bucket load. Bobbi starts dissembling the gun. Wayne groans. ‘What are you doing?’
She rolls her eyes. ‘My dad’s a cop. I know what I’m doing.’ With a kind of helpless thrill, Wayne watches her check the cartridge. ‘Blanks, Wayne?’
Wayne scowls. ‘Do you want your horse or not?’
Bobbi clicks the rifle back together. Flounces toward him, yanks the reins from his hands, and shoves it against his chest. He tries to protest, but she just gives him that stare. ‘Tell me it isn’t yours, and I’ll put it back in the bushes.’
‘I’ll put it back,’ Wayne argues, then does. ‘Why’re you always sticking your beak in everything, anyway? Some things are on a need-to-know basis, alright?’
‘You owe me,’ Bobbi retorts.
She climbs onto Magic Dancer, lowers her ass into the saddle with a hiss. Of course, she had her ass whupped last week. Kissing a non-Temple girl; just the sort of thing Bobbi Luce would get an ass-whupping over. Wayne makes an effort not to stare as she trots past him, bucking and wincing. ‘Uh … maybe you shouldn’t do that.’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Yeah, but …’ He catches up. ‘Maybe I need help finding that frisbee.’
‘Wayne Bud needs help? I’ll believe it when I see it.’
‘Maybe.’ Wayne smiles. He isn’t in the habit of smiling much, but he knows his smile is effective. He holds his hand out. Rolling her eyes, Bobbi lets him help her down.
It isn’t her com
pany he craves; it’s being away from the drama of Father faking dead. Or that’s what he tells himself as they tie up Magic Dancer and beat the bushes. Eventually, Bobbi declares, ‘Johnny can find his own frisbee. Can we go back now? I’m hungry.’
‘Me too.’ Wayne crouches to untie Magic Dancer. ‘So hungry, I could eat a horse.’
‘Ha-ha. Nice one, Dad.’
‘Just, let’s walk slow? Things are kinda crazy back there.’
Bobbi raises her brows but doesn’t ask questions; Temple-crazy could mean almost anything. ‘If you can’t tell, I’m not really in the mood for people.’
‘I can tell.’ Wayne watches her ass as she leads Magic Dancer ahead. ‘So … do you still see that chick?’
‘I wouldn’t tell you if I was.’
‘I can keep a secret.’
‘Yeah, but you wouldn’t. Everyone knows you’re Mr. Perfect.’
Wayne frowns, though he can’t argue with the assessment. The only time he’s been in trouble in recent memory was back in high school, when the coach called him ‘John Wayne’ affectionately. He’d retorted that John Wayne was a talentless racist.
It’s silent, except for their steps in formation, the cicadas. Wayne asks, ‘Do you only like chicks?’
‘Do you have a problem with that?’
‘Course not. Just curious.’
‘Yeah … I don’t know. Maybe. Father says we’re all latent homosexuals anyway.’ Bobbi shoos a horsefly. ‘Did you ever think you might be … you know …?’
‘No. What?’ But actually, he has wondered. Last summer especially, when Alice started going around with Billy Younglove, necking and close-dancing with Billy at every Temple party. In all his years of assuming he’d marry Alice someday, Wayne never did more than kiss her chastely, drive her places, study with her. Never wanted to do more, though Alice was easily one of the prettiest girls in the Temple, and, more importantly, one of the smartest.
Beautiful Revolutionary Page 19
