"Yeah." Sean nodded. "They classified him 4-Y."
"What's that mean?"
"According to Clay, it means that if we're ever in a declared war and the enemy has already conquered twenty-six states and there's nobody left to draft except him and fourteen-year-old kids, the fourteen-year-olds get drafted first."
Artie nodded. "Sounds pretty safe."
"And you know, Mario didn't really try to beat the draft," Sean said. "He's from Cuba, and he told me once that Castro killed a lot of people in his family and all that shit. I think he wanted a chance to kill some communists, so he let himself get drafted and get sent over to Vietnam."
"But he knows I'm a communist," Russell pointed out, "and he's always been friendly to me."
"Yeah, but he doesn't take you seriously."
"Great," Russell mumbled. "I wish my principal didn't take me seriously."
"I'm ready," Peter said. "Let's hit the road."
In the parlance of the era, Zoli's Bar on Hempstead Turnpike in Nassau County was a head bar, as opposed to a hitter bar or a jock bar; its clientele consisted largely of "freaks," a term commonly used to refer to long-haired, denim-clad, drug-oriented middle-class white kids. They were members of an unusually affluent generation, and the affluence was so common and unex-ceptional that it went largely unnoticed by them. They did not think of themselves as wealthy, of course, despite the fact that very few of them were ever strapped for cash, thanks largely to vast sums of money borrowed as college loans from banks or made available by indulgent parents; and a good deal of this money was, by nine o'clock, finding its way into the cash register at Zoli's, exchanged for pitcher after pitcher of beer.
As Sean, Russell, and Peter sat at a table with Dorcas Ostlich, her sister Lydia, and their friends Deirdre Duell and Nancy O'Hara, Artie Winston sat on a small dais near the far wall of the bar, playing his guitar and harmonica, singing one of his own compositions.
"Well, I've heard tell that Jefferson said
Revolution keeps a country free,
And I've heard tell that Andrew Johnson
Drank, but it's news to me,
And that Warren Harding kept a personal whore,
And that Polk up and started the Mexican War.
Well, I never heard such things before,
So you're gonna have to prove it to me."
"She's all right, don't you think?" Dorcas asked Lydia. "I mean, it's just not like her to take off like this."
Lydia drained her beer glass and then replied, "Look, Sarah's probably off somewhere communing with the Holy Ghost or something. Don't worry about her."
"I mean, I know we don't get along. . . ."
"Dork, cut it out, will you?" her sister snapped. "Sarah's gonna turn up."
"Sure she is," Deirdre Duell offered. "She'll probably be home when you get back to Beckskill tomorrow." She was an exquisitely beautiful girl, madly in love with Artie Winston, who was too shy to talk to her.
"Of course she will," Nancy O'Hara agreed, sniffing with irritation at Dorcas's concern. "Everybody splits from home sometimes. It's nothing to worry about."
"I hope not," Dorcas muttered. "I just couldn't stand it if anything happened to her." She turned to Peter, who was sitting beside her. "Sarah's okay, right, Pete, don't you think?"
"Sure she is, Dorcas," Peter said supportively. "Maybe she's more, I don't know, adventurous than anybody realizes. Maybe she just took off for a few days, or met some guy or something."
She shook her head. "That doesn't sound like Sarah." She looked across the table at Sean. "But she's probably okay, right?"
"Yeah, sure," Sean replied, not looking at her. "She's fine."
"Well, I've heard tell that marijuana
Ain't the same as LSD.
And I've heard tell that whiskey's the worst,
You can get addicted and OD.
Well, I've heard tell that grass don't kill
And there's suicide in the backyard still.
Well, brother, you can think whatever you will,
But you're gonna have to prove it to me.
Yup, I'm from Missouri and I'm damn proud to say
That our thoughts ain't changed since Grandpa's day,
And we never let evidence get in the way.
So you're gonna have to prove it to me."
"Hey, Sean," Russell said, taking his hands off Nancy O'Hara and turning to his friend, "I scored some great acid from one of the kids in my class. You want to do a hit?"
Sean considered it. "You gonna?"
"As long as I'm not the only one, sure. I hate to trip alone."
"Yeah, me too." Sean thought for a few moments. "No, I don't feel like it. Not tonight."
Russell looked beyond him. "What about you, Peter?"
"Count me out," he replied. "I've been bumming out a lot lately. I doubt I'll be doing acid anymore."
"Everybody gets into a bad head now and then," Sean said. "It'll pass." He drank some beer and then asked, "What kind of bummers you been having?"
"You know, I hear voices, shit like that."
"You're just hearing your own thoughts, that's all," Lydia said. "Happens to me sometimes. The acid does weird shit to your brain, so you hear what you're thinking."
"Yeah?" Peter asked. "You too? You ever hold conversations with yourself?"
She shrugged. "Sometimes."
"I mean like for real, not just like saying your thoughts out loud. Like you're sitting there and somebody who looks like you is sitting next to you, and you talk to them and they talk back. You ever do that?"
"Sometimes," she repeated. "It's no big deal."
Peter laughed. "I wish I could deal with it that easily. It scares the hell out of me."
"Just think about happy stuff when you burn out," Lydia suggested. "Me, I like dogs, so if I'm starting to bum out, I just start thinking about dogs, and it kinda gets me out of it."
"She's got a point there," Sean said. "I do the same thing. If I start to have a bad trip, I just start to think about—"
"The Wizard of Oz," everyone at the table finished for him in unison.
"Hey, fuck you guys, you know?" he muttered.
"Well, I've heard tell them blacks want jobs
And financial security,
And I've heard tell them Chicano boys
Just want to get a decent fee,
And that Indians want to be left to do
Whatever they want, like me and you,
And I've heard tell that Christ was a Jew,
But you're gonna have to prove it to me.
Yup, I'm from Missouri. . . ."
Dorcas's face was a study in fear and worry, and Peter took her hand gently, saying, "Listen, Dorcas, you want to get out of here, go somewhere else, somewhere quieter?"
"No, Pete, thanks." She sighed. "I guess I feel a little guilty about leaving home yesterday morning, not staying there while this is all going on."
"So what could you do at home?" he asked. "All you'd end up doing would be sitting around your house, all alone, worrying."
She shrugged. "I'm sitting here worrying."
"Yeah"—he smiled—"but you're not alone."
She returned the smile and waited for him to lean forward to kiss her. He picked up his beer instead.
"Well, I've heard tell not all longhairs
Are guilty of sodomy,
And I've heard tell a hard day's work
Ain't all life was meant to be. ,
But I ain't the only one to sing this song,
Been just like my neighbors all along,
And they're all right, so I can't be wrong,
And you're gonna have to prove it to me. . . ."
Dorcas turned to Lydia and said, "You don't think that Daddy has . . . I mean, you remember when you ran away?"
"Yeah, I remember," Lydia replied, discomfort evident in her tone.
"Well, is it possible that . . . well, do you think Daddy's been . . . I mean—"
Lydia found Dorcas
's tactful approach annoying, so she cut her off. "Has Dad been molesting her like he used to molest me?"
Dorcas lowered her eyes. "It might explain what happened. If she ran away, I mean."
Lydia shook her head. "I don't think it's been happening, and even if it is, it wouldn't make her run away." She took a drink of beer. "She'd probably enjoy it, anyway.
"Lydia!" Dorcas exclaimed. "That's a terrible thing to say!"
Lydia sighed. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm sorry. I didn't mean it." She turned to her sister and said, "Look, Dork, Dad went to the same shrink you and I did. He doesn't do that kind of stuff anymore, not to me, not to Sarah."
Dorcas nodded. "He was a good psychiatrist."
"He was an asshole," Lydia countered. "Telling me that I shouldn't hate myself and shouldn't blame myself because it wasn't my fault and I was just a kid and all that shit. Christ, I knew that! I didn't need him to tell me."
Dorcas mustered up the courage to disagree. "He seems to have helped Daddy."
Lydia shrugged, dismissing the statement. "Dad is still a bastard, I still hate his fucking guts, and I'll never forgive him. I think I'll hate him till the day I die. But none of that stuff has anything to do with Sarah."
Dorcas seemed on the verge of crying. "Then where is she, Lydia?" Her sister did not reply.
Artie ended the song with a riff on the harmonica that was suspended in front of his face in a wire holder, and a smattering of applause followed from those people in the bar who had been listening. The bartender went to the dais and whispered in Artie's ear, after which Artie said into the microphone, "Lydia . . . hey, Lydia. You got a phone call."
Lydia's friends watched as she went to the bar and picked up the phone. They saw her smile as her lips formed a greeting he could not hear; then her face went white. A few moments later she walked unsteadily back to the table and sat down heavily beside her sister.
"Lydia?" Dorcas asked. "Lydia? What is it? Is it . . . is it Sarah?"
"That was Becky," Lydia said with trembling voice. "They've . . . been trying to . . . to find us since yesterday afternoon."
Dorcas put her hands to her mouth, knowing from her sister's behavior that something was horribly wrong. "Lydia," she asked, "what about Sarah?"
"Sarah's dead," Lydia whispered, tears beginning to run down her cheeks. "They found her body in the woods. She was murdered."
Dorcas began to cry and everone else's eyes went wide with shock. "Do they have any idea who did it?" Sean asked.
"Yeah, they know exactly who did it," Lydia said, her weak voice growing suddenly firm with outrage. "It was that goddamn fucking freak, Grogo!"
Chapter Nine
November 28, 1968
The people of Beckskill thought it quite appropriate for it to have rained on Thanksgiving, for there seemed little out of the ordinary about which to be thankful. It is easy to say that one should be thankful for life and health and a full stomach and a strong roof, but this is an aphorism, a proverb more honored in the breach than the observance. For the people of Beckskill, Thanksgiving of 1968 brought them a murdered girl, a jeopardized economic future, and a collective crime on the minds of all and on the lips of none.
The sky was still overcast on the afternoon following Thanksgiving as a large group of people stood in a silent assembly around the freshly dug grave of Sarah Ostlich. A slight drizzle fell upon the solemn faces, mingling with the tears of some and running in rivulets through the furrowed brows of others, and the clouds moved with sullen deliberation through the gray sky.
Nearest the grave, beside Pastor Benke of St. Hugh's Church in neighboring Rosendale, stood Dr. Timothy Ostlich, his desolation accentuated by the fact that he stood alone. His two remaining children stood apart, not quite in the crowd but nonetheless distant from their father. Dorcas was dressed in a dark flowered dress with padded shoulders, 1940's vintage, obtained in a thrift shop down in New Paltz. Beside her was Peter Geerson, who had returned with her from Long Island two days before and who had conducted himself as the soul of propriety in these dire circumstances, even to the extent of being kind and sympathetic to her father, with whom he shared a mutual dislike. Lydia, dressed in a black leotard gathered at the breast by an antique brooch, and a skirt sewn together from a multitude of dark paisley-print scarves, stood next to Clayton Saunders, who had attended the ceremony only because his sister had cajoled him into it. Rebecca Saunders stood next to her brother, her face almost as tearstained as those of the Ostlich family. She did not weep for Sarah, whom she heartily disliked. Her tears were for Lydia and Dorcas.
"O God, our God," Benke was saying, "who marketh for each man his little time in this world, we commit into your keeping the soul of our sister, Sarah Olivia Ostlich. . . ."
Clayton was very uneasy. Funerals always bothered him anyway, and his mind was filled with depressing images. The decaying body of Sarah Ostlich, the blood pouring from the head of the old yogi, Vernon being hoisted up by his neck, the billowing flames in the old barn . . . What a drag, he thought. I wish they'd hurry up so I can go home and do a pipe.
"I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord. Whosoever believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die. . . ."
Alex Brown stood with his friends and neighbors, his eyes moving from Dr. Ostlich to Clayton Saunders. For his fellow council member he felt crushing sorrow. To lose a child, he thought, that must be the greatest heartache, especially a child as upright and innocent as Sarah. And look what he has left. That little slut who is always with the bum, doing God knows what, and that other one, the crazy one, the one they had to put away last year. Poor man, poor man.
His emotions ran from sympathy as he looked at Ostlich to hostility tinged with fear as he looked at Clayton. Goddamn good-for-nothing bastard. Flaunting his money like he does, never done a day's work in his life. Trying to mess up the factory deal, trying to hurt the town, trying to hurt me.
And he was there, he saw, he knows what we did. Me and Schilder, we were the ones who stirred up the others, and that bum knows, that bum saw. He was there, standing back, watching, not taking part, keeping out of it, that bum, that bastard.
He tried not to look at Rebecca, but he could not keep from thinking about her. She must get away from that brother of hers. She must be given the chance to grow up right.
". . . ashes to ashes, dust to dust . . ."
Similar thoughts drifted through the minds of the 'townspeople as the damp clumps of earth thudded upon the coffin lid. What about the factory, the jobs, the future of the town? What about the Sweet land? What do we do now?
". . . in the sure and certain hope of the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting. Amen."
The people in the crowd began slowly to disperse after stopping to mutter condolences to Ostlich, and only now did Lydia and Dorcas walk over to stand with him. Peter, Clayton, and Rebecca walked away a few yards and then stopped by the cemetery gate, waiting at a discreet distance as the twin sisters stood beside their father, ignored by the people who stopped to speak to him. Dorcas looked over at Peter, who smiled at her, and Lydia glanced at Clayton, who winked. They were all understandably somber, but the story Clayton had shared with them about the lynching of Vernon and Ashvarinda, and about which he had sworn them to secrecy, made the events of the past few days seem even more terrible than they had at first imagined. Dorcas's first reaction to the tale was to declare her intention to go to the police, but Clayton made her understand that if she did, he would be in as much trouble as everyone else present in the clearing that day. It was with a heavy heart that she agreed to keep the matter to herself, and so she stood now mourning not only Sarah, but also a kindly old Hindu and a pathetic little man who, she was certain, could not possibly have killed her sister.
"This is heavy." Peter sighed.
"Yeah, a real bummer," Clayton agreed. "You think Lydia wants to come back with us?"
Rebecca shrugged. "I
don't know. You'd think she'd go home with her father, but . . ." She shrugged again. They fell silent as the other mourners began to depart.
At last no one was left beside the open grave except the members of the immediate family, and Dr. Ostlich put his hand gently on Dorcas's shoulder. "Let's go home now, honey." He looked at Lydia. "Let's all go home. I think we should have a talk."
"Yeah, sure, Dad," Lydia said gently. "I'll go tell Clay that we're—"
"No, Lydia, please," Ostlich said softly, his voice strained and roughened from weeping and prayer. "You two are all I have left in the world. I don't want you to destroy yourselves, and that's what I'm afraid will happen if you keep seeing that boy."
Lydia shut her eyes tightly for a moment. "Dad, I don't think this is the right time. . . ."
"And you, sweetheart," he said, cutting Lydia off as he turned to Dorcas. "You mean so much to me, so much. It would kill me if anything ever happened to you. Please, please stay away from that drunken rabble."
She glanced at Peter, who was still waiting near the entrance of the cemetery. "But Daddy," she whined, "Peter isn't—"
"Listen to me, both of you," he said. "Don't you see that you are partly to blame for this? If I hadn't sent Sarah to try to find at least one of my wayward children, she would be alive today, she wouldn't have—"
"I don't fucking believe this!" Lydia exclaimed. "You blame us for what happened to Sarah? Are you kidding?"
"Lydia," he said, his voice breaking, "I didn't mean that. But you must realize that your behavior—"
"Daddy, Lydia," Dorcas said quickly, "Let's just go home, okay?"
"Oh, shut up, Dork," Lydia said angrily. "Look, Dad, I'm real sorry about Sarah. I mean, it's just eating me up inside, you know? But to try to blame it on us..."
"Face the facts, honey. If you had been at home where you belonged, and if you"—he looked at Dorcas—"hadn't been out God knows where doing God knows what—"
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