A Nation of Mystics_Book II_The Tribe

by Pamela Johnson

  Anita was next in line, still talking to the stranger. He averted his glance, yet watched from the corner of his eye. For a fraction of a second, time stood still, then moved slowly forward as Anita, with a bright smile to the man next to her, said a good-bye, and walked toward the customs agent.

  He saw her nod, smile, and hand over her passport and business paperwork. The inspector lifted the toys and looked through the crate, sorting through packing paper. Anita laughed at a joke that only the two of them shared, lifted one of the toys, making it dance. Then the inspector nailed the crate shut. Christian’s heart almost stopped out of joy when the agent held out her stamped passport. Anita waved to the seatmate with whom she’d been talking, called for a porter, and had her baggage carted away.

  She’s done it! I couldn’t have. It takes a special kind of person to walk through customs knowing they’re carrying contraband!

  Elation blinded him. He wanted to run to her, scoop her up, and shout. Grinning, he stepped forward with his passport and bag, anxious to be through customs and on his way.

  “Good evening, sir. Passport, please,” said the custom’s agent. “I see you’ve been to the Netherlands.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Mind opening your bag, please?”

  Christian had checked and rechecked his pack. All his acid and mescaline had been given to Heinrich before he left. He’d made sure that not even a seed remained to implicate him.

  “I have nothing to declare,” he told the official, thinking to walk through quickly.

  But the man checked through his baggage … twice … opening bottles, socks, squeezing the toothpaste tube, pushing and prying at objects of more than a single layer of thickness. People behind him began to choose another line.

  “Sir, would you follow Mr. Kelly? Just routine.”

  “What do you mean ‘routine’? Are you going to search my person?”

  “Yes, sir. It’s just routine.”

  “Why aren’t any of these other people being routinely body searched? What’s the reason?” he demanded hotly.

  Within seconds, an officer with a pistol was standing next to the customs agent. Christian thought to refuse, to sit in peaceful protest, to let them carry him away, to make a case of it. But Anita was waiting.

  “This way,” the guard pointed.

  Christian walked through the terminal, conscious of eyes on him. Many of the men in the building wore American servicemen’s uniforms, reminding him that the country was at war. He flashed on the hours before his induction physical as he’d dropped his collected goodies—heroin, STP, acid, and hash oil. It had been an outrageous experience. He could barely walk through the induction center. The doctors pondered for a while on whether to give him a mental deferment or a physical one. As it turned out, he was one of the lucky ones. Shortly after that, too many men were coming into the center unable to function from ingesting too many drugs. The doctors had caught on and were sending men home with another date for their physicals.

  In the small interrogation room of the airport, Christian was ordered to start undressing. Angrily, he threw his jacket to them, watched his pockets emptied, every seam searched, the material rubbed, the collar squeezed. The boots were checked at the seams, the heels manipulated to see whether they would turn or slide. His belt was flexed at intervals, inspected for a secret lining or zipper. Christian slid everything off—jeans, T-shirt, underwear, and socks—standing naked as he watched the final search of his clothing down to the fluff in the very tip of each pocket. He held up his arms, turned around slowly, had his hair frisked. Was asked to squat and cough.

  When it was over and he was allowed to dress, Christian followed the guard in angry silence. How could they single him out for that kind of search? Because of the way he was dressed? Or the length of his hair? In his indignation over the politics of profiling, he forgot that he looked like what he was—a drug user, perhaps a smuggler. Only he was lucky. Someone else was carrying his contraband. Thankfully, they were so busy looking at him that they had failed to notice his passport was counterfeit. Purchased in the underground, it carried the fictitious name of Christian Alden.

  New York was icy cold, the trees dark and bare, spring still waiting to arrive. People huddled in heavy, somber clothing, walking through the gloomy shadows cast by tall buildings in the late afternoon. Suddenly, Christian wanted more than anything to be with Anita, to touch her warmth.

  “What took you so long?” she asked after closing the door to the hotel room.

  “I got searched,” he answered peevishly. “Inside and out.”

  “Ha! So Heinrich wins the bet!”

  “He seems to be right about many things. Yes. He wins.”

  “Angry? Look here! The toys! How can you be truly angry?”

  Christian nodded, trying to put it behind him. “Tomorrow we’ll be in California.”

  “But tonight, my love, we are alone and in New York,” she pulled at his belt, “and I have already ordered a bottle of champagne.”

  New York City meant exquisite eroticism born of new beginnings. Weed scored from a taxi driver. Dinner at a bistro, lights and gleaming brass shining through the restaurant’s glass windows. Seats for a performance of Hair. A midnight show with the Chambers Brothers at Fillmore East. Afterward, a long, cold-defying walk, holding to each other in the night, the air freezing, until at three in the morning, they’d found the warmth of the Night Owl Cafe, listening to poetry and sipping apple cider flavored with cinnamon sticks. Just before seven, room service brought a breakfast of hot bagels with lox and cream cheese.

  “Our plane leaves in two hours,” Christian told her over tea. “Are you as spaced as I am?”

  “Probably, but still too excited to be tired.”

  “I think I’m going to drop. It’s the only way I’ll be able to stay awake. Do you want to drop with me?”

  Anita’s eyes widened. “Drop? Christian, I’ve got to keep a clear head if we want everything intact all the way to San Francisco. Besides, we’ll be separated on the plane.”

  “I think I’ll just take seventy-five mics.”

  “Something you got from the taxi driver? Something off the street?”

  “No. Something from among my papers.”

  “You have acid?” she asked with some concern.

  “I have one drop dried on a piece of paper. There’s no way they could have found it.”

  “But still … the risk …”

  “No. Really. There’s no way.”

  Among his papers, Christian found the appropriate letterhead, tore off the first large capital letter, divided it in four, and ate a quarter. “That’s about seventy-five mics. Enough to keep me awake until Berkeley.”

  Perhaps it was a bit more than seventy-five mics, for the people originally sitting next to him on the plane asked to be moved.

  Christian lifted the arms of the seats to sit in full lotus for the entire flight home.

  KATHY

  TOPANGA CANYON, SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA

  MARCH 1968

  After moving from the Fairfax house, Kathy returned once to meet with Richard, apologizing for the confrontation with Alex, and taking the money for the keys she’d left in the garage. Privately, she asked Marcie, “What did happen when Richard came home?”

  Marcie sighed. “It wasn’t pretty. Alex was already waiting in the living room. Brooding. Pacing the floor. The minute Richard came through the door, Alex was on him, yelling about chicks doing business. About you becoming competition. I’d planned to save my side of the story for a private moment, but listening to Alex describe the scene drove me crazy. I told Richard everything. Down to Alex’s raised fist.”

  Slowly, she rubbed her hand over the baby in her womb. “I don’t know, Kathy. Once I’d told Richard my side of it, Alex sprang at me. He asked if I couldn’t see what backing down at that moment cost him. Anyway, I’m wondering if I blew it? What would it have meant to Alex if I’d stuck by him?”

  “What di
d Richard say?”

  “He just looked at Alex with sad eyes and said he didn’t really think we had to worry about you being competition. But then he turned and reminded me that you did say he could have the entire load.”

  “Marcie, I’m sorry. I don’t want to get in the middle of your relationship with Richard.”

  “It’s not the load, Kathy. Why shouldn’t you be able to take fifty off the top? You paid for them and brought them out. It’s Alex’s jealousy that’s hard for Richard to confront. That’s what this is really about. Alex wants more of Richard’s time. But it’s time Richard has to give to me.”

  Stashing the cash in a paneled compartment of the van, Kathy hustled through Santa Cruz, Ben Lomond, and Monterey, sleeping on the bed Jose had made, selling easily from the forty kilos in the trunk, and taking orders. For the moment, Port Chicago would have to wait.

  Over the next two months, and much to Marcie’s relief, Kathy and Richard resumed their old understanding, but Kathy carefully avoided Alex. During those weeks, she made regular weekly trips between Arizona and California, always moving. Richard and Alex weren’t her only customers any longer, and the road that had once stretched straight between the Fairfax house and the Tucson ranch was now a twisted path covering more territory.

  As she pulled into the ranch driveway at the end of March, knowing she needed to rest, she thought about how some things were beginning to get old. Sleeping in the back of the van and borrowing a friend’s shower, for one. Tiptoeing around Carolyn’s feelings was another.

  The threesome—herself, Larry, and Carolyn—that had seemed like such a simple solution last year, had been strained since Larry’s decision to visit the Bay for New Year’s.

  What is the problem? Kathy wondered. Carolyn was invited. She’s the one who decided to go to Laguna Beach to visit other friends.

  In the corral near the house, more horses trotted and snorted than had been there on her last visit. Apparently, Jose had been serious when he said they had plans to start a breeding program.

  Kathy stepped from the car and walked toward the small, enclosed herd. Heads turned in her direction. A few of the new mares, skittish, kicked up sand and moved nervously away from the fence. She took a deep breath of dust, horse sweat, and manure, all familiar ranch smells.

  The house was quiet when she entered, and she wandered into the kitchen looking for Larry and Jose. Instead, she found Carolyn at the sink, drying her hands on a towel.

  “Hi, Carolyn! Have you seen the guys? Are Rosie and Miguel around?”

  When Carolyn lifted her head, Kathy stopped, her smile fading. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

  Carolyn’s eyes were puffy and red rimmed. Her gaze dull.

  “What is it?” Kathy asked again. “Everything okay? Where’s Larry?”

  Carolyn shrugged. “Larry left yesterday for Nogales. He’s not around.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  Carolyn shook her head. “It’s no big deal. I have to go to L.A. this afternoon for a few days. I’m just not happy about going.”

  “Why go?”

  “I have a commitment.”

  Kathy leaned back against the counter, trying to read Carolyn’s face. “Maybe it’s time to start talking about things. After all else is said, you and me, we’re sisters. I don’t know what the problem is, but if you need anything, just ask.”

  At that moment, Jose walked into the kitchen, the light in his face announcing how glad he was to see Kathy. “I was out in the barn. I saw you pull in.”

  “I’ve decided it’s time to let you teach me to ride!”

  Carolyn pushed past them without a word.

  As soon as the door closed, she asked, “Do you know what’s bothering Carolyn?”

  “Let’s get out on the desert and see if we can figure it out.”

  “No one’s talking, huh?”

  For Kathy, who had never ridden before, the horse was a powerful and uncontrollable animal. Jose taught her to sit back in the saddle and how to use the reins, to maneuver the animal with voice commands, to use her legs and knees for balance.

  “Just pretend it’s Larry,” he called.

  “My arms are going to fall off.”

  “That’s because you’re using your arms to hold yourself in the saddle. Use your balance. You know about balance.”

  “My legs are shaking.”

  “Weak muscles. You’re out of shape.”

  “You try distance driving for a living. My tailbone feels like it’s on fire.”

  “That’s cause you’ve got such a skinny ass. You need to fill out more.”

  Kathy reigned in the horse. “I didn’t know you’d noticed my ass.” She blinked her eyes at him.

  Jose laughed. “Alright. Let’s get down and walk the horses for a while.” He slipped easily from the horse’s side.

  “Thanks,” she said, walking shakily, the bones on each side of her buttocks burning. “How come this is so easy for you? And for Rosie and Miguel? I see Rosie out riding all the time.”

  “You get used to it. Develop different muscles. Horses have always been a part of the Navajo world. I’ve ridden all my life.”

  The desert was hushed, only the occasional movement of wind and an animal rustle in the underbrush to disturb the silence.

  “My father taught me to hunt on horseback. We’d ride high into the mountains and camp. During the days, he taught me to track, how to listen to sounds, how to move as the animals moved. At night, he’d tell me hunting stories around the campfire.”

  “Where’s your father now?”

  “He died. A few years ago.”

  “I’m sorry. The sadness is still in your voice.”

  “He was such an important part of my life. When he was gone, I left the reservation and eventually wound up studying pacifism at the institute in Big Sur.”

  “You met Larry there?”

  “We’ve been partners since. More, we’ve been brothers.”

  Looking back in the direction of the ranch house, Kathy asked, “Jose, what’s happening in the house? Are Larry and Carolyn having some kind of blow up?”

  “Nothing open.”

  “Well, what’s eating Carolyn? Why’s she leaving this afternoon? And why doesn’t Larry know?”

  “Carolyn won’t say.”

  Kathy eyed him warily. “And neither will you.”

  At almost noon on the next day, the telephone rang.”

  “I’m coming,” Kathy called to the phone, “but I’m moving slow. My muscles are sore.” She sat, wincing. “Hello.”

  “It’s me,” a hoarse voice whispered.

  Carolyn.

  “Don’t say my name. I don’t want anyone to know I called. Just listen. I’m in L.A. I need help. Can you come?”

  “What’s the matter? Are you alright?”

  “No,” and the voice broke. “Please.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”

  “Yes. Where are you?”

  “I’m at a house near Topanga Canyon Boulevard. Near Santa Monica. Can you write down the address and phone number?”

  Kathy picked up the pen next to the phone, scribbling quickly.

  “Can you come right away?”

  “I can be there in a few hours. Will you tell me what’s wrong?”

  “When you get here.”

  Kathy hesitated but could think of nothing else to say. “I’ll call when I get to L.A. International.”

  Upstairs, she packed a few clothes and toilet articles into a small suitcase and checked her wallet to be sure she had enough for a plane ticket and expenses. Then, writing a note, she left it on the kitchen table for Jose.

  Going away for a few days, she wrote. Be back soon.

  At the L.A. airport terminal, Kathy found the nearest phone and called the number Carolyn had given her. The phone rang a dozen times. No answer. Suddenly paranoid of being followed or traced, she hired a cab and had it drop her at an a
ddress near the one scribbled on the piece of paper she carried. When she found the house, there was no response to her repeated knocks, nor to the ringing doorbell. On impulse, she tried the door handle and found that the door swung open.

  “Hello?” she called. “Hello.”

  This has to be it, she thought. The room looked much like the house in Marin, Asian carpets, floor pillows, a large hookah, and statues of the Buddha, Kali, and Ganesha on the mantel.

  “Anyone home?”

  She listened.

  Can that be a sound upstairs? Yes, maybe.

  Opening a bedroom door, she peered into the darkened room. “Hello?”

  On the bed, Carolyn lay in fetal position, a cover over her body. She stirred, trying to open her eyes. “Kathy,” she mumbled through a haze, “is that you?”

  “Carolyn! What is it? What’s the matter?” Kathy turned on the light and knelt at the side of the bed. Gingerly, she lifted the cover to see that Carolyn was lying in a pool of blood.

  “Abortion,” Carolyn murmured. “It’s not as bad as it seems. The blood, I mean. I had to, Kathy. But I couldn’t let Larry know. He must never know.”

  “Carolyn,” Kathy cried, aghast. “Larry would never have wanted you to do this. He would have wanted you and the baby.”

  “But don’t you see? It’s not his.”

  “I … I don’t think it would have mattered.”

  “Over the holidays … when I came to L.A.,” she whispered, her voice growing fainter. “An old affair—Steve. I don’t want either man to know. I couldn’t lose Larry …” Her eyes closed, as if she were falling back asleep.

  “I’ve got to get you to a hospital.”

  “No!” Carolyn’s eyes flew open. “That’s why I called you. Abortion’s illegal. That would mean questions. No one must ever know.”

  “But you’ve got to see a doctor!” Kathy cried, very close to tears. “Let me get help.” She wanted to add, please don’t put the responsibility of your life on me.

  “I can’t … walk. I think it’s the aspirin. I’ve been taking a handful every hour for the pain. I don’t have anything else. The doctor will be here in the morning. If he thinks there’s a danger, I’ll go, but until then … I’ll wait it out.” Carolyn began crying softly. “I haven’t passed the fetus yet. It all seems so dumb, doesn’t it? I came in here with the doctor. I thought he was going to examine me. Talk about things. Give me a chance to decide. But when I lay down, he just did it. I paid him five hundred dollars.”