“Yeah,” Cora says, looking straight ahead and sort of shrinking into herself. Maybe she’s purposely not meeting my eye. But why should that matter to me? She is my . . . what did she call it? Oh, yeah, music buddy. For the day.
“Is that your ex?” I blurt out. Goddamn it, Michaelson. What the hell?
“Um. Yeah.” She turns to me this time. “Ex,” she says as if she wishes that weren’t the word she had to use for him. I find myself wishing she didn’t sound so down in the dumps about it.
But this whole thing is ridiculous. I shake my head to clear it of its nonsensical thoughts, determined to enjoy the rest of the show with an empty mind. And an extremely empty stomach, apparently.
By the time we get near the stage, Tim Hardin has just finished playing and the stage is being set up for the next performer. I squint until I see him waiting on the sidelines, a black-haired man wearing a long white tunic and carrying a tall stringed instrument that ends in a round, squat wooden head.
“Ravi Shankar,” I announce, and am glad for it. I can use some meditative sitar music right now to float me away from the physical. In this case, my hunger pains.
I close my eyes as Ravi sits down and tunes his instrument. Just as he plucks his first few notes and I’m getting ready to lose myself to some higher state of being or whatever, something extremely hard and fast hits me in the back of my head.
“Ow!” I turn around to confront whoever has just assaulted me.
“Oh, man. I’m so sorry, man!” A guy with a long black beard is looking over at me in horror. “I didn’t mean . . . I just thought you might want some sustenance.”
He points down at my foot and I look to see the culprit behind what is likely to be a very large lump on my head. It’s a beautiful, perfect, big (and heavy) orange.
I look back up at the guy, stunned. “For me?” I ask stupidly.
Blackbeard nods. “For sure, man.”
I pick the fruit up. It even feels delicious, its pockmarked skin heavy with juice.
“Are you sure?” I have to ask again, especially as I’ve just noticed the very pregnant woman sitting down on the blanket right at his feet.
“Definitely,” he says. “We have to feed each other out here, dude. Peace and love and music, right? Besides, it’s the least I could do for conking you in the head with it.”
I stare down at the woman again, who keeps one hand on her belly as she waves the other one at me in a friendly gesture. “Take it with our blessings,” she says. And then I see her take out three more oranges from a canvas bag she has beside her. She hands them up to her man, who starts walking around, giving them out to other people.
I look down at the orange and for a second feel like Ravi is picking out the music straight from inside me: the immense crescendo of gratitude and peace and awe toward my fellow man seems interpreted exactly in the swell of his sitar strings.
I look up at Cora and grin.
chapter 21
Cora
I think the last time I saw someone staring at something the way Michael is staring at that orange was a Christmas morning when Wes got the green army men he’d been coveting for half the year. The irony of which is not lost on me.
Michael peels into his orange slowly, staring at it as if it might disappear at any moment.
“Don’t worry, it’s not a hallucination,” I say as he reverently excavates the fruit from the skin.
He breaks it open into two sections and then gallantly holds his hand out with one of them cradled inside.
I laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Eat the whole thing.”
“But you must be starving too.”
“I’m not. And besides, I thought we established that I live three feet over that way. On a farm. Where there is all sorts of food and food-producing things.”
Michael stares at the half orange he’s holding out to me again. “Please?” he says.
“Michael. I appreciate the ridiculous chivalry but come on.” I push his hand back toward him. “What kind of a nurse would I be if I deprived my patient of food when he’s about to pass out from hunger?”
“I thought you said you were a candy striper?” Michael grins.
“Oh, fine. Rub it in.” I stare pointedly at the orange. “This candy striper is medically ordering you to eat.”
Michael carefully peels off one orange section and plops it in his mouth. He can’t help but close his eyes as the juice hits his taste buds. A slow, savoring smile creeps stealthily through his peach fuzz.
Until there’s a rumble and his eyes immediately pop open and go to my stomach. “See? I told you . . . ,” he starts.
There is another loud rumble and we both look up, knowing full well it isn’t either of our stomachs this time.
A big fat raindrop plops down right on my nose, followed by one more. Until, suddenly, it’s like there’s a tear in the sky and a deluge has been unleashed upon O little town of Bethel.
I hear a collective squawk as people try to take shelter. Some are burrowing into sleeping bags or putting newspapers over their heads. A few enterprising individuals had the foresight to bring umbrellas and are popping them open now. There is a mass exodus toward some trees on the far side of the field.
But for most people, there is simply nowhere to go.
“Hopefully it’ll pass soon,” I hear the pregnant girl with the oranges say placidly as she remains on her blanket, absentmindedly rubbing her belly.
I look down at my once white dress, which is basically now completely transparent. Hastily, I take my red-and-white apron from my arm and put it on, though not before I spy Michael getting a good long look. Within moments, the individual stripes are indiscernible; it just looks like one soggy pink mess. I guess I’m giving the people behind me a show since the apron doesn’t cover my back. But then I look around at the many, many other young women wearing white shirts, a lot of them braless, and figure they’ll have better things to stare at than me.
Though when I look up again at Michael, he doesn’t seem to have figured this out yet, his eyes only on me. A sly grin he can’t seem to hide fast enough appears through his stubble again. I clear my throat, making a mental note to keep only my front to him at all times.
I realize then that the music hasn’t stopped for even a moment; the man on stage keeps picking out his intricate tune despite the world turning into a waterfall around him. I watch him in awe.
It’s minutes later that I even think to look at my watch. It’s still working despite the water. Ten thirty. My curfew is eleven. I really should go.
I look up at Michael, who is drenched, his own shirt sticking tightly to every definition in his lean body. He’s staring raptly at the stage.
I touch his arm gently. “I think I have to go home,” I say.
“Oh,” he says, not able to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Of course. Yes. It’s horrible out here.”
“Are you going to be okay?”
“Oh, totally. I didn’t really mean horrible. I mean, it’s just some rain. It’s actually wonderful.” He gestures toward the stage. “I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
“Right,” I say, trying to figure out how exactly to say good-bye. I mean, once I do, I’ll probably never see him again.
A man with a megaphone is walking around repeating, “The flat blue acid is poison. Don’t take the flat blue acid.”
A look of panic steals into Michael’s eyes. “Wait, did I . . .” He trails off.
“It wasn’t blue,” I say. “I don’t think.”
“Oh. Okay.” He smiles at me but his eyes remain worried.
I look at the tall, soaking-wet boy in front of me, who suddenly looks so much smaller and more helpless than he has any right to. And then I look down at my soggy apron.
How can I leave him really? As a candy striper. No, as a medical pro
fessional. Someday anyway.
I move closer to him and touch his arm. “You’ll be okay,” I say. “I’ll stay with you and make sure.”
The relief in his eyes is palpable. I wonder if he can see the relief in mine. Or the inexplicable gratitude I suddenly feel for the once red and white bands of my uniform.
chapter 22
Michael
Water does wondrous things to white clothing. I’m not sure I realized that before. There’s no way Cora hasn’t caught me checking her out but I can’t help it. She’s a medical person. She must understand the afflictions of a teenage boy to some extent.
I’m also glad she’s here because, truthfully, I’m a little freaked out about the acid. Under no circumstance can I even remotely remember what color tab I took. Cora said it wasn’t blue, but she hadn’t looked so sure.
Then again, it has led her to stay. I reach out and lightly hold on to her wrist for reassurance. I also silently will it not to sprout more feathers.
In between sets, I catch a glimpse of Cora’s brother again. He’s with a small group, holding up signs. His once read END THE WAR NOW in a patriotic red and blue, with stars and stripes decorating the corners. It hasn’t fared too well in the rain, though; its edges are curled over and some of the paint on the words has started to run. But only the red paint, for some reason, which means that the word “war” is now a dripping, barely legible mess.
“End the Blob Now!” I say.
“What?” Cora asks.
“Oh.” I’ve just realized I said that out loud. “Nothing. Just your brother’s sign.” I point over to it. “The rain. And the word ‘war’ . . .” I drift off. The explanation sounds even dumber than the outburst.
But Cora laughs. “Yeah,” she says. “Might as well be a blob though, huh? The way it’s going over there in Vietnam. The way nobody seems to know what the hell they’re doing.” She takes in a sharp breath. I guess the antiwar thing runs in the family.
“It does seem like a mess,” I offer.
Cora nods. “My other brother is over there,” she says softly. “Mark.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” she agrees with a sad smile but then, thankfully, seems to have nothing more to say on the subject. In my experience, nothing good ever comes out of me getting into a deep discussion about the war. I feel too ambivalent about it to contribute much and I always somehow end up offending whomever I’m talking to—no matter what side they’re on.
Before I know it, the singer known simply as Melanie is being introduced and is warbling gently through the rain about beautiful people she hasn’t met before today. Which leads my mind to much more pleasant subjects. Like the one beautiful person with hair like silk who is standing next to me, holding my hand, now studded with raindrops sparkling in the moonlight.
Melanie sings about never meeting her beautiful stranger again. I look over at mine and hope it won’t be true.
chapter 23
Cora
I’m surprised my watch is still working, considering all the rain that must be getting into it, but I actually see the minute hand move from 11:19 to 11:20. Wow. I really need to get home.
I take my sodden hair in one hand and twist it around to wring the water out, knowing perfectly well it’s futile. But turning my head gives me a good guise for looking over at Michael. He’s watching the singer onstage in raptures.
What am I going to do with him? I’ve already tried to leave him once and couldn’t. But if I don’t get home soon, my father will literally send out a search party. That blond guy making the announcements will be up there at the mic, calling my name, telling me to go home. And I will actually die of embarrassment. Really. I can just picture the rain mixing with the waves of humiliation radiating off me to create a toxic gas that will kill me and everyone within a ten-foot radius of me. It’ll be Woodstock’s great tragedy. A morbid smirk spreads across my face.
I peek again at Michael and in my haze of insane thoughts, another one takes hold.
It’s absolutely crazy. I don’t know if he’ll even entertain it. And even if he does, I know for a fact that the logistics of it will be a nightmare.
“Hey, I have to go home,” I find myself saying to him. But before his eyes fully dilate to puppy dog, I blurt out, “Do you want to come with me? I could get you something to eat and a bed.” I flush immediately at what I’ve seemingly just offered. “I mean, your own bed. Well, more likely a couch. Just . . . a place to sleep. Is what I meant.”
Lovely.
Michael opens his mouth and then turns to look longingly at the stage. I can see the word “no” forming on his lips. And then, to my surprise, he turns back to me and says, “Yes. I’ll walk back with you.”
He smiles and I smile back, despite the fact that my stomach is now doing flip-flops at the prospect that a) I have just asked a strange boy back to my house where b) my father lives and c) I will have to think of a way to sneak him in and out of there and d) also feed him.
He squeezes my hand as we turn around and slowly make our way through the crowd.
“I can’t wait to finally see this farm,” he says. “You’ve been going on and on about it for ages.”
“Yes,” I counter. “All six hours we’ve known each other.”
“Hey! I thought we met this morning. It’s been at least twelve hours.”
“I don’t think those first six hours count, since I’m pretty sure you thought I was a bird or something.”
Michael goes a little red. “I said something about that?” he says in a small voice.
I laugh. “Don’t worry. It was all very charming. And complimentary,” I can’t help adding. “Anyway, I like birds. We have chickens at home.”
“Delicious,” Michael says.
“Don’t let me catch you saying that in the henhouse. They are very sensitive.”
Despite what my miraculous watch continues to tell me, we don’t hurry while making our way out of the concert grounds. The singers have changed again by the time we make it to the edge, and someone I actually recognize is now onstage: Arlo Guthrie.
“I don’t know, like, how many of you can dig, like, how many people there are, man.” Arlo’s voice is fading out. “Man, there are supposed to be a million and a half people here by tonight. Can you dig that? The New York State Thruway is closed, man.” He laughs. “A lot of freaks!”
A million and a half freaks. In Bethel. Unreal. And absolutely fantastic. I can dig it.
chapter 24
Michael
Holy Christ. I don’t know what happened in the last day, but if I thought my car was the only one pulled over on the main road, I was dead wrong. There are rows upon rows of empty cars, joyfully abandoned in the middle of the street. It looks like an alien abduction scene from The Twilight Zone.
“That’s a first,” Cora says as she points down the road.
“What? Bethel isn’t normally a parking lot?”
“Definitely not. But I was actually talking about the little market that’s down there.” She points down the street, where I can see the lights on in a small building with a long line snaking out of it. It looks like someone is at the door, monitoring how many people enter and leave.
“Is it usually open this late?” I ask.
Cora laughs. “Nothing in Bethel is open this late. Until this weekend anyway.”
We are on the other side of the street and, as we pass it, I glance into the shop’s windows. Rows upon rows of empty metal shelves gleam in the moonlight.
“Wow,” Cora says, eyebrows furrowing with worry. “I hope everyone will be okay. With food and everything.”
“How long can people survive without food anyway?” I ask her.
“Well, technically, a few weeks. Water is a different issue, though,” she responds.
“I think we might be okay on water,�
� I say, holding my hand up and letting raindrops collect in it.
“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She pauses. “Of course, then there’s the matter of catching a cold. Or pneumonia.”
“You medical people are just a garden of optimism, eh?” I tease.
“Just prepared for all eventualities,” she says. “It’s a fine quality to have in a doctor, trust me.”
A couple of buildings past the market, we make a right, and walk down a large stretch of farmland dotted here and there with big houses. She holds my hand until we see a large gray house come into view. Then she takes her hand back and wipes it nervously on her dress.
“So . . . about getting into my house . . . ,” she starts to say as we walk under a big leafy maple at the foot of the driveway.
But then the screen door slams open and I hear a gruff voice call out, “Cora Eloise Fletcher. That better be you out there and you better have an outstanding explanation as to why you’re coming home at midnight.”
Cora looks at me in mortification. I immediately sink back within the shadows of the tree trunk and try to nod at her encouragingly, telling her to go.
She nods slightly, takes a deep breath, and steps into the light spilling out the front door. “Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, Dad? That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”
“Things ran really late at the medical tent and there were people that needed help . . . ,” Cora starts.
“And there were medically trained adults there to help them. What business does a seventeen-year-old girl with a curfew have being there this late? With all the drunken, drugged-up louses desecrating our land? Are you out of your mind, girl?”
“Technically, it’s Mr. Yasgur’s land,” I hear Cora grumble.
“What?” her dad says sharply.
“Nothing, Dad. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
Three Day Summer Page 6
