“You can bet your bottom dollar it won’t happen again,” he says as Cora slowly trudges by him. “This is unacceptable, irresponsible behavior and I won’t stand for it.” The door slams shut behind them, but I can hear his voice fading away as he must be following Cora down some sort of hallway. “Just because Max Yasgur thinks it’s okay to invite the entire country to destroy our farms doesn’t mean my kids get to suddenly do whatever they want. . . .”
Yikes. Suddenly I’m a little glad my father is the silent type.
The tree shades me from the rain at least, but I’m not sure what to do. Obviously, I have to get back to the festival soon, but if I leave now, I won’t have said good-bye to Cora at all. What if I leave and she comes back out here looking for me? On the other hand, it doesn’t sound like her dad is likely to let her out of his sight soon. And on yet a third hand—foot?—how long will I have to wait before I’m certain she’s not coming?
I don’t have a watch so I decide to count slowly to two hundred. If she doesn’t get out here by then, I’ll just call it a night.
At seventy-three, I hear the click of a latch. Cora stands in front of a fence, about twenty feet to the right of me. She puts her finger to her lips and waves me over.
Walking as quietly as I can, I keep a nervous eye on the front door of her house.
She takes my hand, reopens the latch on her fence, and takes me through to a barn that’s standing on the far side of her backyard. We go to the side that’s facing away from the house before she speaks.
“I’m really sorry about that,” she whispers.
“Please, don’t apologize. Parents. I’ve got them too.” I smile.
“Yeah, of course. Still, I’m sorry.” She furrows her brow again, which I’m starting to recognize as her worried-nurse look. “Listen, I would totally let you stay in here.” She points to the barn. “But the animals will cause a ruckus and then my dad . . .”
I grab her hand. “Hey, it’s okay. I totally understand. And anyway, I wasn’t going to spend the night here.”
“You weren’t?” she asks.
“No. I just said I’d walk you home. I can’t miss the festival.”
“Oh,” she says. “Right. Of course.” She almost sounds disappointed but I can’t figure out why. Wasn’t she just trying to get me out of here herself? Women are confusing.
“But look, how about we meet tomorrow? What do you think?” I say.
“Tomorrow?”
“Yeah, were you still planning on being there?” I just assumed she would be but maybe that wasn’t so bright.
“Yeah, I’m working the medical tent again.”
“Oh,” I say. “Well, maybe I can just come see you there? Just to say hi?” That sounds stupid.
But she smiles. “That would be nice. And actually, I start work at eleven. Do you maybe want to meet up earlier? Like around nine?”
“That would be great,” I say, a wave of relief washing over me. “At your medical tent?”
Cora nods and then pulls up one of her hands. In it is a half-filled bag of Wonder Bread and a solid bit of something wrapped up in waxed paper.
“Dinner’s on me,” she says.
I take the papered package and peek inside to find a hunk of cheese. “And will I ever meet the lady that produced this?” I ask, pointing to the barn.
“Maybe someday. If you’re good,” she says without missing a beat.
“Seriously, though. Thank you so much,” I start.
“Don’t. It’s nothing.” She hands over the bag of bread. “I have to go, though. Otherwise, I won’t be let out of the house for a nine a.m. meeting with anyone over the next ten to fifteen years.”
“Thank you,” I say again and then, before I can change my mind, I lean down and lightly kiss her lips. It’s quick, a peck at most, but I feel my pulse speed up as I back away and look at her.
She looks surprised but gives me a shy grin when she says, “See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” I say as I quietly go back through the fence, my hands heavier with glorious food, and my head lighter with the electric touch of her lips.
chapter 25
Cora
I don’t take any more chances after Michael leaves me at the barn. I hurry back inside, and I’m in my nightgown and in bed less than ten minutes later so that in case my father checks in, there won’t be anything more he can grumble about.
I sigh at the thought of my dad, still feeling a little embarrassed at everything Michael heard. I don’t know what I expected, though. I couldn’t have scripted that conversation any more accurately if I’d tried. Why didn’t I give the lecture a thought when I invited Michael back to the house?
Maybe because it all felt so . . . nice. To have someone look at me like that, listen to me. I haven’t felt like the center of someone’s attention in a long time, probably since the first few months with Ned. Plain and simple, Michael is fun. Between worrying about things like the future, or disappointing my parents, or Mark, maybe I’ve forgotten what it is to actually have fun. Not that Mark can ever be too far from my thoughts, really. The idea of him being blown to smithereens is imprinted on my brain at this point, and no boy—no matter how cute, or scruffy, or charming—can entirely wipe that clean.
And yet, the thing that should have been most fun of all—that sweet little kiss—is the one thing that’s bringing on all sorts of overwhelming memories. About Ned.
That’s right: Michael kisses me and all I can do is think of my ex-boyfriend. How unfair is that?
It’s probably because Ned is the last person I kissed, just two hours before he broke my heart, and the touch of someone else’s lips on mine now floods my mind with memories of that entire night.
The sound of crickets and cicadas in the air, the smell of mown grass mingling with fireworks. Smoke hanging in the air from the Fourth of July celebrations, streaking the sky like fingerprints on a car window. We were right under the maple tree in my front yard, only a few steps away from the barn, when he started talking about how difficult things would be when he was away at college in the fall and I was still stuck here finishing up my senior year of high school. He didn’t think that it made sense for us to put ourselves through a long-distance relationship when we both had other things we should be focusing on. He told me that we needed some time apart.
That’s how he said it: “We need some time apart.” Not just him. Because that’s the way things work in Ned’s world: What’s right for him is right for everyone. And I know that about him, and it’s irritating as all get-out. So why, then, am I lying in my bed and missing the feel of his lips on mine, when someone new and exciting, someone whose annoying habits I haven’t yet gotten to know, has just had his lips there too? Why do I feel pangs of longing for the way Ned’s glasses slid forward and touched the bridge of my nose when he leaned into me, a piece of glass and plastic that suddenly felt so intimate between us, like it was imbibed with our heartsong?
I roll over and let out an angry huff of air. This is childish and unproductive. Instead, I should think about what sort of food I can bring with me tomorrow to help out. Maybe I can hard-boil some eggs. We have at least two other loaves of bread that I can take, and I can bake some more to make up for it. There is plenty of cheese in the pantry that my father won’t miss.
I drift off as I make a checklist of things to do and the last thing I think about is, in fact, Michael. I wonder if he will actually find me tomorrow morning at nine. And then I think about him in the rain and hope he’ll be okay.
I’ll make sure to save some extra food just for him.
chapter 26
Michael
I savor every bite of that cheese. It’s cheddar, I think, sharp and delicious especially when placed in hunks between a rolled-up piece of Wonder Bread. I think this may have just knocked last night’s burger out of contention for the top five meals of my li
fetime.
The grocery store has shuttered its doors for good by the time I walk past it again. If they’re smart, they won’t bother opening up in the morning. Unless they magically get a new shipment of supplies in.
I’m down to my last two slices of bread by the time I can hear the music again. A woman’s voice is faintly drifting over, getting louder as I walk past the half-finished gates.
Vaguely, I keep an eye out for Evan and Amanda, thinking it might be nice to find them again at some point. But if I’m honest with myself, I don’t look very hard.
The field by the stage is still packed, but this time with prone bodies, some in sleeping bags and on blankets. Some not so lucky.
I’m going to have to be one of the latter if I can’t find my friends.
I recognize Joan Baez’s unmistakable voice once I reach the top of the big hill. It slides over me like moth wings, at once tangible and translucent.
I walk slowly down toward the stage. Joan finishes her song and starts talking about her husband and how he’s been in jail for years for protesting the war. “I was happy to find out that after David had been in jail for two and a half weeks, he already had a very, very good hunger strike going with forty-two federal prisoners, none of whom are draft people,” she says.
It’s still too dark to see her but I feel a pang of jealousy for all the conviction in her voice, and all the conviction that must be in her husband’s. I wish I felt that strongly about something.
At least I can appreciate the music. I find a tree to lean against, and let it wash over me as Joan sings, this time without any musical accompaniment. Just her pure voice ringing out, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.”
She sings one more song before leaving the stage to loud applause and whistles. Then a man’s deep voice comes over the sound system.
“That brings us fairly close to the dawn,” he says. “Maybe the best thing for everyone to do, unless you have a tent or someplace specific to go to, is carve yourself out a piece of territory, say good night to your neighbor. And say thank you to yourself for making this the most peaceful, the most pleasant day anybody’s ever had in this kind of music.”
There is more applause and whistles and I can feel a wave of instant nostalgia wash over the audience as everyone reflects on their pleasant, peaceful, perfect day. I catch the eye of a short guy standing next to me and he nods at me in a gesture of camaraderie. Then he salutes me before walking a few steps over and settling himself down on the ground. More and more heads are starting to disappear from view, and it’s clearly time for me to follow suit.
I sink right down into the mud. At least it’s soft. I use the root of the tree as a sort of pillow, my body now cradled by grass and soft, wet dirt.
Right before I drift off, I start to worry that I somehow won’t wake up in time to meet Cora.
Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. I repeat it like a drill inside my head, hoping it will somehow act as an alarm clock in the morning.
Saturday, August 16
chapter 27
Cora
I wake up to the sound of Dad yelling.
“Bethel’s been declared an evacuation zone, Iris. Everyone is being ordered to evacuate, and I, for one, am taking myself down there and making sure each and every one of those bums loafing around there knows it and gets out.”
Mom murmurs something probably intended to calm him down.
Evacuation zone, really? Does that mean the whole thing is over? Is everybody gone?
I stare at my clock. It’s seven in the morning. I get up and dress quickly; definitely no white dress this time, I think, as I glare at the culprit still damp and hanging from my chair. I find a pair of denim shorts and a light orange, short-sleeved button-down shirt. I button it most of the way down and then take the bottom ends and tie them together. I quickly braid my hair and pin it into a crown around my head and slip into a pair of brown sandals.
I glance at the mirror. Definitely more hip than yesterday. And also less likely to flash a million and a half people if it rains again.
My parents’ voices are coming from the kitchen. So much for baking bread. But I can at least get the eggs and see what I can scrounge up from the second pantry. I tiptoe past them and to the back door.
The rain has stopped but the ground is still wet. A basket in hand, I go into the henhouse and give my regards to vingt-huit through quarante-deux as I take their eggs.
I go back into the house. Our second pantry is a little door just off the den. It’s pretty far from the kitchen and I can’t even hear my parents’ conversation, which makes rummaging around in there a lot calmer. I find another loaf of bread, a few more blocks of cheese, and some Macintosh apples. I also snag a couple of bags of potato chips and pretzels.
My basket is pretty full and heavy at this point; this is probably the best I can do.
By the time I emerge from the pantry and head to the front door, another voice has been added to my parents’ in the kitchen. Ned.
Of course. So now I have to sneak around my dad and him. Added to which, I immediately conjure up the context in which I remembered him last night—right after being kissed by another boy—and I just feel deeply and utterly embarrassed for myself.
But there isn’t much time for wallowing in self-pity.
The kitchen door is straight across from the front one. Of course, I could just sneak out the back door again, but then I’ll never hear the end of it from my dad for leaving without saying good-bye.
There’s only one way to do this and it won’t be graceful.
I square my shoulders and, quickly and quietly as I can, sprint to the front door. I open the screen door gently, step outside, then yell, in one breath, “Byeseeyoualllater.”
I slam the door and walk as fast as I can without looking like I’m running for cover.
“Cora,” I hear both my dad and Ned call out in unison.
If they say anything else, I don’t hear it. I’ve “walked” all the way to the end of our street and turned the corner in less than thirty seconds.
chapter 28
Michael
It turns out I don’t need my internal alarm clock after all. I get woken up by trumpet.
I blink and sit up, bleary-eyed, and massage the crick in my neck as I look up to the stage.
Sure enough, a guy up there is playing a trumpet, and standing next to him is Hugh Romney. He’s the leader of the Hog Farm, sort of big in the underground hippie culture, and I heard they were going to be responsible for the food here. Hugh is wearing a sleeveless white jumpsuit and a huge straw cowboy hat. He grins widely.
“What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for four hundred thousand,” he says to wild applause. He tells us to hang tight, that food is coming. “And if you’ve got food, feed other people,” he says before pointing to the guy on trumpet and asking him to play the mess call.
I stand up and stretch out as people start to stir all around me. I look down to the spot I picked as my bed for the night. It looks as if the ground and I have gone all the way together. Swirls of wet dirt peak and valley, with a deep vortex right in the area where my crotch would have been.
What the hell did I dream about last night?
And that’s when I think to look down at myself and see that, obviously, my pants and shirt and arms are covered with mud. I feel really self-conscious about it for all of five seconds before I take a glance at everyone around me.
Overnight, everyone’s vibrant clothes have turned a familiar shade of brown. I’ll fit right in.
I squelch slowly around the field. In the distance, I see a small group of people standing on one leg in unison, their palms touching in front of them like they are in prayer. Amanda does yoga sometimes so I vaguely recognize the pose. A man in front is clearly leading the group, slowly guiding everyone into m
ore elaborate bends and twists.
“Here you are!” a bright voice from next to me says, and I turn around to a small Dixie cup getting shoved into my hand. I look at the freckle-faced girl who has handed it to me. “Muesli and water. Eat up!” she says, before moving on to hand a cup to my neighbor.
I bring the cup to my mouth before I remember my feast from the night before. It’s probably a pretty solid bet that most of the people here haven’t been as lucky as I have. I bring the cup back down and, remembering Hugh’s words, look for a suitable beneficiary. I finally come upon a shirtless young boy of two or three with a mop of wild, curly hair, running around in a circle, yelling raucously at the top of his lungs. I don’t have to look far to find the couple staring at him dotingly, as if he’s just sung “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on The Ed Sullivan Show.
I present the cup to them. “Muesli and water?” I ask.
“Oh! Thank you! That would be great,” the woman says, taking it. “Come here, Rudy,” she calls out to the boy, who runs over in a flail of limbs and primal screams.
I wisely get out of his way.
It takes me a little while to find someone with a discernible watch but when I finally do, I discover it is eight thirty. Time to make my way over to the medical tent, I think, and I can’t help whistling a little as I do.
chapter 29
Cora
The field I cut through to get to work is a real mess. A lot of the grass is turned up and it’s obvious quite a few people have spent the night there. Some of them are still milling about, hanging out before the concert begins. I think about starting to hand out food from my basket, but then decide against it. I’ll wait for Michael; it’s something we can do together.
An enormous noise comes from behind me and I whip around just in time to see a motorcycle making its way across the field. Three people are on it, whooping up a storm. “We made it! We’re here!” I hear one of them yell, and I can’t help but smile as the bike zips past me, kicking up mud as it goes. I can just imagine them weaving through traffic, taking whatever back roads they can, just to get here.
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