Three Day Summer

by Sarvenaz Tash

  My mind starts to race. Sure, the guy who just told his friend he heard the brown stuff is poison doesn’t look like the world’s foremost medical expert.

  But I am definitely sweating now. In a way that seems unhealthy, like I have a fever. And then my right temple starts to throb against my new Hog Farm insignia. Is it possible for my head to just combust, splattering my brains all over the fields of Woodstock?

  I feel nauseous. It’s going to happen today. I’ll leave my parents an orphan. Wait . . . no, that’s not how that works. But still, as an only child, I’ll leave my mother childless. She will die of grief. Maybe my father will notice and be upset too.

  I feel something on my shoulder and I jump a mile. I turn around, bewildered.

  It’s Cora.

  “Whoa. It’s okay. Just me,” she says.

  I immediately reach out and hug her tightly, partially in relief at seeing her and partially because I don’t want to miss the opportunity in case my skull explodes at any moment.

  About two seconds later, I feel pretty awkward about it. Especially when I let go and see that I’ve left streaks of mud all over her orange shirt.

  “Sorry!” I say. “It’s just . . . I heard . . . the acid . . .” I can’t seem to get my thoughts together. Surely another precursor to croaking.

  “Brown tab?” She finishes my thought.

  I nod. Oh, God. She knows I’m going to die and she came out here to tell me in person. She’s even holding my hand to soften the blow.

  “You’ll be . . . ,” she starts, and I find that I’m holding my breath. “Fine.”

  I stare at her. “What? Really?”

  Cora nods. “Yeah. I mean you got the worst of it yesterday. I checked with Anna, too. She said you might have some slight repercussions today, but nothing dire.”

  The pain in my temple is already starting to subside.

  “But just in case,” she continues, “I think I’ll stay with you today.”

  “Really?” I say, taken aback. “What about work?”

  “Well, technically, I’m a volunteer. And besides, it’ll still be work being with you.”

  I’m still in a state of shock from my reprieve from death and don’t smile at the joke, but she does.

  “It’s okay. Anna said she won’t need me, especially when she saw how worried I was about you. And anyway, she wants me to enjoy the concert. How often does a person have this in her backyard?”

  She sweeps her left hand out in front of her, her right one still holding on to mine.

  “Come on,” she says, as she leads me toward the stage.

  chapter 33

  Cora

  “Cora, wait up!”

  We haven’t gotten very far toward the stage when I turn around to see my brother and his friend Laurie jogging up to us. They are both carrying their antiwar signs. Wes has a new one, I see. Behind them are Adam and Peter, who are huddled together, discussing something.

  “Hi, Cora,” Laurie says to me with a big smile.

  “Hi,” I say.

  “Who’s this?” she asks, pointing at Michael.

  It’s only then that I realize I’m holding Michael’s hand, right about the same time my twin brother does. He looks Michael up and down.

  I drop his hand as nonchalantly as I can, using mine to wave gallantly to him instead. “Michael, Laurie. Laurie, Michael. And that’s Adam and Peter.” I needlessly point to the two boys who are deeply in the middle of an argument and not paying us the slightest mind.

  Laurie shakes his hand. “How do you do?”

  Wes turns to me. “You spent all day yesterday roaming this place, right?” he asks, casting a suspicious glance at Michael, who has somehow become immediately absorbed in conversation with Laurie.

  “What makes you say that?” I ask. I’m not about to give anything away.

  “Cora, the whole neighborhood could hear Dad last night.”

  I grimace. “Yeah, I guess. What of it? And just when did you get home last night, anyway?”

  “Jeez. Calm down.” He puts his hands up in the air in a placating gesture.

  Now I genuinely want to know, though. “I’m serious, Wes. When did you get home last night? And did Dad say anything to you?” My bet is on no.

  Wes rolls his eyes. “Maybe like half an hour before you,” he finally says. “And no, he didn’t. But don’t you think Dad has enough to criticize me about without the curfew bit?”

  I soften a little because he’s right. Seeing my face concede, he gets a mischievous gleam in his eye and looks over to where Michael and Laurie are talking to each other. “But I’m beginning to think thou dost protest too much. What’s going on with Tall, Blond, and Muddy here?”

  “Nothing,” I say. “Can you maybe get your own love life and stay out of mine?”

  “Aha! You said ‘love life’!” He stares critically at Michael again. “Really? That guy? Isn’t he like a drugged-out hippie?”

  “You know who you sound like, right?” I ask, ready to pounce.

  “Okay, okay. Just . . . be careful.”

  I roll my eyes. “You too. Watch out for splinters.”

  I look at his sign, which today reads DIE AT 18 BUT VOTE AT 21. DO YOU SEE A PROBLEM HERE?

  “Wordy,” I say.

  “But it makes a good point.”

  “True,” I say.

  “Laurie came up with it,” he says just as Laurie gives a loud guffaw. I look to see both her and Michael doubled over in laughter.

  I frown. I don’t like this. Especially since blond-haired, blue-eyed Laurie looks a little like Michael’s girlfriend.

  Right. His girlfriend.

  On second thought, this is a good reminder for me that he has one. And I should keep myself to myself. No more hand holding, or hugging, or weird pecks. Thank you, Laurie.

  “Anyway, I think Mark would approve,” Wes says, looking over at his sign again.

  I reach out and lightly touch his sign then, like it’s somehow a connection to my absent older brother. “Your letter from him was bad too?” I ask, although it’s not really a question.

  Wes shakes his head. “We got to get him out of there,” he mutters.

  If only, I think.

  “Oh, man. Look at that.” Michael’s voice pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up to see him pointing toward a bunch of people who are pushing a Volkswagen van up a steep hill—everything, naturally, the color of mud. They get a few inches of the way up, about five feet from the crest, before the car starts rolling back down again. Then I hear a couple of the girls scream as they duck out of the way of the free-flying vehicle. Once the van has made its way back to the bottom, they jog back down there and try again.

  “What’s the van doing on the field in the first place?” Wes asks with just a touch of incredulity, and I can’t help smiling to myself. One day, he’ll see just how uncanny his resemblance to our dad really is.

  Adam and Peter stop their conversation and we all watch the saga of the van unfold, as more and more people nearby rush to help. Now there are five people pushing. And then, once it rolls down again, six. At that moment, I’m sure we’re all equating it to something or other in our lives, the futile struggle, the resistance to inevitable failure.

  Me? I go a bit more of a literal route. The van makes me think of the back of Ned’s truck. In early March, it was too cold to be in the barn, which would have offered more room.

  Oh, fine, there’s some metaphor in there, too. Futile struggles and last-ditch efforts and all that. Only I was a girl in love, and a girl in love often can’t see when something has stalled for good. She’d rather spend all her energy trying to move a large hunk of metal up a mountain than face the truth. Because truth is the enemy of hope.

  I am, thankfully, distracted from my thoughts by the loud noise of a helicopter flying lo
w right over us. It’s green with the US Army’s logo emblazoned on its door.

  “What are they doing here?” Wes asks breathlessly as we all stare up at it.

  It hovers lower and lower. And then, right in front of our eyes, a package falls from it.

  “Oh my God. Are they gassing us?” Adam asks.

  “No, man!” We turn around to see a prematurely balding guy with a compensatory long beard. “They’re feeding us. The US Army is bringing us food.”

  “No. Way,” Wes says, but from where we are, we can see the Hog Farm folks gathering around whatever was dropped from the helicopter, their bright red strips of fabric flying in the wind from the rotating blades.

  My brother and his friends all hold their signs by their sides now. Right about where their jaws are.

  chapter 34

  Michael

  After Cora’s brother and his friends go off to further investigate the army helicopter, I excuse myself for a few minutes. I really need to take a leak and there are some bushes that are calling my name. We’re also by the lake again and I think it might be nice to get some of the mud off, at least from my face.

  Kneeling down near the water, I’m hit with a strong smell of cow shit. I see myself make a face in my reflection, and move over a little before splashing my face and arms. The water is cold but refreshing and it washes off most of the mud. I’m not sure if it’s drinkable, but then I spy a bunch of others happily lapping up handfuls. I shrug and do the same. If I can survive poisonous brown acid, surely a little farm-town water can’t hurt me.

  “I’m a new man!” I say as I present myself to Cora.

  “Sparkling clean,” she says after giving me a once-over.

  “Absolutely. If you think about it, this could totally be a brown suit.” I look down at my still-spackled threads. “I could be a banker in these clothes.”

  “You are the specimen of trust and responsibility.”

  “Thank you.” As we walk toward the stage, the smell of fertilizer hits my nose again and I mention something about it to Cora.

  “Yeah, that happens at a farm,” she said. “Of course, this isn’t just cow manure.”

  “What do you mean?” I ask. “Like, other animals?”

  “Yeah,” she laughs. “The bipedal kind.”

  It finally dawns on me what she’s saying and I look around at the spread of humanity before us. “Ugh. Really?”

  “’Fraid so,” she says. “There’s no way a couple hundred thousand people can hold it in for a few days, you know.”

  All I know is that I’ve managed to so far and I hope I won’t be adding to the beautification of Bethel’s farmlands myself.

  “So we’re walking around in crap. And that doesn’t bother you?” I ask.

  “When you work at a hospital, you see a lot of crap. In many senses of the word,” she says.

  “You are an unusual girl.”

  The rest of my words are cut off by a loud chopping sound and a strong gust of wind. I look up to see that we are right by a helicopter that’s about to touch down. No US Army writing on this one.

  I immediately perk up.

  “I heard that’s how the artists are getting here!” I say to Cora, who only mouths the word “What?” to me. I end up having to shout in her ear that I heard they are staying at some hotel nearby and are being shuttled back and forth this way.

  By this point, the helicopter’s door has opened.

  “Let’s get closer!” I yell. “I want to see if we can see anybody.”

  She nods and follows me. I am staring so intently at the chopper that I don’t even see the burly guy who has slipped right in front of me. I almost step on the toe of his boot.

  “Man, where do you think you’re going?” he asks.

  I look up at him and start to apologize. “Oh, sorry . . .” is all I get out, before I feel a hand clap my back.

  “Roger?” I turn around to see a man in a suit. He has a thick moustache, dark hair, and big sunglasses. “Is that you?” He takes off his sunglasses and squints at me for a second before giving a little nod of confidence. “You’re here early. How did you get here?” His sunglasses go back on.

  “Ummm . . . ,” I say, and realize I’m saying it in unison with the guard.

  The suit turns to the burly guy then. “Hello? Don’t you know who this is? Roger Daltrey. From the Who. Let him through, will you?”

  I’m sure my mouth drops open and I know Cora’s does. But I immediately shut it and follow the guy in the suit.

  Because if someone thinks you’re Roger Daltrey, you fucking go with it.

  “And who are you?” I turn around to see the guard moodily interrogating Cora.

  “She’s with me,” I say immediately, and reach out for her hand.

  The suit turns around and sees us. He rolls his eyes but comes back over. “Just let them both through. Look, I’m from Polydor.” He lazily points to the badge that’s pinned to his lapel. Holy crap. That’s Jimi’s label too.

  But before I can think of something even remotely coherent and/or viable to ask him about Jimi, he asks me, “Did you want to get on the copter? They’re just dropping off Joe McDonald.” Wow. As in Country Joe McDonald. “But it’s going back to the hotel now. If you want a lift.”

  Dear, sweet mother of Hendrix. I swear I can hear my heart pounding in every single one of my extremities. “Do not screw this up, Michaelson,” it thumps to my brain.

  Which is the exact moment that I remember that Roger Daltrey is British.

  “Oh, aye. Indeed. Moust get back to the ’otel. Eh?” I say.

  The executive gives me a weird look.

  “Just straight that way?” I ask more quietly, hoping the sound of the helicopter might mask my voice a little.

  “Yeah . . . ,” the executive says slowly.

  I decide to skip speaking altogether this time and salute him, practically jogging to the helicopter, my hand pulling Cora along with me.

  In a moment, the executive is beside me, his hand on my shoulder once again.

  Oh, crap. I knew it was too good to be true. I just hope I won’t get kicked out of the concert entirely.

  The exec turns me around and looks into my eyes. “Hey, Rog. Just . . . straighten out a little before the show, all right? Maybe take an aspirin?” He looks at my banker’s suit. “And maybe a bath?”

  “Aye! Will do, sir,” I say and then, in a bout of inspiration, “Roger that!”

  I practically skip right onto the helicopter.

  chapter 35

  Cora

  I can’t believe I’m in a helicopter, Bethel spread out below me like a patchwork quilt. A true bird’s-eye view. I wish vingt-huit could fly. I have a feeling she would love this.

  I look over at Michael and he grins back at me, wild-eyed. Obviously, neither one of us can believe he got away with this. I chuckle, thinking about his ridiculous accent. I wonder what we are going to do when we get to the hotel. He definitely can’t pull off this Roger Daltrey act forever. Even I know Daltrey is the lead singer of the Who, though, I admit, I’m a bit hazy on what he looks like exactly. Evidently, so is his record label guy.

  The helicopter is following Route 17 now, which looks like a giant parking lot. Hundreds and hundreds of cars are abandoned by the side and there’s no traffic going in either direction, except for a lone police motorcycle I see weaving its way through. Michael points at one of the cars and mouths, I think, the words “That’s my car.” I nod, having no idea which one he’s really pointing out.

  It’s too loud in the helicopter to talk, but I have a question I’m dying to ask him once we get out.

  Within twenty minutes, we are touching down again, and I laugh when I see the hotel we’re being taken to. It’s the Holiday Inn in Liberty. I don’t know why I thought it’d be some super-fancy hotel—there aren�
��t any nearby—but in my visions of rock-’n’-roll lodgings, this certainly wouldn’t be at the top of my list.

  The pilot gets out and opens the door for us, helping us both out. Michael just smiles at him and starts to walk toward the building. He’s probably realized he should keep the talking to a minimum.

  I catch up to him, my ears still ringing. When I feel we are far enough away from the pilot, I sidle up to him and say, “You’ll have to show me a picture of Roger Daltrey sometime.”

  Michael blushes and turns around to look at me. I laugh and he opens his mouth as if to say something. But then, with the color still in his cheeks, his eyes darken too. And before I know what’s happening, he grabs the red and white apron strings that are still tied around my waist and pulls me close. His green eyes stare into mine, the flying pig on his forehead soars toward me, and then he kisses me.

  It’s a completely different kiss from last night. This is a kiss from a rock god, full of passion and confidence. I’m taken aback by how much I feel it reverberate through my body, and then even more so when I find myself kissing him back.

  I stumble forward a little when he finally pulls away, and he pushes his hand up tighter against my back to steady me.

  He grins wickedly at me.

  “Um . . . ,” I say, feeling a little dizzy still. Wow. “So . . . are you going to miss any acts at the concert? Anyone you really want to see?”

  It’s a non sequitur really, but what am I going to do? Comment on the kiss? I’m still trying to wrap my head around what just happened.

  “I don’t think so but . . . oh, wait!” He sees a girl with a clipboard and a badge pinned to her red shirt and runs over to her.

  “Excuse me, but would you happen to have the schedule of the lineup?”

  “Um, sure,” she says, as she flips to a page on her clipboard, and lets Michael peek over her shoulder. I see him scan the page, flip it, and then smile and nod. “Thanks very much!”

  “Jimi’s on last thing tomorrow night,” he says when he’s walked back over to me. “Which I knew. And I definitely want to be back by tonight when, um, I’m on.” He grins. “And I wouldn’t mind seeing Canned Heat this afternoon. And this new guy Santana is supposed to be pretty special. My cousin lives in California, and he’s caught him a couple of times.”