“I’ve got to go,” she whispered. “I’m sympathetic to the cause, but Ed would have a conniption if I got myself arrested.”
Once the tide began to turn, Sheriff Wilson softened his tone.
“This is a onetime event,” he said. “In three weeks, the music festival and the people who come here to attend it will be gone. Before the month is out we’ll all go back to our daily routines, and the festival will be forgotten. Do you really want to risk going to jail over a cause that will ultimately turn out to be inconsequential?”
The three Barkley sisters standing in the far back shook their heads in unison, then turned and walked off. The Baptist minister’s wife was right behind them. By the time Sheriff Wilson finished telling how he’d be on duty and keep a sharp eye out for any signs of trouble, only Sadie and a few friends remained.
Despite earlier enthusiasm, the protest march fizzled out, but it didn’t end Sadie’s efforts to stop the music festival. She and several of her friends carried petitions door to door asking people to sign them, and when they had more than a thousand signatures, Sadie tucked the papers into an oversize envelope and delivered it to Sheriff Wilson’s office. While he stood firm on the Baker farm being beyond his jurisdiction, he placated her by promising to get the petition to county officials. In Primrose County, that was the same as doing nothing.
For the next two weeks, Sadie trotted out to the mailbox every morning in the hope of finding a response from the county, but one never came.
On the Thursday before the festival was scheduled to start, the town was already abuzz with tales of the shenanigans taking place out at Baker’s Field. The whispers spread from ear to ear like a swarm of locusts. When Sadie ran into Elmer Bastrop that morning, she looked him square in the eye and asked if he’d heard what was going on out at the festival site.
“Heard?” he exclaimed. “Why, I seen it with my own eyes! When we were driving in we passed a bunch of them hippies on the road, most of ’em nearly naked, bobbing and weaving like they was drunk, radios turned up louder than the firehouse siren.”
His wife, Barbara, nodded her agreement.
“I seen ’em too,” she said. “And I’ll bet my bottom dollar that tall fella was smoking marijuana.”
“I knew this was going to happen,” Sadie replied. She hurried off toward the Good Shepherd Church and told Reverend Caraway the women’s Bible study group needed to hold an all-night prayer vigil.
“On Sunday evening, we could—”
Before he was halfway through the thought, Sadie started shaking her head. “It has to be tonight. We need the Almighty to nip this thing in the bud before it gets out of control!”
“But there are arrangements to be made, notifications to be sent—”
“I’ll take care of that. You just make sure to have the church open and be ready with a good long sermon!”
Sadie turned on her heel and walked out, leaving Reverend Caraway standing there with a bewildered look stretched across his face.
Two hours later, most everyone in town knew about the prayer vigil.
That evening the Good Shepherd Church was crowded. Almost half the women of Hesterville came but only a sprinkling of husbands.
Rachel Dixon was one of the women. She carried six-month-old Emily in her arms and arrived after the reverend had begun to speak. With only a few seats still open, she edged her way along the side aisle and sat in the center of the second row.
Reverend Caraway raised his arms skyward and bellowed, “Rain, Heavenly Father, we beseech you, send us rain! Give us a storm powerful enough to drive this throng of unruly strangers from our land!”
The reverend slapped his hand against the Bible, and the congregation responded with a thundering chorus of “Amen.” Once he knew the crowd was with him, he moved from asking for rain to calling for damnation of the devilish music. His voice got louder by the moment, and beads of perspiration rose up on his forehead. To emphasize the need for damnation, he slammed his fist down against the lectern so hard his Bible bounced and fell to the floor.
The noise startled Emily, and her eyes popped open. Rachel lifted the baby to her shoulder and began rocking her back and forth, but by then it was too late. Emily was already whimpering, and in a matter of minutes she’d be wailing.
Rachel stood and edged past the Carters and Mrs. Brimley, offering a brief apology. As she headed for the door, Sadie Jenkins rose from her seat and stepped into the aisle.
“Leaving so soon?”
Rachel gave a cautious smile. “It’s way past Emmy’s bedtime, and she’s getting fussy.”
“Bedtime? How can you expect the poor child to sleep with that outrageous noise practically in your backyard?”
While Sadie was prone to exaggeration, Rachel knew what she said carried an element of truth. On Wednesday night they’d heard the crackle of radios and shrill voices. Though it was annoying, it was bearable. But today she’d watched as a steady stream of vans and trucks drove down Yellowwood Road, headed for the Baker farm. This night would no doubt be worse, but she had no alternative. Emily’s weary little eyelids were already fluttering shut.
Jostling the baby from one shoulder to the other, Rachel whispered, “Once Emmy’s tired herself out, she’s a pretty sound sleeper.”
Sadie pinched her face into a dubious-looking frown and gave a huff. “Mark my words—none of you will get a wink of sleep tonight.” Before she was halfway through her suggestion of spending the night there at the church, Rachel was gone.
As it turned out, Sadie’s prediction was fairly accurate. Even though it was near dawn when the transistors stilled and the sound of laughter died down enough for Rachel to fall asleep, she still was not prepared for what was to come.
Before the Dixons finished their supper on Friday, the bright lights and loudspeakers came to life and thundered through the sky as no storm ever had. It was as if the hand of God had taken a sledgehammer to their roof. The thrum of bass guitars rattled the walls as the screech of amplified voices rolled across the rafters and filled every corner of the room.
Emily, still in her high chair, began howling almost immediately. Rachel jumped up from the table and lifted the baby into her arms.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” she cooed and held Emily tight against her chest.
In the hours that followed, Rachel tried every way possible to quiet the baby: a pacifier covered with a sprinkling of sugar, a cool bath, back rubs, foot rubs, the colorful clown that laughed. It was all to no avail. Hour after hour, she paced back and forth across the living room floor, jiggling Emily from one shoulder to the other, humming softly, trying to ignore the vibration of the floorboards under her feet.
Twice George lifted the baby from her arms and suggested she get some rest, but for Rachel, rest was impossible. The sound of Emily’s cries tore through her heart, and minutes later the baby was back in her arms. When he offered a third time, she shook her head and turned toward the kitchen, claiming the noise was a bit more tolerable in there.
Following along behind her, George shouted, “Do you think we ought to go stay with Mama for a few days?”
Rachel shook her head again, even though she hadn’t actually heard the question and was too frazzled to think about anything but Emily.
“I’m okay,” she said and waved him off.
It was near dawn when the music eased and became a distant rumble. By then Emily was so fitful that she still didn’t sleep. The night had taken its toll, and not just on the baby; Rachel’s eyes were narrowed to slits, and George, sprawled out in the club chair, had the look of a zombie.
On Saturday morning George opened the hardware store, even though he’d not had a wink of sleep. Thinking a good supply of caffeine would see him through, he downed a full pot of strong coffee before leaving the house, but it proved a poor substitute. Twice he nodded off and was jolted awake when his head plopped down on the counter. At eleven he gave up trying to work, hung a sign on the door saying CLOSED UNTIL MONDAY
, and went home. He was standing in the living room wobbly as a windblown signpost when Rachel suggested he try getting a few hours of sleep before the music started up again.
George gave a feeble nod, then stuffed his ears with wads of cotton and climbed into bed. Before he could close his eyes, the music was again bouncing off the walls. The cotton did little more than dull the twang of guitars and screech of voices. After nearly two hours of tossing, turning, and pulling the pillow tight against his ears to cover the thrum of guitars, he realized there would be no sleep this day and got up.
Emily had dozed earlier in the afternoon, but she was now awake and crying. For a moment George stood watching Rachel pace the living room with the baby held to her shoulder. He saw the weariness with which she moved one foot in front of the other, one arm wrapped around the baby, the other dangling aimlessly from her shoulder. She was wearing the same clothes she’d had on yesterday, only now her shirt was pulled loose from the waistband of her slacks. Emily was no longer howling. She’d settled into breath-catching sobs with a hiccup or two in between, then another wail.
George crossed the room and lifted the baby from Rachel’s arms.
“I’ll take over for a while,” he said, shouting to be heard.
For a moment Rachel just stood there, her eyes glazed over and that one arm crooked as if she were still holding the baby.
George leaned close and spoke directly into her ear. “You look really tired, honey. Try to get some sleep.”
Holding Emily in his right arm, he put his left hand on Rachel’s back and eased her toward the bedroom. She stumbled across the room and fell facedown onto the bed. Given the way she’d seemed on the verge of collapse, he thought she could have slept through anything, but like him, she couldn’t close out the sound.
The music continued throughout the night and on into Sunday. There were brief pauses when the screams of guitars faded away for a few minutes, but each time they roared back louder than before.
It was late afternoon when Rachel heard a distant sound and cocked her head.
“Did you hear that?”
George pulled a cotton wad from his ear and asked if she’d said something.
She nodded. “Listen.”
A long moment passed; then it happened again: a rumble of thunder, closer now.
“Praise God!” she said and smiled for the first time in days.
The wind came before the rain. It bent the tops of the tall pines and scattered remnants of dried brush as it swooshed across the open field. The sky west of Baker’s farm blackened, and storm clouds rolled in. Still the thrum of guitars continued. As Rachel stood at the window watching, a slash of lightning creased the sky, and the downpour began. For a moment it was as if the music had disappeared, but all too soon it returned, now muffled by the sound of heavy droplets hammering the roof.
The pinging of rain against the metal roof was a familiar sound, something she’d grown used to. Rachel felt the pinched muscle in her neck start to loosen. Later that night she tucked Emily into her crib, then crawled into bed and snuggled up against George.
When Rachel closed her eyes and drifted off, she was dead to the world. Nothing short of a tornado was going to wake her—not the blaring sound of the last few sets by the Beastly Brothers, not the thunder that continued off and on throughout the night.
Not even the muffled creak of a door opening.
BAKER’S FIELD
Sunday Evening
On the final day of the concert, Vicki Robart sat cross-legged on the wet ground, her mouth pulled into a pout. The Beastly Brothers were onstage. The taller brother, who had red hair that stood like porcupine quills, was belting out a murderous rendition of the Carole King hit “I Feel the Earth Move,” but Vicki wasn’t feeling anything. Especially not good. Her clothes were soaked through, and the pain in her stomach was worse than yesterday. Smoking a few joints sometimes softened the ache and made the emptiness inside her seem less vast, but not tonight.
She looked up at Russ Murphy, his face bearded, his eyes glassed over, and his body swaying to the beat of the music. He’d been on his feet for the entire set, obviously not feeling the emptiness she felt. His ability to forget was something that boggled Vicki’s mind. Murph, as she called him, had come home from Vietnam without part of his left arm, but he never spoke about it, never bemoaned the loss or cursed the enemy who caused it. Once, only once, did he say it happened during the Tet Offensive. After that, it was as good as forgotten.
She wasn’t like him; she couldn’t forget. Certainly not this soon. Maybe not ever.
She stood, took hold of his arm, and swayed against his shoulder. The sound system was amped up so high that the ground beneath them throbbed, and a person had to yell to be heard. She raised herself onto her tiptoes and put her mouth to his ear.
“I need another hit.”
Murph glanced down and grimaced. He could see she was already at that halfway point where she swung back and forth, giggly one moment and tearful the next. “Really?”
She grinned. “Yeah, really.”
“We’re leaving after this set; you can’t wait?”
“Now,” she said, then narrowed her eyes, tilted her head, and smiled.
On the surface it seemed a sweet, almost innocent smile, but he’d seen times when she’d had too much and gone over the edge. Times like that, the anger came roaring back. Times like that she was capable of almost anything.
“Just wait twenty minutes,” he pleaded. “We’ll leave and find a place to get something to eat.”
There was a momentary rise at the corners of her mouth, a too-wise look of irony perhaps; then she laughed.
“There’s no place open. The food trucks left early this afternoon. I need something to tide me over.”
Despite whatever misgivings he had, Murph handed her his knapsack, then turned back to the makeshift stage.
Once the knapsack was in hand, Vicki rummaged through the canvas bag, pulled out a rain poncho and the package of marijuana, then dropped to the ground again. With the poncho covering her like a tent, she rolled three joints and smoked two, one right after another.
As she sat there inhaling, she held the smoke long enough to feel the easy release, then let go with a slow breath. A year earlier she hadn’t needed the comfort it brought; back then the promise of a new life was enough. Afterward, everything changed. In the early days, the ones following the loss of Lara, Murph was understanding, sympathetic almost, but before the week was out Lara became like his missing arm—something to be forgotten. For Vicki there was no forgetting; there was only numbness and the relief that came with a high.
After three more numbers, the performance ended with the wail of electric guitars, a naked woman climbing onto the stage, and fans still screaming for more. Huddled beneath the poncho and oblivious to the crowd, Vicki sat with her legs drawn up and face tucked between her knees. Murph reached down and took her hand in his.
“Let’s see if we can get you something to eat.”
He pulled her to her feet and circled the stub of his arm around her back. With his head and shoulders still bouncing to the beat of the music, he guided her across the field toward the road.
The rain slackened a bit as they walked to the car, and by the time they settled into the front seat of the old 1953 Pontiac, the heavy droplets had turned to a fine mist. Vicki reached for the plastic bag in her pocket and pulled out the third joint. As she lit up, a look of disappointment crossed Murphy’s face.
There were times when he regretted being the one who’d introduced her to marijuana. At first getting blitzed meant laughter and fun, easy love, late-night food orgies. That was before Lara. Now a high meant Vicki could turn irrational and impossible to deal with.
He sat with his hand on the key in the ignition and gave a nod toward the joint she held.
“Save that for later,” he said. “You’ve had enough; you don’t need more.”
She gave a cynical laugh. “Since when do you k
now what I need or don’t need?”
“I know ’cause I’ve been there. Unless you’re looking to end up brain-dead, you should set that aside and get some food into you.”
“Food, yeah, that’s what I need.” She took a long drag, then handed him the joint.
He snuffed it out, dropped the roach into the ashtray, and started the car.
“It’ll take about two hours to make it back to the highway. I think we can find a late-night diner or pizza place—”
Vicki gave a laborious sigh. “Two hours? I’m already starving!”
“Sorry, babe, there’s nothing between here and there.”
“Maybe in town—”
He shook his head. “There’s nothing. That’s why I said you should get something from the food truck earlier when—”
“You said, you said,” Vicki echoed in a singsong voice. “Mister Big Deal, who always knows best. I wasn’t hungry then, but I’m hungry now!”
Before they’d traveled a mile, the mist thickened into a heavy gray fog. As they bumped along the roughened dirt road, Murph leaned closer to the windshield, trying first the high beams then the low beams. Visibility was down to a few hundred yards at best.
“Shit, man,” he grumbled. “It’s gonna take forever to get outta here.”
An agitated harrumph came from Vicki. “I’m starving! You said two hours!”
“Stop busting my chops. When I see something, we’ll stop. Until then, I can’t do a damn thing about you being hungry!”
The stump of Murphy’s arm ached in the damp weather. Ached in a way that made him believe the missing arm was still there. For a moment he could feel himself making a fist, opening and closing the lost fingers, but then the feeling of having them back was gone and he was left with just the pain. Music, loud music, dulled the ache; the pulse of a guitar or thump of a drum pushed it aside. Now, in the still of night, with Vicki sulking beside him, his arm throbbed as it had in the beginning.
Emily, Gone Page 2
