Significant Others (22 page)
B
OOTER AWOKE TO FIND HIMSELF STARING AT THE
stars. They were bright tonight, brighter than ever, pulsing like the light bulbs in the cellars of his childhood. He felt oddly peaceful in his mattress-lined cocoon, even though it was night and he was sunburned and the canoe had beached itself on the shores of God-knows-where.
How long had he slept? Three hours? Four? And how far had he drifted?
He gazed up the moonlit river for some reassuring point of reference—the Monte Rio bridge, a neon-trimmed road-house, an A-frame bathed in the blue light of television.
But there was nothing.
Only bone-pale sand and gray shrubbery and black trees pricking the blue-black sky.
And drums. And the song of sirens.
It was a dream. That was his first thought.
He remembered the whiskey (tasted it, in fact) and remembered his sleeplessness after Jimmy’s death. He had needed sleep and it had come to him, so he was still asleep, that’s all. And whiskey invariably made him dream.
The breeze, though, seemed real enough as he climbed out of the canoe. So, too, did the ache in his limbs and the rodent squeak of aluminum against sand as he pulled his craft ashore and tried to get his bearings again.
So why were the drums still beating, the sirens still singing?
The voices were female, certainly. And lots of them.
He moved in their direction, shaking the stiffness out of his joints. There were Christian retreats in the area, he remembered. Baptist Bible camps. These girls could easily be part of such a place.
He headed into the underbrush somewhat warily, fearful of frightening them. Beet red and rumpled, he knew he must look like a wild man, but he had no choice but to ask for their assistance.
They could lead him to a phone, and he could call the Grove. Someone would send a car for him. He’d be back in time for the Campfire Circle, no worse for wear and no one the wiser. Hell, he might even tell them about it, make it into a story. The way Jimmy would have done.
Following the music, he threaded his way through a dense thicket of madrone trees. There was a campfire up ahead—quite a large one—and he caught glimpses of swaying figures and faces made golden by the fire.
The drums stopped abruptly as he approached. Spurred by this primeval sign of danger (or the memory, perhaps, of Tarzan movies), he ducked behind a redwood, then chuckled at the absurdity of his reaction.
He emerged again, to see something extraordinary:
A tall, full-breasted woman, naked but for slashes of blue and green body paint, lifting her arms toward the heavens.
He hid himself again, collecting his wits as the woman began to chant:
“We invoke you, Great One … in the memory of nine million women executed on charges of witchcraft …”
What on earth …?
“We invoke the name of the Great Goddess, the Mother of all living things …”
Peering incredulously around the tree, he saw that the other women were naked too. Some held bowls of fruit or bunches of flowers. Others were draped with amulets or holding amethyst geodes in their cupped hands.
“We invoke you, Great One … you whose names have been sung from time beyond time. You who are Inanni, Isis, Ishtar, Anat, Ashtoreth, Amaterasu, Neith, Selket …”
There was nothing to do but retreat. As quickly and quietly as possible. He would find help elsewhere, but not here, for God’s sake, not here.
“… Turquoise Woman, White Shell Woman, Cihuacoatl, Tonantzin, Demeter, Artemis, Earthquake Mother, Kali …”
He crept away from the tribal fire, but Nature took note of him and acted accordingly. Dry branches crackled underfoot, young tendrils caught hold of his limbs, night birds screamed warnings to anyone who’d listen….
And something large and terrible leapt from the shadows to strike a blow to the back of his head.
S
ETTING THEIR SCHEME IN MOTION, MICHAEL AND THACK
took Wren’s car and drove to the Guerneville Safe-way, where they bought a box of heavy-duty Hefty bags. When they returned to the hilltop lodge, Wren was smoking a joint on the deck, her eyes on the dark river below.
“Any word?” asked Michael.
She shook her head. “He’s not gonna call. I’ve got this gut feeling.”
Michael wasn’t so sure about her gut feelings, but he kept his mouth shut. “What do you want us to do?” he asked. “Once we get there.”
“Just find out where his camp is. Hillbillies, it’s called. Ask around for him. If he’s there, or somebody at least knows where he is, then I can go home.”
“If we find him,” said Thack, “what do you want us to tell him?”
Wren rolled her eyes. “Tell him to call my ass.”
“He’ll wonder how we got in, won’t he?”
She shrugged. “Tell him. He won’t report you. I can promise you that.”
“And if he’s not there?” asked Michael.
“Then,” said Wren, “we figure out something else.”
“How do we get back?”
“Through the gate. You’ll be O.K. on the way out. It’s a mile or so down to Monte Rio. Call me from that greasy spoon at the bridge and I’ll come get you.”
“Got it,” said Thack.
“I’m glad
you
do,” said Michael.
Ten minutes later, she drove them to the river’s edge, parking in a neighborhood that seemed disturbingly suburban. Why, Michael asked himself, do people move to the redwoods to build mock-Tudor split-levels with basketball hoops over the garage?
The nearest house was dark, so the three of them scurried burglar-like across the side yard until they found a sandy path leading down to the water.
“See?” whispered Wren, pointing across the river. “There it is.”
The Bohemian swimming platform and dressing rooms were a dark jumble of geometry in the distance. Michael estimated the swim to be no more than fifty yards. Easy enough, assuming the absence of crocodiles or unfriendly natives with blowguns.
“According to Booter,” said Wren, “there’s a bridge above that ravine and a guardhouse a few yards beyond that. You can probably avoid both of them if you follow the ravine up from the beach.”
“Are you sure?” asked Michael.
She shook her head with a wry little smile.
“Great,” he said.
“They won’t shoot at you,” she said. “It’s just a club. If worst comes to worst, you can use Booter’s name, and they’ll send for him.”
“They’re gonna know we’re not members,” said Thack.
“Nah,” she replied. “There’s a thousand men in there. Nobody knows everybody.”
Thack sat down on the sand and began to strip, stuffing his clothes into a Hefty bag. “If you want,” he said to Michael, “put your things in here with mine. No, forget it. It’ll be too heavy with the shoes.”
Michael sat next to him and began to stuff his own bag. Thack had stripped all the way, so he did the same, willing away the last vestiges of his Protestant self-consciousness.
Pale as moonlight, Thack waded into the river with his bag of clothes. When he was knee-deep, he turned and spoke to Wren. “Wish us luck.”
“More like a bon voyage.” She laughed. “Shall I break some champagne across your bow?”
Michael followed Thack into the water, which was warmer than he expected, but his skin pebbled anyway. The silt of the river bottom oozed up between his toes. “If we’re not back by sunup,” he said, “send in the Mounties.”
“Ha!” said Wren. “Think I’d trust you with a Mountie?”
“Keep your voices down,” said Thack.
Wren clamped her hand to her mouth, then came to the water’s edge and whispered: “I’ll be waiting for your call. You have the number, don’t you?”
“No,” Michael replied.
“I do,” said Thack.
Michael looked at him and said: “God, you’re organized. I bet you alphabetize your albums.”
“Wait,” said Wren. “I forgot.” She poked through the high grass until she found the terry-cloth towels she’d brought, then handed them to Michael, who stuffed them into his Hefty bag.
“You’re such a doll to do this,” she said.
He shrugged. “Life’s been boring lately.”
“It’s Hillbillies,” she said. “Don’t forget.”
“I won’t.” He waded out to join Thack again. They commenced a sort of tortured sidestroke, dragging their bags beside them. When they reached midriver, puffing like steamboats, they looked at each other and burst into laughter.
Wren was still watching from the shore, a dead giveaway in her white Bermudas.
R
ECLINING TOPLESS ON HER COT, POLLY BERENDT
folded her hands behind her head and said: “Something weird is happening down in chem-free.”
Also topless, but sitting on the ground, DeDe asked: “What do you mean?”
“Well, when I went out to pee, I saw this huge huddle of those black-shirt girls. I mean, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. They clammed up when I walked by, like I’d just walked in on a cabinet meeting or something.”
“I don’t even wanna know,” said DeDe. She was finished with Security and their nasty little intrigues.
Polly chuckled. “They probably found somebody with a Stevie Wonder tape.”
DeDe didn’t get it. “What’s the matter with Stevie Wonder?”
“What else?” said Polly. “He’s male.”
“C’mon.”
“Sure. It’s a violation of women-only space. No records with male singers. Read your regulations.” Polly rolled over, propping her head on her elbow. “You know what I want?”
“What?”
“A burger. With lots of cheese and pickles and blood pouring out of it….”
“Yuck,” said DeDe.
“Well, it beats the hell outa this place,” said Polly. “Did you try that phony meat tonight?”
DeDe smiled grimly. “Sloppy Josephines.”
“When are these girls gonna drag their asses out of the sixties? That’s what I wanna know.”
DeDe turned and gave her a big-sisterly smile. A lucky combination of sunshine and lantern light had turned Polly’s taut little tummy the color of the rivets on her 501's. DeDe observed this effect with appreciation but without passion, like an art-conscious matron perusing a Rembrandt.
And she
was
a matron, compared to this kid.
“You don’t remember Kennedy, do you?”
Polly rolled her eyes. “They always, always ask that.”
“Well,
excuse
me.”
“Why was he such a big deal, anyway? He made it with Marilyn Monroe. Big deal. Ask me if I remember the first moon landing.”
“O.K…. Do you?”
“No.”
DeDe groaned and threw a sweat sock at her. “You little turd.”
Polly cackled triumphantly. She reminded DeDe of Edgar somehow. After he’d dropped a worm down Anna’s back.
“The thing about the sixties,” said DeDe, feeling older by the minute, “is that it wasn’t so much a time as it was … a transformational experience. Some people did it then. Others waited until later.”
“Like, wow,” said Polly, mugging shamelessly. “Heavy.”
“Fuck you,” said DeDe.
Polly smiled at her. “So when did you transform?”
DeDe thought about it, then said: “The spring of nineteen seventy-seven.”
“So specific?”
“I joined the People’s Temple. In Guyana.”
Polly looked stunned. “Jesus,” she said.
“We got out, of course … before … all that.”
“You and your lover?”
“Mmm. And the kids.”
“They must’ve been babies,” said Polly.
“They were. They don’t remember anything.”
There was a long silence. Then Polly said: “Why did you go?”
“I don’t know.” DeDe gave her a rueful glance. “It was D’or’s idea.”
Polly digested that, then said: “Like this, huh?”
DeDe nodded vaguely. “I guess so. I have a mind of my own, believe it or not.”
“I believe you.”
“She’s strong, so I let her be strong. I like it that way. Most of the time.”
Mischief flickered in Polly’s eyes. “Is she the one who lights the charcoal and grills the steaks?”
DeDe wasn’t sure how to take that, but she laughed, anyway. “The tuna,” she said, correcting her.
“Oh. Right. No red meat. I forgot.” Polly nodded solemnly. “And she’s the one the kids obey?”
“What is this?” asked DeDe.
“I’m just curious.”
“Yes, you are.”
“Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? I just wanna … share.” Polly smiled. “Like in the sixties.”
DeDe popped the top on a Diet 7-Up. “You’re incorrigible.”
“Don’t say that,” said Polly.
“Why not?”
“It sounds like my seventh-grade English teacher.”
DeDe took a sip. “You hated her?”
“No,” said Polly. “She turned me on.”
“Don’t make me self-conscious, O.K.?”
Polly stared at her for a moment, then shook her head slowly and said, “Boy!”
“What?” asked DeDe.
“DeDe the Debutante.”
This irked her. Why did everybody get to fire off this potshot? Debutantes—no,
reformed
debutantes—were probably the last oppressed minority on earth. “Look,” she said, “I took off my shirt, didn’t I?”
“You did,” said Polly quietly, “and breast fans everywhere are grateful.”
DeDe groaned at her.
“But,
“ said Polly, “you took it off for a debutante reason, not because you’re really comfortable that way.”
“C’mon. What the hell does that mean—a debutante reason?”
Polly shrugged. “You took it off because D’or took hers off, and you’re afraid that Sabra’s gonna take hers off pretty soon. So you beat her to it.”
“Oh, please,” said DeDe.
“It’s so obvious,” said Polly. “It’s the Pillsbury Boob-Off.”
“Will you stop? In the first place, Sabra Landauer would never take hers off in a million years.”
“O.K…. So you took yours off to prove that you’re better than Sabra.”
“I did not.”
Polly picked up an apple, polishing it against the leg of her 501's. “So where is she now?”
“Who?”
“D’or.”
“At the Holly Near concert.”
“Is she with Sabra?”