Unexpected Gifts (5 page)

“Wow, Mom. This is amazing!”

Lily laughed. “Well, the good news is besides these objects, your family all liked to record things, one way or the other.”

“Really?”

“Yes. Now, here, for example, was a girl I met at the time. Alicia. She was a character.”

Sonia held up the picture and smiled. What a lovely looking young woman. Such an archetype of the period, too. She put it down again and held up the key.

“What apartment is this to?”

Lily laughed. “Shangri-la”

“What?”

“More on that later. Now, look at these posters. Aren't they wild? They were a gift from a journalist I once knew. He also gave me a copy of
EVO
, a total hippy underground newspaper at that time.”

Sonia lifted up a Ziploc bag. “Don't tell me this is acid, Mom!”

Again, Lily laughed. “More on that later, too!”

Sonia held up the Leary book. “How come it's so unused?”

Lily snorted. “Not worth reading, if you ask me.”

Sonia smiled and zeroed in on their marriage license.

Lily welled up. “That was a happy time for me…”

Sam's voice crackled over the monitor. “What the hell are you two up to? I'm lonely down here.”

Lily giggled, mentioning what a good day her husband had had. In fact, one of the best ones. She clicked on the speak button. “We're up here, going through the trunk. Sonia is interested, remember?”

“Oh, you mean that stupid Purple Heart business?” whissshed and crackled through monitor.

The ladies exchanged a look.

“Why don't you come on down with a couple of the items and I can give you my perspective.”

Sonia looked at her mother. “Is that okay with you, Mom?”

Lily shrugged as Sonia picked up a diary,
Politics of Ecstasy
, the copy of
EVO
, the key to Shangri-la, and their marriage license. They were halfway down the stairs when Lily paused.

“Sonia, maybe we shouldn't show your dad these things.”

“Come on, Mom. This is his life, too, isn't it?”

“Well, not really…”

Sam was smiling as his daughter approached. He even gave her a big hug. What was going on? Sonia wondered as she hugged him back, catching Lily's huge grin.

He seemed eager to hear the latest news—how was her school going? Was she still seeing that musician—what was his name? How long this time? Was she okay for money?

“Yes, yes, Mike Green. Yes, Dad,” you give me money each month, remember?” she answered in order, trying not to get too annoyed. She started tapping on the edge of her chair, not even noticing the exchanged look between her parents.

Sam rubbed his hands together. “Okay, girls, let's see what you've got.” His cheerfulness was infectious.

They laid the few items out on his hospital table and let him decide which one to talk about first. He eyed them all and automatically lifted up the license.

“Remember that day, Lily? Central Park, marijuana brownies, great outfits. You looked gorgeous, by the way. Angry in-laws.” He threw back his head and roared. Lily was beaming. Sonia, thought how good this was for him. For all of them.

“What about this one, Dad?” Sonia held up the Leary book.

He leafed through it quickly, shaking his head. “Now, this guy was total bullshit, right Lily?”

She nodded, turning watchful.

Sonia leaned in. “What do you mean?”

He drew a deep breath. “I mean this guy got a whole generation hooked on drugs and he didn't step foot in Vietnam. He didn't have to face death every day. He got to stay home and destroy other kids' lives! That's what I mean.”

Lily was definitely looking nervous.

“But it was all part of the Sixties, wasn't…”

“Anyone for homemade oatmeal cookies?” Lily cut in, wringing her hands.

“No. Fuck that! I wanna talk about Leary, and this here key to Shangri la.”

“Sam…”

“Don't interrupt me, Lily. You had quite a little adventure in that building, didn't you? You and those dilettantes got to sit out of the whole conflict in comfort!”

“It wasn't all that comfortable, Sam. Remember, I told you about…”

“I don't want to fucking hear about that, Lily! As far as I'm concerned, you all had a high old time while some of us had to fight!”

His face had turned a familiar raw meat color as Sonia snatched the objects and retreated upstairs to put them safely away. By the time she returned, Sam had switched on the TV full blast, anything to drown out Lily's sobs in the kitchen.

“Oh, Mom, you were right. Sorry. So sorry.”

Lily nodded and managed, “It started out as such a good day, it really did.”

They sat without talking for what seemed like a very long time. Finally, Sonia had to ask. “Why does he resent you so much, Mom?”

“Ah, honey, it's not just me. It's all those young people who didn't have to go to Vietnam.”

“Well, how did he know so much about Shangri-la? Your letters and this diary here?” She looked down at Lily's book.

Lily nodded. When she spoke, she was already back in time. “I'm ready to read it to you, Sonia. Someone should know about my experience. But before I begin, I just wanna say I'm grateful that we basically get along.”

Sonia looked surprised. “Of course we do. What are you getting at?”

“Well, my mother and I didn't, that's all.”

“Yes, I know all about Grandma Rose, remember?”

Lily gave a half-nod before opening up to the first page.

“What I have to say can be summed up in six words—tune in, turn on, drop out.” -
Timothy Leary

“Good morning. What I have in mind is breakfast in bed for 400,000.” -
Wavy Gravy at Woodstock

“But why the East Village? Everyone knows that's just a giant pig pen for drug addicts and hippies!”

I took a deep breath. “Mother, it's a done deal.”

“What do you mean? Lily, you've got to move back with us while Sam's away.” As Rose talked, a small pocket of queasiness was working its way up to my throat.

“Too late. I've already moved in.” I contemplated the unopened cardboard boxes surrounding me.

“With what money, might I ask?” True to form, she could flip from strident to sarcasm in the blink of an eye.

“We actually have a savings, Mother. Besides, Sam's gonna send me money every month from his military paycheck.”

“That poor, poor boy…”

“Yes, it's not a picnic over there.” Half-masticated chunks from my breakfast had almost made it up into my mouth. “Gotta go, Mother. Call you back.”

Barreling down the back hall, I thanked Divine Providence that the cockroach-infested bathroom with its dingy sink and mildewed shower wasn't occupied as I flung open the door, leaned over the disgusting toilet, and instantly threw up. Second time this morning. Not a good sign. By the time I called her back, she was succinct.

“Goodbye, Lily. Have a nice life.” Click.

I took a closer look around me. An overhead naked light bulb revealed the walls and linoleum floor of the windowless room, smeared with paint like an early De Kooning painting, and with a shredded sofa, it all read total drug pad. Oh, my God. Mother was right.

I stared down at my watch, contemplating. Hmmm. Eight p.m., way too early for bed. Still queasy, I marched over to my carefully labeled boxes, tore open their tops with a box cutter, and dug inside. Thank God I had brought cleaners. Tonight I would tackle my apartment, tomorrow, the bathroom for sure. In one corner lay a jagged broom that looked as if a large animal had taken a healthy bite out of its straw brush. Next to that, a sooty dust pan and a Medusa-mop. Eureka!

Flipping on my small radio, the room filled with The Supremes, Buffalo Springfield, the Doors, and Marvin Gaye. My cleaning turned rhythmic, and before I knew it, the clock radio showed eleven p.m. just as my exhaustion hit like a hammer. Grabbing a towel, I stumbled out into the bathroom and took a quick shower before crashing on top of my sheetless mattress.

At eight a.m., I could tell I was on the major basement laundry room thoroughfare by the sounds of my fellow apartment dwellers trudging by, and I was about to go to the bathroom when there was a knock on the door.

Alicia Wainwright was the quintessential Hippie Girl. A svelte, glistening blonde, whose perfectly snubbed nose was dotted with scattered freckles and balanced by a winning smile. I liked her instantly.

“Hey, there! You're new, right? I'm Alicia and you are…?”

“Lily.”

She dumped her laundry load onto the floor and extended a delicate hand. “Welcome to Shangri la!”

“Shangri la?”

She laughed. ‘Yeah, our name for this little slice of heaven! You'll see!” She was still laughing as she scooped up her clothes and started down the basement stairs. Ten minutes later, she knocked on my door with a second thought. “Hey, why don'cha come upstairs to Room 3A for dinner tonight? We'll hang out.”

Later, cowbells jangled loudly as she opened her door and two steps in, I was accosted by long, plastic beads strung from ceiling to floor—her entrance grand, she called it. The focal point of the room was a giant Futon covered with a paisley print cloth, topped by a medley of throw pillows, and framed by a large window (I was so envious). Next to the Futon was a small cable spool, supporting a fringed lamp and, a couple of books, Sylvia Plath's
The Bell Jar
, and
The Autobiography of Malcolm X.
There were also two overstuffed chairs with hand-stitched quilts draped over them, and a faded dressing table attached to a large circled mirror, strewn with love beads, plastic Leis, and little notes. Every inch of wall space was coated with posters. Country Joe & the Fish, Grateful Dead, Jefferson Airplane, Yardbirds, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, the Stones, and The Beatles.

To the strains of Ravi Shankar, she offered me a joint, but after one hit and two bites of her cucumber yogurt curry, I had to excuse myself. It was another race downstairs to throw up in the first floor's now clean bathroom. Something was definitely up. I lit a small incense stick I had bought and returned to her room, where I spent the rest of the evening revealing little about myself and learning a great deal about her and her dysfunctional family.

I had my own issues. The next day's trip to a local clinic only confirmed what I had already suspected. I was pregnant, and ended up facing a battery of questions from the attending head nurse—was I going to keep the baby? Was I going to tell my husband? Was I going to inform my parents? What were my plans? Ten minutes of my “I don't know's,” obviously ticked her off. After supplying me with a brochure and some vitamins, she waved her hand brusquely and turned back to some paperwork on her desk.

I'd never admit it to my mother, of course, but just walking around the East Village looking for work, I was reminded of a WWII film I had once seen on
Million Dollar Movie
, where a European city was completely debilitated from the wear and tear of war. I passed a young couple bundled up together in a single blanket, barefoot and in blue jeans, with matted hair and smudged faces that stared listlessly in front of them. On a nearby park bench was a preteen, curled up fetal-style, strung out on something.

Rounding a corner, I almost bumped into a group of Hare Krishna's. Their orange-ness, shaved heads, and pimply faces hit my senses like a ton of bricks, and as I escaped across the street, their little chiming bells floated after me. I darted into a corner grocery store, which miraculously needed a checker. Voilá! A part time job, a few blocks from Shangri La. I was all set.

Rose would be horrified at my no-nothing job, but it allowed me some unreported cash and a good view of the locals. Within two days, I had met another person from the Shangri la. Her name was Susie and she claimed she was Dwayne's girlfriend.

“Which one is he?” I asked, noticing a cheek bruise.

“He's got red hair. Kinda straight looking actually.” She wouldn't make eye contact.

I had stopped packing her groceries and slanted forward. “Are you okay?”

“Of course! What do you mean?” Still no eye contact.

“Oh, nothing. See you back home.” Three hours later I ran into both of them in our vestibule. Susie looked embarrassed, Dwayne, friendly as all get out. She wasn't kidding. He was straight as they came. Button-down Van Heusen shirt, khaki pants, white socks, and dark brown loafers. They were obviously in the middle of something.

“Dwayne, let's go upstairs now.” Susie's hands were shaking.

“Chill, Susie Cream Cheese, just chill.” He gave me a slight top o'the mornin' finger salute before herding his girlfriend upstairs. I disliked him intensely.

Not long after, I met the journalist. It had been raining, one of those flash thunderstorms that always catch you by surprise. I had dashed into our vestibule and opened up my mailbox. No letter from Sam. Damn! Then my eye wandered to the floor where a
Whole Earth Catalogue
lay, unclaimed. Picking it up, I started flipping through the pages when a voice from behind made me drop it with a thud.

“Ah, that's mine!”

“So, so sorry. I was only looking…”

He was a tall, lanky cutie-pie with Paul McCarthy length hair, spiral glasses, a navy blue jacket, and one end of his scarf slung casually around his neck, the other over his shoulder.

“That's okay. It's yours when I'm finished. Which apartment are you in, by the way?”

“That's so nice of you. I'm Lily on the first floor, under the stairs.”

“I'm Stephen Kravsky. Room 2B, next to dear ol' Dwayne and Susie Cream Cheese.”

I nodded before heading off to my room.

“Wait! Wait!” He caught up with me, gently grabbing hold of my sleeve. “Come up and join our weekly get togethers—if you're so inclined.”

“Get togethers?”

Stephen grinned. “Yeah, a few of us from the building hang out on Sunday nights. You know, just chewing the fat. As a matter of fact, there's one tonight. Please come by eight p.m. and don't forget…”

I raised an eyebrow.

He laughed. “Munchies! Don't forget munchies. You'll need them.”

Later, I was ushered into Stephen's large room with a mock grandeur. “Ladies and gentlemen, our newest Member of Parliament. Miss Lily!”

As the room applauded, I recognized Alicia waving from across the room. The four others turned out to be a young hippie couple, Slim and Bandana with their little toddler girl, Rain, and a cool-looking Afro-haired black guy named Clevon with a small black beret, obviously a Black Panther. I searched his face for the sweetness of my old childhood friend Leroy and was met with only sullenness.

The large room had a communal feel. There was a long funky table in the middle, walls coated with various posters, like
Overthrow the People, Never Trust Anyone Over Thirty, Viva L'Amor
, and numerous covers of
EVO—East Village Other
, the underground newspaper where Stephen worked, and a small TV flashing silent images, on a top of a side table. Little Rain, stationed on top of the table, was having the time of her life surrounded by munchies, two bowls of pot, bongs, small glass pipes, and non-stop conversation.

Just then, someone leaned over and turned up the TV's volume knob. Walter Cronkite was showing some particularly gruesome footage of Vietnam as my stomach churned.

Everyone was booing and chanting, “Hey, hey LBJ, how many kids did you kill today?” over and over again. I stood up, excused myself, and fled downstairs to my familiar china bowl.

I returned to an argument. Clevon was snarling, “If someone gets a draft notice, man, they don't have to go. As far as the Black Panthers are concerned, no white
pigs
are gonna tell us what to do! We ain't gonna serve in any fuckin' army, man!” He caught sight of me. “Well, Vanilla, what do you think about it?”

Everyone turned in my direction. “I—I just don't know. Sometimes there are certain circumstances…”

“Bullshit!” Clevon snorted as I thought 1) There was no way I was going to tell them about Sam, and 2) I was glad I had removed my ring because it had become somewhat tight.

“Okay, guys,” Alicia announced. “It's time to get down to business.” She started putting pot into a nearby bong, lit it, took several hits, then passed it on to Clevon. In the background,
The Ed Sullivan Show
was playing softly. Thank God we had moved on.

Meanwhile, Alicia was on a roll. She picked up one of the little pipes, pressed some
Acapulco Gold
into its bowl, took hits, and passed that onto Clevon as well, all in perfect time to The Doors'
Light My Fire.
The pipe was slowly making its way around to me. Should I take some or not? If it harms the baby, maybe that'd be a great excuse to get an abortion. If I keep the baby, should I be doing this? Lost in my thoughts, I took a toke off the pipe without thinking. One hit and I began to cough—great big hacks that seared my throat and made my eyes water. Alicia looked concerned.

“What a candy-assed hick!” Clevon mumbled.

“Don't worry, Lily. That's cool. It's just not your thing, Babe,” Alicia crooned as Stephen took a drag from the joint and cleared his throat.

“Listen up, people. I've got a real insider's scoop for you! Hot off the presses!”

“Well?” Clevon flared.

“Well, you've no doubt all heard about this little town in upstate New York called Woodstock, right?”

Except for Rain and me, everyone nodded.

“Turns out,” he continued, “I can get you all tickets for free!”

The explosive cheers startled me. “What's this all about?” I asked.

“Well, there's gonna be a humongous concert to beat all concerts in this little town, even better than the Monterey Jazz Festival out in California! All the major rock players are gonna be there. Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix, Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young, you name ‘em! They're actually expecting as many as thirty thousand people! Place to be, guys, place to be! But let's finish up now. Gotta edit my op-ed for next week's
EVO
…”

We all stopped mid-chowdown with Clevon grabbing a couple of Oreos and sauntering out, Alicia hot on his heels. Slim gently picked up Rain from the table, Bandana did a quick wipe off, I put the wine glasses in the sink, and we exited on mass. We said our good nights and as I started downstairs, I heard a noise and glanced upward. It was Alicia, still trailing Clevon, up to the top floor.