Lady Sunshine

by Amy Mason Doan

  I press my hand to the rug by Toby’s right front paw but don’t feel anything. Shane must be sound asleep by now.

  He’ll have come back to earth, and he’ll be relieved we didn’t do anything. I get in the daybed and flick out the light.

  Sounds from the kitchen. Footsteps, then the suction-y thcks of the fridge door opening, closing, opening again. Someone getting a midnight snack. No, a two a.m. snack.

  I know it’s him. For one thing, he’s the only one besides me who sleeps in the house. Everyone else wants a little space from the studio, or has kids, and has taken over cabins and yurts.

  I know it’s him because the same adrenaline that’s keeping him up is keeping me up.

  “Stop me, Tobes,” I whisper to my oblivious cat.

  I slip out of the room, walk down the hall toward the kitchen light.

  He’s got his back to me. The counter in front of him is covered in food—rye bread and ham and turkey and chips. He has a tub of rice pudding out, too. He’s struggling with a jar. He gives up on it, sets it down, and braces his arms on the edge of the sink, looking out at the field.

  “Hungry?” I ask.

  He turns, not hiding his happiness to find me here. “No.”

  “Neither am I.”

  I hop up on the counter near the window, across from him. “I’ve been meaning to tell you something. Toby sleeps curled up on the center of the floor in the parlor. He feels vibrations coming up from the studio in that spot, when anyone’s working down there. You disappointed him tonight.”

  “Is he waiting in his spot right now?”

  “Yeah. He’s optimistic.”

  He laughs. “D’you think he likes what he’s felt so far?”

  “If he hated it, he wouldn’t sleep there.”

  “Our first review.”

  I smile. “A good one.”

  He walks to me and stands close, between my dangling legs. I tilt my head down to kiss him, sweet and quick. But it feels like a lie to kiss him that way. He clutches my shirt, wrapping the fabric around his wrists until it’s snug against my hips, and my legs wrap around him.

  He lifts me off the counter, carries me out the kitchen door to the hall, heading for his room.

  “Not in there,” I say into his neck.

  He sets me down.

  “Outside.” I tug him by the wrist. Through the front door, across the porch, down the steps to the field. He kicks his moccasins off as I lead him past the picnic table toward the trees.

  “A cabin?” he says.

  “No.”

  I lead him by the hand down the narrow dirt path toward the hot springs. In the moonlight, the water looks like mercury. I take two towels off the pegs in the changing shelter.

  “A soak,” he says. “That sounds good.” Trying to hide his disappointment.

  “No. After.” Because we’re not stopping. Just past the springs there’s a small clearing in the trees. Someone has carried up lawn chair mats for lying on, dozing. Perfect for catching your breath and cooling down between soaks. Perfect for collapsing onto when you can’t stand the 106-degree water for another second, when you feel faint. Cold then hot then cold—the contrast makes you feel alive.

  I spread the towels over a mat, pull him down after me, already sliding his shorts off. Then his boxers. He shuts his eyes as I touch him, run my thumb over the tender, wet skin. He rubs his face against my neck, burrowing in so close that when he breathes, my throat vibrates.

  He tugs off my skirt, then my underwear. I lift my hips, helping him, lifting my shirt, and the cold middle-of-the-night air feels good on my breasts, the inside of my thighs. His mouth is attentive, kissing and sucking until I’m wet above and below, shivering whenever he allows space between his face and my body. It’s like going in and out of the pools. Hot then cold then hot again. His hand, below, is gentle, steady, exploring, and my pulse races faster than any two a.m. disco song. I push against his fingers and they speed up, separate. Not something everyone can do...easy for him, though...and for me. There’s a word for that...temerity...dentellity...no...whatever the word is, musicians always have it...

  I take his wrist, stop him before I come. We roll to our sides, I hook my leg behind his, digging into the back of his thigh with my heel until he buries himself in me.

  Contrast. Slow, fast. Hard, soft.

  Yours. Mine.

  The last thing I see before I have to close my eyes, before all thought ebbs away, is the curve of his shoulder against the purple sky.

  * * *

  After, we soak. The sun’s coming up behind us, but it’s still so early that the trees are more black than green. I’m sitting on his lap, my right arm extended in front of me, my right index finger dancing in the air.

  “I can’t figure out—” he kisses my left shoulder blade “—if you’re casting a spell or conducting an invisible orchestra.”

  “Neither. I’m tracing the tree line. See. Close one eye.”

  He copies me, making an invisible zigzagging line over the treetops with the tip of his index finger.

  “Isn’t it wild?” I ask. “In a month that line will be completely different. Some trees will grow a little faster than others. One might die because insects have gotten a little too comfortable, or maybe it’s struck by lightning. Some might bend slightly in another direction to reach the light.”

  “Already thinking about fall?”

  “No.” I don’t want to think about fall. I don’t even want to think about tomorrow. “Just about how much things can change when you’re not paying attention.”

  “It’s true. You hated me a month ago.”

  “Hate is a strong word.”

  He laughs. “When did the tide turn? Because you had to’ve known I’ve been gone over you since that first day in the field.”

  “Who said the tide has turned? What if I’m just using your body? Plus, you had all those singers onstage tonight to soften me up. Maybe they seduced me, not you.”

  “Ouch.”

  I turn to face him. “No. Your playing would’ve done it for me, too. I like it.” I nuzzle against him.

  “And I’d like you, even if you didn’t play a thing last night.”

  “So it was me, not just Sarah and Beth and Lhasa and Lucinda?”

  “It was you.”

  Judy and Joni and Joan and Joan. I gaze off into the trees behind him as if Willa’s out there, watching me, forever a teenager, envying me because I’ve had so many years to love. Except she was never envious.

  I push the thought away and bring my attention back to this living person, who’s here with me now, warm and close.

  “I think that may be the best show I’ve ever been to,” he says.

  “Second-best for me.”

  “What’s your number one?”

  “Blondie. Is, was, always will be.”

  “What show? I saw them in LA in ’85.”

  “’79. Sonoma Fairgrounds.”

  “Ah. Not too far from here.”

  “Yeah.”

  Shane squeezes my hand. “Do you remember what they opened with?”

  “I remember the entire set list.”

  “Go. And don’t think I won’t look it up on the internet.”

  “‘Dreaming,’ ‘One Way or Another,’ ‘Hanging on the Telephone,’ ‘Look Good in Blue,’ ‘Youth Nabbed as Sniper,’ ‘Sunday Girl,’ ‘Heart of Glass,’ ‘Rip Her to Shreds,’ ‘In the Sun,’ encore of ‘Heart of Glass.’ Impressed?”

  His answer is a kiss, slow and sliding, that turns into another hour of lovemaking, of bobbing and crying out in and along the edge of the hot water. Someone could come by and catch us; I don’t know if it’s six a.m. or eight. After, we kiss again, the steam making everything nearby a blur, until we both feel too woozy to stay in a minute longer.

 
“Prehistoric,” he says as we crawl out, too tired to finish the reference. But I know what he’s trying to say: we’re like two primordial creatures, crawling from the ooze. Nothing but instinct left.

  Our wrung-out muscles tangled up, we lie in the clearing. Too spent even to lift a finger and trace more tree lines.

  “Dexterity,” I manage, panting.

  “What?” He tucks a strand of wet hair behind my ear.

  It’s a few minutes before I can speak again. “I was trying to remember the word. Last night. The word for skills. With your hands.”

  He laughs. “If you’re trying to remember words while making love, maybe the dexterity is lacking.”

  “No. Not lacking at all. Not one little bit.”

  “We need something to revive us,” he says.

  “Two options. Coffee or beach?”

  “Beach. Then coffee. Then bed.”

  “Don’t you have to work today?”

  “Change of plans. I’m giving everyone the day off.”

  25

  Fade Away and Radiate

  1979

  Almost three weeks after Colin arrived with his strawberries and albums, he presented his best gift. This one was for me. Four Blondie concert tickets. I’d known about the show coming up down in Sonoma, but it had been sold out for months.

  “They’re your favorite, right? I saw that poster in your cabin.” He was standing to reach for the honey, and his voice carried down all eight picnic tables. But no one seemed to care that he visited Slipstream as often as I visited Plover.

  “What’s this?” Graham called.

  “I’m taking Jackie to a concert as an early birthday present,” Colin said, dripping a long stream of honey into his tea.

  “Dead show? Dylan?”

  “Blondie.”

  I braced myself. Would Blondie be as offensive as disco or Kenny Rogers? They were too young, too high on the Billboard chart, and too TV-savvy to meet with Graham’s approval. But Graham clearly had no idea who they were, and quickly lost interest.

  During the three-day run-up to the concert, I could talk of little else. When we were in my cabin getting ready—Willa braiding the left side of my hair, above my ear, so that I could secure it with a glittery ribbon clip—I said, yet again, “I can’t believe we’re going.”

  “I know,” she said, trying to smile.

  “What is it?”

  “Oh. Nothing.”

  I turned. “Wills? Is something going on with you and Liam?” In my excitement, I’d offered him the fourth ticket without consulting her.

  “We’re fine. Look at this masterpiece.” She held up my hand mirror so I could inspect my braid.

  Colin drove us down to the Sonoma County Fairgrounds in the Kingstons’ temperamental old Dodge Streaker van, Rip Van Winkle—named for the psychedelic mural of a bearded old man airbrushed on one side. It usually sat on the logging road as extra housing. On the way, I gave the other three a crash course on the band. “And the guitarist is Chris Stein and the drummer is Clem Burke, and they’re getting branded as disco because of ‘Heart of Glass’ but they’re really not. They’re sort of new-wave-slash-punk.”

  “I can’t believe we’re going! Thanks again, guys!” Liam. He was as guileless and pure as Willa. The two of them, snuggled close in the second row of the van behind me and Colin, looked like they’d stepped out of Surfer magazine. Except for Willa’s tense expression. What was causing it?

  I didn’t understand until our hands were stamped and the four of us were on the lawn inside the fence. As she watched everyone streaming in, Willa looked increasingly nervous, but the opening act wasn’t even onstage yet because I’d insisted on getting here hours early. When Blondie came on in two hours, fifteen thousand people would be surging toward the stage.

  Way too late, I realized why she was unhappy. This was a girl who’d hidden behind a milkweed stalk when she was little because of her dad’s photo shoot. She kept putting off our disco outing, pretending it was because her dancing wasn’t perfect. But it was the crowds, of course.

  I whispered in Willa’s ear. “I’m sorry. I feel so stupid. I was so excited I didn’t think about how much you’d hate this. Let’s go.”

  She turned to me and spoke more fiercely than I’d ever heard her—“No!”

  “But you’re miserable!”

  “I’ll be okay.”

  All through the opening act, I stayed near the back out of respect for her.

  But as the time for Blondie to come on ticked closer, and the crowd’s energy revved up, my body longed to be up front, and Willa knew it.

  “Go!” she shouted to me over the roars.

  “I’m fine back here!”

  “I’m not fine with you back here! Go!” She shoved me.

  “I’ll stay here with her,” Liam said. He wasn’t paying attention to the music, anyway; that had been clear since the first song. The only thing that held his attention was Willa.

  Colin and I worked our way forward. A few feet from the others I turned back. Liam had lifted Willa onto his shoulders back against the fence line, safe from the crowd.

  Go! Willa mouthed.

  Expertly, with Colin behind me clasping my hand, I snaked us up front toward the infectious beat of the opening act.

  “You’re good at this!” he shouted when we were ten rows back.

  “I’ve been to a lot of shows!” I’d snuck out to the Warfield and the Cow Palace, Shoreline Amphitheatre and Mo’s. I had an album of concert tickets at home.

  The group was leaving the stage and roadies were changing out instruments, checking equipment. I knew from experience that the lull was our last chance to make forward progress.

  Five people back. Three. Then we hit an obstacle; the man in front of me. He had a narrow body, but a dance style that was so distressingly wide. Every time I tried to get around him, one of his limbs blocked the route.

  Colin laughed each time I was thwarted. “He’s a human guardrail! I think this is as good as we’re going to do.”

  “No, I can get us up there! It’s like a video game!”

  The guy in front dropped his beer can and bent to pick it up.

  “Now!” I said. Colin and I seized the moment, passed. Two rows back.

  “You think Willa’s okay?” I asked.

  “Sure! She’s always been like that.”

  “Has she?” But my question got lost in the roars, whistles, stomps of thousands.

  Weaving and slithering, holding hands, we got all the way to the front row. And then, when the shared anticipation was so feverish I didn’t think I could stand another second, Debbie was right in front of me. Belting out the opening bars of “Dreaming.” Debbie, close enough that even though I was jumping up and down like a kid, I could see the light flash on her pink cat-eye sunglasses. I could see her forty-five-degree-angle razor-cut bangs, her snarl, her small hand on the mic. Nothing between us except a little air. She’d stepped straight out of my poster and into a California vineyard.

  “Thank you!” I shouted to Colin, whose hands were up in the air along with mine.

  “Happy?”

  I nodded, wiping a tear away.

  * * *

  “Because, you see, she’s soft underneath the toughness. She wears both so easily,” I explained to Colin, after.

  We’d parked the van on the logging road, where it would be quiet in the morning and we could sleep as late as we wanted, undisturbed. Liam and Willa had conked out on the drive but Colin and I were lying on the roof under a blanket, staring up at the stars, me in his flannel work shirt because it had gotten chilly. I was way too wired to sleep.

  “Huh,” Colin said. “It’s a mystery to me. Why on earth would you relate to someone like that?”

  “You’ve only known me a few weeks. You think I try to act tough?”<
br />
  “Only sometimes. Hey, I wish I didn’t have to go tomorrow.”

  “Me, too,” I said.

  He looked at me with real regret, stroking my hair. “I wish I could stay. But I should’ve been on the road ages ago. They need artichoke pickers in Castroville. Gotta go earn some cash.”

  Money. Of course, money. But he was so careless with it. He must’ve blown twenty dollars just on the concert tickets.

  “Hey, I know what you’re thinking. But seeing your face tonight when you were dancing was worth every penny. I’d pick a whole choke field myself to see that again.”

  “How do you pick an artichoke? Do they grow on vines?”

  He laughed. “They look like giant reefer plants.”

  “My stepmother has a whole set of special silver dishes for artichokes. Twelve place settings. Different bowls for the hollandaise sauce, and tiny tongs, barely bigger than tweezers, and these fancy, individual wire baskets for the scraped-off leaves. We use them maybe once a year.”

  This seemed horribly sad all of a sudden. I shivered, and he carefully buttoned the top three buttons of the shirt he’d lent me.

  I turned to my side and curled up against him, touching his cheek. We kissed for a long time, and then I unbuttoned his shirt again.

  * * *

  I woke before dawn, to a mist-swirled sky. No Colin. For a minute I thought he’d taken off already. Off to his field of chokes.

  “Pssst.” A gentle tap on the van ladder. Willa’s voice—“Can I come up?”

  “Of course.”

  She climbed up and settled next to me under the blanket. “Colin and Liam went to get us all breakfast from town.”

  “Breakfast in bed. I like this date.”

  “So. Did anything new happen last night?”

  I lowered the blanket to show her I was wearing Colin’s shirt.

  “Does that mean... You’re officially a...recipient?”