Postcard peaceful, Plainfield lacks the stamp, the means to get from here to there, residents relying on nearby Montpelier for goods and services their farms can’t provide. Other than Poor Art’s Book Mart, Thelma’s vegetable stand, Simon’s cycle shop, two questionable taverns, a carriage house-turned-law office, a sagging general store-cum-post office (twice the victim of ice-jams), and the occasional petal peddlers from the hippie commune, there’s nothing much to ogle save the white-steepled Church of the Good Shepherd. A smattering of federal style houses along the Winooski, and the colorful trails wondering up from its banks, account for most of Plainfield’s appeal; even the few stark buildings of Godhard College covert in the forested uplifts.
Were it not for Plainfield’s lone flashing light, tourist might miss the village, its junction with the rest of the world imprudently perched on the rim of an abrupt declivity; a peril requiring motorists to creep to a stop and peer over the edge peradventure a climbing vehicle, farm implement, or horse-drawn wagon is about to leap from the void. Such caution is what discovers Plainfield, visitors often turning at the flashing light to ride their brakes down the precipitous plunge for a unique snapshot of history.
George’s near miss at the intersection (when he was new to the area) is what prompted his discovery of the commune. To shake off the scare, he drove aimlessly along the meandering river until attempting a turnabout at the entrance to an abandoned deer camp - the overgrown lane long since a footpath for game of a different breed. Thus happening upon the hippie commune, George came away with a contract for flower girls to adorn his land, to cultivate his imagination; the sun-bronzed young women enjoying a minimum of cloth, a maximum of freedom, what attire they wore of the “breathing” type (heavy breathing, he fantasized), their devil-may-care élan in line with his come-what-may approach. But when his expectations were ignored, even shunned, George took compensatory action, branding the hippies a pack of scamps, a dirty, germ-ridden lot of outcasts, a part of the Winooski valley best left unremembered.
But now he’s back, following Melody’s suggestion, his call on “Marvin the medium” dispelling his former aversion.
Rising smoke-like from his madras cushion, Marvin is anything but enlightening. Nodding assent to George’s request, Marvin chants:
“Tonight…aummm…tonight by the hand of my guide, to have and to hold what your soul may desire…aummm…but ‘bring twenty,’ says my guide.”
“Twenty?” George glancing lustfully about for the girls.
“Green…aummm…backs,” Marvin chants, disappearing in a wreath of cannabis vapor.
Back at Charlene’s, George pleads, with jocose calumny, the merits of the pending seance:
“It’s the humanitarian thing to do, sweetheart. Give the misguided a little rope, a second chance, and the next thing you know they’ll be begging to come back to society,” his prefatory excitement ruffling her composure.
“Come back?” she scoffs, eyeing her compact for a touch-up of strawberry gloss. “How can they come back when they were never here? Those aren’t Plainfield girls, George, they’re-”
“Like the ghost you’ve been seeing? The phantom who appears every time I try to-“
“Is that the purpose of our little social call?” Charlene accepting his help with her fox-trimmed coat, “a brush with hippies for a brush with death? I know what goes on out there, George O’Malley,” she fumes, “and it’s more than a roll of the grass, or-or a roll in the hay. It’s a roll call up yonder, from what I hear; a kind of mystical meeting of minds.”
“So,” he grumbles, playing the gentleman and holding the door for her exit, “they can’t be much different from us, what with me encountering the dead every time I try to-“
“It’s my condition, George,” Charlene swinging her hips like a runway model, swishing down the walk to his car, “…got to put the baby first, you know.”
“Should’ve thought of that before,” George thinks churlishly, revving the engine for a tire-screaming peel from her drive. “If you had, there wouldn’t be a baby at all. And if no baby….”
But the “if” is too disturbing to postulate, his choices seeming more and more the wrong ones of late. Keeping company with the river’s chill, a silent George and his sulking companion go icily on, the distance between them growing more immense with each frosty breath.
Near the end of the overgrown lane, an A-frame comes into view, the structure perched awkwardly between lean-to greenhouses. Claiming what solace he had wished for Charlene, George accepts the task of making defeat the threshold of victory. “Work,” he mutters, unsure of being heard, “it’s work these people need. Give them something gainful to do and their thin ideas rend by the weight of their wages.”
“Is that why we’re here?” Charlene’s titter brittle with scorn, “to waste what gains you’ve amassed on more posies round your pond? Babies don’t come cheap, George…nor do weddings.” Her criticism a just one, George twice postponing their nuptials in the last few weeks, claiming weddings more the bargain in the clutch of winter.
He dodges her barb. “I think we should explore a little, find what talents are masked behind the smoke.”
“I’ll tell you what’s behind the smoke,” she counters dramatically, a flippant wave of one jeweled hand venturing her entire regard for anything bohemian, “bloodshot eyes, that’s what; and a hungry pack of libidos on the prowl.”
“Hardly,” George objects, pulling to a stop before what resembles a monster fowl with crippled wings. “At least, that wasn’t my experience before.” Espousing the truth - admitting a score he failed to make - he feels the better for it. “Let’s see what’s smokin’,” he banters, opening his door as a tall, buxom redhead appears topless amidst beads hanging snake-like in the A-frame’s entrance.
“Holy smoke!” George circumnavigating the car to extract his pregnant passenger. “‘Hungry libidos’, did you say?”
His query remedial, Charlene regarding her own breasts superior to any George might espy at the commune, her confidence a mix of competitiveness and coquetry:
“I concede, George. You’re right,” she assents, extending her hand for his help from the car.
“About what?” he asks indifferently, his interest fixedly elsewhere.
“About these people needing a second chance; for it looks as though chance is what they’re most amenable to: the chance for a communicable disease; the chance for a puff of weed; the chance for a pill-“
“Speaking of which, I hear there’s a pill now that cost less than a baby.” George slamming her door in his haste to explore the evening.
“I was raped, and you know it!” she snarls, fashioning a smile for the topless girl awaiting them. “…Repeatedly!”
His smirk greets her latest distortion, a smirk broadening to a salacious grin as he passes gingerly through the beaded entry, the buxom redhead nodding at a few velveteen pillows in disarray round a large brass pot. Resembling an oily scalp with Rastafarian dreadlocks, the Medusa-like idol exhales a pungent pall as bodies bare and beautiful succumb to its serpentine pipes - George folding his long limbs nimbly across the nearest cushion, abandoning Charlene to the redhead’s assistance.
“Got a ticket to ride…aummm…got a ticket to ride?” Marvin drones.
“Twenty of ‘em,” George employing the excuse of passing two sawbucks to grope the redhead seated cross-legged beside him. “And there’s twenty more if I choose the ride,” he adds, oblivious to Charlene.
“Aummm,” Marvin moans, the circle responding, “aummm…aummm.”
“Is this some kind of mantra?” Charlene whispering in his ear, her hand on his leg reminding him of her presence.
“Must be,” George grunts, chagrined by the reminder. “Maybe an incantation? An invocation to spirit guides?”
“Aummm…aummm,” the circle chanting hypnotically, “aummm…aummm,” Charlene joining in, “aummm…aummm,” her button blouse appearing to unfaste
n of its own accord, “aummm…aummm,” rousing Marvin to new intensity:
“Leander…Leander is here!” he announces officiously, his monotone in eerie rhythm with the sway and bounce of encircling breasts, with the entrancing drone of ‘aummms’, with the psychedelic posters glowing in the lurid light–
With the beautiful woman swooning before him.
“Tonight he swims the Hellespont – the Winooski - to unite with his Hero…aummm…aummm…his goddess of legalese…aummm…his priestess of pleasure and love…aummm….”
Charlene’s blouse completely unbuttoned, her bra-restrained bust disguising her pregnancy; the while, George, unaware of her exposure, making good on his offer, his hands a busy escrow of intent.
“Tonight, Leander…L-L-Lea-“ Marvin’s chanting chopped by sudden intrusion, “tonight, the Old Geezer is here…says he has news from the Superior Court of Records,” the precipitous pronouncement having no effect on the ministrations at hand, save for a general grasping for the Medusa. “Says he has news for the priestess…no, he says. No. She’s not a priestess…aummm…says I said that, not him. Says she’s a hostess…hosting a party…a party unclaimed. Says that’s the news, aummm…a subpoena…aummm…a writ of habeas corpus…something about a dispute of ownership…aummm…a body without a soul,” George paying heed to the muddled Latin, his wrested attention going solo among the group.
“Would that be the body of a woman, perchance?” he queries, peering through the haze for Charlene.
“Aummm…and oh! what a woman she is!” a weed-mad Marvin mouths, “what a…but wait,” he says out of hand, “the Old Geezer’s correcting me…aummm…says the body is male…says it’s quartered in the female beside you.”
“Charlene?” George incredulous, discovering her exposure, forgetting his own prurience. “Charlene? But, of course…why not?” he grouses, covering her as best he can, “like son, like mother.”
“Like partner, like son-in-law, the Old Geezer says…and goodbye, too…aummm…says he’s stepping aside for another spirit to come through.”
“Wait!” a riveted George demands, “I want to know who the Old Geezer claims to be.”
“He’s gone,” Marvin drawing help from the pipes, “but in his place comes another…aummm…aummm…a female vibration…a real shaker…man! she’s more like an earthquake than a vibration!” Marvin jarred to attention. “Ma’s the name…no, Mars…no…no…Martha…that’s it, Martha. Says you don’t know her yet…aummm…but you damn sure will.”
“Do I want to?” George quips, Marvin’s twitching and jerking not a condition to be envied.
“You’ve no choice in the matter, she says…says the subpoena from the higher court secures your acquaintance.”
Charlene coming round, Marvin’s mesmerizing effect wearing off - her opened blouse troubling her attention.
“The subpoena will acquaint you with Martha…as well as reveal the identity of the soul to be assigned to that doll - ouch! -to that male vibration beside you,” Marvin lurching as though pushed from behind.
“What’s he rattling about?” Charlene furtively buttoning her blouse, “hermaphrodites?”
“Indeed not!” Marvin answers for him, his blank-eyed stare suggesting a trance, “and no Salmacis are you, woman…aummm…nor is that Hermaphroditus beside you. No indeed. That gorgeous mortal you so despise would never consent to that! He’s too intent on multiplicity to ever unite as one!”
“Greek mythology,” George explains. Salmacis was a nymph who fell in love with Hermaphroditus and became united with him in one body.”
“Well said…and so says your partner,” Marvin rails. “Says your partner is sorry for causing the babe’s - ouch! Stop that! - the bitch’s condition…aummm…wants to apologize to both of you.”
“My partner?” George flummoxed. “I-I haven’t a part-“
“Melvin?” Charlene interjects, “is he referring to Melvin?”
“The letter ‘M’ she’s showing me…two of ‘em…two ‘M’s…except the last one is…aummm…squared…aummm…has a little numeral 2 behind it.”
“Melody?” Charlene gasps, “could-could it be his wife? that bane of my-“
“Or his son, perhaps?” George obtrudes, his suggestion no less disturbing. “Or maybe there’s no one there at all,” he amends, dismissing her misgiving. “Maybe it’s just the weed blowing in the wind.”
“Ouch!” cries Marvin, flinching from an invisible slap, “Martha says that damn woman there beside you knows…says she’s the one who was always serving coffee to the innocent man who never drank it…says she’s the one responsible for the unclaimed freight in her hold, not the victim who died…aummm…died with grief on his heart…aummm…and sin on his hands.”
“Victim!” Charlene shrieks, the circle of boobs bouncing en masse for the pipes, “I am the victim here, not that…not him…not that lying bastard who ran out on me before I could-“
“Ran out on you?” Marvin interposes, his trance apparently allowing emotion, “Did you say he ran out on you? Wrong, wrong…aummm…wrong you are!” he repeats emphatically. “He didn’t run out; he dropped out! But he’s coming back! Back into your life! Back into your law office, even! Back…aummm…back…aummm…back to slobber a kiss on your two-timing lips!”
“Noooo!” Charlene wails, fainting dead away.
“Oh hell yes!” Marvin insists, unaware of his guest’s collapse, “and what’s more, that gorgeous hunk beside you…aummm…will not be trapped. He…aummm…he won’t be at your wedding.”
Caught between Charlene’s collapse and Marvin’s maledictions, George is anything but amorous, the redhead taking advantage of his distraction to escape, to play the hostess, returning to offer a recovering Charlene a paper cup of something dark - something with the sharp aroma of Chianti - and a thin slice of what could pass for pizza, Marvin continuing his chanting, his ranting, his topless devotees aummm-aummming him on:
“The woman’s going to have a baby,” he raves, “a boy…aummm…but just who that son might be is still up in the air.”
“This is making no sense. No sense at all,” George fumes, “and the more he goes on, the more confused I become.”
“Well, don’t say I didn’t warn you,” Charlene caustic, exasperation in the flash of her eyes, “the only chance being taken here is our own!”
“And I’m in no mood for gambling,” he agrees, helping her to her feet. “Let’s go while that chance lingers.”
“You just wait!” threatens Marvin, the redhead guiding them to the entrance, “Earthquake says you just wait!…aummm…says you’ll know her by the thrill of a touch…by the memory of some old tavern night…by the familiarity of a moan…by the-“
“Sex!” Charlene spits, hurrying George to the car, “you would think that with all their hallucinogens these people could find another thrill!”
“Oh, they have,” George wistfully ogling the redhead as he unlocks his car, “…the thrill of freedom.”
There is nothing certain but uncertainty. (Pliny)
XIII
I have never given the art of augury much attention, assuming psychic readings, tarot cards and palmistry to be just another venue for entertainment, another poke down the proverbial rat hole. And having no faith in mediums, I have never attended a séance; nor, have I thought it possible to attend one from the wrong-side-in, which is what A.M. has us doing at the A-frame. I must admit, playing the part of the visiting spirit is surreal, the hippies’ black lights doing something weird to the smoke at my level until I see things I shouldn’t: a buxom redhead with a ten dollar bill trapped under each breast; my secretary Charlene swaying to a Himalayan chant, pointing first one breast and then the other at some kind of ceremonial pot; and my partner George keeping happily abreast of it all.
With my thaumaturge (my “maker of magic”) exercising her phenomenal thought imposition, I’m right back where I started: doubting the format’s legitimacy.
As George and Charlene drive away, I chasten A.M. for her folly, not to mention her fabrications:
“I didn’t know you could tell a lie in our realm. You said thoughts are public domain. So, how could you make them seem something other than what they are?”
“Correct,” Aunt Martha chortles, zipping to Charlene’s ahead of the bickering couple’s arrival. “But I wasn’t addressing anyone in our realm. I was talking down, so to speak, giving George some needed advice. Think about it,” she adds spiritedly, “have you ever heard of someone lying up? Of course not. They always lie down…which is all I was doing.”
“An erroneous analogy,” I tease, grabbing the rare chance to rib her, “it’s upside-down. Although, there is a venue that allows for, nay, lauds the practice of lying up. In fact, for each successful lay-up, the liar is awarded two points.” Aunt Martha confused, her respect for my previous profession producing doubt. “I’m referring to the game of basketball,” I explain, any question of her opinions seeming always to sound the trumpet, to rally a quick and vigorous attack.
“A game…?” she ponders, her color returning, “y-yes, and that’s just what I was doing, throwing the ball into their court, letting them make the next move.”
“And how is that?” I ask, A.M. turning things round on me, as usual.
“Well, as you know, that business about a subpoena was fictitious; but I wanted George to be aware of an escape. He can force that other woman of yours to own up to her mistake. He needn’t stand in as the father.”
“And you thought you could best accomplish this treachery by suggesting her baby lacked a soul?”
“Treachery?” a sudden pique darkening her ethereal cheeks.
“Yes, treachery,” I repeat, focusing the blame. “And how did you masquerade as Caesar? The medium could differentiate between male and female vibrations – whatever that means.”
“Oh, that was simple,” she pooh-poohs, “especially when that pot-head was posing as Leander. I employed his inflamed imagination for a while, that’s all. Your other woman had his testosterone in such an uproar he couldn’t discern the difference, had he wanted to.”
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