Summer of Love, a Time Travel

by Lisa Mason

  Susan has seen and heard so many strange things in the Haight-Ashbury, she doesn’t believe Chi’s t-porter rap for one second. So he’s got a maser. So what. Ruby says they’ll probably be selling masers at Macy’s next year. It’s just some Japanese high-tech thingie that hasn’t hit American stores yet. And so he’s got a stone-thing that pricked her when he pressed it to her chest. The so-called scanner is like one of those jokes you buy in a magic shop, a whoopee cushion that farts or a joy buzzer that goes bzt when you shake someone’s hand. He doesn’t have a time machine, not even a tricorder like the crew on Star Trek.

  In the yard below, he’s taken off his shirt, which is weird because he’s usually such a prude, shirt cuffs and collar buttoned up tight. The oddity makes her pause and watch. The skin on his lean, muscular back shines like wet ivory. Rainbows practically ripple off him. He’s a tall, slim, pearlescent man under the sun. Strange and beautiful. Almost alien.

  As if he senses her watching him, he suddenly looks up. His face opens up in a big smile, and he waves.

  Maybe Susan has been unfair to Chiron Cat’s Eye in Draco. He’s never been mean or crude or pushy. She’s been so sick with her pregnancy, she’s barely spoken two civil words to him. After her crazy time at the Double Barrel house, she’s slept whole days away in her little room.

  Chi is beautiful. From some rich European family, that’s Ruby’s theory. People who own property in Sausalito. Susan blinks, dispelling the rainbows. She waves back.

  The thing is, he’s always watching her.

  Every time she turns around, she finds his eyes but there’s nothing especially flattering about his surveillance. He watches her like you would watch a fly crawling up a wall. She finds it annoying, sometimes distressing. He sneaks past her room at night. He watches her washing Ruby’s dishes in the kitchen. He follows her when she goes out to the Scene. He’s always asking her dumb questions like he thinks she wants to tell him the story of her life.

  Susan doesn’t want to tell him the story of her life. If she could, she would reinvent the story of her life.

  Could Chi be a detective sent by Daddy?

  *

  Ruby phones downstairs, checking up on business. “How’s the drawer doing, Morgana?” she says. Susan thinks it’s amazing how Ruby runs her own store. Susan’s mother doesn’t do much of anything. Her mother is like a servant to her father.

  Susan turns away from the kitchen window and climbs the stairs to the sitting room on the third floor. She loves her little room. The skylight lets in the sunset and the first star of the evening, to which she sings the Star Bright song every night. She’s talked Ruby into letting her take the funky old black-and-white TV from the storeroom in the garage. She and Ruby, they’ve got a deal. Ruby must never hear voices on the devil box when she’s trying to sleep, and Susan is only allowed to watch Star Trek, Time Tunnel, The Twilight Zone, and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea.

  Susan is startled by a knock on the door. Ruby pokes in her head. She’s got that bottle of sherry and two cordial glasses. “I got this out just for you, Starbright. Want a nip? It might help.”

  They sit down on the mattress on the floor.

  “Okay.” Susan has never tasted sherry, but she takes the cordial glass and sips. The sip rockets to her head, but in a nice way. Not at all like grass or acid. A peaceful sort of way.

  “Got any pain?” Ruby asks.

  “A little here.” Susan rubs her tummy. “A lot in here.” She rubs her heart.

  “Forget Doc Clyde’s bedtime story. I hear they’re working on a new pregnancy test that’s faster and better and doesn’t rely on killing female rabbits. I can’t believe he told you that.” She gulps her glass, pours another.

  Susan takes another sip for courage. “Ruby, what did you mean? About Doc Clyde owing you?”

  Ruby drains her second glass and sighs. “Oh hell, kid. I knew Doc Clyde when he didn’t have the potbelly and all those kids. We’re talking fourteen years ago. Mediocre GP, fresh out of med school, greedy and stupid. He had this cousin, a nice Beat lady. Black sheep of the family, right? She hung around North Beach when I lived there, and she put out the word he did D and Cs. Mostly he did okay, but a couple of times, in the early days, he screwed up. Screwed up bad. I mean, he never gave a damn, he just did it for the money. Things got ugly.” Ruby pours herself a third glass. “I can’t forgive him for that.”

  “Oh, Ruby, I’m sorry.” But Susan still isn’t sure what she means.

  “He’s okay now. Clyde’s the only local I know who’s a real doctor and will do minors. Otherwise, a girl like you would have to go to Switzerland or Brazil.” Ruby reaches over, tucks a stray lock of hair behind Susan’s ear. “I would never have taken you to him if I didn’t believe he could get the job done. You believe me, don’t you?”

  “Of course. I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you did for me. So I want to do something for you. I can get a Sacramento station that reruns Star Trek in the afternoon. Will you watch an episode with me? Just this once? You’ll have fun.”

  Ruby looks doubtful, but she says, “Okay.”

  Susan crawls across the mattress, turns on the TV.

  The episode is “Mudd’s Women,” in which a con man, Harry Mudd, wants to trade three stunning women—Eve, Ruth, and Magda—to Rigel XII miners in exchange for dilithium crystals. The miners are crude and rough-looking. They are not exactly prizes. Why would these women settle for these men? It turns out the women have a dark secret. They keep popping a pill called the Venus drug, which is highly illegal and instantly turns them from hideous crones into stunning women.

  “I’ll be damned,” Ruby muses. “Pimps on Star Trek. I had no idea.”

  But Susan is appalled. She cannot believe she ever watched the episode in her parents’ den and went to bed without a second thought.

  “Oh, Ruby,” she cries, “I want a Venus drug.”

  “What?”

  “I could never look like Eve or Ruth or Magda. Or Twiggy. I could never get my thighs that thin if I took dexies for a whole year.”

  “Why would you want to look like Twiggy?”

  “Doesn’t everyone? Isn’t she the ideal of beauty everyone adores?”

  Ruby guffaws. “You girls from the burbs are from another planet! In the first place, they pile so much makeup on that girl, she doesn’t really look like Twiggy. And her legs? You want to know what Twiggy looks like to me? A junkie. Or a speed freak. Or both. You want to look like a junkie speed freak?”

  “I’d do anything to look like that.” Sadness spills from Susan’s heart. Why does she feel like she’s not good enough, no matter how hard she tries? “I’d take the Venus drug in a second. I don’t care if it’s illegal. Maybe Stan would have loved me.”

  Ruby slaps the TV off as the trailer music is playing. She slides next to Susan, reaches over, and kneads her shoulders. “Listen to me, Starbright. Stan loves no one. And you’re wrong about the Venus drug. In the end, Eve realizes she’s beautiful without it. She really is beautiful. The Venus drug is an illusion. Think about it. Right, am I right?”

  Susan thinks about it. “But Captain Kirk still doesn’t love Eve. He flies off without her.”

  “Oh, Captain Kirk is a swinger. He will never ever settle down.”

  “Captain Kirk is not a swinger. He’s dedicated to the Enterprise.”

  “That’s what all those space-age swingers say. I’ve heard that before. Warping around galaxies, bumping into ladies on exotic planets. Lovin’ ‘em and leavin’ ‘em. Uh-huh.”

  “God.” Susan thinks about that. Captain Kirk—like Stan the Man? No, no, no. Captain Kirk is a hero. He’s the captain.

  “And so are you, Starbright. You really are beautiful.”

  “My mother thinks I’m ugly. She made me eat nothing but hard-boiled eggs ‘cause she said my breasts were getting too fat.”

  Ruby shifts again, sitting on the mattress in front of her. She gives Susan the up-and-down. “Do you think your br
easts are getting too fat?”

  “Don’t you? I ate nothing but dexies for ten days, and they still wouldn’t go away.”

  “You have very nice breasts. Talk to any woman who’s flat-chested, and I bet she would love to have your breasts. I bet Twiggy would kill to have breasts as nice as yours.”

  “My mother looks at them like they’re ugly.”

  “Uh-huh. What else about you is ugly?”

  “My hair. My mother hates my hair. She’s always threatening to cut it off. It’s not white-blond and it’s not straight, like in Life magazine.”

  Ruby strokes Susan’s hair. “Starbright’s hair is golden-brown like wheat or wet sand or new-baked bread. And wavy, with little curls like those high fine clouds they call mare’s tails or the curlicue leaves on Queen Anne’s lace. Why would you think your hair is ugly, little one?”

  “Oh, Ruby,” Susan whispers. Her heart swells, in a good way now.

  Ruby slides Susan’s overnight bag over and digs inside. “Let’s have a look. Uh-oh. White lipstick. White eye shadow. You want to look like a vampire and a junkie speed freak?”

  “It’s mod,” Susan says, depressed. The tubes and cakes look like ground-up termites or chalk sludge.

  “You have rose-colored lips and big dark eyes. Throw it out! Out, out, out!”

  They take turns tossing white lipstick and hair straightener across the room into the wastebasket. “Out, out, out! Throw it out!”

  Ruby brushes back Susan’s hair. “You’re beautiful, Starbright. Don’t let anybody tell you different.”

  Overcome, Susan flings her arms around Ruby and hugs her. “Oh, Ruby, I love you.”

  Ruby hugs her back, then gently pushes Susan away. She smiles, but a sadness haunts her eyes.

  Susan is still laughing. This is fun! Ruby is wonderful. Ruby’s so beautiful. She never wants to stop laughing and hugging her. Body heat, oh the comfort of arms. “You’re my best friend in the whole world,” Susan cries. “Nobody’s ever been so good to me, except maybe Penny Lane. But that was when we were little kids.”

  Ruby heaves herself to her feet, walks unsteadily across the mattress, and sits on the floor, propping her back against the wall.

  Susan stops laughing. She’s not sure what just happened. Not sure how to read Ruby’s face. “Ruby? Is something wrong? Did I say something wrong?”

  Ruby pours herself another glass of sherry and shakes her head. “Nothing’s wrong, kid. Everything’s fine. You’re just fine.”

  “I do love you, Ruby. You’re the best!”

  “I’m the best, and don’t I know it.” But her smile is wistful.

  They sit in the sun a while, sipping sherry.

  “Listen, Starbright, you want to know a secret? Beauty is a fine thing. A beautiful woman is a joy to behold. But don’t go looking for your beauty in magazines or on that damn devil box. And remember this. Beauty isn’t everything. You got to get on with the important business of running your life. Before anything else, you got to use your brain. Doesn’t your school in the burbs ever tell you that?”

  Susan shakes her head. She thinks of Bernie MacKenna and Allen Weisberg. Has either of them ever cried before a mirror? Does everyone try to make them feel worthless? They would probably think she’s stupid, feeling worthless because she doesn’t look like Mudd’s women or Twiggy.

  The Summer of Love is like that. Things that seemed stupid become important, and important things become stupid.

  “My school doesn’t tell me anything except that I’m in the ninety-eighth percentile. I just feel weird, so I shut up. What I think isn’t important. I’m just a girl.”

  Ruby sucks in her breath. That dangerous coiled-up look pops into her eyes. “Stop it, Starbright!” she practically yells. “You are important!”

  Shock ripples down Susan’s back.

  Ruby springs to her feet and paces. “Doesn’t your pa tell you these things?”

  “He’s always yelling at me. Nothing I do is ever right. And it’s always my fault.”

  “What about your ma?”

  “I told you. She looks at me. Like I’m all wrong.”

  Ruby looks at her. Not with cold, disapproving scrutiny. Not like her mother, at all. “Kid, I’ll tell you another secret. Something no one will ever tell you. Not your pa, not your school, not your friends. You know what I think about your ma? It’s the green-eyed monster. Your mother is jealous of you.”

  Susan stares, a familiar anxiety chilling her heart. “Jealous! But why?”

  “Well.” Ruby thinks. “When a woman has a child, she gets a lot of attention. She’s the star of the show. And the child is her possession. Look at what I’ve made, look at what I’ve done. But you’re not your ma’s little dress-up doll anymore. You’re your own person. You’re a young woman now and you’re the star of the show. You got things to do. Maybe your ma’s having trouble accepting that. She’s got to bow out.”

  “But why does she put me down all the time?”

  “Because you’re young. Just because you’re young.” Ruby winks. “And smart. And beautiful.”

  Susan nods. Does this finally make sense? That terrible, nameless thing her mother holds against her? That cold disapproval she never could place?

  The sherry wears off. A dull ache throbs in her belly.

  “Ruby,” Susan says, “it hurts.”

  8

  Ball and Chain

  Like a ghost tapping on his shoulder, an impulse strikes him. Chi turns in time to see the girl at the kitchen window. At last! They’re back at last! He waves, overcome with relief. She hesitates, then waves, too. He flings the shovel down, shakes sweat from his face, brushes dirt from his hands on his jeans. He dashes up the stairs to the kitchen.

  But they’re gone again. He hears Ruby’s voice upstairs, Starbright murmuring. A laugh. Other voices. The television? Impossible. Ruby never watches TV. Then soaring music, a reedy soprano. It’s the opening tune to the program Starbright loves. She and Ruby are watching Star Trek?

  He calms the pounding in his chest. Damn them, stealing out before he woke. But she’s safe. The girl is safely tucked away upstairs.

  He wonders for the hundredth time: is Starbright the girl in the CBS News holoid? There is some resemblance, but the match isn’t perfect. Her hair, her face don’t look right. She’s heavier than the girl in the holoid. Her style of clothing, even her posture—not even close. Since the footage was filmed sometime before the program aired on August 22, any discrepancy in such a short time frame can’t easily be dismissed. It’s like an optical illusion. The more closely he studies her, the less sure he becomes.

  If she is the Axis, he must verify her identity and document her authenticity as soon as possible. Verification ought to be easy, but it hasn’t turned out that way. One evening, he crept up behind her while she was dreamily washing dishes in the kitchen, clapped his hands as loud as he could, and shouted, “Hey! Susan!”

  She dropped a plate and shouted, “Criminy!” She threw a handful of soapsuds in his face. “God, Chi! Don’t scare me like that!”

  “You are Susan, right?”

  She didn’t bat an eye. “I’m Starbright.”

  Who knew she would flat-out refuse to tell him her real name? Starbright. Man! A typical juvenile street name. Completely untraceable, as the Archivists had discovered.

  Ruby is no help. “Who is Starbright?” He could get away with asking the question twice before Ruby gave him a suspicious look. “Who wants to know?” was her first answer. “Reach me down that jar of kava kava,” was her second. “How about that accent,” he tried again. “She says her vowels like she’s got a tongue depressor in her mouth.” That made Ruby laugh, at least. “Is she from the Midwest? Like Ohio, some place like that?” “She’s from the moon, sonny.” He doesn’t press her. Ruby distrusts him enough. He doesn’t want to give her any reason to evict him.

  As for the girl, she’s positively compulsive. With single-minded vigilance, she keeps her purse by her side
, sleeps with it, takes it into the bathroom with her and locks the door. “Why is Starbright so paranoid about her purse?” he asked Ruby. “Maybe somebody ripped her off,” Ruby snapped. “Once bit, twice shy.”

  Plus, she locks her overnight bag in the sitting room. One morning, he easily picked the lock, searched the bag, and found only a poorly made fake ID that gave her name as “Barbara Nelson,” her age as eighteen, her residence as Berkeley. Starbright cannot possibly be eighteen, and the blurry photo looks less like her than the girl in the holoid. He tried the scanner out on the doorknob, picked up half a fingerprint. Then the door banged downstairs and Chi raced out, barely escaping down the stairs before Ruby stalked into the living room. “Seen a ghost, man from Mars?” she asked. Suspicious again. Just what he doesn’t need.

  Later, Chi displayed the scanner’s smudged half-print next to the crisp, inked fingerprints of the Axis recorded in the Archives. The knuckletop couldn’t compute a positive ID. Neither could Chi, comparing the whorls of black against the gray smudges suspended in the lavender light.

  It makes him want to smash the knuckletop against the wall. Makes him want to smash his hand through the wall.

  Watch her. Track her. That’s the best Chi can do. And that has been far from easy. This morning, for instance. Where did they go? As for Starbright, she’s a girl. She spends hours in the upstairs bathroom with the door locked. She ignores him as if he’s offended her. She’s sensitive about his surveillance, no matter how casual he tries to be. “What are you looking at?” she demands. “Are you following me?” Exactly. He’s not much happier about it than she is.

  Chi keeps searching the Haight-Ashbury for a better match. But until he finds and verifies the Axis herself, K-T has advised him that he must, at a minimum, guarantee this girl’s safety until midnight, September 4, 1967.

  At midnight, September 4, 1967, the Hot Dim Spot will close. From jumpy errata and widespread holes, the probabilities collapse into a timeline documented with data as thick and rich as butter-cream. After midnight, September 4, 1967, there is clear evidence that a young woman whom the Archivists identified positively as the Axis was living with her parents in Shaker Heights, Ohio. The Axis registered for the ninth grade at 9:30 A.M., EST, on September 8, 1967. She celebrated her fifteenth birthday on December 5, 1967 with a gala dinner for twenty at Stouffer’s Restaurant that got written up in the Cleveland Plain Dealer. Her father gave her a laboratory-grade microscope, her mother a necklace of amethyst beads. The father wrote a check; the mother charged it to the May Company.