by Laurel Doud
She almost burst out laughing. That's his real name? Or is that his occupation?
Saturday night found her awaiting her date — my nephew — in a small Thai restaurant in Santa Monica at Zabriskie Point. She almost got up and left, but she told herself that she was being stupid. What was it going to hurt? What was she afraid of? True might think that it was a real date, but it was doubtful he was going to make an indecent proposal right there in the middle of the King and Thai Restaurant. And he could take a rebuff if she gave him one.
True arrived fifteen minutes late, still in his suit, tie knotted and squared perfectly over his top shirt button. “Sorry. I had to take a last-minute phone call.”
They sat down. True seemed distracted and wasn't the brash, almost smirking young man from Goodfellow's party. He looked at the menu but couldn't seem to focus on it.
“Is something wrong?” she asked, a little hurt that he was so preoccupied. True did so look like Philip, though Philip would have never been caught dead in a suit and tie at the same age. That compromise would come later.
He looked up and was shaking his head as he answered. “No. No. Everything's fine. I just … I'm just thinking over this conversation I had before I left. That's all.” He shrugged.
“Work?”
“What? Oh, no. It was something else. It was Holly. You know Holly? The girl at your brother's party. It was her.”
He was silent, and Katharine waited. She remembered True couldn't stay silent for very long. If he changed the subject, then he really didn't want to talk about it.
“I don't understand her,” he said, after only a moment or two. “She was the one who wanted to go lightly. Just friends, she kept saying. I thought we had something, but she wouldn't admit it. I thought we should admit it and see where it went. But no. She wouldn't do that. Now, all of a sudden, she gets jealous. Like I'm the one stepping out. I told her you and I were old friends. But … I think she's heard something about you. Probably about your rages. They're still legendary, you know.”
Katharine bristled but kept her temper under control. “I'm not the competition. We're just old friends. All of that and nothing more.”
True looked closely at her and visibly relaxed. “You don't mind, then?”
“I could use a friend.” It was true. I just didn't know how true it was until I said it.
“Good, good. Friends are good.”
Katharine felt the hinges in her jaw creak as she tried to loosen them up.
“You know, though, you always did intrigue the hell out of me.” True grinned his devil smile. “Shit, you were something wild.”
Yeah. That's me. Wild thing.
The image of seventeen-year-old Thisby swam into view. She's with True. It's the Paddy Murphy weekend. The moist smell of beer with a hint of vomit permeates the fraternity house. Thisby and True have staggered up the two flights of stairs to True's room at the top. He makes a vain attempt to kick the clothes on the floor underneath the bed, but they just pile up against the mattress. Five beers, still attached to the six-pack plastic ring, hang from his index finger.
Thisby laughs as the bed trips her up, and she falls back on it heavily.
True launches himself beside her and fumbles at her shirt, the buttons proving to be uncooperative. He bites the top button, trying to tug it off. Thisby's eyes burble behind their closed lids, and she goes limp. True looks up at her, the button still between his teeth. “Thisby?”
“Thisby?” True called her back. He took a sip of his beer and watched her. “It's still there. The wildness, I mean. It's just a lot more subtle now. More under the surface, you know?”
What a smoothie you always were, True Young Denton. Nevertheless, she felt this body heat up, and her face flushed with the energy of it.
Soon they were sparring, feinting, jabbing — flirting.
The vision of Thisby passed out on True's bed stroked by her.
What in the hell am I doing? Would you please get your damned signals straight. True could be the brother I never had.
What about Goodfellow? What's he?
Goodfellow? What? Oh, he's Thisby's brother, not mine. Anyway, that's different.
“Holly seems nice,” she said abruptly.
True didn't look like he wanted to talk about her but seemed to sense the shift in Katharine as well as in the conversation. “She is. We've known each other for a long time. You sure you don't want some wine, a beer?”
More than anything else in the world.
Then go ahead, whispered a voice.
“No, thanks. I'm trying to quit.” She clutched her teacup with both hands.
Trying?
Oh, shut up.
“Why don't you tell me about one of your cases,” she added — while I figure out a way to ask you about your relatives.
Katharine ended the evening rather early. True seemed disappointed, but she was the one who was dissatisfied. She had tried everything she could think of to get him to talk about Philip and the kids. She had conjured up a phantom aunt who had died recently, and told him how affected by her death she had been. He almost reluctantly offered that an aunt of his had died the year before and he was sorry, but he didn't elaborate. She asked him how the aunt's husband took her death. He couldn't have taken it all that badly, True told her, he's already remarried — but he wouldn't elaborate. Katharine's heart ached as it strained against its pinnings.
Then she told him about her aunt's son who had gotten into bad company — her throat constricting as she spoke — and True sympathized but seemed to be innocently ignorant of any problems his own cousins had.
True effectively ended the entire conversation by remarking that Puck hadn't mentioned that his aunt had died. They had just been talking about death a few days ago, and True was a little pissed that Puck didn't bring it up. Katharine changed subjects but remained frightened that True would confront Puck about it. How would I explain this one away?
Katharine realized, as they walked into the parking lot, that she had had a good time, though. He could be a good friend.
“Maybe we can see each other again,” he said as he stood next to her while she opened her car door. “I can get tickets for some good concerts at the Forum. The partners take ones for the Lakers and Elton John, but they give us younger guys the tickets for the rock concerts.”
“I don't know.” She turned toward him, and he kissed her. She thought she should pull away, but it was like kissing a brother, so she didn't. Then the kiss went on a little too long, and it started to change; she started to change. She backed him off with a hand on his chest, and got into her car.
Katharine stepped into Thisby's apartment, trying to disentangle the tendrils of Thisby's life that were grafting onto her own, and she pulled up sharply just inside the door. A young man lounged on Thisby's couch, a trail of cigarette smoke above his head like a question mark, a tall beer bottle on the coffee table. It was inevitable, Katharine realized, and she didn't even cry out at the shock. Perhaps she wasn't even shocked. Maybe she had always known it would happen, and a part of her was just waiting for it. It couldn't be anyone else. It had to be Hooker.
He uncrossed his long legs and stood up languidly. He was tall, and as he got closer, she realized how coolly handsome he was with his dark hair, olive skin, and night eyes. He was dressed in black, just a pair of chinos and a long-sleeved shirt, but he looked designed.
“So you are back. What's going on? Why didn't you return my calls?” His voice sounded concerned, yet Katharine thought she could hear something else, something hard, underneath.
“Nothing. Nothing's going on.” She felt beguiled, but she was proud of Thisby's voice. Her mind was quavering, but her voice was steady.
Katharine walked past him, the hair on her arms spiking with static electricity, her nostrils flaring to suck in his smoky odor, and went into the kitchen to put some water on to boil. She was trying to focus on something, anything, to ignore the screaming in her head and the writhing of this body. What is go
ing on? She scanned this body, the hardening nipples, the tightness in the lower abdomen. I can't be attracted to him. What am I? Insane? A nymphomaniac?
“How'd you get in? That's unlawful entry, you know.” She squeezed her voice so flat, it was just a thin stream of words.
His eyebrows pulled together. “The same way I always get in. With a key.”
Deadbolts don't keep anyone out when you're not here to bolt them.
“What do you want?” Katharine was surprised at how controlled and defined she sounded.
“What do you mean, what do I want? I came to see you. I came to see why you haven't returned my calls.” His voice reverberated, and the feedback dizzied her. He took a step toward her, and she stepped back. “What's going on with you? What's happened to this place? And you?” He eyed her with such possessive intimacy that screams began to gurgle in her throat.
“I'm clean.” Katharine didn't know what else to say. What else is there to say?
“You clean up pretty good.” His smooth talk washed over her.
“I mean, I'm really clean.” The flatness was beginning to fill up with fear. The kettle whistled, and she wanted to cry as she watched her shaking hands move it to a cold burner.
“So you said. So where do I fit in with all of this?” He moved oh-so-slightly closer to her.
“You don't.” She could smell the beer yeast on him. Part of her wanted to suck it out from his pores. “I'd like you to leave, and I'd like my key. Now.”
“Leave?” His eyebrows lifted, and his clear, moonless pupils fixed on her. The whole sky was in his eyes. “But I just got here. I haven't seen you in a month.” He spread his hands apart like a preacher. “And you probably don't even remember that. You weren't looking so good.”
“I wasn't? What happened?” She leaned toward him unthinkingly.
He seemed genuinely confused. “Nothing happened. You just got some pretty strong shit. I don't know.”
“Did you give it to me?”
“No, it wasn't any of my stuff.” He looked insulted. “I don't know what you were taking that night. There wasn't much you weren't taking, as far as I could see. You're one vicious dope fiend,” he added with affection.
“Was,” Katharine said and felt the anger deflate and sag. “I was.”
“Well, hell, now that you're clean and sober, let's go out and party. My treat.”
“Go away.” She brushed past him into the living room, trying to ignore the charge that spiderwebbed across her exposed skin.
He followed and stopped her by pulling back on her upper arm. His fingers were deceptively gentle. “I'm sorry, go away?”
Is that genuine hurt in his voice?
“Wait a minute. Come on. Let's go out.” His hand caressed her arm now. He was so close. So claustrophobically close. She could feel the approaching flashpoint on her skin.
Katharine jerked away from him. She was scared now. Scream for help? Would anyone come if she did? The front door tunneled away from her like a nightmare. No one's ever in the corridors. The elevator takes too long. I don't know where the stairs are. “I'm not going anywhere with you. Leave me alone.” Could he even hear her? Am I speaking out loud or only in my head? His expression remained still. Am I on tape delay?
Noises off in the seeming distance brought them back in sync, and they turned toward the sounds. Quince was walking in the door, pulling out her key from the lock, another young girl in wrinkled cotton following behind her.
Quince looked up and didn't seem surprised at the two in front of her. “Ah, it's the bended hook. Whose slimy jaws are you piercing now?”
He hesitated for a long moment, looking from one girl to the next. “I guess I'll see you later then, Thiz.” He reached out, took Katharine's hand and pressed a key into its palm. He then lightly etched her arm down from the shoulder with his fingernails, her skin puckering in farewell. He went over to the coffee table, picked up his beer, and drained it. Katharine watched spellbound as the backdraft pulsed in the bottle after each gulp. He walked by her, and she tried not to acknowledge his parting glances.
He appraised Quince as he went by. “Hey, Kewpie doll. How's the harelip?”
“Fuck you,” Quince drawled and emphasized it with a thrust of her chin.
“In a year or two,” he said calmly and walked out.
Katharine jumped at the door, shut and deadbolted it. Her knees turned to straw, and she wobble-danced to the couch and collapsed into it.
“What an asshole,” Quince said blithely as she stood in front of Katharine. “I never could figure out what you saw in that king of codpieces.”
He left too easy.
Quince patrolled a short route in front of Katharine. “Me and Gert have something to ask you.”
He gave up his key too easy.
“Remember I was telling you about that all-day concert I got tickets for?”
Does he have another one?
“Well, I kinda got the wrong tickets. I thought I was getting ones for here in LA, but I was really getting ones for the show up north near San Francisco.”
I'll have to change the locks.
“But we've got this idea. Gert's brother, Michael, was gonna go, but he can't now 'cause he wrecked their mom's car backing out of the driveway. So we've got this extra ticket.”
What a fool I was. Why did I think he would just fade away when I didn't call him back.
“So we thought … well, I thought, maybe you could take his ticket and drive us there.”
I gotta get out of here. I'll really go stir crazy if I don't.
“We could ask Mom for her Range Rover and then — I know you haven't said yes yet — we'd be halfway to Ashland, and we could meet them up there on Monday. Gert has some cousins up north, and they're going to the concert too. We got it all worked out. She could go home with them and then fly back to LA later. Michael can take care of Oberon. He's taking care of him right now actually.”
But where to go?
“The problem is … I mean, it may not be a problem, but the concert is tomorrow. We'd really, like, have to leave early tomorrow morning.”
Katharine stood up. “Tomorrow morning? No, we'll leave tonight. We'll leave right now. I'll throw some things together, and we'll drive over to Mom's and get the car.”
It wasn't that easy, of course. Quince hadn't mentioned that Anne didn't know about this arrangement; neither did Gert's mother. The mothers agreed after some strong persuasion from Katharine and a lot of pleading from the girls. Katharine thought privately that Anne said yes only because of her own ulterior motives. It was obvious that Anne wanted Thisby to join the family in Ashland, and this would be the trade-off. Well, Katharine had a hidden agenda of her own.
There's no place like home.
What happens, though, when you don't know where home is?
Act 3, Scene 1
I think you people have proven something to the world — that a half a million kids can get together and have three days of fun and music and have nothing but fun and music, and I God bless you for it.
— MAX YASGUR, FARMER, Woodstock (1970)
The LA heat tried to smother the dying sun, but rays managed to escape and ricochet off the swath of thick, gray smog, turning the sky a rose-orange. It was Saturday night, one week after Katharine had driven out of the city limits. Now she was returning, crawling along the 405, wedged in by automobiles whose occupants would just as soon wish she was not there either.
Ah, to live and die in LA. Is that also my fate?
Anne, instead of Gert, was now in the passenger seat, dozing, and Quince was in the back plugged in to her Walkman. For Katharine, nothing had changed. She felt stunned. She thought that somehow she would have escaped from this dreamworld, that somehow on this road trip she would have awakened.
Here she was, a week later, awakening — but awakening into the same dream. She was meekly resuming the rhythm of someone else's life, having given up her own with hardly a whimper.
Lione
ss, my ass.
She had felt different up north, though. She thought she had seen a way. She had felt young and vibrant at the concert, and in Ashland the full flush of youth glowed within her. She was Merlin the magician, aging backward.
The week clicked in and out of focus in her mind like slides in a projector.
This is what I did on my summer vacation. This is the parking lot of the Shoreline Amphitheater, where the concert was. See those twin peaks? That's the tent over the main stage.
You're not going to bore us with the whole thing, are you?
I might.
It was her intermezzo, her interlude, up north. Time stopped, shifted, and restarted in a different direction — and at a different speed.
I forgot who I was and who I had to be.
From the moment they pulled into the concert parking lot at high noon, the swimming ripples of the summer heat so high off the macadam that Katharine felt as if they were going under, she knew that it would be no ordinary day. And when she stepped from the cool, rational confines of the black-and-white interior of the Range Rover into a world, odd and unpredictable, with its wide-wale spectrum of heat and smells and noise and colors, inhabited by the strange and unusual, she knew she was leaving normal behind. She fought it for a long time. It threw off her senses and her equilibrium. Nothing was as it seemed.
A huge tailgate party surrounded them — hatches of cars elevated, coolers perched on the lips of opened trunks, the smell of coals and lighter fluid, hot dogs, hamburgers, and an occasional chicken, mostly teriyakied.
It took her nasal memory a second or two to identify the softer but more acrid smell of marijuana, and she feared that she had made a mistake letting the girls footloose at something like this. She could hear Philip's voice, swirling around her, trying to soothe and caution her, “You agreed. Now let it go. Don't make it miserable for them just because you said yes.”
. . .
Driving the long, dark miles of highway from LA to the concert, she had discussed and argued with herself about what she should do when she got close to home.