She's Gone: A Novel

by Emmens, Joye

  The explosion is thought to be from the premature detonation of a bomb as it was being assembled by members of the Weatherman, a radical leftist group. A search for other victims is underway. The four story townhouse at 18 West 11th St. was reduced to flames and rubble.

  “Jesus,” Will said. “They’re making bombs.”

  “I thought they were non-violent.”

  “They’re changing. They’re bringing the war home.”

  “Do you want to go see the townhouse?” Jolie asked.

  “No. We don’t want to be anywhere near it. The FBI will be crawling all over the place. This rules out any help from RYM for a place to stay.”

  Jolie stood transfixed by the article. “Why?”

  “They’ll all be laying low. Come on, let’s try the East Village and find a place to crash.”

  Will took her hand. Exhausted from little sleep over the past three days, they trudged along the endless city blocks. The sun was up, but it was bitter cold. Jolie looked up at the buildings towering over them. Car horns blared. Did the drivers really think that blasting their horns would unclog the jammed streets? A whirlwind tornado of trash swirled nearby. Lines of laundry strung out of apartment windows whipped in the early morning wind. On a street corner, a black man in a rumpled suit soulfully played a Miles Davis song on his tarnished trumpet, his hat on the ground before him.

  They stopped at every hotel and inquired about a room. The hotel buildings were run-down. In seedy, dimly-lit lobbies, shady men sat on frayed couches with women whose faces gleamed with make-up. Most of the hotels’ costs were out of their reach. The rooms they could afford were either full or rented by the hour.

  Will led her into a packed deli to get out of the cold. They stood inside the door and waited for a booth. Finally someone left, and they slipped into the seat, groaning at the simple pleasure of being warm and sitting. Conversations in harsh New York accents reverberated off the greasy walls. The smell of food cooking made her mouth water. Will ordered the cheapest thing on the menu, grilled cheese sandwiches. They ate slowly, killing time, trying to figure out what to do next. Jolie sank low into the booth. Sleep was all she wanted. Will picked up a newspaper from a stack by the door and read. She put her head back and nodded off, only to jerk awake when the waitress slapped the plastic tray with their bill on the table. Disoriented, Jolie looked up. The waitress towered over her with a scowl.

  “Let’s go to Tompkins Square Park and check out the scene,” Will said.

  “Aren’t you tired?”

  He shrugged. “We have to find a place to stay.”

  Will paid the bill, and they were back on the street, headed to Tompkins Square Park. They passed through the Bowery. The streets were lined with homeless men and women begging. Drunks and addicts were passed out on the cold ground, their faces pasted to the sidewalk. How could anyone survive even one night outside? She’d read about the Bowery but never imagined she’d be walking through New York’s skid row, almost homeless herself. She shivered in the cold sun. Jolie stole a glance at Will. Even if they had money New York would be a rough place. What was he thinking?

  They reached the park and walked to the center. Jolie found an empty bench and collapsed onto it. Hippies milled about. A guitar and mandolin duo played an instrumental piece. The tall trees were bare, but small green buds bulged toward the coming spring.

  A group of Hare Krishna’s in bright saffron robes gathered around an elm tree in the center of the park. They danced, chanted, and clanged small cymbals. Their mantra was soothing. Hare Krishna, Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare, Hare Rama, Hare Rama, Rama Rama, Hare Hare.

  A ragged group of war protesters filed past with signs: End the War in Vietnam NOW; Peace Now; Get the Hell out of Vietnam. They chanted: “Hell no, we won’t go!”

  “Let’s join them and see if anyone knows where we can crash,” Will said.

  Will and Jolie wove their way into the crowd and fell into the march next to a lanky long-haired man in his twenties.

  “We just got here today from Eugene,” Will said.

  “Where’s that?”

  “Oregon. There’s a large anti-war movement there,” Will said.

  “A lot of good any of this is doing us,” the protester said.

  “Can any of your group help us out? We need a place to stay tonight,” Will said.

  He shot Will a look. “You’re in New York, man, we’re all crashing with people who are crashing. We’re ten to a room. Sorry, can’t help you. There are some shelters in the Bowery, though.”

  A homeless shelter in the Bowery? No way. She was not going near the Bowery again, for anything.

  They moved away from the marching protesters and sat down on a nearby bench. They watched the revolving scene unfold before them, acutely aware of their predicament and alone in their thoughts. Jolie rubbed the moonstone in the soft leather pouch against her chest. She wanted to lie down right there and sleep in the cold sun for an hour, for just an hour. But that’s what homeless people and bums did. They couldn’t let their guard down. She sat straighter and watched the stream of humanity go by.

  Restless, Will rose. “Let’s keep moving.”

  They walked the streets of the East Village hunting for a hotel. Gradually, it became dark. They still had no place to stay. The brownstone houses, lit from inside, looked warm and inviting. The streets were still crowded at night. Up ahead a crowd gathered under a marquee that lit up the sidewalk: “Bill Graham’s Fillmore East: Tonight Neil Young and Crazy Horse, The Steve Miller Band, Miles Davis”.

  Jolie was struck by their attire. The crowd was dressed in silk frock coats and top hats, fringed leather jackets, leather pants, fishnet stockings and mini-skirts, candy striped pants, and paisley print shirts. Jolie watched, mesmerized. If only they could get in. What an incredible line up. The Fillmore was the Church of Rock and Roll.

  Will and Jolie milled around with the crowd. Will asked a few people about finding a place to crash for the night. All were sympathetic but offered no help. The crowd thinned as the concert goers entered the Fillmore. The small group that lingered outside looked to be in their same situation. No place to go. Some had backpacks and bed rolls. They wouldn’t be of any help. Reluctantly, they walked on. Jolie’s mood sunk. If she could just get warm, she wouldn’t feel so miserable.

  “Now what?” Jolie said.

  “Back to the bus station. Our locker rentals expire soon.”

  And then what? He didn’t have a plan. She followed him down a subway entrance. Underground, musicians played for coins among the trash.

  “You should have brought your guitar. We could have made a lot of money,” Jolie said. “Enough to stay in a nice hotel I bet.”

  He stopped and took her by the shoulders. “Do I look like a beggar?”

  Tears welled in her eyes and she shook her head.

  They trudged into the bus station and retrieved their packs. They stood and waited for a bench to become vacant. Finally when a couple got up to board their bus, Will claimed the bench and they sat down. Jolie groaned, tired and disheartened. The station was noisy with departure announcements. The automatic door brought a cold gust each time it opened. Police officers patrolled the area. The station was jammed with travelers and homeless people. It stank of urine. No one would notice them there.

  All that could go wrong was happening. She put her hand on the moonstone. Didn’t Mark say the moonstone would protect travelers from danger? How were they doing at the ranch? It would be spring there soon. She wished they were back amid the tall firs and stately pines, the intoxicating smell of the forest and the welcoming camaraderie of the group. Right now the ranch seemed like nirvana. She had sunk low to want to go back to that isolated place.

  A police duo roused a sleeping bum and escorted him to the door. She thought of her family. They had come so close to finding her. Would that ha
ve been so bad? She pulled her knees up to her chest and held them tight. She could call them collect. Will could stay on the run, but she could go home. This was not the life she envisioned. No, she was just tired. She and Will loved each other.

  She felt Will’s eyes on her but didn’t want to meet them. Tears were coming, but she couldn’t cry, not here. He reached for her hand. She looked at the sordid scene all around them. She couldn’t deny the reality of their situation any longer. They had little money left, no place to stay, and no plan. Where were all of Will’s friends now? Where was his master plan for their life?

  “Don’t look so down, Little Wing,” Will said.

  Jolie didn’t respond but continued to stare at the passing scene, wary of everyone.

  “New York isn’t what I expected. Let’s try another city while we still have enough money to leave,” Will said.

  “What would be different?” She stared straight ahead, no emotion in her voice.

  “The bomb explosion blew any chance of connecting with the RYM. Nobody’s talking to strangers now.”

  “Where would we go?”

  “We could go up to Boston. It’s not too far. There are lots of colleges and the RYM has a collective there.”

  She’d read about Boston. Anywhere but here sounded good. “Okay.”

  “You stay here with the packs, and I’ll check the schedule and buy tickets.”

  “No, I’m coming with you.” She was not going to sit there alone in the middle of all the shady characters.

  “No, you stay. If we leave the bench, we’ll lose our spot and end up sitting on the floor all night,” Will said. “I won’t be long.”

  He was right, there were no empty seats in the crowded station. The floor was filthy. Jolie nodded, adjusting the packs on the bench, leaving no room for anyone to sit down. She needed to be strong and remain centered and balanced. Closing her eyes, she silently chanted her mantra, reaching for inner strength. Om. Om. Om.

  Sensing a presence, she opened her eyes. Before her stood two policemen. She blinked. A wave of panic rushed over her. The saliva left her mouth. Was this it?

  “Do you have a bus ticket?” the taller one asked.

  She found her voice. “We’re buying them now.”

  “You can’t stay in the station unless you have a ticket,” the stocky one said, eyeing the two packs.

  “How old are you?” asked the tall one.

  “Eighteen,” Jolie said.

  “Birth date?”

  She responded.

  “Be careful in here,” the stocky one said. They walked off and began questioning a man sitting cross-legged on the floor. The man got up and walked out into the night; a blast of cold air replaced him.

  A man in jeans, white T-shirt, black leather jacket, and slicked-back hair approached her. “Horse?”

  “Horse?” she asked.

  “Dope. Do you want to buy some dope?”

  “No, thanks.”

  He walked off and approached two long-haired guys sitting on the ground. They both got up and followed the man into the men’s room. This was going to be a long night. Where was Will?

  Two young women walked by with glazed eyes. They wore tight-knit mini dresses and high heels. Their hair was teased into rats’ nests, their faces were painted with a pound of makeup, and their lips glistened bright red. A whiff of cheap perfume trailed behind them when they passed. An older, balding man approached them. After a short discussion, he went off with the girl in the black and red dress. Her friend continued to walk through the station. Did they have tickets? She continued to watch the girl.

  Where was Will? He had been gone over thirty minutes. How long did it take to buy tickets? What if he had gotten arrested? How would she know? He had all the money. They should split it up in case they were separated. She needed to center herself and not panic. She couldn’t meditate in the terminal. She was afraid to close her eyes now. The packs might be stolen. She hugged her knees and cautiously watched everyone around her.

  16

  Back to Zero

  Will appeared around the corner. He waved the tickets in greeting and smiled his irresistible smile. The girl in the tight-knit dress approached him.

  He shook his head and continued toward Jolie. She moved a pack from the bench to make room for him. He handed her a Snickers bar. A fleeting smile crossed her face, too tired for much more.

  “You were gone an eternity. What did that girl ask you?”

  “If I wanted to have a good time,” he said.

  “Like a party?”

  Will looked at her. “You’re so naive. That’s why I love you. She’s a hooker. A hooker on heroin.”

  “How can you tell she’s on heroin?”

  “They mostly all are.”

  “She’s a hooker on horse,” Jolie said. “Some guy tried to sell me some horse, that’s heroin right?”

  Will put his arm around her. “We’ll be out of here soon. We’re on a four thirty a.m. bus to Boston. I’m feeling good about Boston.”

  They sat together on the bench all night and watched New York’s underside. It had been a long four days. Will kept his arm around her. She relaxed a little now that they had a plan. And yet what if it was the same in Boston, and they couldn’t find a place to stay?

  At four twenty in the morning, they boarded the bus to Boston and sat next to each other. There was no need to be paranoid about the private detective. They were invisible in New York. The bus was only half full as it rolled out of the terminal through upper Manhattan. They would be in Boston at ten thirty that morning.

  She stared intently out the window, taking in the sights. The route took them through Harlem. They drove past a burned out stone church that sat charred in the darkness. How could anyone burn such a beautiful building? Windows were boarded up on storefronts, plaster peeled off of tenement buildings, abandoned buildings stood next to fire-blackened shells. Men lay on the sidewalks, passed out. Others sat on steps and watched the bus roll by.

  She’d never seen such a grim sight. Can this be America? New York? How can these people live here? It was desolate, decrepit, and rundown. They passed a vacant lot with flames leaping out of a pile of trash. Were people camping in the city? What happened to civilized society? What would happen if the bus broke down there? She unconsciously gripped Will’s hand, and he rubbed it to relax her grip.

  “Doesn’t anyone care?” Jolie asked. “This isn’t right.”

  “This is what we’re organizing and fighting against,” Will said. “Poverty and the lack of equality. If our government spent the same amount here that they spend on one week in Vietnam, these folks would have a chance.”

  The bus left Harlem behind but she’d never forget the scene. A shiver passed through her.

  Soon they were out of the city, heading toward Connecticut. They leaned into one another and dozed, the bus engine vibrated a soothing hum.

  They awoke as the bus pulled into Worcester, Massachusetts, the Heart of the Commonwealth, a sign proclaimed. The sun shone on old brick buildings. An hour later they disembarked in Boston.

  Jolie asked a woman at an information counter about inexpensive weekly hotels. The woman opened a map and circled an area on Berkeley Street about twenty blocks away.

  “It’s in the South End. It’s an okay area. There’s no hanky-panky going on,” she said, looking into Jolie’s eyes. Jolie strained to understand the strong accent. The woman then circled a bus stop on the map two blocks away and wrote the bus number. “This bus will take you near there.”

  On Berkeley Street, under a canopy of trees, they walked past rows of old brick townhouses with colonial shutters. A few of the townhouses had been converted into resident hotels. In the first hotel that had a weekly rental sign in the window, they rang the bell at the reception desk. A wizened man with curly white hair shuffled out.
He eyed them and their packs.

  “How much for a room per week?” Will asked.

  “We have no vacancy,” the old man said.

  “But there’s a sign in the window,” Will said.

  “No vacancy.”

  They walked back onto the street.

  “That’s bullshit,” Will said.

  “We do look a little scruffy.” She stroked his five-day beard. They looked like gypsies with Will’s hand-woven headband, her small rolled-up Persian rug tied to her pack, and her leather fringe purse.

  Three townhouses down, they walked into another hotel that advertised weekly rooms. A plump woman sat at the desk, reading. The lobby was dimly lit, and a stale odor permeated the air. Will inquired about a room. The woman indicated they had a room on the third floor with a shared bathroom. It was cheap.

  “We’ll take it.” Will paid for a week and the woman handed him the key and pointed toward the wooden staircase.

  On the third floor, a threadbare oriental carpet runner led them down the hall to the room. The stale odor was stronger. What was it? Will unlocked the door and she followed him in. Sunlight streamed in the tall windows of a large corner room. The paint on the windowsills was chipped. A small wood table and two chairs were set against a wall. On top of an old wooden dresser on the opposite wall was a stack of threadbare towels. In the corner, a hot plate, a can opener, and a small pot sat on the floor. A hot plate? That was part of the smell. People cooked in their rooms. There was an overhead light bulb with no shade. Jolie pulled back the moss-green chintz bedspread. The bed sagged in the middle.

  It was shabby and rundown, but there was a bed with clean sheets, the door locked, and a bathroom was right down the hall.

  “This is heaven, pure heaven,” she said, smiling.

  “That’s the first smile I’ve seen in a week.”

  Showered and changed, they flopped on the bed and fell into a deep sleep. Two hours later, a siren woke Jolie. She looked around the unfamiliar room. Will sat in the chair, looking out the window. The map the woman in the bus station had given them was spread on the table next to their money. Groggy, Jolie joined him at the table.