Philip took his hand and held it. "Sir? I thought this was a survivalist school, not a military camp."
The boy looked at the floor. "Mr. Egon—he's one of the teachers here—says the two go together. He says discipline and survival and manners are all part of the same scheme."
"We could use Mr. Egon in Berkeley these days," Philip laughed.
Daniel, serious, answered, 'True. You need somebody to bash a few heads together up there—between the dopeheads and the antiwar jerkoffs."
Philip flinched. Karin quickly put in, "Where is everybody? It seems awfully empty around here."
"In the mountains," Daniel answered, "every Saturday the whole camp goes for a day trek into the mountains, rain or shine— anything short of a white-out."
"Did you want to go?" Karin asked.
He shrugged.
"Thanks for staying behind this time," she went on. "I really did want to meet you."
They had lunch at the only place in town that served food, the Wagon Wheel Cafe, where the Saturday special was Mady's Real Beef Stew.
"What is 'Real Beef Stew' and who is 'Mady'?" Karin asked Dan.
He answered, "You've got to take things literally out here. Real beef stew means real beef, not horsemeat, which Mady is suspected of using now and then, it's so tough. And Mady is about a hundred years old and still dresses the way she used to dress when she was dealing blackjack in Reno back before electricity, I think. Mr. Egon says she looks like she's been soaked in brine, that's like being pickled—you'll know her if you see her. And she has a few young . . ." his hesitation was heavy with innuendo, ". . . proteges hanging around. To catch guys passing through between L.A. and Reno."
"I was getting worried, Dan," his father said, "but now I see you are getting an education, after all."
Karin noticed the "Dan."
On the drive back to Bishop Philip was elated. "I'd almost forgotten what a terrific laugh the kid has. It's been so long since I've heard it. You were wonderful, K. God. I can't believe the difference. Part of it is the school, but I think you were able to make him feel easy . . ."
"It's too bad we couldn't have met Mr. Egon. He seems to be a major influence."
"When Daniel was showing you the grounds, I had a talk with Dave Powell, the guy who runs the school. Egon is an ex-Marine, very gung ho Corps but, according to Powell, reliable. He assured me that Egon isn't training killers behind his back."
"Is that what you thought?"
"Daniel's remark about 'bashing heads in Berkeley' bothered me, yes. And surprised me, too, since I remember a time when his room reeked of pot. I suppose I'm relieved to find him antidrug, because he's an obsessive kind of kid and I can see him getting caught up in the whole drug culture. His half-baked ideas on the war don't please me, but frankly I didn't want to bring up a subject that could have been divisive. Not today."
"I know. And it's Dan."
He looked at her quizzically, so she repeated, "He wants to be called 'Dan.' He told me."
"So is that how it's going to be?" He laughed. "You are an amazement, Karin Rolofsen. You and Dan teamed up against me? Making me change old habits?"
"Afraid so. If you want me, you've got to take Dan and Thea too."
The car hit a patch of black ice and swerved; Philip swung it around, turning with the spin. Karin tensed, concentrated. The road was empty, the mountains revolved around them as the car made a full revolution. Philip eased it back into the northbound lane. They drove in silence, catching their breath, trying to take in all that had happened in a few seconds.
"Did I understand you correctly?" he finally asked.
Karin laughed. "Yes!" she cried out. "Yes I will marry you. Yes we will survive."
He slowed the car to a stop, opened his arms, and she came to him, mouth open to "breathe in the clean, safe smell of him.
A shrill, whining blast from an air horn pierced the silence; a big rig came barreling down the highway toward them. As the driver passed he gave them a "thumbs up" sign.
"As you know by now," Philip said as they entered the outskirts of the town of Bishop, "in some ways I am incorrigibly old-fashioned."
She reached for his hand, brought it to her lips, and kissed it.
"Now that we are officially betrothed—isn't that a nice old-fashioned word?—now that we have agreed to plight our troth," he said with mock seriousness, "we have to make a few personal decisions."
She laughed, a pure clear trilling sound that caused him to look at her with delight.
"God, I love the way you laugh," he said.
"And I love you for being incorrigibly old-fashioned, in some ways."
"We have to spend the night in Bishop," he went on. "I reserved separate rooms." He touched her hair and spoke softly, as if reading a line of poetry: "There is time aplenty now . . ."
Karin felt a surge of gratitude. Philip's touch was light, certain. Never fumbling, never groping. Philip knew how to caress, how to respond to her own shy advances. When she put her arms around him, Philip did not assume she wanted to be physically overwhelmed. He understood affection. When she began to worry that she was not giving him all that he wanted, he sensed what she was thinking and made her understand that he was happy, in fact quite content, to go slowly. Not just for her, but for himself. It was important, he said, that both of them feel ready. She had cried, that a man could be so sweetly understanding. That she did not have to worry about satisfying him.
"Do you suppose we could get adjoining rooms?" she asked.
She positioned herself rather primly on a small settee and watched as he opened the burgundy leather case, took from it two silver flasks, a small bottle which held maraschino cherries, and two glasses of heavy lead crystal. "Old-fashioneds," he told her, chuckling. "Appropriate, don't you think?"
"Nice in this cold climate."
"The perfect nightcap," he said. "I guarantee you will sleep well."
"Oh, I intend to," she smiled at him as she used her fingers to dip into her drink for the cherry and bit into it. She took a sip and held it in her mouth, allowing the warmth to slip down her throat a small amount at a time.
"Please, come sit next to me," she invited.
"That would be my great pleasure," he answered.
They moved in slow motion; he sat, drank from his glass, put it down, moved his hand to caress her neck. She put her hand over his, guided it to her chestbone, held it there for a long moment. Took a sip, touched lips, laughed at the taste of cherry on the tongue. Her hand still on his, guiding under her gown, tenderly. A sharp intake of breath as he lowered his head to kiss the soft place where her breasts met and rose, his hand exploring the great pink rise of her breast.
He pulled her face to his and kissed her forehead. "Sweet," he said, "you taste sweet."
She took another sip and let the warm liquor trickle down her throat. "I like your hands on me," she said, her fingers on the tie to his silk robe. He kissed her on the lips, three times, lightly. She pressed her mouth into his, hard.
"You have to finish your nightcap," he whispered into her ear, "that's part of the ritual." They toasted each other, Karin could feel her face flush warm. They drained the glasses; he set his down very carefully, then took hers from her, carefully.
He stood, pulled her to him, held her close. She could feel his erection through the silk, and pressed herself into him. He put his hands firmly about her waist and said, "Come with me."
They sat on the side of the bed. He held her face between his hands, looking at her, kissing her eyes, the tip of her nose, her exposed throat. She felt herself grow warm and wet; she wanted to put her hands on him, pull him into her. With her tongue she flicked into his ears. Slowly, slowly, he lifted her into the bed, gently pulled the cover over them, turned off the light, slipped out of his robe. She could feel the coarse hair on his chest, she took him in her hand and felt a shiver run through him.
She turned and raised herself so that her breasts fell loose against his chest. She c
ould feel his heartbeat; "My sweet, sweet girl," he whispered into her ear, while his hand explored the contours of her stomach. "You are so beautiful," he sighed as he entered her.
She arched her back, made a small thrusting motion. He began the rhythmic movement, kissing her, talking to her. "Here, is this good? Tell me."
She fell into his rhythm, and it was as if they were dancing, as if their lovemaking had been choreographed. The tempo picked up, faster and faster until it reached a crescendo, he moaned and she moaned with him in one long sustaining sound . . . then they lay quietly in each other's arms, breathing in the sweet smell of sex.
When he could speak, his voice was soft and lyric: "That was better than wonderful. Better than marvelous. God." He caressed her breast. ". . . yes?"
"Yes," she lied, kissing him sweetly on the lips.
"Put on your archivist's hat, Faith," May said, "I need to dip into your seemingly limitless knowledge of the old family history." She raised her eyebrows as if what she was about to say might shock me. "I want you to look into your crystal ball to the period around the end of the war. The big Two, I mean. Zero in on Katherine Reade McCord, rich and beautiful and in her early forties. And see if you come up with any cross reference to . . ." She paused, made sure she had my full attention, ". . . Philip Ward."
"Aha," I said.
"Aha?" she repeated. "What does 'aha' mean?"
"It means I wondered when you'd get around to following up. The first time you asked was weeks ago, and then you asked Kit."
"She was evasive."
"Yes she was. What does that suggest to you?"
May looked at me and shook her head, "You fox, you," she said, "you picked up on it and found out, didn't you?"
"I plead nolo contendere," I said. "Anyway, you are going to have to press Kit for an answer. I may be an archivist but I'm no snitch."
"Just tell me this much," she said, "all you have to do is nod your head if I get it right."
"No telling, no nodding, no nothing. Talk to Kit."
"Listen, Auntie, please . . ."
"Don't give me the 'Auntie' treatment, May, you aren't going to get a thing out of me on this subject."
"Just tell me this, will Kit go to the wedding?"
I threw up my hands and said, "You are impossible, girl. No she won't go to the wedding, she has to be in New York that weekend. But she's going to offer to give them a big lovely reception at Wildwood after the wedding trip. Now that's all I'm going to tell you, period."
I phoned Kit to warn that May was on her way, loaded for bear. Kit was waiting, two very dry martinis in place on the bar.
"This is a dry martini subject?" May asked, sipping hers.
"I'm afraid it's still my drug of choice," Kit said. "But you want to know about Philip Ward and me."
"Faith called ahead," May pouted.
"Faith is our guardian angel, didn't you know? But there isn't all that much to tell. I met Philip Ward here in San Francisco near the end of the war. He was . . . in transit, in a way . . . trying to figure out if he wanted to go back to Columbia to teach or if he would try for Berkeley. He finally decided he'd do better at Columbia."
"You've skipped something, I think."
Kit smiled. "Yes. There was a short, rather intense episode. I . . . was rather attracted to him at the time. During that period in my life I was rather attracted to a number of young men. I emphasize young."
"Philip isn't that much younger than you. What? Six or seven years?"
"It wasn't just age, and Philip wasn't the only man I had an affair with. There, I've said it: affair. It's always been such a compromising word. I have to keep reminding myself that your generation doesn't react to it so hysterically as mine did."
"So you were a 'loose lady'?" May teased.
"Don't make fun. It wasn't funny," Kit told her, then took the edge off by raising her martini glass. "Want another?"
May waved her off. "You said 'age' wasn't the only thing— between you and Philip. What else?"
Kit sighed and moved to the window. The sun was casting long shadows on the city below. "Philip was very ambitious. He had a plan, and I realized that I didn't fit into the plan. He needed someone more . . . malleable. Remember, by the time I met Philip I had been on my own for almost twenty years, and I liked it. Besides, I had a lot of obligations. But the point is, my fling with Philip was just that: a fling. History. It never really had a chance of being anything more, not for either of us. It seems fairly obvious that Philip has not mentioned anything about this to Karin, and frankly I would prefer she didn't know. I like Karin so very much, and I think it might cause her to feel differently about me."
May nodded, then asked: "Was I one of your obligations? It must have been that time before Dad came back, when you were taking care of me—"
"I never thought of you as an obligation," Kit cut in, "and you mustn't think that. Remember, your grandmother was still living then, and Sara. And Faith and Emilie. If anything, you were in danger of being suffocated with love and attention. There were plenty of 'mothers' for you, my dear."
"Except my own."
Kit started to pour another drink, but stopped.
She looked at her watch. "It's five-thirty. When did you say you had to meet Sam and Karin?"
"Six. Sam's cooking dinner for us, which means spaghetti. I suppose I'd better be going, but I still need to talk to you."
"That's just what I was thinking. Can you get away this weekend? I'm going down to the ranch—to do some riding, just to get away and into the mountains."
"I'd love to see the ranch again," May said.
"Why is it that Karin is always early and you are always late?" Sam asked May. "My spaghetti sauce is probably ruined."
"Your spaghetti sauce is indestructible," May answered, moving a pile of books and papers from the end of Sam's table so she could set it.
Karin was breaking vermicelli into a pot of boiling water, her face turned away from the rising steam. Sam leaned against the far wall, watching them through a camera.
"This is nice," he said, "the two of you, steam rising all around, nice." The doorbell broke his concentration.
Standing in the doorway was a couple in their twenties, May guessed, maybe younger—it was hard to tell under the long hair and hats they wore. The girl had on a long skirt and a tunic that disguised her thinness. The boy had long, thin blonde hair and for some reason made May think of a chimneysweep.
"We need a place to crash, man," he said to Sam. Sam looked at him for a few moments, then asked: "Do I know you?"
"Yeah," he answered, "Don't you remember? You took some pictures of us the other day. You said if we ever needed a place we could come on over. You gave us your address."
The girl thrust a piece of paper at Sam, as if to offer proof.
"Oh yeah, sure, I remember now. You were in the loft with Star and Wanderer. What're your names again?"
"James," he said. "This is Michelle."
"James, Michelle, come on in. We're having spaghetti. Are you hungry?"
Each carried two shopping bags filled with their possessions, including, May noted, a high school letter sweater. "Spaghetti with meat?" James asked. "We don't eat meat. But a bath would be good."
"Be my guest," Sam said, showing the way. Michelle followed James into the bathroom, and they closed the door behind them.
May looked at Karin, both looked at Sam. He grinned, shrugged, and all three had to stifle their laughter. They heard the water turn on. "You know what they say," May couldn't resist: "Cleanliness is next . . ." Karin burst out laughing, May and Sam joined her.
When they caught their breath, May asked, "What made you give them your address?"
"I thought they would be good subjects . . . The Saturday Evening Post is supposed to be doing a big story on the hippies, especially the drug scene. So I thought if I did some really strong pictures I might land the assignment."
"So are you going to take pictures of James and Michelle?"
Karin wanted to know.
"Maybe. If it works out."
"Stoned?"
Sam frowned. "If they are, and if they don't mind."
"How can they know what they mind if they're stoned?"
"I'll ask them when they aren't stoned."
"Where's Philip?" May asked, to change the subject.
Karin took awhile to answer. "He had an Academic Senate meeting . . . something about the Ethnic Studies program."
"At least he's one of the good guys," Sam put in.
"Just exactly who are the 'good guys'?" Karin challenged.
"Hell, don't ask me. I thought I was one of them until a bunch of long hairs rousted me at the last demonstration—because I was shooting for Time magazine. One asshole put spit on his thumb and rubbed it into my lens. Now I tell them I'm with the underground press."
"You never were 'one of them,'" Karin said.
"What do you mean?" Sam asked, on guard.
"I mean, you never got involved with the issues—you were never committed to building a People's Park, were you? Or to the Free Speech Movement? Or even to ending the Vietnam War."
"I think I was about as involved with People's Park and the Free Speech Movement as you were, Karin. But you're wrong about the war. I think it's stupid and anyone who would get sucked into fighting is either incredibly stupid or incredibly naive . . . or just maybe unlucky. But I'll tell you this, and you can think what you like, I hope it doesn't end before I can get over and photograph it."
"So what you believe in is photography," Karin pursued.
"That and sex, drugs, and rock and roll," he came back, trying to regain his balance.
May decided to help him. "Don't even try to figure Sam, K, he moves too fast, you know that."
"Sometimes I don't like the way he moves at all," Karin said, rising from the table so fast a stainless bowl clattered to the floor, spilling spaghetti. Nobody moved to pick it up. In the silence, they could hear the splashing from the bathroom.
Sam ignored it. "I don't know what's going on with you, Karin," he finally said, his jaw set. "You've been bitching at me all night, for no good reason that I can see. Is it the wrong time of month or something? Or is this what marriage is going to do to you?"
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