Arthur was quiet for a moment. “You’ve spent a lot of time looking into this, I take it.”
Garrett finished his scotch and set the glass down on a side table. “Two years ago, when I first started searching for buy-out properties, this was the one I thought would be the best target. I had heard that Bryant’s oldest son was mismanaging the corporation and that the three children did not get along. I thought they would be open to offers.”
“So you went to San Francisco to study the situation,” Arthur said.
“Yes.”
“So? What have you found out?”
“That I was wrong,” Garrett said. “The oldest son is willing, even eager to sell. But the daughter isn’t. And one cannot make a move without the other legally. The third son has no say until he’s twenty-one, about eight years from now.”
Arthur frowned. “You’re sure about the daughter?”
“I’ve talked to her,” Garrett said. “I think she’d let the papers go to hell before she’d sell them.”
“Not a good businesswoman.”
“Business has nothing to do with it. She’s a very sentimental woman. She believes the newspapers should remain a family concern, despite the fact that her brother is running them into the ground and she’s too inexperienced to know how to stop him.” He paused. “Despite the illogic of it, part of me understands her point.”
Arthur took a gulp of his drink, studying Garrett. Garrett used the moment to take a drink.
“She believes that the newspapers we publish are no better than pornographic rags,” he said finally.
Arthur didn’t blink at the insult, but Garrett saw the spots of color come to his cheeks. Arthur took another swig of whiskey. “So what do you propose to do now?” he asked.
“Keep looking for the right property,” Garrett said. “There’s a daily in New York —-”
“New York? Good Lord, no. I can’t stand that city. Unpredictable, uncivilized.”
Garrett waited, sensing that Arthur was edging too close to inebriation. He knew there was no point in discussing anything with Arthur when he had had too many whiskeys.
“San Francisco,” Arthur said. “That’s where we must focus our energy.”
“It won’t do any good,” Garrett said slowly.
“Everyone has a price, Garrett,” Arthur said. “All you have to do is find it. Talk to the son. I’m sure there’s a way to bring the girl down from her lofty little perch. ‘Pornographic,’ indeed.”
Garrett was silent.
Arthur yawned suddenly. “The Bryant chain is our best bet, Garrett, a ready-made little western empire. All those studies of yours say so, right? And so do my instincts. I want those newspapers.” He got to his feet, a bit unsteadily. “Well, I think I’ll go on up to bed now.”
Arthur left. Garrett heard his father’s footsteps going up the stairs and the closing of a door.
He was filled with a simmering anger. Right from the start, his father had dismissed the North American expansion plan. But now he was not only endorsing it, he was all but taking it over, calling the shots and effectively reducing Garrett again to little more than a glorified minion.
He leaned his head back on the sofa. The long flight to London and the drive to Durdans was finally catching up to him. He closed his eyes and his thoughts returned to Kellen.
He could feel her, smell her, and taste her, just as he could feel the crisp salty air of Carmel. Every muscle in his body ached to get back to her and California.
His father was right about the Bryant chain. It was the ideal property. Maybe Father is right about her, too, Garrett thought, maybe she can be convinced to sell. Maybe together they could...
He opened his eyes.
Now who’s being sentimental?
He rubbed his eyes and got to his feet. He glanced down and noticed his glass sitting on the table in a ring of water. He looked to the desk and saw the other empty glass where his father had placed it —- in a silver coaster.
Garrett picked up his glass and instinctively reached out to wipe the table, but it was too late. A faint gray ring was burned into the old mahogany.
The weekend passed slowly, as time always did at Durdans. Garrett tried his best to occupy himself but in a short time he was restless with boredom. There was no more need for his presence; Arthur had obviously given him his orders.
By Sunday afternoon, Garrett was looking forward to the drive back to London. He had a ticket in hand for the Monday morning flight to New York.
Just after tea, Arthur surprised him by asking him if he wanted to take a walk. They left the house, striking out over the grounds and heading toward the woods. The day was chilly and gray, and Arthur was done up in a dapper tweed jacket and cap. He carried a silver-headed walking stick, which he jabbed into the soft earth at precise intervals as they walked silently along.
They entered the soft gloom of the woods, passing under the branches of the old trees and over the graves of racehorses, buried there by a former prime minister, Lord Rosebery, one of Durdans’ previous owners. They stopped occasionally at one tree or another, for Arthur to point out the plaques put there by the people who had planted the trees —- Queen Mary, Empress Alexandra Feodorovna of Russia, and all the other royals who had been house guests during Durdans’ illustrious history.
Garrett had seen the plaques before, but he had never paid them much heed. Now, as he listened to Arthur read each one, he realized he had been wrong about his father’s lack of attachment to the old house. It had been the first thing Arthur purchased when his fortune was assured. He had been barely thirty at the time, and a year later he had married Helen.
Garrett glanced over at Arthur, wondering if his father harbored any regrets, wishing he felt comfortable enough to ask him.
They emerged into the open. Arthur paused and pointed the tip of his stick toward a sweeping willow tree. “That,” he said, “was started from a cutting of a tree growing near Napoleon’s grave at St. Helena.”
“I didn’t know that,” Garrett said.
“There are a lot of things you don’t know about this place.”
They walked on, down the hill to the lane. Being outdoors had a calming effect on Garrett. He had not walked around the grounds since he was a teenager, and now he found himself unexpectedly filled with a deep sense of nostalgia.
“This makes me think of derby day,” he said quietly, glancing at Arthur. "Remember how we used to come down here and walk to the race with the crowd?”
Arthur nodded. “I carried you on my shoulders. I was afraid you’d get swept away.”
“The first time you took me to the derby I was eight,” Garrett said. “You gave me a quid to bet.”
“And you got so angry because they sent you away from the window, saying you were too young,” Arthur said, with a smile.
“My horse won,” Garrett said.
“You always had an uncanny ability to pick the winners.”
They paused and Arthur looked up at the gray sky. “It’s getting late. We’d better start back,” he said, turning around.
They began their walk back toward the house.
“You know, Garrett,” Arthur said after a long silence. “The expansion plan. It’s a damn good idea.” Arthur didn’t look up, and the walking stick, poking at the ground, didn’t miss a beat. “I’m quite proud of you.”
The words so surprised Garrett that for a moment he wasn’t even sure what he had heard. In all the years he had worked at his father’s side he had seldom heard such direct praise, especially in recent years when Garrett’s own struggle for power had seemed to cause Arthur to cling to his throne more tightly.
Garrett found himself staring at the stick as they walked.
“Thank you, Father,” he said. “I appreciate your confidence. I won’t disappoint you.”
They walked on for a while, saying nothing.
“How long are you staying?” Arthur asked.
“I have a flight to New York in the mor
ning.”
Arthur stopped, turning to look at him. “Your mother and I would like it if you’d stay on a while, Garrett.”
“I have to get back to San Francisco, Father.”
Arthur’s fingers, grasping the walking stick, flexed. “It’s been some time since you’ve been at Durdans, and we...I was hoping we’d have some time together. Go riding, perhaps.”
It was quickly growing dark but Garrett could see the hopeful look in Arthur’s eyes.
“Of course, Father,” he said. “We’ll go riding.”
They stood looking at each other for a moment, both knowing that it would not happen. Then they turned and started up the hill and soon the house came into view, its lights warm in the gray dusk.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
Looking back, no one could say when it was that the quiet neighborhood of old Victorian homes near Golden Gate Park became the mecca for a new culture. It had started slowly, with just a few little shops with strange names. A boutique called House of Richard began selling Mexican sandals and ponchos. A place called the Mnasidika stocked mod clothing. And Blind Jerry’s hawked health foods.
But it was a coffee shop on Hayes Street called the Blue Unicorn that became the unofficial community center. There, a person could find a good chess game, a piano to play, free secondhand clothes, or a sagging sofa for a quiet hour of reading. The owner began to issue handbills spelling out the Unicorn’s philosophy: “We have a private revolution...a striving for realization of one’s relationship to life and other people.”
Something strange was happening. When word finally made it across town to the San Francisco Times, a reporter was dispatched to the Unicorn.
He came back overflowing with adjectives about a “bohemian culture blooming in our midst.” The wire services picked up the Times’ story, and soon other newspapers across the country were printing stories about the little nonconformist coffeehouse. And the quiet neighborhood of old Victorian homes was never the same.
By the spring of 1966, the Unicorn’s bohemian philosophy had grown into a rough consensus of new sub-culture. And its geographic heart was the intersection of two streets -- Haight-Ashbury.
Haight-Ashbury had its own art, led by avant-garde theater and mime groups. It had its own music, led by the Grateful Dead, whose rambling Victorian house had become a shrine for pilgrim musicians. It had its own economy, based on drugs. It had its own fashions, slogans, language, and its own unique spirit.
Soon, thousands of young people -- a motley army of dropouts and runaways -- were pouring into the Haight in cars, vans and motorcycles, and by busload from the Greyhound Terminal on Seventh Street. Eventually, they found their way to Hippie Hill in Golden Gate Park, or to the Diggers’ Free Food truck, parked under the eucalyptus trees in the Panhandle.
The curious straights and pretenders came, too. High school students from Burlingame would park mom’s station wagon just outside the perimeters, ditch their shoes and walk barefoot into paradise. Faces from the society pages would wander through the hip stores.
And then came the tourists. Every hour, Gray Line tour buses made the journey from the downtown hotels out to the “Hashberry.” It was called “The Hippie Hop,” six bucks a head. Operators hyped it as “a safari through psychedelia...the only foreign tour within the continental United States.”
It was a grand party. No admission fee, no questions asked. And everyone was invited.
Tyler stood, leaning up against a building in front of the Psychedelic Shop. He had been standing in the same spot for an hour, just watching the parade.
He felt so good this morning. The sun was warm on his shoulders and from somewhere nearby came the soporific sound of the new Beatles’ song “Strawberry Fields.” And the joint he had smoked an hour ago had left a pleasant lingering high.
He felt the back pocket of his jeans. The other joint was still there if he needed it. He hardly ever smoked the stuff, but he liked having it on hand to give away. It was a sure-fire way of making friends.
He pushed his pink-tinted wire rims up on his nose. He didn’t need the glasses but he wore them because they were part of the look. The look was important: flare-bottomed secondhand jeans, an old fatigue jacket, and beads hanging over his bare chest. He used to have a pet tarantula that he let wander over his shoulders, just to see the looks on people’s faces. The spider met its demise one night in the crush of a Beau Brummels concert at the Fillmore.
No one ever guessed he was only thirteen. He told everyone he was sixteen, and here in the Haight no one ever bugged him.
Tyler brushed his hair out of his eyes. People often commented on his handsome looks and tall slender body. But his shoulder-length corn silk hair was his best feature. Girls envied him for it. Even guys noticed it. If you were a chick, I’d go after you myself, his friend Katz joked all the time.
Katz. He was supposed to be here by now.
Last night, Tyler had given him some money because Katz claimed he could lay his hands on some LSD. Since the state had made LSD illegal last fall it had been getting harder to come by, but Katz said he could get some Owsley tabs, the best around. Tyler had never tried acid and the idea scared him, but Katz promised him it would be fine.
Katz was always sponging off people —- dope, money, food -—and Tyler was always there to oblige. It was a small price to pay for Katz’s friendship. Katz was nineteen and he was the lead guitarist for the Katzenjammer Kids. He was going to be the next Jerry Garcia.
Tyler sighed and scanned the street again. Katz was not going to show. Tyler stuck his hands in his jacket and sauntered off toward the Oracle office.
Tyler had drifted into the Oracle office several months ago by accident, and after hanging around the periphery he fell into the job of running errands. The Oracle was the official newspaper of the Haight and it made Tyler feel as if he were part of something big and important. It was a place to go after school because he couldn’t stand going home to the big gloomy house on Divisadero.
Often he stayed instead at Katz’s place, an old Victorian on Pine Street that Katz shared with fifteen other people. It had faded leather wallpaper, window seats and stained-glass windows. It was filled with music, dirty dishes, and strangers making love on mattresses on the floor.
Tyler pushed open the door of the Oracle office, and went over to Chas, the corpulent balding man who was in charge of printing and distribution.
“Hey, man, what’s up?” Tyler said.
“Oh, Tyler. How’s it going?” Chas returned to his task of counting bundles of Oracles.
“New issue?” Tyler asked.
Chas grunted. Tyler reached over to pick up one of the papers.
“Hey, man, you’re screwing up the count,” Chas said.
Tyler threw it down. He sighed and looked around for someone to talk to, someone to hang out with.
“Hey, Tyler!”
Tyler spun around. It was one of the editors, Nat Musial. “C’mere, I want to talk to you.”
Other than a quick hello, Musial never bothered to talk to him. This must be about the poems I gave him, Tyler thought, with rising excitement.
Musial retrieved some papers from his desk. “These are pretty good,” Musial began. “A little bleak, but good. But we’ve got more poetry than we can handle right now.” He held them out. “I wanted to make sure you got them back.”
Tyler took them.
“No hard feelings?” Musial asked with a smile.
“No, man, of course not.” Tyler turned to leave then stopped. “Look, Nat,” he began, “I really want to do something around here. I want to be a real part of the Oracle. If I can’t write, there must be something I can do.”
Musial pursed his lips. “Well, there is one thing.”
“What? Anything! You name it!”
Musial let out a small sigh. “The rent. It’s overdue again. If you could cover it again until this issue gets —-”
“Sure! You got it!” Tyler said with a big smile. “I�
�ll bring it in tomorrow.”
“Thanks, man. We really appreciate it.” Musial shifted from one foot to another. “Oh, by the way, if you haven’t got anything to do right now Chas could use an extra pair of hands on the street today.”
Tyler nodded and started to leave.
“Hey,” Musial called out. “You wanna catch Joplin at the Fillmore tonight? I can probably sneak you in.”
Tyler knew Musial was only tossing him a bone to make up for the rent money but it was going to be a great concert. Tyler grinned. “Yeah, thanks.”
“Great. Meet me outside at nine. Thanks again, Tyler. Don’t know what we’d do without you.”
Tyler checked in with Chas, who gave him an armload of Oracles. Out on the street, Tyler halfheartedly hawked the papers to the tourists, thinking about the poems stuffed in the back pocket of his jeans. They were garbage. He knew that. Musial was just bullshitting him, trying to make him feel better so he would cough up some more money. Musial was one of the few people who knew his family was rich, and this was the third time Musial had hit on him.
But what did it matter? The money was nothing to him. There was plenty of it, what with the monthly thousand-dollar trust fund allowance. And better that it go to something worthwhile like the Oracle. He was glad he could help out his friends.
He thought suddenly of Kellen. She had started monitoring his allowance and was getting bossy about what he did, calling to make sure he wasn’t skipping school, telling him to stay away from the Haight. He didn’t understand it. For years, all during the times his father was sick, no one had cared what he did. It had been a succession of nannies and governesses. And now Kellen was trying to play mother.
He walked along the street, clutching the Oracles. He was thinking now of his mother, and as usual he could see nothing in his mind but a faceless woman. No one had ever spoken of her, certainly not his father. There were no pictures, no memories, nothing. She was like a ghost —- dead, but still weirdly alive.
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