Behind The Veil: A Gina Harwood Novel

by Martin, Indi

  No answer from inside. Jake checked the nearest windows. Locked, curtains down. He blew his breath out sharply in exasperation. “Don't make me break a window, Dad, I'll do it!” He rapped hard on the glass to prove his point.

  “Go away,” called a gruff voice from inside. It didn't sound like his father at all.

  Jake snarled. “If I break my arm breaking into my own parents' house, it will be all your fucking fault,” he yelled, his face hot from sudden anger. He held his arm and pointed his bony elbow toward the window, preparing himself for pain.

  The locks clicked and the door opened a crack. Jake stared at it for a moment, then leapt out of the weedy garden dirt and into the house, closing the door behind him.

  “Lock it,” commanded a voice from the darkened living room.

  He did as he was told. There were several new locks on the door that hadn't been there last time Jake had visited. Of course, the last time he'd visited the house, his mom had still been alive. He'd met his dad a few times since, but always at his house, or at a coffee shop, or for lunch. Or the funeral. It was too painful, being back here. The sense of loss was stifling.

  Jake crept to the living room and peered inside; almost all of the bright sunlight was blocked out by the thick curtains over the windows, but his father's face was lit up by the flickering, muted television. The colors and images patterned on his face made him look eerie, ethereal. Not quite there. He noticed his father seemed to sink deeper into the big lazy-boy than ever before, the overstuffed cushions appearing to swallow him almost entirely. His dad had lost a great deal of weight in a month. He looked drawn and hollow. He looked halfway dead.

  The giant padded couch accepted Jake easily, but it didn't relieve any of the tension in his body. He sat and stared at his father. The TV flickered silently, casting long shadows through the room.

  Peter didn't say anything. He kept his eyes glued to the television.

  “Dad,” started Jake, but he was unsure of how to finish the sentence.

  His father gave no further reaction to either his son's presence, or his voice.

  Jake got up and walked into the kitchen, heading toward the refrigerator to see if his father had any beers. He froze, his hand extended toward the handle, and stared down at his feet, recalling what he had been told about his mother's death. His adam's apple bobbed up and down as he fought a disabling wave of nausea, and he backed slowly out of the room and back into the harsh light of the buzzing TV. In a daze, he sat back on the couch. If his father had noticed the short hiatus, he didn't show it.

  “Harry's dead,” announced Jake in a cracked voice.

  His father winced slightly and grunted, but didn't slide his eyes away from the still-muted program.

  Jake took a moment to compose himself, running his hands up his face and tugging slightly on his hair. The mild pain felt real. “Dad, Harry's dead. Harry died. She was killed. This morning...” Jake studied his father for a reaction.

  No muscle seemed to even twitch this time, except for a tiny movement of his lips. “I know,” he said in the smallest voice possible. Even in the harsh but faint white glare from the television, Jake could see his eyes were extremely bloodshot; he wondered if his father had slept even an hour in the last month. He looked emaciated, exhausted.

  His new friend, rage, bubbled back up inside him. “You KNOW?” he heaved. “You KNOW? That's IT?” Jake saw himself push off the couch and crouch in front of his father's chair, pinning him in without touching him. Blackness engulfed his father as Jake blocked the only light source. Suddenly, Jake felt sick, sicker even than he had in the kitchen, and terribly afraid to touch the man; horribly afraid that the skin would be cold and dead under his hands. He fell back onto the floor, sprawled in front of the chair. The light lit up his father's face again, and Jake saw with a shiver that the eyes were now trained on him.

  “I know, boy,” Peter sounded tired, over, finished. “That's all. I know.” But his eyes stayed transfixed on his son, and they weren't cold and lifeless. They looked desperate, begging for something. Pleading.

  “You know,” repeated Jake, turning the phrase over with his tongue. “What does Lillian and freedom mean?” he whispered.

  His father convulsed, thrown forward with a start. His mouth hung open. “What? WHAT?” He threw himself out of the chair onto the floor, moving toward Jake on all fours. Startled, Jake crab-walked backward toward the television. “What did you say, boy? What did you say?” he gabbled.

  “Lillian and freedom, Dad!” Jake yelled breathlessly, throwing up his arms defensively as his father came closer. But his father stopped, frozen, one arm up to propel himself forward, just hanging in the air. He sat back on his rump and dropped both hands in his lap, drooping his head. Jake lowered his arms too, but didn't move any closer to his father. He was shivering with irrational fear; this was the man who raised him, who had always been there for him, who loved his mother and his sister and himself with a heart bigger than any other man's. His father was not this skeleton figure with the hollowed eyes, collapsed on the floor like a child. His father was a good man, the best man. He would never, ever hurt them, never allow hurt to happen... Jake leaned forward and wheezed. The encounter had left him feeling punched in the stomach. What was happening to his family?

  What was left of it?

  “Lillian and Freedom,” his father repeated slowly, and Jake was surprised to hear what sounded like a low chuckle. “Freedom.” Peter O'Malley crawled to his knees, and labored to stand. Jake didn't move to help him, eying him uncertainly. But the older man walked softly to his son and extended a hand to help him stand. Jake took it cautiously, but stood of his own volition, afraid to topple the frail body if he placed any of his rising weight in the handshake. Once both were standing, Peter chuckled again and turned, mincing back to his chair and clicking on the end table lamp. Then, he clicked the television off with the small remote.

  Peter motioned to the white couch, now bathed in a soft, yellow glow. “Sit down, Jake,” he said warmly. Jake responded to the familiar tenor and tone of the voice and walked briskly over. His dad sounded like Dad again, for which he was infinitely grateful. They were all that was left, he was painfully aware of this. He didn't want to be at odds with the only other O'Malley. “Lillian and Freedom,” Peter said again, and then licked his lips as though he were unused to talking. Maybe he was. His eyes glazed over for a brief moment, but then focused on his son again, and Jake saw love and loss represented in those orbs, in equal measure. “I need to tell you a story, Jake.”

  Jake pursed his lips to speak, but thought better of it and listened.

  7

  “It was late 1964. You have to understand that, what that time was like. It was totally different. Your mother and I, we were just kids. She was fourteen, I was almost seventeen, and we were desperately in love.

  “Don't look at me like that, she was old for her age. She didn't look fourteen. And I didn't feel like the adult I almost was.

  “Desperately in love, maybe because we weren't allowed to be in love. She was too young. I was too old. Her parents were well-to-do, snobs, high-society types. I was just a punk kid with hair to my shoulders. Ooowie, how many whippings did I get when I refused to cut my hair? And that was just when it was a little long, not even an inch past 'normal.' Man, my dad woulda tanned my hide if he saw how long it got. I wouldn'ta had any skin left on my rear.

  “So, we did what any kids our age would do, especially that decade. We packed up backpacks, made a few sandwiches, and ran away. We didn't have any money, well, maybe a few bucks. But not really anything. Nothing to live on.

  “We hitched across Maryland that summer. We had some good rides, some bad rides, no really bad rides though. A few threats, some guys wanted 'payment' from Sus, but I was there, so they didn't try anything crazy. We didn't know what we were running toward, just what we were running from. We loved each other, it was that simple. We didn't care about anything else.

  “I don't k
now if it was the best thing or the worst thing that ever happened to us, but one day, a crazy painted bus stopped for our thumbs. People were crowding inside, hanging off the back, weed smoke was rolling out the windows. The front had a sign that said 'Further.' We laughed and climbed on, got our first hit of acid, and never looked back. Love made us run away, and here was a worldwide clique of people we never even heard of before who ran wherever they pleased, and called it Love. We were perfect for them, they for us. That culture sucked us in, and accepted us as two of its own.

  “We only rode on that bus for a few days, but it made a heckuva impression on us both. We came off it different people. We weren't Susan and Peter anymore. She was Lillian, the name she always wished she'd had. I was Freedom, named by some crazy longhair who looked in my eyes and said I was his long lost brother. Lillian and Freedom, that was us. Freedom and Lillian.

  “The new names helped, too; nobody could track us down if nobody knew who we were. My parents couldn't care less, I was pretty sure they weren't looking for me; but I was dang sure hers were lookin' hard. Their only baby girl. Yeah, they had to be lookin'. We burned our identification cards. That was stupid, but we didn't know it then. We didn't know anything then. We trusted everybody.

  “It just got better. We rode everywhere, we criss-crossed the country, but we spent most of our time in a haze. Mumbling poetry with strangers in tie-dye and leather braids. We held hands at the edge of the ocean. I don't even remember which coast we were on when we did it.

  “We lost a lot of time like that. Days stretched into weeks, months, years. Next thing I knew, it was '67. We didn't go to Woodstock, we'd been in our own private Woodstock for almost three years by that point. Lill just turned sixteen, almost the same age I'd been when we left. We kinda got tired of traveling like that. I mean, we never went too hungry, although we weren't usually full. We had a few clothes, mostly given to us. We were still very much in love, with each other and with the drugs. But we just wanted to settle down for a bit, you know? Maybe you don't. You weren't there.

  “These communes, they were like McDonald's. They were springing up anywhere they could. Somebody owned a plot of land, somebody squatting in a national forest, anywhere and everywhere. Organic farmers, free love, work for the commune and stay and eat free. A lot of them were vegetarian, ours never was.

  “Yeah, we found one. Don't look so surprised, we had lives before you and your sister. And your brother. I'll get to that.

  “It was pretty close to where we grew up, actually, which was probably a bad sign in hindsight. There's a lot of fields and farms, cornfields, cranberry farms, all kinds. There were a few all huddled in the same area, but this one... I don't know why we picked it. We thought it felt special. Your mom, she had this stupid little crystal, just a quartz, on a pendant. She said it told her this was the place.

  “Sometimes I wish she didn't leave it when we ran. There've been so many times I just wanted to get my hands on that damned thing, smash it to billions of everlovin' pieces. Over and over. I once even bought a piece of quartz and smashed it with a hammer, but it didn't make me feel any better. It wasn't the same. If that one really told Lill anything, then... I don't even know. Maybe the devil sent it. I don't know.

  “Maybe it really was the thing in the wall. I don't know.

  “This place wasn't exactly the king of communes, but it was livable. It was an old factory, long abandoned and grown over, in the middle of nowhere. Good place to store crops, dry 'em, and grow weed. We built little corrugated metal shacks we called 'cottages' around it for us to live in. It was like we were playing house. Fields stretched in every direction, except behind us; the whole plot of land backed up to the Pocomoke River State Park, but this was years ago. Nothing was much built up yet, nothing but the river itself, and we were a fair distance from the river. It was quite a hike ta get back there, which we did, pretty much everyday. Had to get water, see. No well on the land, least, none that I ever saw. River was weird though, Jake. The water was black. Tasted fine, but looked creepy. That's how I remember anyway. Mighta' been the drugs.

  “No one came out, nobody except those who saw the hidden flyers in Snow Hill and wanted to move in. Couldn't even drive, too far out. Highway 113 was the closest, but t'weren't close. Miles. Miles and miles of nothing.

  “That attracted more people than you'd think. I think it still would today, probably. People running from something, all kinds of things. Not everyone was really aligned with the free love movement. For a lot of people, it was just an excuse. An escape.

  “I don't think we were on any maps, 'cept the flyers, and there weren't very many of those. I don't think the county even knew we were out there, dunno if they do now even. It was quiet, that's for sure.

  “'Course, somehow Fire always got us drugs. Dunno how. Don't really wanna know, tell the truth. But this was those early days, those 'good ol' days' as they call 'em. We hitched out as close as we could, then we trekked out to the place. It was rundown, o' course, but the few kids out there tried to make it a home. One or two even knew some of the essentials about farming, had been living on one before. Started us off right. Did a real good job, now that I think about it. When we came, there were only five, it just started. Everyone brought a big stash of drugs, but nobody brought anything useful. Nobody knew how to work a farm, keep us alive, 'cept Johnny. And Fire.

  “Johnny was the owner, I think, as much as anybody was. He never really said. But I always thought he'd been there the longest, knew where everything was. He was such a nice guy. Ugly as sin, though, poor guy. The drugs were the only way he ever got lucky, I think. Soft-spoken, unattractive, clumsy unless he had tools in his hands. He just wasn't a natural leader.

  “Good thing, too. I think that's the only reason he lived as long as he did.

  “Don't interrupt, boy. Can't rush these things. I'm having to peel away drug-haze anyway on these memories, need to concentrate. You're gonna need everything I can remember. You're gonna need to understand when I tell you to run. Need to understand why. So, shush.

  “So yeah, I vaguely remember clearing out the brush and the weeds, lots of spiders up there, but lots of birds and butterflies too. Your mom loved it. She always loved the wild. She...

  “Not yet.

  “So, we plowed out what we could, I don't even know where Johnny got seed, but he did. Don't know how we lived that first season, no way. Drugs helped, but we all lost a bunch of weight. Got sick. Nobody died, thankfully. Not yet, anyway. Nobody considered leavin', though.

  “I don't know why that was. People should'a left. We should'a left.

  “By that time we numbered about fifty. Good news was, we had plenty of hands for all the jobs that needed doin'. Bad news was, it wasn't easy feedin' all them mouths.

  “Johnny worked hard, harder than anybody else there. He seemed happy for all the company. But he hated Fire, man, he hated him. I wouldn'ta thought he had an ounce of hate in him, except I saw him around Fire.

  “Fire? Never knew his real name. 'Course, they never knew our real names neither. That's the only reason we lived as long as we did. He WAS a natural leader, not like Johnny. He was tall, real tall, seems taller than he could have possibly been when I think back. Seemed like a giant. Voice was big and booming, sounded louder than it was, even when he just breathed, or whispered something, it could deafen you. His eyes were black. I never seen nothing like it. Black eyes. No color, they just looked like holes. But he was handsome, something about the way he was put together, maybe, or about the way he talked. Or carried himself. I have no idea, I never swung that way, not even under the influence.

  “But he was a leader, for sure. That's for sure. Damn sure.

  “What I'm gonna tell you, it's gonna sound crazy. Impossible. But I swear to whatever you want me to swear, it's true. You gonna have to believe me, because you're gonna have to run, Jake. You gotta believe what I'm gonna tell you.

  “We were there about a year when things started to turn bad. We all
had our own rooms, these little cottages we built outta metal and the park trees we weren't supposed to touch – but who would know? We hadn't seen any ranger, no cops. We were on our own. There was only one place that we didn't go, this one back room in the factory. It's where Johnny and Fire would go, to talk. They were kind of our leaders then, but the balance of power had shifted from Fire to Johnny. His quiet power was still power. He worked hard, everyone loved him. Fire, that just pissed him off. He wanted the power. We didn't see that then, though. He was too good at politics, he knew Johnny was too popular.

  “But he also knew we were all pussies. He knew we wouldn't really stand up to him. Not as long as the drugs kept coming, not as long as we were fed.

  “We didn't get any news. We were totally cut off from the outside world. If we weren't, maybe the news of the Manson family mighta made some of us turn harder eyes on our own family. But we didn't know, so we didn't look. We just kept tokin' up, hitting hallucinogens, and we'd try anything that came across our path. A lot of crud came across our path. I don't even know what all I tried. I don't know what I liked or didn't. I don't really remember, or I don't want to remember enough to actually do so.

  “One night, Johnny and Fire went in to that forbidden room to talk, like they always did. We never heard 'em fighting. We never knew what they talked about. Free love and democracy or not, we weren't involved in the decisions of the place, and we didn't really care. We were mostly happy.

  “Only Johnny never came out that night.

  “That was our first chance to run. Two or three did, that night. Once it sunk in, once Fire came out and 'explained' what happened. What was happening. What was in the room. The few of us who were sober enough to think straight, who weren't made so impressionable by the drugs, or who weren't as susceptible to Fire's hypnotizing voice. I don't know what made some of them run. But they were the smart ones. I don't know that they got away, not for sure, not forever, but I think they did. Least, I hope they did. That was before it got so bad.