Beautiful Revolutionary

by Laura Elizabeth Woollett

  BEAUTIFUL REVOLUTIONARY

  Laura Elizabeth Woollett was born and raised in Perth, Western Australia. In 2012, she completed an honours degree in creative writing at the University of Melbourne. In 2014, she was awarded a Wheeler Centre/Readings Foundation Hot Desk Fellowship and the John Marsden/Hachette Prize for Fiction; the following year, she was chosen as one of the 2015 Melbourne Writers Festival’s ‘30 Under 30’. Her short-story collection, The Love of a Bad Man (Scribe, 2016), was shortlisted for the 2017 Victorian Premier’s Literary Award for Fiction and the 2017 Ned Kelly Award for Best First Fiction.

  For those who were lost,

  and those who feel the loss.

  Scribe Publications

  18–20 Edward St, Brunswick, Victoria 3056, Australia

  2 John St, Clerkenwell, London, WC1N 2ES, United Kingdom

  3754 Pleasant Ave, Suite 100, Minneapolis, Minnesota 55409 USA

  Published by Scribe 2018

  Copyright © Laura Elizabeth Woollett 2018

  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publishers of this book.

  The moral rights of the author have been asserted.

  9781925713039 (Australian edition)

  9781911617594 (UK edition)

  9781947534636 (US edition)

  9781925548952 (e-book)

  CiP records for this title are available from the National Library of Australia and the British Library.

  scribepublications.com.au

  scribepublications.co.uk

  scribepublications.com

  Book One

  Alone in the Garden

  Black Is the Color of My True Love’s Hair

  Stranger in Your Land

  Blood Red Roses

  Book Two

  Children of the Revolution

  International Woman of Mystery

  Urban Jungle

  Book Three

  Welcome to the Promised Land

  Eve of Destruction

  Beautiful Day

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  We found sometimes that the peace was cruel

  In spite of the young white wine from the hills

  — Louis Aragon

  Book One

  Alone in the Garden

  1.

  They were married in the Summer of Love, when it seemed like everyone was either getting married or getting laid a lot. They were married in the campus chapel, with her father officiating, and then it was back to her parents’ house for cake and champagne, and then it was flowers, and then it was honeymooning in Mexico, and then the summer was up and they were students again. He was the same boy he’d always been, smoking dope and sweating over his senior thesis, and she was the same girl, underlining in red, re-typing everything he wrote, sleek-haired and oppressively brilliant. And even though the world was changing, it wasn’t changing the way they hoped, wasn’t any more loving or beautiful.

  But now is the second summer of their loving and they are going to the new life, and it will be new, and it will be beautiful. They are going with their boxed history, slamming the station wagon, shaking the ringing from their ears. They are watching the old streets float away like balloons until there’s only cloudless blue and highway, the bright void where her heart should be. He is the boy she chose. She will make him the man she needs.

  ‘Hey, Evelyn—’

  Lenny likes saying his wife’s name like it’s a Beach Boys song, musical and sunny. Always Evelyn; never Eve. Because it feels good on his lips, yeah, but also it’s the name she answers to and saying it means she will answer to him. This haughty French-looking woman, so neat in her beads and blouse, brows dark as her lips are pale. His woman. His wife. Sitting in his station wagon with his marijuana plant in her lap. That’s her, looking out the window, face drawn, and she isn’t answering. Why isn’t she answering? Evelyn, hey-Evelyn-hey …?

  ‘Hey, Evelyn? Did you see? Back there?’

  Her eyes slash in his direction.

  ‘Yeah, Lenny. I think they must grow grapes here or something.’

  Already she’s staring out the window again, or tilting her face toward it anyway, her sharp nose scrunched. Out the window where the vineyards are, rows and rows of rigorous vines, like something planted by aliens. Or that’s how they look to Lenny, who’s spent more time thinking about aliens than farming. But it’s not the vineyards he wants to show her.

  ‘You didn’t see? It was, like … a tent.’

  ‘Oh, you’re seeing tents now?’

  She’s looking at him now, smiling her witchy not-quite-straight sneer of a smile, and he doesn’t even mind if she doesn’t believe him. She’s so pretty, and he’s so lucky, and the white tent seems like a lucky sign, too. He’s thinking of white flags, white sails, some folk tale about a soldier who’s dying in bed and the soldier’s wife looking out to sea for a ship with white sails. Only, the wife lies about the color of the sails and the soldier dies, so maybe it isn’t lucky? Lenny tries to remember more, but all he can think of is that the wife had beautiful white hands, and Evelyn’s hands are also beautiful and white, and he’s very lucky not to be a soldier.

  Evelyn laughs. The air crackles. His heart is a paper cup drained and crumpled in her hands. ‘Jesus. Those fumes are getting to you,’ she says. Then she’s turning her head to the window again, as if it’s a radio and the breeze a song playing too low.

  If there really was a tent, Lenny would like to know what’s inside it. Trippy things are always happening inside tents: circuses, weddings, fumigations, revival meetings. But Evelyn doesn’t care about that kind of thing, and when he glimpses her from the corner of his eye, holding his plant, there’s a smallness about her that makes him sorry. Like all he wants to do is bundle her up and get her to that white house and lay her down someplace soft. His woman. His wife.

  Almost a year now since their wedding and it’s still a revelation to Lenny: having a wife and having it be Evelyn. In a lot of ways, they haven’t really lived like husband and wife, only played at it — Evelyn catching his eye over wine glasses or telephone receivers and telling her single friends, ‘Oh, married life is fine’, and her parents just a bike ride away across campus. They’d shared a house with another married couple and there were always friends trickling in and out, borrowing books and records, forgetting shawls and little bags of grass. Friends of her parents, too, cool olds who spoke against the war and dotingly read through his paperwork and letters to the draft board. They’ve had so many people looking out for them, there’s hardly been any need for them; any time alone or chance to be that eternal thing: a man and woman living together.

  But they will live now. They will live. He feels it with a buzzing certainty. I am alive and she is with me. There’s a daub of sunlight on the dash. He watches it dance as the bright road unfolds and, yeah, maybe he’s going a little fast, but he’s eager. Like any guy in his position would be, seeing that sign ahead, the surest lucky sign in the world:

  ↑

  EVERGREEN VALLEY

  This is the place where their new life begins, and he just knows with a name like that it has to be beautiful, like the garden of Eden, just him and Evelyn. But he doesn’t say this; he knows it’s one of those things that’ll make Evelyn roll her eyes, just as she’s doing now, rolling them and
groaning.

  ‘Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me!’

  And then there’s the siren and then she’s all action, unbuckling and hiding the plant away in the back seat, digging through boxes and, by her organized magic, locating towels, blankets, even a bottle of Guerlain perfume. She’s spritzing and flapping at the air and giving him that look, what-are-you-waiting-for and you-can-thank-me-later and do-as-I-do all rolled into one. It’s this look that tells Lenny the siren is more real than anything he’s ever dreamed of, even Eden, even that white tent.

  Officer Eugene Luce knows the kind of people inside the station wagon without knowing them. It’s a sun-faded DeSoto, more than ten years out of make, piled high with bikes and suitcases like some kind of gypsy caravan. From a used car yard, he’d bet, or handed down from their parents. That’s how their kind get things: pure luck or scavenging, these moneyed kids refusing to buy into the American Dream.

  Sometimes Luce thinks there could be something noble in their scavenging. He’s from common folk, after all — down-home Hoosiers who weren’t above using old socks as dishrags and melding together slivers of soap. But there’s nothing noble about the way they go about it, hurtling down the highway with that music blaring and those strident stickers on their bumper — Hell No, We Won’t Go!; We Shall Overcome; Make Love, Not War. Sure, he appreciates the message, but do they have to shove it in your face everywhere they go?

  Luce doesn’t think too hard about turning on the siren, veering off that highway shoulder. Through their back windshield, he sees movement, a shadow play of gestures and shifting boxes. Then the station wagon comes to a stop and its music pulses on the air like a mirage, and, for an instant, Luce is unnerved. Twenty years on the force without incident, yet there are moments of silvery fear that come upon him, the way a knife might in the dark or the tingling before a heart attack.

  He is forty-one years old.

  He’s in good health. He has a good heart.

  He’s spent his whole adult life in uniform.

  It’s an effort for Luce, stretching out his long limbs after so long sitting. He’s a tall man; he’s aware of this. Aware of the numbness of his legs and buttocks, the ticket pad in his back pocket. Aware of the authority strapped to his belt and the unfortunate softness above it, like a scarecrow’s stuffing. There’s pain in this awareness. Weathering the blast of their music, picking up fumes of cannabis and whatever strong smell they’re trying to cover it up with. Pain.

  ‘Afternoon.’ The ticket pad is out, the window open.

  At the wheel is a good-looking kid. Really good-looking, actually — fine-featured, angel-mouthed, and, most surprising of all, clean. He’s wearing Wayfarers and has his hair pushed back like James Dean, a white T-shirt that shows off the whiteness of his skin. Luce doesn’t know why, but there’s a dry-mouthed agitation in noticing this. Listening as the kid stammers through the music in reply.

  ‘G-good afternoon, sir.’

  ‘What’s that? Say, could you turn down that radio there?’

  Luce’s words come out brusque, and the kid is jumpy like a rabbit. ‘Yes sir,’ he’s saying, grabbing for the dial. Meanwhile, the young lady watches, just watches, her arms crossed, and she’s clean, too. So clean she could pass for a Sunday school teacher if it wasn’t for the beads around her neck and a certain cold spark in her eyes.

  ‘Excuse me, but what is this in regard to?’ she chimes in.

  Luce isn’t in the habit of answering to uppity young women, and he isn’t about to start today. It’s the kid he addresses himself to, the kid who’s easiest on his eyes and the easiest target, besides. Wayfarers or no Wayfarers, the symptoms are there: perspiration, fumbled speech, slow reactions. A good-looking kid, but high as a kite, no question.

  ‘Going pretty fast there. In a hurry for some reason?’

  ‘No, sir. I mean, we’re eager to get home, sir.’

  ‘Excuse me, but this is a fifty-mile zone, and I think you’ll find that we weren’t speeding.’

  Luce has heard of high-pitched sounds inaudible to human ears that can make a dog go crazy. He isn’t a dog. ‘Home?’ He leans a little closer to the kid. ‘I don’t remember ever seeing you around here.’

  ‘We’re new to town, sir. We’re renting a place on Vine Street?’ The kid swallows. ‘We’ve just come from Davis, sir.’

  ‘College town?’

  ‘Yes, sir. The University of California, Davis.’

  Luce allows himself a smile as his gaze slides from the kid to the books in the trunk. ‘That explains the library back there.’ The Communist Manifesto. Guerilla Warfare. The State and Revolution. Luce isn’t a reader, not like his wife, Joya; still, he understands the meaning of those titles. ‘Real Red library you got there.’

  The kid blushes. ‘My wife … She’s a Political Science major, sir.’

  ‘I am,’ the wife interjects. ‘And I’m also a certified teacher, if you’re looking for an education.’

  Luce grimaces at the kid. ‘And you? Got a major?’

  ‘Yes sir. Sociology.’

  ‘Socio-what-now?’

  ‘S-sociology, sir. It’s the study of social structures? Like … societies?’

  ‘And you’re gonna get a job as a — sociologist?’ Luce wets his lips. He knows the kid is unlikely to appreciate his humor, but there’s sport in watching him squirm, and he’s already looking forward to telling the story tonight. This kid … you know this kid was so high, he couldn’t even remember his own major! ‘Here in town?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘No sir. Quite the soldier.’

  At this, the kid turns a bright shade of pink and looks away.

  ‘Excuse me, but unless we were speeding, I really don’t see why—’

  That’s the young lady again, leaning forward and gripping her elbows, a glint of righteous indignation in her eye. The kind of woman just begging to be dragged by the hair. Luce holds up a hand. ‘Now just a minute, little lady. We’re just talking.’ He looks to the kid. ‘But you got some kinda job lined up? In Evergreen Valley?’

  ‘I — I’ve got a placement, sir. At the state mental hospital.’

  ‘Placement?’

  ‘Alternate civilian service, sir. I’m a conscientious objector.’ The kid glances at his wife and seems to gain confidence. ‘I’m fulfilling my service requirement as a non-combatant nonviolent civilian. Caring for the mentally handicapped. Sir.’

  ‘You’re one of them pacifists?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Is that a problem … sir?’ The young lady has got her tongue back and is looking at Luce like she wouldn’t mind seeing him on fire. He’s still holding the ticket pad, but by now they seem to realize it’s no more than a prop, flammable material. Luce slips it back in his pocket.

  ‘Wouldn’t say a problem, exactly. Not something I’m gonna write you up for …’ Stage fright. Luce clears his throat. ‘I can see you kids are new to town and maybe unfamiliar with our roads here. Now, you say you weren’t speeding, but from where I was looking? Looked mighty close. I’m gonna have to take a look at that license, son.’

  ‘If you’re not writing us a ticket, why?’ the young lady challenges.

  But the kid is already reaching into his pocket, his shoulders hunched and frail-seeming. ‘It’s okay, Evelyn,’ he says quietly. The young woman re-folds her arms and glances out the window. She has her long hair pinned up and something about the back of her neck reminds Luce of his wife, Joya, and the way she used to go to bed those first years of marriage with her hair in curlers and would so often weep by the window of their tiny Indianapolis apartment.

  By the time Luce gets his hands on the kid’s ID, the whole scene has the feel of a tossed cigarette butt. He spends a long time looking at the photo, the kid wide-eyed and stunned without his sunglasses, and learning his stats. Lynden, Leonard Henry. 5’7”. 135
lbs. 1–16–1946. With a frown, Luce passes the license back.

  ‘You got any priors?’ he asks, doing his best not to blush when their fingers brush.

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘He doesn’t,’ says the young woman. ‘My father is the Methodist minister on campus at Davis. He can verify that.’

  ‘Speeding. Gotta be careful on these roads. Pacifist like yourself. Don’t wanna be causing any accidents.’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You’ll take it slower from here?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Yes sir.

  Luce doesn’t know what it is about young men obeying orders, but he can’t help feeling short of breath, watching the station wagon roll forward. His uniform damp at the collar, tight as a skin.

  2.

  It’s one of those stories they’ll tell again and again: the story of the redneck cop who welcomed them to town with a cross-examination but failed to notice the Mary Jane in their back seat. To the friends they left behind and the friends that await them, and maybe even to her parents, in a slightly censored version. Once her rage subsides, Evelyn is able to see the humor of the situation, as they cart the plant and everything else into the bare white ranch-style house on Vine Street. ‘Aren’t pigs supposed to have a tremendous sense of smell? Better than bloodhounds?’ She can still smell it on her clothes, but where before it was a reminder of her acquiescence to Lenny, now it smacks of their united victory.

  But after a while, the smell starts getting to her again, like the sweat does. While Lenny is planting the Mary Jane, Evelyn showers and puts on the first outfit she finds, her Funny Face black leggings and turtleneck combination. He’s still crouching in the dirt when she emerges, his hunched back visible through the kitchen window, and she makes a conscious decision not to tell him she’s taking the car. Because of course he’d want to tag along, want to make himself useful or at least keep her company, and suddenly a simple series of chores would become a prolonged excursion.