‘Let’s put it this way.’ Though he can’t see it, Wayne can hear the smile on Bobbi’s lips. ‘Are you staring at my ass right now?’
‘What? No. I mean … It’s kinda hard not to. You’re right in my face.’
‘Hah!’ Yet Bobbi quickly reddens as their eyes meet, and they both look at their shoes just as quickly.
Further up the path, Bobbi stops. Turns to him with a weird little smile. ‘Hey … wanna see?’ Before he knows it, she’s unbuckling her jeans, peeling them down and flashing her ass, which, he’ll remember till the day he dies, is bruised every color of the rainbow.
Wayne starts to laugh. Hard, bone-shaking laughter that feels almost like crying.
The heat is strong but violet-edged, the sun melted gold, when Bobbi and Wayne clip-clop back to the parking lot with Magic Dancer. People are making noise, no longer mournful, awed, and sure enough, Father is hobbling through the crowd — Mother Rosaline on one arm, Sister Petula on the other, his clean shirt unbuttoned just enough to show his taped-up chest. Meanwhile, Brother Ike’s sticking two pudgy fingers through the hole in the bloodied gold shirt, yelling like a carnie, ‘Lookat the size! Gotta see it to believe it!’ Evelyn, plain face tearstained, is shadowing Rosaline, and beside her is her newbie sister, Sally-Ann, who joined a couple of months back, straight out of high school. Bobbi’s parents are clap-grinning and hugging little Hattie, her brothers with their wives, Minnie and Clarisse, her sister Dot trailing the Jones boys as they weave toward Father. Wayne’s siblings, all leggy and ebony-dark as him, are huddled with their mom and the Hurmerintas.
‘My loves,’ Father oozes. ‘Your prayers have given me the strength to heal myself!’
Bobbi shoots Wayne a look: pity.
He finds her hand and squeezes every feeling he’s having into it.
2.
After the ‘assassination attempt’ of Fourth of July 1972, Father wants things.
Father wants the gold shirt mounted behind glass and displayed in the foyer of the Evergreen Valley Temple. Father wants the gold shirt put in storage when the local police, despite Brother Gene’s attempts at containment, start making inquiries. Father wants twenty-four-hour surveillance of the Temple grounds. Father wants, most of all, soldiers.
‘Strength. Secrecy. Selfless service.’ Father gives Wayne, among the group of promising young men gathered before him, a special look. ‘I know you’re capable, brothers.’
‘Um. Father?’ Billy Younglove, a notoriously snappy dresser, raises his hand. ‘Do we get uniforms?’
They get leisure suits, matching brown berets. They get semi-automatics — but only after they complete the intensive weapons-training course with the SFPD that Brother Gene recommends them for.
They’re a dozen, to start with: four white, eight black. Shortest is Danny Luce, five-eleven; tallest, Darl Patterson, six-five. But they’re all under twenty-two; all students at the college an hour south of the valley; all where Father needs them, exactly when he needs them.
Like midnight, dropping Father off at the Sheraton Hotel, watching from the lobby as he checks in under a false name. Five a.m., picking Father up from the airport, keeping straight faces despite his trench coat, low fedora, and sunglasses. Planning Committee meetings, hitherto closed to them, watching the doors and escorting Father outside to piss (no peeking allowed; Father is self-conscious of his unusually large penis) and, on a handful of occasions, firing shots into the night. At services — up in the valley and down in San Francisco — they perform pat searches and stand by the exits with menacingly crossed arms.
Darl, Eric, and Wayne are all on duty when this white guy shows up for a midweek service, too blond, too good-looking; a square jaw like Superman and silver-gold eyes. The guy says he’s Frida Sorensen’s brother, and they can see it: same jaw, same Scandinavian looks, though Frida is plainer and her accent’s a freakshow, Alabama by way of New England. By contrast, this guy sounds comfortingly regionless, like an extraterrestrial disguised as a news anchor. What he doesn’t say is that he’s a famous photojournalist.
Naturally, they don’t let him in. ‘Midweek is members-only.’
Next night’s Planning Committee meeting, Frida is dragged over the coals for her brother’s nosiness, for even having a brother when the Temple’s her family, and she cries till she’s hoarse, says she doesn’t give a shit about Phil, is pretty sure he doesn’t give a shit about her, where was he when she was living in that hole in Oakland, and if Father wants her to tell Phil to fuck off, she’ll do it. ‘Now, now, no need for extreme measures,’ Father chuckles, and the following hours are spent going over the big questions: what does Phil want? Who is he with? Is he worth the risk? Someone brings up the possibility that Phil might be CIA. Someone else brings up the trouble they’ve been having with that right-wing journalist from The Examiner. Someone else brings up the raw humanity of Phil’s photographs from Vietnam. ‘I remember that one in Life of the dead women in the rice paddy,’ Evelyn Lynden says, and Lenny Lynden, who rarely says a word in meetings, asks, ‘Was that him? I remember that.’
It’s agreed that Phil Sorensen will be invited to Sunday’s service.
To their list of things to do, Father’s soldiers add, Keeping an eye on Phil Sorensen. And they do. Between their papers on property law, their veterinary science labs, their lectures on thermodynamics, they monitor the too-good-looking photojournalist: visiting the veterans’ medical center in Sacramento; attending a job interview at a newspaper in Sonoma; helping a blue-haired crone cross a street in Moontown. They monitor him at that first Sunday service as he watches the healings with a surprised affability, clapping in all the right places, lining up to shake hands with Father afterward. Shaking hands with Mother, too, talking with her at length, and later being introduced by a sulky Frida to faithful old black ladies, educated whites, gorgeous young women.
‘Sorensen wants to do a story on us,’ Father boasts next meeting. ‘Course, we don’t trust him. But wouldn’t hurt to keep him close, show him the good we doin’.’
The story doesn’t happen, but other things do. Phil moves into a commune in Evergreen Valley, starts giving German and Photography classes in Moontown. Phil begins helping out in the Publications Office, converting the storage closet into a darkroom, writing human interest stories and advertisements, milking his media contacts for positive coverage of the Temple. Phil is invited to join the Planning Committee and, within two weeks, given two new titles: Head of Public Relations and Youth Counsellor.
‘Privileged white men like Sorensen gotta be made to feel important. Makes them easier to keep in line,’ Father tells Wayne, Darl, and Billy in a deferential undertone, when he sees them looking surly over Phil’s latest appointment. ‘Don’t be fooled, sons. He don’t hold no sway. All power to the people, that’s my belief.’
They don’t believe Father, quite, but they try to. For the greater good, it seems important that they try to put their private lack of faith aside.
And it’s not like Phil’s unqualified, or even unlikeable. Of all the Counsellors who come weekly to inspect the Temple-owned dorms, Phil’s the coolest. He’s cool when Darl steals a white rat from the lab to give to Hedy. When Che freaks out about the Munich Hostage Crisis, Phil walks him to the phone booth and feeds him an hour’s worth of coins as he talks to his mom back in Queens. Phil listens to their complaints, even the petty ones, like how uppity Gail looks when she wears her glasses on the edge of her nose. Instead of yelling at them for not making their beds right, Phil teaches them to do it like he used to in the military. He tells stories about the military; tells Billy, who wants to be a pilot, about flying in tin-can planes six feet above the jungle canopy. They appreciate that Phil has actually seen the war they’re lucky enough to be studying through rather than fighting, as they appreciate he isn’t waiting to be congratulated on the fact that he’s obviously spent time around black people before the Temple. In t
his way, he’s different from Frida, who used to screw a Black Panther, and Diane, who did missionary work in Africa, and Evelyn, with her lefty-churchy family.
Also, Phil smiles a lot.
Wayne wonders if he should start smiling more, if people would take him seriously if he smiled as much as Phil. Around the dorms, at meetings, greeting newcomers on Sundays, Wayne makes an effort to stretch his mouth into a Sorensen-like grin. But when he catches sight of his grin in the shiny metal of the tea dispenser, he’s reminded of a performing monkey, and well-meaning white people still keep acting surprised to learn he’s in college.
Fuck it, Wayne thinks, and goes back to scowling.
Phil doesn’t have a girlfriend; doesn’t seem interested in pursuing any of the (many) Temple chicks with crushes on him. Yet he talks about past girlfriends, and compliments Danny Luce on Clarisse’s beauty, and once says ‘Wow!’ when Alice leaves the room in a figure-hugging dress, and another time, incongruously, describes Evelyn Lynden as a ‘knockout’. When, inevitably, Father brings up Phil’s sexuality in a Planning Committee meeting, Phil confesses to having behaved regrettably with paid women in Vietnam, and before that, in college, him and a buddy taking turns on one girl; high school, fucking a fourteen-year-old friend of Frida’s.
‘Do you know how disgusting that is?’ Frida seethes. ‘Did you ever think what it was like for me, growing up with a disgusting chauvinist for a brother?’
‘You’re still a chauvinist, and you still disgust me,’ Evelyn says solemnly. ‘The overcompensation is beyond belief.’
‘You make out like you’re this totally enlightened guy, Phil. But you need to confront your latent homosexuality,’ adds Mona d’Angelo, whose family owns a bunch of factories in New Jersey, and who resembles Evelyn, only younger and poutier, with big spooky eyes.
All things considered, it isn’t unexpected when Father asks Wayne to summon Phil up to the men’s room after a service in San Francisco, nor when he and Darl hear moaning as they stand guard outside the men’s room door. Not unexpected, yet despite himself, Wayne had expected better of these men, who move through the world like they’re his betters.
No true revolutionary cares about titles, though, and this makes it easier for Wayne to ignore how quickly certain white men and women rise through the ranks. Wayne doesn’t want titles, just progress, and as long as he’s learning how to solve block matrixes or convert sewage sludge into crude oil, he’s making progress. Sometimes, Wayne can’t even sleep, for fear of all the progress he’s made being undone during the night. By flashlight, he studies with an afghan over his head, screened from his roommates’ snores, farts, furtive wanking.
That’s where he is the frigid January night Tish knocks on his window. He knows it’s Tish because she’s always had this jaunty way of knocking, rat-a-tat-TAT, which simultaneously gives him the shits and makes him smile to himself. Back home, she used to knock that way on his bedroom, forcing him to look up from his books long enough to remember chores and meals. But he can’t recall Tish ever knocking at the dorm, and neither can his roommates.
‘Fucking hell! What the fuck’s wrong with you?’ Harry Katz, a pre-med student who’s older than any of them, but weedy and volatile as an adolescent, lunges for the window.
Wayne drops down from his bunk and intercepts Harry before he can put his fist through the glass or something equally insane; Harry’s known for his psychedelic-flashbacks. ‘Cool it, Harry. It’s just my sis.’
‘Yeah, Harry. Cool it,’ Terrence chimes in from the lower bunk. Terrence has an amazing ability to wake up whenever someone has food or is ragging on Harry.
‘I’m cool,’ Harry mutters. ‘I’m cool. Just minding my own—’
Wayne unlevers the window with a metallic crunch, opens to Tish’s face. Her skin is ghoulishly blue and the whites of her eyes shiny like liquid metal. ‘Can Eric borrow your car?’ she asks, and though her voice is superficially steady, Wayne hears it as a whimper.
‘What happened?’ Wayne scans her face for bruises, blood.
‘Eric needs to get to the valley. Now,’ she urges. ‘Polly tried to commit suicide.’
Outside, Eric is clenched, pacing, like he’s got to take a dump and the toilet is occupied. ‘Give me those!’ he yells as Wayne jogs up the drive, jangling the keys to his Ford.
Eris is one of those white guys who’s always turning red from cold, anger, exertion. Looking at his wind-slapped cheeks, Wayne can’t imagine what it’s like having all that blood so close to the surface. He thinks twice about handing over the keys. ‘I’ll drive, man.’
It’s a difficult drive. Winding roads, misted windows, Eric barking orders from the back seat. Tish placating. Mostly, Eric’s alright, but it pisses Wayne off to see Tish playing peacemaker like she’s Mother Rosaline or something, and part of him keeps remembering all those times Eric’s mom has shown up to the Temple with bruises — though he knows judging Eric on this is like someone judging him on his old man’s boozing.
When they reach the Hurmerintas’ backed-up driveway, Wayne stops Eric before he can storm the door. ‘I know you’re scared, but watch how you talk to my sister, alright?’
‘Yeah. You’re right.’ Eric nods. ‘I’m sorry.’
In the den, Molly Hurmerinta is huddled with Mother Rosaline, Sister Diane, Sister Joya. Danny Luce is standing nearby, arms crossed, but no uniform.
‘Where’s Polly?’ Eric demands as soon as he walks in. Molly Hurmerinta jumps up.
‘Oh, my boy! Ricky! You’re such a good brother!’ She squeezes him against her mountain breasts. ‘And look, you brought Tish and Wayne! Whole family’s here!’
‘Where’s Polly?’ Eric asks again, extricating himself. ‘Mom? Is she … in hospital?’
Molly hauls a handkerchief from her sleeve, blows her nose.
‘She doesn’t wanna look like me. That’s understandable! But starving herself when there’s Biafran mothers can’t even make milk for their little babies? It’s sick, Ricky. Sick.’
‘I know. Polly’s sick,’ Eric says flatly. ‘Please, just tell me she’s—’
‘Oh, honey,’ Joya interjects. ‘She’s gonna be just fine.’
‘Can we get you some cocoa?’ Diane rises. ‘You look like you just blew in from Canada!’
Mother Rosaline rises, too. Though all the women have obviously been crying, Mother’s face is ruined in that way particular to redheads. ‘She’ll be fine,’ she whispers, wiping a sliding tear, squeezing Eric’s arm, then Tish’s. Tish looks alarmed; follows Mother out.
‘Mom,’ Eric pleads. ‘You said she tried to commit suicide?’
‘No, honey. We said she’s suicidal,’ Joya corrects, like Eric’s a slow-learning child. ‘Her self-esteem is zilch. Says she doesn’t care if she starves to death, and your mama should go adopt some orphans from Africa.’ The mothers trade a look, eyes-to-heavens. ‘Honestly, Polly’s heart is in the right place, but she can’t see the forest for the trees!’
‘Doesn’t know her own worth,’ Molly agrees. ‘How could she, with a dad like yours? If she’d’a just had a loving father figure from the start …’
Wayne knows there’s no love lost between Eric and his dad: a hard, weaselly Finn with the same green eyes and short fuse. So he’s surprised when Eric bleats, ‘Where is Dad?’
Molly flaps her handkerchief. ‘He’s fixing them houses in Eureka. Anyways, what’s he gonna do? You think your dad knows how to talk to Polly?’ She gives a Chihuahua-like yip. ‘Only one she wants to talk to is Father. Y’know, he’ll do anything to make her feel beautiful.’
Eric’s red cheeks drain of all color. He jerks toward the staircase.
‘Now, don’t you do that!’ Molly waylays him. ‘Let her have some privacy!’
‘She’s in the middle of one-on-one counseling!’ Joya squawks. ‘It’s delicate, you hear?’
Danny comes over
and blocks Eric’s way. ‘Just leave it, okay?’
Eric shoves Danny. ‘And what if that was one of your sisters up there?’
‘If my sisters ever need counseling, that’s their business.’
Tish, Diane, and Mother re-enter with their trays of cocoa. Locking eyes with his sister, Wayne knows it’s bad; worse than when their own dad was thrown out of the house and entered into the Temple’s alcohol rehab program. Eric turns to Mother.
‘You’re letting this happen? What, your husband screws underage girls and you just stay downstairs making cocoa? Do you know Polly still sleeps with her teddy bear?’
‘Nobody said a word about screwing!’ Molly cries. ‘Where’d you get that dirty mind?’
‘You can’t talk to Mother that way!’ Danny backs her up, a genuine crack of hurt in his voice. ‘She practically raised us! If you’re going to disrespect Mother, just—’
But Mother closes her eyes, breathes deep. ‘I don’t have any claims on Father.’ Tears spill down her freckled cheeks. ‘My life isn’t any more precious than Polly’s. She’s a beautiful young woman, but she needs Father to help her see it. I’m here for her, and your mom, too.’
‘No.’ Eric shakes his head, clenches his fists. ‘No, no, no.’
‘I know.’ Mother lifts her chin, as though to invite a strike. ‘I know. I know.’
Eric doesn’t strike Mother; he isn’t like his dad that way. But he does strike Danny, and Danny strikes back, and between the two tussling white boys and the screaming women and the hot cocoa, the only sense Wayne can see is to put his body between them all, then drag Eric outside by the scruff of his shirt. ‘You’re gonna hurt somebody like that,’ Wayne says gruffly, as the night air slaps their cheeks. ‘You could’ve hurt Tish.’
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