"Right," Peter said wistfully. "Stoned for breakfast, stoned for classes, stoned for dinner, and drunk at night with the girls uptown."
"Exactly. No responsibilities. Four years of doing nothing but fucking around. That's what it's like for Clay, except it isn't just four years. It's the rest of his life."
"It's disgusting," Russell muttered.
"I don't see you out there with Che in the jungles of Bolivia," Sean pointed out.
"I've been a social studies teacher for the past three months. I do the people's work in a different way, by telling the truth to—"
"Truce in the class war," Peter interrupted. "Here we are."
As the Beetle pulled up the long, steeply inclined dirt road Sean asked, "You all coming in?"
"No," Peter replied. "Me and Russell are gonna head back down to New Paltz. I want to try to see Professor McDonald about my Beckskill report."
"Beckskill report? What are you talking about?" Sean asked.
"Pete's doing an environmental impact study on that plastics factory they want to build around here," Russell answered as he pulled to a stop at the top of the hill.
"What the hell for?"
"To try to stop them from building it," Peter replied. "I may not be able to do anything about strip mining in Pennsylvania, but I might be able to help keep the Beckskill River clean."
Sean shook his head and laughed as he opened the car door. "Lydia, Dorcas, you coming in?"
"I'd love to," Lydia said, "but Dorcas wants to go home and she doesn't want to face Daddy all by herself."
Dorcas nodded. "He's gonna be furious."
"You aren't even gonna come in and say hi?"
"No." Lydia shook her head. "If I do, I'll end up staying all night. I know myself. Tell Clay I'll see him tomorrow."
"Okay. Hey, comrade, thanks for the ride."
"See you, running-dog lackey." Russell smiled and then began to drive back down the dirt road.
Sean Brenner paused for a few moments and surveyed that portion of the Saunders property he could see from where he was standing. A short, narrow dirt path stretched off to his right and led through the woods to the trailer where Clayton and Rebecca lived. A wider and longer path to the left led up to the large Colonial house where their parents had lived before the accident that had left the brother and sister wealthy orphans. Straight ahead loomed the crest of the blunt mountain that Clayton owned, and beyond that, Sean knew, stretched the hundreds of acres of land Clayton rented out to the local farmers.
As he began to walk along the path to the trailer, Sean wondered why Clayton and Rebecca had continued to live there instead of moving back to the house. Their parents had made the mistake of establishing nonrevocable trust funds for their son and daughter, to become theirs at age eighteen; and they were quite upset when Clayton, upon reaching that age, dropped out of college after three months, had a trailer brought up the mountain, moved out of his parents' house, and proceeded to drink and smoke himself into oblivion on a daily basis. His parents bemoaned the fact that he had opted for such a lifestyle instead of continuing college, little knowing that it had been college life that had engendered this life-style in the first place. As Rebecca entered into the commonplace adolescent conflicts with her parents, she began spending more and more time in Clayton's trailer, until eventually she, too, was living in it. And when their parents died three years ago, Clayton and Rebecca just stayed where they were. The big house was in disrepair, and they seemed neither to notice nor care.
The door to the trailer was unlocked as always, and Sean entered to find Clayton sound asleep on the floor in one corner of the small living room and Rebecca sleeping on the tattered old sofa. Though Sean had not been sentenced to prison, his experience in court earlier that day had left him tense and wired, but it relaxed him just to be standing once again in the living room of the trailer. He looked around at the familiar furnishings; the posters of Dylan, the Beatles, Che Guevara, and, Clayton's favorite picture, John Wayne as a cowboy on horseback with a caption bubble saying, "Buy a dachshund"; the incredibly expensive stereo system with speakers five feet high; the piles of records, most of them uncovered, scratched, and dusty; the red and blue bulbs burning in the table lamps; the placards and stickers that had been pasted and tacked on the walls and windows . . . Lee Harvey Oswald, where are you when we need you? . . . Support our boys in Vietnam, bring them home . . . Beautify America, sterilize LBJ . . . Kill a commie for Christ . . . and everywhere, empty beer cans and full ashtrays. It did not bother Sean at all that the trailer reeked of hashish smoke, spilled beer, and stale tobacco. Clayton smelled the same way. So did Rebecca, more often than not.
"Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore," he muttered.
He walked over to where Rebecca lay, and bending over her he kissed her softly on the lips. She awakened slowly and gazed at him for a moment. Then she smiled and returned his kiss with a long one of her own. "Hi," she said.
"Hi," he replied, his tone very casual. Theirs was a comfortable relationship, one born of long acquaintance, dating back to Clayton's brief stay at college where he had roomed with Sean. For a number of years Rebecca had been nothing to Sean but his friend's sister, someone with whom to drink, get stoned, ride motocycles. Over the past year, after Sean managed to graduate from college and then had to face the problem of earning a living, he had altered the relationship. While Peter did graduate work and Russell taught high school, Sean dedicated himself to the pursuit of his own career goal: getting his hands on Rebecca and her money.
It was an easy task, for Sean had been Rebecca's first and only love as she passed from puberty into young womanhood. She had worshiped him long before he had even noticed her, and his amorous attentions were more than welcome. And to be fair, he did find her physically attractive, with her long brown hair and slender figure, her slightly turned-up nose and cheerful smile. But truly loving her was another matter altogether, for Sean Brenner was not a sentimentalist.
As he sat down beside her and pulled of his work boots she said, "I'm glad you're here. I was afraid they were gonna put you away or something."
He laughed. "You were afraid! I was shitting in my pants. You don't know what it's like to stand up in a courtroom and face a judge and think to yourself that this guy has the power to ship you off to prison. It was like really scary."
Her brown eyes were closing and she felt herself drifting back of to sleep, so she sat up on the sofa and rubbed her scalp vigorously. "What happened? Did you have to pay a fine or something?"
"Yeah, five grand, and I got a five-year suspended sentence. I gotta go to a probation officer once a week, I gotta live at home, go to work, all that shit."
"That sucks," she said.
"Really. I had to borrow money from my parents to pay the fine, and now they're acting like they got me back under their thumbs or something."
She shrugged. "I'll give you money to pay 'em back. Don't worry about it. You owe the lawyer anything?"
"Yeah, another five grand." He shook his head. "Ten thousand bucks. I only woulda made two thousand if I'd sold all the Meth!"
"Stick to selling pot," she suggested. "It's easier to sell, and the cops don't really care about it." She got up and went into the small kitchen adjoining the living room. Taking two cold beers from the refrigerator, she sat down next to him and said, "I'll go to the bank Monday and get the ten thousand."
"Thanks, Becky. I really appreciate it." He took a long, welcome drink of the beer. "It's living at home and going to work that's gonna be the hardest part of the probation. And the rules I'm supposed to follow are like really terrible. I'm not supposed to go to bars, I'm not supposed to hang around with the wrong kind of people—"
"So the same day you beat the rap you go to Zoli's to hear Artie sing, you get stoned, and you come up here." She grinned. "Real smart, Sean."
"And"—he smiled as he reached into his pocket—"I scored some great hash from Eric." He held up a plastic bag.
Her eyes went wide. "Gold hashish! Holy shit!"
"Great price, too. Twenty-five a quarter."
"Wait a minute, man," she said, shaking her head. "You can't take chances like this. I don't know a whole lot about being on probation, but I know that if you do shit like this and get caught, they'll slap you in jail."
He shrugged. "So I won't get caught."
"That's what you said when you started dealing Meth."
"Hey, give me a break, will you?"
She paused and then smiled. "Okay, I'm sorry. I just don't want to have to do without you for five years, that's all." She watched as he crumbled a small cake of hashish into an ornate little brass pipe. "So like who can't you hang around with, for instance?"
"Like you and Clay, for instance."
"We're the wrong kind of people! I always thought we were kinda nice."
"I had to tell my probation officer about all my friends. Didn't want to lie to her, just in case she double-checked things with my parents."
"She? Your probation officer is a she?"
"Yeah, Mrs. Steyert." He decided to torment her a bit. "She's young, and real cute. A tall, willowy blonde. You know how I've always liked blondes."
"Why, you son of a bitch!" She laughed and punched him in the chest just a bit too hard to be playful. "You keep your fucking hands off her!"
"All right, all right. Jeez, Becky, that hurt!"
"Good."
"And I almost spilled the hash."
"Gimme the pipe. I'll get it started." She placed the mouthpiece between her front teeth and struck a match. In a moment the heavy aroma of hashish was flooding the room. "So who else can't you hang around with?"
"Russell and Peter and Artie. I told her that all they ever do is sit around and argue about philosophy, but she didn't believe me."
"She's right," Becky said as she passed the pipe to Sean. "They sit around and argue about philosophy and drop acid all the time."
"Yeah, but she couldn't find out about that." He laughed softly. "You know, those guys kill me. They sit around that hole-in-the-wall apartment in Maspeth and yell at each other about revolution and bald eagles."
"The Marxist and the environmentalist." She laughed. "Sounds like a TV show."
"Yeah," he said, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs and then exhaling loudly, "with Artie providing the musical score in the background. Lenin meets the whales."
"Sean, be serious for a minute. Can you get in trouble for being here?"
He shook his head and handed her the pipe. "My parents think I'm at Kenny Schimik's for the weekend. He'll cover for me if they call there. I don't have to start working until next Thursday, so everything's cool until then."
"You know, I really don't want you to risk getting thrown in prison just to come up here. I mean, I can come down to the city just as easy. Easier, in fact, 'cause I have a car."
He sniffed and said softly, "I hate the city. I hate the noise and the dirt and all the assholes running around trying to get ahead." He sighed. "I'll have to stay there for at least a year. I don't know if I'll last a year."
"A year isn't forever."
"It seems like forever." The hashish had gone out, so he took a match and relighted it. As he toked again upon the pipe, he looked again at his surroundings.
I'm in Oz, he thought, I'm over the rainbow, I'm in flicking never-never land. Peter Pan, that's what Clay is. Never has to work, never has to kiss anybody's ass, never has to get a haircut or wear a suit and tie. Twenty-one years old, and he can do whatever the fuck he wants for the rest of his life. Smoke, drink, screw, travel, sleep till noon, anything, anything. He has all the money he'll ever need, all the money in the world.
He looked at Rebecca. All the money in the world.
"I love you," he said.
She smiled warmly at him. "I love you, too."
"Let's mess around."
She glanced over at Clayton, still snoring loudly in the corner, and then put her fingers to her lips. "Shhh," she whispered, and then, taking him by the hand, led him into one of the two bedrooms.
The bedroom was small, of course, but made to seem all the smaller by the huge bed that occupied most of the space. Sean and Rebecca embraced and fell together onto the mattress. He moved his hands slowly beneath her flannel shirt and began to stroke and fondle her unencumbered breasts, pinching and rubbing the hardening nipples. She in turn unbuckled his belt and thrust her hand downward into his pants, her fingers tightly grasping his swelling organ. They explored each other slowly, kissing and licking and stroking as clothing was discarded and skin flushed red.
"Let's do some acid," she whispered. "It's always better with acid."
"It'd take a half hour to get off," he panted. "I can't wait a half hour." He parted her legs with his knee and then rolled over onto her, allowing her to guide him in before beginning his slow, rhythmic thrusts.
She sighed and gasped as he grunted and moaned, holding his muscular body tightly with her arms and legs, running her fingers through his long, thin blond hair, kissing the wispy beard on his hot cheeks. "Oh, Sean, I love you so much. . . ." It's me you want, it's me you love, no dollar signs in your eyes, it's me, it's me.
"I love you, Becky," he panted, "I love you. . . ." You rich piece of ass.
He began to drive into her more rapidly, his hands almost frantically squeezing her arms and back. She froze for a moment and then lay limp beneath him. "I love you," she repeated dreamily. You love me, Sean, you love me.
A cunt with money, and it's all mine. Fantastic, fanfuckingtastic. He grunted and shuddered as he ejaculated and then sank heavily down upon her sweat-drenched body. "I love you, too, Becky."
"I love you both," Clayton shouted from the other room, "and if you two don't get your asses out here, I'm gonna eat this whole bag of hash and then come in and join the fun."
"The fun is over," Sean shouted back.
"Besides, you're not my type," Rebecca added.
"You! Who wants you? It's tight-buns Brenner I want!"
Sean laughed. "Wait till I tell Lydia that she's in love with a faggot."
"Lydia? Lydia? That swine, that whore? Tell the wench whatever you want, by God. Here goes the first piece of hashish. . . ."
"Don't you dare!" Sean cried, and jumped to his feet, withdrawing from Rebecca's body rapidly and without preamble. "Let's get dressed and go out there before he eats the whole damn quarter ounce."
She felt somehow discarded, and she pouted. "Not yet, Sean . . ."
"Come on, we don't want Clay to get lonesome, do we? He began to pull on his dungarees.
"Here goes the second piece," Clayton said.
"Damn it, Saunders . . . !" He rushed from the room, and Rebecca followed reluctantly a few moments later.
Chapter Three
November 21 (continued)
The Volkswagen came to a stop in front of the large refurbished farmhouse where Dr. Timothy Ostlich lived with his three daughters, and the two of them who were in the backseat looked at it with undisguised dislike. For Lydia, the dislike was a function of resentment and rebelliousness, and for Dorcas the dislike mingled with dread.
"He's gonna be so pissed at us," she said nervously.
"Me n' him have been pissed at each other for years," Lydia responded. "Besides, I'm the one who's gonna catch all the shit. He's only gonna yell at you, Dork, so don't worry about it."
"Don't call me that," Dorcas insisted.
"So change your name." Lydia shrugged. "You got a nutty name. It ain't my fault."
Peter glanced at Dorcas's miserable expression and said, "You don't have to use that nickname, Lydia. It isn't very flattering."
"Dork? What's wrong with Dork? Besides, what other nickname can you get from a stupid name like Dorcas?"
"Well . . ." He thought for a moment. "How about Cas, or Cassie?"
Lydia shook her head. "She isn't a Cassie. She's a Dork."
Peter bristled slightly. "Hey, you're real sensitive, Lyd, you know?"
>
"Peter, it's okay," Dorcas said quickly. "Let's just forget it. Russell, thanks for driving us home."
"My pleasure," Russell said, just a bit impatiently. "We'll see you soon."
"Yeah," Peter added as Lydia and Dorcas got out of the car and he followed after them to get into the front seat. "And be sure and let me know if you can find out when they're gonna have that meeting about the factory."
"Sure will," Dorcas said, smiling at him. "I think it's just like so great that you're getting involved in this whole thing, trying to keep the river clean and stuff."
"Yeah, a knight in fucking shining armor," Lydia said. "Come on, let's go face the monster. See you guys."
As Peter and Russell began to drive back toward the thruway, Lydia walked toward the door of their home with Dorcas following behind, her hands rubbing together nervously. "He's gonna be—" she began.
"Yeah, yeah, so pissed off. So let him. So what."
The door swung open before they reached it, and their younger sister Sarah stood in the doorway, glowering at them. She folded her arms haughtily across her chest and tapped her foot as she said, "Well! Decided to come home, have we?"
Sarah bore a strong family resemblance to Lydia and Dorcas, but the similarity seemed less obvious when all three were together. Lydia and Dorcas were identical twins, and such differences as existed between them were not physical. Both had long, light brown hair, but Lydia's fell freely down upon her back while Dorcas kept hers in braids. Both had soft green eyes, but Lydia's were bloodshot more often than not. Their builds were the same, a bit too heavy but with the weight pleasingly distributed; they carried themselves differently, however, so that Lydia seemed curvaceous and Dorcas merely stocky.
Sarah, on the other hand, at sixteen three years their junior, was thin and rigid, her medium-length dark brown hair combed into a tightly rolled flip with short bangs. All three Ostlich girls had the same full lips, but while Lydia's dropped into an occasional sneer and Dorcas's rose into an occasional, nervous smile, Sarah's seemed pulled long and narrow into a perpetually disapproving grimace. At that moment she was focusing this grimace on her sister.
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