by Joan Shott
He pulled me towards him. “But you are.”
I buried my face against his shoulder. “I should be thinking about Bobby, but I can’t stop thinking about you.”
“He’s gone. Take what life’s giving us,” he said. His warm breath brushed my ear. He stroked my back through the thin fabric of my blouse. “I love you,” he said. He took my head between his hands, his fingers caught in my long, unruly hair. “You are the most beautiful woman I’ve ever known. You are my funny valentine.”
The first kiss was so gentle it was almost as if it hadn’t happened. He kissed me again and again until my will melted or strengthened, I couldn’t tell which. Was I simply too tired of being lonely? Did I really love him? What would happen to me, to us, if I made a mistake? If I didn’t take this chance, I might regret it for the rest of my life. I couldn’t think any farther than his touch on my skin. Matthew made me smile with my heart; he made me dance with my heart.
I slipped my hand into the world he offered.
We crossed the street and headed up the steps lit by the moon-yellow lamps of the grand, old hotel. Our footsteps echoed against the ceilings, tall as mountains. In the gilded elevator on the trip to the tenth floor, he kissed me a thousand times, held me as if he’d never let me go.
Inside his room, I opened the window and inhaled the humid air of the city I’d grown to love. The streetlights of Lake Shore Drive glittered like the most elegant jewelry on earth, a halo surrounding the uncertainty of what was happening in the rest of the world. The sound of the crowds gathered in Lincoln Park fluttered through the sheer curtains. Sirens and songs floated on the night, lost like balloons.
Matthew stood behind me and folded me into his arms.
“What’ll happen to us?” I asked.
“What do you mean?”
“We’re so different. I don’t know about big cities and expensive cars and famous fathers.”
“Those things don’t matter.”
“But what if we regret this tomorrow?”
Matthew turned me around to face him. “Diane, you are my tomorrow.”
I pulled his shirt over his head. I brushed my hands across his chest and stopped when I saw the scar that ran from the back of his shoulder to the front. I touched it gingerly and looked up at him with my unspoken question.
“It’s nothing. Nothing that happened to me before I met you exists,” he said.
I closed my eyes and believed him. It didn’t matter what had happened before, what could happen tomorrow, and how different things might be in the unforgiving light of day. Pulled by the allure of the distant moon, I stepped onto the moving carousel, let my worries slip out the open window, and accepted the gift of the night.
Chapter Fourteen
The hymn of Hey Jude woke me. I opened my eyes in a panic and blinked at the sight of the high ceilings of the sumptuous room. I tried to crawl back into my disintegrating dreams. I pulled at bits and pieces; Lilly’s face becoming Matthew’s, dancing with my mother in an airplane descending through clouds and more clouds while my hummingbirds tapped at the window at 35,000 feet asking for their sugar water. And the plane crashing into the treetops of a tropical forest. I sighed with relief that I was in Chicago and not in the jungle of the place called Cambodia.
I switched off the clock radio, rolled onto my back, and listened to the erratic song of police whistles and jackhammers. The buzz of the protestors had begun while we were still swaddled in what had happened last night. I curled up to Matthew’s chest and inhaled his scent, our scent, and kissed him on the tip of his nose.
He woke up, smiled, and rolled over on top of me.
“Do you always wake up with a smile on your face?” I asked. “Come on. We need to get to the park.”
“How about one more reason to smile?” He reached beneath the sheet and ran his hand along my thigh, outlined my hipbone with his finger.
My determination to get out of bed waned, and a flush rose from my toes as promising as the sunny day blooming outside our window. I pulled him closer. Then came the knocking, which turned into banging.
“Go away,” Matthew shouted. He rolled to the side of the bed, sat up on the edge, and picked up his jeans from the floor. “Who the hell is …what time is it?”
The racket got louder. “It’s nine o’clock. You’d better answer it.” I wrapped the sheet around me with one hand and gathered my clothes with the other.
“Hold on,” Matthew moaned, turning the lock. The door slammed open, shaking the lamp on the bureau and knocking the painting on the wall at an angle. A tall, gangly man, with shoulder-length hair and wire-rimmed glasses, exploded into the room. A woman, with frantic eyes peeking through long, white-blonde strands of hair, followed on his heels. They both had the look of people who had been up all night, their clothes wrinkled and their hair as wild as a ride in a convertible. They rolled from the balls of their bare feet to their heels as if the floor below them was swaying.
“Matt, old boy. Where the fuck have you been?” the man bellowed. “I came all the way from bloody L.A. for this kind of reception?”
I slid into the bathroom and closed the door behind me, but I could still hear the man’s brash, British-accented voice.
“Why didn’t ya ring me up?” the man said. “Fucking taxi strike is making a hash of everything. You seen Gerry? Did you hitch a ride in or what?”
“Hired a limo. How’d you know…how did you get in here…past the front desk?” Matthew asked.
“Limo, ha. Sounds like you. Can’t take the self-indulgence out of the privileged. It’s good to see you, man.”
“Did we interrupt something?” the woman asked. “Matthew, my dear, do you have one of your little playthings under wraps somewhere? In the closest? Maybe in the bathroom?”
I’d heard enough. I pulled on my skirt and my blouse, fumbling with the small buttons. There was nothing I could do about my tangled hair other than run my fingers through it a few times. I opened the bathroom door and stepped out in my bare feet. I glanced under the bed, but my shoes had disappeared. I looked up to see the woman poke Matthew’s chest with her finger.
“Well, I was right on the money. He’s up to his old tricks. Answers the question of what the fuck he’s been doing,” the woman said.
“You both need to leave. Now,” Matthew said. He walked to me and slid his arm around my waist.
“I hope Matthew has told you all about me. My name is Amelia Wimpheimer. What’s your name, sweetie?” She looked at me with a pout as if I were someone’s mongrel dog who had wandered into her yard.
“Diane,” I answered. There was no way I could be as rude as she was even if I tried.
The man sidled up next to me, the smell of alcohol seeping through his pores. “Diane, is it? I could show you around this city. I know this place like the back of my hand.” He stared at the palm of his hand, and slowly flipped it. His voice fell to a raspy whisper. “I could take you some places …” He ran his eyes up and down the length of me.
“Why don’t you shut up, Bill? What makes you think this little girl would be interested in anything you might have?” Amelia barked. Her long, straight hair the color of the moon fell across her icy, blue eyes. She turned towards Matthew. “I suppose I don’t even have to ask if you’re still hiding behind all that non-violent revolution bullshit, Bluestone.”
Matthew walked to the door and held it open. “You two go where someone actually wants to see you, wherever that is. You’re both wasted.”
“Speaking of wasted, you need a little something?” Bill asked. He pulled a bag out of his pocket and held it in the palm of his hand, an offering. It looked like a collection of pills and a small bag of white powder.
“Keep it,” Matthew said. “I’m not interested.”
“That’s something I never thought I’d hear from you.” Amelia turned towards the door, but kept her eye on me. “See you around, lovebirds. I’m not surprised, by the way, you would use the most important political gatheri
ng of the decade as an excuse to get laid,” she said.
Matthew slammed the door and turned the lock.
“My God, what was wrong with that woman? Why did they offer you those pills and what was that about a limo? What about Rodney?”
“Don’t ever mention Rodney to her. She’d just as soon see him locked up. Maybe strung up from a tree is the phrase she’d use.”
“Who is she?” I asked.
“She’s someone who thought she could force me to want her. She’s a spoiled girl who can’t take no for an answer.”
“So, there was something between you once.” No woman would hold such a grudge without some provocation. I hoped I would never be that angry at anyone, never mind someone I’d once cared about.
“I was messed up. Rodney helped me get back to where I belonged. He saw me for the man I should have been, and he saw her for the witch she is.” He took me by the shoulders and waited until I looked up at him. “You may not be the first woman in my life, but you’ll be the last. I’m where I belong.”
“How can you be so sure?” Hadn’t I thought I was sure once? Sure enough to sign a marriage license.
“I’ve made mistakes, but that didn’t keep me from looking for the right person,” he said, pulling me to him. He kissed my neck, made silly noises behind my ear as if he was going to eat me up.
I was tempted, but gently pushed him away. “Time to get to the park. I want to meet this Gerry you’ve been talking about. I want to find out why we came all this way.”
“I thought we figured that out last night,” he said.
*****
Cleaned, pressed, and fed by the servants of the Drake Hotel, we walked to Lincoln Park and roamed through the debris of discarded papers, half-eaten food, mismatched sandals, broken lengths of beads — the clutter of life. I’d read once of prospectors in the Alaska gold rush who dropped the gear they decided was too heavy, not absolutely necessary, piece by piece as they made their way across the mountain passes, leaving a trail seen by historians as a record of their struggle. Would the trash scattered across this city point to the battle happening here?
The crowds were packed together so tightly I couldn’t see the ground, had to fight for a place to walk, let alone sit down. The smells of unwashed people tinted with beer and pot became part of the day, as much as the sounds of traffic mixed with guitars, muggy weather moved by folded-paper fans.
I stopped staring at the strange costumes and outrageous hairstyles of the people in the crowds. We were alike in what we believed and what we wanted. The differences didn’t matter. I began to talk easily to people I met, discussing the movement with anyone who would listen. I shared my own story and sometimes wept, sometimes comforted others who were crushed by my words. I bantered with policemen and men from the National Guard. We all wanted the same thing: to bring our soldiers home alive, even if we disagreed on how to do it.
My throat was hoarse at the end of each day from shouting over the commotion; my feet blistered. Dirt filtered through my hair, my eyes, my nose, and worked its way under my nails. It felt like the uniform of progress.
Matthew pulled me through the crowds as he spoke to one person after the other and I listened. I let go of his hand and walked over to a young woman who was balancing a baby on her hip.
“Hi,” I said. “Are you here with an organization?”
She looked through her small, blue-tinted glasses at me. “No, how ‘bout you?”
“I’m here with the SDS. We’re from the University of Washington chapter. Have you ever considered joining the SDS?” I looked back over my shoulder to see where Matthew was, but I couldn’t spot him. A small wave of panic rose in my chest, but I turned back to the girl, tried to keep my voice calm and strong.
“How am I supposed to join something like that if I’m not a student?” she shifted the baby to her other hip.
“Where are you from?”
“Downstate Illinois. A place called Anna. It’s nothing but a lousy, little town. Not like Chicago.” She looked over the top of her glasses, her eyes scanning the impressive skyline.
“Do you want to end the war? I’m just guessing that’s why you’re here.”
“Shit, yeah. I don’t want to see my brothers or friends have to live in Canada because they don’t want to go over there. My baby’s father is up there now, trying to make a living.”
“If you want to volunteer to work for the SDS, you don’t have to be a student. And you could ask for money to pay for school…if you’re interested,” I said.
I was determined to ask everyone I met to join the cause. Maybe she’d forget about it as soon as I walked away and maybe not. I’d talked to dozens of people since we’d arrived, and most had seemed interested, even hopeful, about having an organized voice in ending the war. Maybe I was making a difference, even if it was small.
“Money for me…for school?”
“Why not?” I asked.
“Nobody cares about me. Why’d they care if I went to school or not?”
“I care. If you’re smart and you want to learn, there’s a way to go to school. The more educated you are, the more power you have. The more power you have, the stronger our fight against the war.”
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Diane.”
“I don’t know that I’m gonna pick myself up and go back to school, but I like to hear that if I want to, I might be able to do it.”
“So what are you doing tonight?” I asked.
“Don’t know, but a bunch of people I know are heading to Grant Park, and some of them are gonna protest and some of them are lookin’ to fight with the cops.”
“Stay away from the troublemakers. I wouldn’t want to see you or your sweet little boy get hurt.”
She nodded in agreement, lifted the baby onto her shoulder as she walked away, and then turned back. She smiled and flashed the peace sign at me. “Take care, Diane.”
I felt a tug at my shoulder and turned around to see Matthew. “I was talking to a young mother about getting her into school.”
“You are a natural-born organizer,” he said. “Let’s go back to the hotel.”
“What about the protests tonight?” I asked, as he took my hand and pulled me towards the sidewalk. The sky was growing dark as the evening crossed Lake Michigan in waves the gray-blue color of stress, a throbbing vein at the country’s temple. “Don’t we want to join in one of the marches? Can’t we go to Grant Park and see what’s happening?” I was dead tired, but my mind was still racing through the day.
“We’ll be there tomorrow night when the national news people are in force,” he said, leading me in the direction of The Drake. “The rest of this will just end up on some back page. We’ve done enough.”
We returned to the hotel exhausted. Away from the gritty and restless crowds, we were lifted ten stories above the fray into a clean and orderly capsule of safety. Those first few minutes after crossing Michigan Avenue, walking up the granite staircase, I felt like a traitor to the people who slept in the park or bunked in some friend’s small, crowded apartment for the night. My conscience pulled at me, but then my thoughts melted like wax as we locked the door behind us, and my head was overtaken by my heart.
We made love to the faraway hum of the chanting of thousands, the whistling sirens of police cars, the popping of uncured wood set to bonfires, the strumming chords of folk music. I woke tangled in sheets washed to a blue-white sheen and scented with the brittleness of careful ironing. I kicked them away. Against the ambient light of the night sky, the moon was beginning to wane. A bit of its smooth edge gone from what had been a comforting orb a few nights earlier. Songs and sirens shifted on the breeze from the direction of Lincoln Park and seeped through the thick, stone walls of the old hotel, curved around the sliver of open window. I thought of the hungry faces of the people we’d seen in the park; waiting for the moment they could move the world into another gear. Matthew had promised things would change because o
f what would happen on Wednesday night, but I wasn’t sure if it would be enough for them or him or me. How much can the world change in one night?
I hadn’t done enough. Revolution wouldn’t come surrounded by maids and doormen, sunken bathtubs and hand-carved bed posts. I wondered if we would change, too. I needed more than his love. I wanted my world, our world, to move as if an earthquake from my sheer will could bring down a mountain. I wanted the war to end: the war over there and the war inside me. I’d come so far over the past few months, and I couldn’t let it slip away. I rolled over on my side and stroked Matthew’s hair, drew my finger along the soft curve of his ear and down the side of his face.
“What?” he mumbled. “Are you trying to get my attention?” He reached over and pulled me to him.
“Yes, but not for the reason you think.”
“What other reason could there be?”
“I want to go back to the park,” I said.
Matthew rolled onto his back. “Am I awake or is this a bad dream? You want to get out of this bed and go back to the park and spend the night avoiding the cops?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“Because I feel as if we’ve turned our back on the reason we came here and the people we’re supposed to be standing alongside.” I rolled over and leaned on my elbow. I pushed his hair back from his eyes. “I feel like a general who lets his troops sleep in the cold and spends the night at some cozy little room in town where it’s safe.”
“And your point?”
“I want to be in the fight for what I believe,” I said. “I owe it to Bobby. I owe it to me. And them.” I nodded in the direction of the park.
I listened to his breath, almost negligible, as I waited for his response. “You’re right. I’ve gotten lost in you. It’s easy to do.”
“So you’ll go back to the park with me?”
“Don’t count on getting any sleep. Even if there are other people in the park, there’s a curfew and we could be arrested.”