I knew she was right, but I wanted to try one more time. “Moose, c’mon man. I’m a friend. Come back over here. Let’s climb down and get a cup of coffee. How’s that sound?”
Moose turned his pockmarked, sallow face toward me. His dull black eyes burrowed into mine, searching for someone, something. Suddenly, they flared in fear and he looked up at the branches above him. He kicked his foot wildly in the air. Panicking, he crawled toward me. “Help me!” he shrieked, scrambling toward me along the limb.
A powerful gust of wind blew hard against the tree, causing the entire trunk to sway. I tightened my grip and held a hand out to Moose. “C’mon. Just take my hand.”
Moose was close enough to smell. Sweat poured from his face and had soaked his dirty white tee shirt. He wrapped his legs around the limb and hung upside down, reminding me of a possum. Reaching toward me, he grabbed for my hand, and I leaned over as far as I could. His grubby fingertips brushed mine, millimeters from contact.
“C’mon. Just a little closer, Moose. Come on.”
Moose started to slither toward me just as a gust of wind hit the tree. The limb swayed in the wind and a loud crack filled the air.
The bough splintered from the trunk, crashing loudly to the ground with Moose still clinging to it. Fortunately, lower branches slowed his fall. He landed below with a heavy thud, groaning.
The policemen dismounted quickly and ran to his side, waving away the onlookers who shrieked and gathered around the scene. “All right now, back away folks.”
I tried to still my pounding heart and climbed carefully down the tree. Elsbeth met me at the bottom, throwing her arms around my neck. “Oh, Gus. Thank God.”
Moose lay unconscious on the ground, face up with the branch on top of him.
Chapter 9
An hour later, Elsbeth, Valerie, and I sat in a booth at the Coffee Cup, trying to forget the unsettling scene we’d just witnessed. The ambulance had whisked Moose away. It all happened so fast; we’d never had a chance to check out his real name or contact information. The police had shooed us from the rescue scene, and we’d stood in the crowd and watched with other onlookers, wondering what else he didn’t tell us about Valerie.
We’d started to recover from the shock of seeing Moose fall, and after talking about it, we finally decided to head over to the diner to get some coffee, even if we didn’t order breakfast as planned. We lost hope of talking to the guy ever again, and if he did know any more about Valerie’s past, which was doubtful, we’d never know.
Moose’s mention of the name “Clive” was just about as useless. Without a last name, we were dead in the water.
Elsbeth pushed the creamer toward Valerie. She lifted it mechanically and poured a generous dollop into her coffee. Both girls sighed at the same time.
A sick sensation sat in the pit of my stomach. On top of that, I was ravenous, which made for a weird combination. Did that make me an insensitive brute? Always thinking of two things: sex and food.
I decided to ignore it. “Valerie? Did that guy look familiar at all?”
“No.” Valerie rested her chin on her hand. “For a moment, I felt something flutter in the back of my brain, but now it’s gone. I hoped I’d remember his face, or his voice, or something. When he mentioned Harvard Square, it seemed vaguely familiar, but it might have been just wishful thinking.”
Elsbeth took a sip of her coffee and looked thoughtfully into the distance. “I wonder who he was talking about, Valerie? Does the name Clive ring a bell at all?”
I leaned forward. “Maybe a boyfriend?”
“No. The name doesn’t sound familiar.” Valerie looked doleful.
“Why did he say, ‘he actually let you go?’” I wondered aloud. “That was weird.”
“I know, right?” Elsbeth leaned forward. “Maybe she was in a cult. You know, run by some great powerful control-freak leader?” Excitement grew in her eyes. “Sometimes these groups get very possessive of their people.” She touched Valerie’s hand. “Maybe you escaped, Valerie. The leader could have been named Clive.”
Valerie raised one eyebrow and stirred her coffee. “Maybe.”
I circled my finger in a pile of sugar on the table. “I could check around and see if there are any local communes or cults in the area. I’ve heard of some large groups up in New Hampshire and Maine, and I’m sure they must be all over Massachusetts. They tend to like the rural settings, though. You know, privacy, living off the land, fields to tend, that kind of thing.”
With pad and pencil in hand, Porter Conway appeared at our side. Porter’s folks owned the diner, and since Elsbeth worked there, I’d become friendly with the Viet Nam vet. He doubled as short order cook and waiter, depending on the day.
“Couldn’t help but overhear you guys,” he said, smiling at Valerie. “I know of a commune down on the south shore, not too far from Miles Standish State Park. They bought an old dairy farm. I think there are about a hundred people living there now.”
I glanced up at Porter. Recently back from the war, he’d weathered four years of duty and had been imprisoned in a Viet Cong camp for three months before he and his fellow soldiers were rescued. The man had returned to Boston quiet, somber, and occasionally unpredictable. I saw him freak out once when a car backfired. And on another occasion, when Elsbeth dropped a drinking glass while serving customers at The Coffee Cup, it had splintered and smashed against the tile floor. Porter had frozen for a moment, then dissolved into wracking sobs.
Although we seemed an odd pairing, I befriended him early in the spring after waiting around the diner many late nights for Elsbeth to finish up her shift. He’d been to our apartment several times for dinner. We found a common interest in growing tomatoes in containers, and had compared our plants’ growth since they sprouted on our respective balconies. Originally slated for medical school, Porter was drafted before his college acceptance letters arrived. His parents tried to convince him to return to school after the war, but he resisted, instead lying low in the uncomplicated world of hamburgers and French fries.
I closed my menu and introduced him to Valerie. “Thanks, Porter. Do you know anyone at that commune? Someone I could call, and maybe ask about Valerie?”
He nodded, scribbled something on his pad of paper, then ripped off a corner and handed it to me. “I do. We called him Wiley. We served together in ‘Nam. He’s kind of messed up, but once in while you can have a good conversation with him. They put a hoe in his hands and he hacks away at weeds, all day long. He’s been in just about every commune on the east coast. Wanders from place to place.” A sad look passed over his face. “Yeah. Wiley would be a good person to ask. Give him a try.”
I thanked Porter, but didn’t receive an acknowledgement. My friend was staring at Valerie with puppy dog eyes.
Valerie studied the menu.
“Do you folks know what you want?” Porter asked. He seemed to have a hard time tearing his eyes away from our flower child with her mass of curls the color of strawberry wine.
Elsbeth started. “I’ll have a large bowl of oatmeal with pecans and brown sugar, please.”
He scribbled on his pad. “Okay, the regular for Elsbeth. Miss? How about you?”
Valerie looked up sheepishly and gave him a weak smile. “I can’t decide between the Belgian waffles and the Western omelet. What do you recommend?”
Porter straightened with a touch of pride. “They’re both good, but if you’re in the mood for a treat, you ought to try the waffles with fresh strawberries and whipped cream.”
Her face lit up and she smiled at him. Other than a few polite half-smiles, it was the first time she’d done so since we met her. Porter responded with a huge grin that spread across his face.
“Okay,” she said. “That sounds good.”
He scribbled in his book. “And what about you, Gus?”
“Scrambled eggs, home fries, bacon, English muffins, and a large glass of grapefruit juice.”
“Got it. Okay. Back in a fl
ash.”
Valerie’s gaze followed him to the kitchen. “He’s nice.”
Elsbeth and I exchanged glances and I answered. “He is. He’s a really decent guy.”
Suddenly the sweet expression vanished from Valerie’s face. “Oh. I don’t feel so good.”
Elsbeth laid the back of her hand against Valerie’s forehead. “What’s the matter, honey?”
Valerie’s complexion greened. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
The girl slid out of the booth and stood with her hand over her mouth. Elsbeth jumped up beside her and guided her to the back of the diner. I sat alone in the booth, wondering how her nausea had come on so quickly and pondered my next move.
The commune was a good idea, but we couldn’t stop there. I decided to place an ad in the Boston Globe with Valerie’s picture. Someone had to recognize her. Someone had to be out there who knew and loved her.
Right?
Chapter 10
When we returned to the apartment, I made a phone call to the commune. At this very moment Wiley was out working in the fields, according to the very friendly woman who answered the phone and encouraged us to visit. She dictated explicit directions to the commune located an hour south of Boston.
We hopped into our Plymouth Valiant with the peeling silver paint. Ten-years-old, it had served us well over the past two years. The slant-six engine thrummed steadily as we flew down Route 24 toward Lakeville. I turned onto the Route 25 exit toward Cape Cod, and after a few moments, came to the turnoff for the Miles Standish State Park.
After a few wrong turns down sandy roads that all looked alike, we finally reached the Singing Pines commune.
Valerie and Elsbeth had both fallen asleep on the drive. When we bumped over the rutted driveway and passed under a wooden sign hanging over the entrance, they woke up.
“Are we there already?” Elsbeth yawned.
“Uh-huh. Didn’t even take an hour. Except for the last few turns, the directions were fine.”
Valerie sat up and rolled down her window. She rubbed her eyes with her fingertips and then looked around as if trying hard to remember something, anything at all. After I parked, she donned her orange granny glasses and a floppy straw hat she’d borrowed from Elsbeth, waiting for our next move.
People milled everywhere. Several cedar shingled barns stood nearby with their doors flung open. A couple of workers threw bales of hay from a wagon onto the elevator lift that carried them up to the loft. Others led animals from the barns to paddocks. Dozens more were spread out in the nearby fields and in the kitchen garden near the rambling farmhouse. Workers bent over neatly tended rows of vegetables, while others carried large baskets full of produce to a flatbed wagon attached to the back of an old tractor.
One of them has to be Wiley.
Brilliant sun shone on the land, warming the earth, and the sweet scent of pines and freshly mown timothy grass filled the air. The old farm must have been carved out of the heavy pine forest centuries ago. I estimated the property spread about a hundred acres through fields surrounding the house and barns, which were, in turn, encircled by endless forests. We stood for a moment on the sandy soil, taking it all in.
Carol—the woman I spoke to on the phone—trotted toward us with open arms. She wore a flowing purple kaftan that wafted around her legs in the hot breeze. Her straight, brown hair hung loose over her shoulders and down her back. She looked at us with wide, blue eyes beneath long bangs covering her broad forehead.
“Welcome to Singing Pines,” she chimed. “We hope you find it peaceful here. We’re always looking for new brothers and sisters, and we’re rapidly expanding. See those new barracks out back? They’re almost done with them.” She pointed to a long, low building going up behind the farmhouse.
A dozen men perched on ladders, pounding nails into the structure.
“Feel free to look around after you’ve spoken with Wiley. He’s out there,” she pointed to the field with the tractor. “See that cat with the red bandana?”
“Thanks,” I said, squinting in the sunlight to locate him.
“If you’re interested in a free and loving lifestyle, this is the place for you. We share everything. It’s a lot of hard work. We labor from sunup to sundown, but we’re surrounded by love. The vibes are wonderful. Our brothers and sisters are part of one big, loving family.”
She looked at Valerie and Elsbeth, slowly sizing them up. Apparently, they fit her vision of potential converts. I wondered—with a touch of discomfort—if this commune shared bedmates as freely as they did vegetables.
I introduced the girls to Carol. “Carol, this is my wife, Elsbeth LeGarde, and our friend, Valerie. We’re trying to help Valerie find out who she is... not in the transcendental manner,” I quickly clarified, “but literally. We believe she’s been in an accident. Can’t remember her past. We think she might have been part of a commune.”
Carol examined Valerie carefully, stroking the girl’s glossy hair for an uncomfortable minute. She stepped back, almost reluctantly. “No. Sorry, honey, I don’t recognize you. I’d never forget that gorgeous hair of yours. But Wiley might know you. He’s been in communes all over the eastern seaboard, poor soul.”
We endured hugs from her, then broke away and headed out in search of Wiley. I led the way through rows of carrots, lettuce, beets, corn and chard.
We approached a group of workers, and I asked for Wiley, who had moved since Carol pointed him out to us. We traipsed across the width of the field and then found him hunched down in the middle of a strawberry patch. He’d started to fill a basket with plump berries.
“Wiley?” I said.
He ignored me and kept picking.
“Excuse me, are you Wiley?” I said, louder this time. “Porter sent us down to see you. Porter Conway. He said you might help us.”
After a long minute, he finally stood up, stretched his back, and peered at us through a bushy mop of black hair. Unkempt, it reached his shoulders. His full beard climbed his cheeks like a wild animal. The eyebrows were equally bushy, completing his caveman look. “Porter sent you?” he asked in a deep voice.
I let out the breath I’d been holding. At least he’d answered me. “Yes. He and my wife work together up at his folks’ diner in Boston. He’s a good friend.”
“Well, then, I guess it’s okay. I never know who’s after me. They’re still searching for me. I have to be careful.”
I wondered about that, but held out my hand. “Name’s Gus,” I said. “And these ladies are Elsbeth and Valerie.”
He trod out of the strawberry patch and walked up to us. “Sorry. I don’t shake hands. Germs. You know.”
I lowered my hand slowly. “Sure. That’s cool.”
He turned away from us and walked briskly to an old tractor and cart. Leaning over the cart, he picked up a canteen and drank from it for a full minute.
We watched, waited, and breathed a sigh of relief when he returned, wiping drips from his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Sorry. I get parched out here.”
“No problem, man. That’s cool.” I felt a little fake, making small talk in the lingo that seemed to fit the circumstances. I didn’t normally use ‘man,’ or ‘cool’ in every single sentence, but I knew it was common with folks my age, and I wanted to connect with him. “It’s a scorcher today, huh?”
He dropped to the ground, cross-legged, motioning to the grass. “Take a load off.”
We followed his lead and sat down across from him in a semi-circle.
Reaching inside his shirt pocket, he pulled out a pack of Marlborough cigarettes.
I tried not to grimace when he offered me one. “No thanks.”
He held the pack out to the girls, but they shook their heads.
Shrugging, he lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply. The smoke spiraled in lazy circles and clung to my skin. My lips began to burn and my eyes watered. I slid back a few inches as he waved the damned cigarette around and blew more in my direction.
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br /> “Does this bother you?” he asked.
“Um, just a little. Allergies,” I said.
He nodded sagely and began to blow the smoke away from us, pursing his lips into a sideways funnel so the smoke went over his shoulder.
“So what’s up? Why did Porter send you to me? I don’t deal anymore. I hope you’re not after weed.”
“No,” I said. “We’re trying to answer some questions. About Valerie here.”
I repeated the story, and Valerie took off her hat and sunglasses.
Wiley stared at her for a long time. “You look a little familiar,” he said, scrutinizing her.
Elsbeth pulled Valerie’s wild mane of hair from her face so that Wiley could get a better look. “Try harder,” Elsbeth said. “It’s killing her, not knowing who she is, or where she came from.”
Wiley scrunched up his face and seemed to concentrate. He stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and tucked it behind his ear.
“I can almost picture you on a stage. You ever sing for a living?”
She looked at Elsbeth, shrugging. “I honestly don’t know. I had a guitar case with me when they found me. It had one of those medieval instruments in it. It was a lute. I guess I might have played it.”
“No,” he said. “That doesn’t ring a bell. I’m probably all wet anyway. I get everything mixed up.”
Frustrated now, I sighed. I didn’t hold out much hope that he’d suddenly remember who she was.
Wiley jumped to his feet. “Well, I’ve got berries to pick. Tell Porter to come down and see me for himself sometime.”
We all stood, brushing grass and leaves from our clothes.
Elsbeth said, “Porter said to say hi. He’s working today, or he would have come along, too.”
“Oh. Well, we went through a lot together in ‘Nam, old Porter and me. A hell of a lot.”
I grimaced. “He’s mentioned you. Said you were both POWs. Pretty heavy stuff.”
Wiley didn’t say a word, so I handed him a piece of paper. “Here, take this. It’s our phone number. In case you remember anything about Valerie.”
Spirit Me Away Page 4