Spirit Me Away

by Aaron Paul Lazar

  Elsbeth sat up and rubbed her eyes. “What?”

  “A boy was sleeping up there.” He stretched one long finger in the general direction of a nearby hill. “Wrapped up in his sleeping bag. You couldn’t tell there was a guy inside. This tractor came over the top of the hill and just rolled right over him. It was awful.”

  The sound of a helicopter’s whirring blades broke through the calm of the morning. “They’re picking up the body now.”

  “Oh, no.” Elsbeth’s eyes welled with tears. “That’s not supposed to happen here. It’s supposed to be love and flowers and music. Not people dying.”

  We talked about it for a long time, trying to make sense of it all, but it was impossible. Nothing like this had ever happened to us before.

  The concert had gotten way out of hand. Rumors were spreading that we were almost a half million strong, that food was running out, and that kids were getting sick from exposure. Those who were stoned would stare at the sun, burning their eyes. The hospital tent was full of them. And the mud was pervasive. The sun shone in the morning, but mud glistened from puddles and spattered on everyone’s legs.

  “How about some breakfast?” I said. “It might make us feel better.”

  By then, everyone had woken up and shared the news. There were murmurs of “yes” and “okay” from them, so I stood up. “Okay. It’s oatmeal today. I’ll start the water.”

  Elsbeth sat quietly beside me, watching me pour water into a saucepan. The sun warmed our backs, feeling good and a welcome change from the dampness. I fired up the Coleman stove and set the pan on the burner.

  I turned to Elsbeth, stroking her hand. “Disappointed?”

  She nodded. “Yeah. I didn’t picture it like this. People dying. Hungry. The rain. The mud. The music’s been great, but it’s a pretty tough dose of reality.”

  I poured a generous amount of oatmeal into the pot, stirring it slowly. “It’s something we’ll never forget, that’s for sure.”

  Her eyes brightened when she looked toward the stage. “Yeah. And tonight we’ll see Janis Joplin, The Who, The Grateful Dead, and The Jefferson Airplane. I really can’t wait.”

  I smiled, amazed at her resilience. “By then, maybe the tent will have dried out,” I said, hoping I was right.

  “Right. And maybe we can get cleaned up today. That water in the pond looks awfully inviting.”

  The pond shimmered in the distance, already filled with early morning bathers.

  “You know we’ll have to walk back through the mud, don’t you?” I said, immediately regretting my sourpuss comment.

  She nodded and began to separate paper cups and plastic spoons. “I know. But the water will feel so good.”

  I leaned over to kiss her lips. “I love your light, baby. You are so positive. So passionate. I’m glad you’re gonna be my child’s mother.”

  “Right back atcha,” she said, giggling. “Except I mean father.”

  She was right, of course. We hadn’t showered since Thursday morning, and the combination of perspiration from the heat of the day and the clammy moisture that came with the rainstorm wasn’t the cleanest feeling in the world. A swim would be wonderful.

  I doled out seven cups of oatmeal and had enough for two more. I filled two extra cups with cereal and topped them off with the last of the milk from the cooler. The ice was nearly gone, and the rest of the milk wouldn’t have kept for more than a few hours, anyway.

  I stuck spoons into the cups and carried them to our neighbors, the couple who’d been going at it in public when we’d arrived the day before. They’d since calmed down and had looked very bedraggled that morning, sitting alone on their blanket. They also looked hungry.

  “You guys want some breakfast?” I asked, standing over them.

  The boy glanced up at me with feverish eyes. “Yeah, man. Thanks. We’re starvin’ and the food booth’s outta supplies.”

  “Here you go, then.” I handed the warm oatmeal to them. “Peace.”

  The girl reached for the cup eagerly and began to wolf it down. “Thanks, man,” she said with her mouth full. “That was so cool of you.”

  I cracked myself up. Here I was, falling into the lingo of the crowd, calling everyone ‘man’ and tossing the peace sign back at everyone who flashed it at me. I was being assimilated by a surging mass of muddy hippies.

  And I kind of liked it.

  Something told me I’d never forget this concert, this happening, this once in a lifetime event.

  I smiled at them, wished them luck, and headed back to my own clan. The sun winked on the surface of the pond in the distance, summoning us to its shore.

  Chapter 59

  Elsbeth and I held hands, slipping along the muddy path toward the pond. I was leery about frolicking around in the water with all these nudists, but I planned to pretend it didn’t matter to me, that it was as normal as walking down the grocery store aisle. Siegfried and I had gone skinny dipping plenty of times in our youth, but I’d never done it on a mass scale like this.

  I planned to avert my eyes, concentrate on washing up, and get out of there as soon as possible.

  Valerie and Porter reached the water’s edge first. They draped their towels over some honeysuckle bushes and proceeded to peel out of their clothes. My mouth dropped when they slipped out of their underwear and jumped into the water with happy abandon. Lana and Wiley stripped, too.

  Lana walked past me, sashaying her broad hips and grinning seductively. “Gus? You’re not shy about this, are you, honey?” She touched my sleeve. “Take off your clothes.”

  I shrugged. “I will. I’m no prude,” I lied.

  The idea of me being naked in front of all these people wasn’t the hard part. It was the thought of my wife displaying her beautiful body in front of other men that troubled me. I watched as she pulled off her shirt and slipped out of her skirt.

  “Come on in! The water’s great!” shouted Wiley. He splashed water at Lana, who stroked toward the middle of the pond. The liquid slipped over her body and she sliced through the pond with rings of little waves rippling behind her.

  Valerie and Porter were up to their necks in a group of lily pads. She giggled when the bar of Ivory soap slipped out of his hands. It floated in the water between them and she grabbed at it, washing her arms and hands. Byron did the sidestroke around the entire perimeter of the pond, slow and steady. Again, he was alone. He hadn’t picked up any girls over the last few days, which was kind of a record in his debauched lifestyle. I wasn’t sure why, but he seemed to be happy with the situation.

  Maybe he’d gotten all sexed out before we left Boston?

  I laughed inwardly and shook my head.

  Not likely.

  A dozen folks frolicked on the sandy shore, all of them nude. I slipped out of my clothes and quickly followed my wife into the water. We both ducked down quickly to hide ourselves.

  “Oh, Gus. It feels heavenly, doesn’t it?”

  I reached my hands around her waist. “I have to admit, it really does feel good.”

  We spun around in the water, oblivious to those surrounding us.

  “Hey, Porter. Toss me the soap, will you?” I shouted.

  He lobbed it across the water and we both lathered up and dunked under the water to rinse off. When we were done, we hastened to the shore, grabbed our towels, and quickly redressed.

  The rest of the gang came ashore, dried off, and dressed. We prepared to trudge back up the hill, but Valerie stopped and stared at someone behind us.

  I turned around to see who it was.

  “Clive?” she said.

  There he was, her stepbrother, the slime ball who had hired her out as a prostitute for drug money. His red, stringy hair hung limp and straggly, loose on his shoulders. His beard was long and thin and his nose looked badly sunburned. Mud caked his bare feet and his legs up to his knees. His white tee shirt was stained and it looked like he’d worn it for weeks.

  Like a panicked horse, his eyes flared and he tu
rned to run.

  Porter raced after him and put him in a headlock.

  “What the hell,” Clive struggled and shouted, twisting in Porter’s grip.

  Our amazing Viet Nam Vet swung him around and threw him to the ground. He straddled Clive’s chest and pinned him down. “Okay, Valerie. Ask him whatever you want. He’s not going anywhere.”

  The color drained from Valerie’s face, and a crowd began to gather. “Not here,” she whispered. “Please, not here.”

  Porter nodded, grabbed Clive’s arm, and jerked him to his feet. Wiley locked Clive’s other arm, and they escorted him forcibly up the hill to our tent.

  Elsbeth slung an arm around Valerie’s shoulders and talked her up, trying to give her courage. Byron and I followed behind them, trudging through the slippery mud, shooing away the curious bystanders who tried to follow us. When we reached the tent, Wiley and Porter heaved Clive inside. Porter shoved him to the ground and stood guard at the door, arms crossed like the big, wonderful genie that he was.

  Elsbeth started in on him, her voice harsh and strident. “Why did you want Valerie to come with you? Did you plan to put her back on the streets, Clive? Is that it?”

  Valerie stared at him and crossed her arms, sullen and angry. “Why don’t you answer the questions, Clive? Surprised I actually remembered what you did to me?”

  He swiped a hand across his face, sighed, and rolled his eyes. “I don’t have to tell you squat.”

  Porter leaned toward him. “Listen, you piece of dirt. Don’t give me an excuse to knock you across this tent. I’m itching to do it. I’m this far from doing it.” He held his thumb and forefinger a quarter inch apart, leering into Clive’s face.

  “Okay, okay,” Clive said, holding up a hand as if to ward him off.

  “Well?” I said. “Was that your plan? To use your step-sister for drug money again?”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged and looked at the ground. “I guess.”

  Elsbeth spat out the next question. “We want to know about her parents. What are their real names? Where do they live?”

  Clive snorted a laugh and sneered at her. “You really wanna know?”

  Valerie’s lips tightened. “Yes. I do.”

  Clive coughed a coarse laugh. “I got you out of that situation, you ungrateful b—”

  Before the slur left his lips, Porter flew across the tent and backhanded him. “Watch your mouth, pig.”

  Elsbeth pushed for more. “What are you talking about? What situation?”

  Clive sighed. “Okay. Fine. You really wanna know?”

  Valerie nodded, but she looked scared.

  “Your last name is Spencer.”

  Spencer? Not Coolidge?

  “We came from Dover, New Hampshire. Your dad died when you were little.”

  Valerie’s face crumpled. “He’s dead?”

  “Yeah, sorry. Your mother remarried, eight years ago, to my father. Big mistake. A real downgrade for her.”

  His lips twisted in a sadistic half-smile. “The next year, she died in a car crash.”

  Valerie slumped to the ground. “My mother’s dead, too?”

  Clive nodded, as if he’d just told her that people drive on the right side of the road in England. “You have no family left, ‘cause your grandparents died years before that.” He rubbed a hand on his arm where Porter had gripped him in a vice lock. “Dad wasn’t too happy about losing his wife. He drank a lot. A real lot. Sometimes, when he got lonely, he went into your room at night. That’s how you got knocked up, the first time.” He stared at her stomach. “He beat me, all the time. Finally, when we’d both had enough, you and I took off on the bus for Boston.”

  We stared at him, saying nothing. Valerie wept softly into her hands.

  Finally, Byron, who’d been listening intently with fire pouring from his eyes, spoke in a harsh whisper. “How could you? You save her from being raped by her stepfather, then you take her away and start pimping her out? How could you sell your stepsister after what she’d been through? You’re a heartless arse.”

  “Crap.” Clive looked at Valerie and then at the people around the tent. He hung his head. “I dunno. It just made sense at the time. We had no money. We were hungry.”

  “Sounds to me like you got so freaked out on drugs you lost your mind,” Porter spat.

  Clive looked at him through half-closed eyes. “Yeah. Maybe.”

  “You’re stoned right now, aren’t you?” I said.

  Clive looked at me and laughed, throwing his head back as if he’d heard the best joke all year.

  My skin crawled.

  “Aren’t we observant?” he chortled, as if he were suddenly my teacher. Without missing a beat, he grabbed a heavy flashlight from the floor and swung it at Byron’s head. It connected hard, knocking him onto his side.

  Clive turned into a whirling dervish. He picked up the mallet we’d used to hammer in the tent stakes and began swinging it wildly toward us. He smashed it into Wiley’s shoulder, then started toward me.

  “Outta my way, you bastards!” He cracked the mallet against a juice bottle, breaking the glass. Grabbing the neck of the bottle, he waved the weapon around him in mad circles.

  “Who’s got the cash? Where’s your money, you freakin’ morons? Come on. Give it up.”

  Clive sneered at us, waving the bottle in slow circles.

  Porter crept silently behind him, but before he could grab him, Clive lunged toward Valerie with the jagged edge of the bottle aimed at her chest.

  She tripped and fell back, crying out. A red spot bloomed on her white shirt.

  Porter, Wiley, Byron and I swarmed on top of Clive. I grabbed the wrist holding the broken bottle, and he squirmed beneath us, twisting out of our grasp. With the strength of ten men, he rolled away and once again waved his weapon menacingly in our direction.

  “Come on. Give it up. What do you think you’re doing?” I said, trying to coax him down.

  His eyes narrowed. He looked around the tent like a wayward copperhead. “I don’t give a flying—”

  Without another word, the man’s eyes rolled back in his head, and he stiffened. He wobbled, swayed, and fell forward. The broken bottle dropped from his hand and he collapsed face down on the tent floor.

  “Oh God,” Valerie said, with one hand covering her mouth. “What happened to him?”

  Porter leaned down beside him and turned him over, feeling for a pulse on his neck. “Um. Valerie? I think he’s dead.”

  Elsbeth and Lana started to cry. Valerie stared at the dead body.

  “Drugs?” I crouched beside the body and checked his wrist. No pulse, Porter was right.

  Porter nodded. “I think so. Looks like he just crashed and burned.”

  I sighed, rose, and put my arm around Valerie’s shoulder. “Are you okay? Did he cut you badly?” I escorted her to the other side of the tent, away from the view of Clive’s eyes staring up at nothing.

  “I think...I think I’m okay,” she stuttered, plucking at her bloody shirt. “It’s just a scratch.”

  Elsbeth wiped her tears and took Valerie under her wing. “Let’s take a look, honey.” She turned her away from me and inspected the damage. “I think you’ll live.”

  I turned to tend to Byron, who rubbed his head and groaned. The poor guy had been hit hard, but at least it wasn’t the same side of the head he’d had stitches in last month.

  “Are you okay, buddy?” I said, helping him up.

  “Just another bump on my hard noggin.” He actually gave me a crooked smile. “I’ll be right as rain in a few days.”

  “Okay, good. Then I’m going for help.” I backed out of the tent and looked around at the masses of people. How would I contact anyone with authority? I hadn’t seen a cop since we arrived. There were some guys with red armbands who’d roamed the group. Someone had called them the Hog Farmers or something like that. At first, I thought they were a rock band, but later realized they’d been hired to help keep order. I searched the area f
or help, but saw nothing but bedraggled hippies and mud.

  My insides churned when I thought of the horrible revelations Clive shared about Valerie’s past. The name he’d given us—Coolidge—was bogus. Now we knew her name was Valerie Spencer. If he hadn’t lied about that, too. But the poor girl had been through much more than we’d ever imagined. And New Hampshire, not Arizona.

  She’d never had a chance. Not with that kind of family.

  I whispered a prayer, asking God to never let her remember that time in her life.

  Chapter 60

  We just couldn’t sleep in the tent that night. Not after a man died right on Byron’s sleeping bag.

  I’d finally found someone to help. After the authorities had taken away Clive’s body, we moved our sleeping bags outside under the sun to air out, then stayed outside until dusk drifted over the land. Finally, the purple sky darkened and the stars sparkled overhead. We talked for hours while Janis Joplin and the Who sang in the background.

  I witnessed one amazing miracle that night. Through the love of her friends, Valerie came to terms with her life.

  In spite of my prayer, she remembered her stepfather and his abuse. But she also remembered her loving parents, which was a blessing. We heard about the horrors she’d endured in Cambridge when Clive addicted her to drugs and farmed her out for money.

  We’d eaten cold bean and ketchup sandwiches, while listening to our friend share her stories. She cried hard for hours and then talked nonstop until dawn, when the Jefferson Airplane began to sing “White Rabbit.”

  When it was all over, and Valerie’s tears had dried, Wiley stretched and stood up. “Anybody else ready to sleep?”

  I craved coffee again, but made do with the Postum.

  “I’m so sorry,” Valerie said. “I shouldn’t have kept you up all night. You are such good friends.” She turned to Elsbeth and me, taking our hands in hers, whispering tearfully. “I don’t know how to thank you all.”

  A lump formed in my throat. I sat mute, feeling foolish and tongue-tied. But my wife saved the day.

  “We’re the ones who are lucky, honey.” Elsbeth reached over to give her a hug. “We love you. You’re family now. You brought us all together, and gave me someone to mother. You know I needed that, don’t you? I’ve got these persistent mothering instincts that drive poor Gus crazy.”