GroVont: Sorrow Floats Part 21

The day John Kennedy got killed, Dothan Talbot beat me up. Technically, I threw the first punch, but I maintain to this moment that Dothan had it coming. After we heard the news, Dothan and that idiot sister of his raced around the playground taunting the way kids will who have been raised by redneck ignoramuses from Alabama.

I wasn't in the mood. So I decked him.

American folklore considers it quaint when a thirteen-year-old girl hits a boy, he hits back, then they go steady. By Critter's age, at seventeen, the same scenario is sick. Boys who hit their girlfriends are abusive apes, and girls who stay with boyfriends who hit are spineless chickens.

Dothan never hit me again. After I got old enough to realize the humiliation of violence I always swore that if he ever laid a hand on me I'd be out the door, but that's one of those blank declarations almost every woman makes while the situation rests in theory. I'm done with blank declarations. Like the death of a father, or alcohol addiction, no one knows for certain how they'll behave when reality rears up and blows theory to the wind.

Critter, obviously, had given herself an excuse to stay. I'd created an excuse for Dothan to make the decision for us.

We, Critter and I, were supposed to be the vanguard of the first generation of smart women. I was the Be-Here-Now chick of the sixties, she the free-soaring spirit of the seventies, yet neither of us did squat about our cheating, controlling men. It took Marcella, the Betty Crocker of the fifties, to stand erect and shout, "f.u.c.k you, jerk, I'm outta here."

Or whatever was the cookies-and-milk equivalent of "f.u.c.k you, jerk" in Amarillo, Texas. Maybe she called him a lout.

Whatever she called him, it worked when our way didn't. Hugo was following like a puppy who'd been slapped in the nose with a newspaper. Where was Hugo now? Had he given up and returned to Amarillo and the cotton flowers of Annette Gilliam, or, like the Shadow, had he simply faded into the night?

I kind of hoped he was lurking in the darkness; I don't know why. All cheating men should be castrated-the cynic could make an argument that all men should be castrated-but the thought of Hugo Sr. hovering somewhere out of sight, never with us yet always nearby, struck me as kind of sweet.

The music changed from Doobie Brothers to Deep Purple-"Hey, Joe," a song about a man with a gun in his hand. One una.s.sailable truth, Freedom held Critter, not me. Time to get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge. More coffee-coffee would knock me off my natural state of high center and give me the impetus to get Lloyd and Shane on the road. I needed a liquid impetus.

Inside, Shane was bent over his harmonica, blowing blues notes that didn't match with Deep Purple. The tanned girl, who'd put on a tank top, sat at his feet next to a very intense-looking young man who held the baby. The others still sprawled in various postures of decadence, but you could tell from their body language that Shane was center of the deal.

Midway through a riff, Shane broke off and said to the intense young man, "Don't throw your blame for the uptight bearings of Christianity on Jesus. Jesus was cool, he taught love your enemies, love your neighbors, love yourself. He never said a word against mixed swimming. Or getting high."

The young man clenched his eyes. "But the Buddhist theory of nurturing negates my Nazarene upbringing. I'm left with emptiness."

Shane raised himself on his hands. "Christianity was n.o.ble for one hundred years, until that a.n.a.l repressive St. Paul started writing letters. He's the one took s.e.x off the cross."

The tanned girl raised a fist. "Right on."

Dog Whiffer twirled in her corner. "Tell it like it is."

I had a doll once that talked with more creativity when you pulled a string out her back.

"Andrew and Thomas were gay," Shane said. "Jesus didn't care."

"Who were Andrew and Thomas?" Dog Whiffer asked.

In the kitchen a kid with a totally bald head and hoop earrings sat staring at the closed refrigerator door. As I poured coffee, he exhaled. "Heavy, man."

"What?"

"Listen to the rhythm. It's like Africa. I'm really into black people."

I listened. "The refrigerator motor?"

"Very heavy."

"No, it's not."

He looked at me. "It's not heavy?"

"It's a refrigerator motor." I narrowed the s.p.a.ce between our faces to four inches. His pupils were huge, unfocused pits. "Listen, my son. I am a messenger sent from G.o.d."

He nodded. h.e.l.l, he was on mescaline. People on mescaline are like old Blackfeet, they expect messages from G.o.d.

I p.r.o.nounced distinctly. "G.o.d said to tell you: Grow up."

The boy repeated. "Grow up."

"Stop taking drugs. Get a job with the post office. Plant trees. Buy a lawn mower."

"I don't know if I can remember all this."

"Say it aloud so you don't forget."

He licked his dry lower lip. "Who did you say you are?"

"I am the Virgin Mary."

"A real virgin?"

"You better believe it. Say the words."

He licked his lips again and chanted in a near whisper. "Stop taking drugs. Get a job with the post office. Plant trees. Buy a lawn mower."

"Very good. Now, do it." For the first time since Dad died, I felt proud of myself.

Back in the living room Shane was doing his Socrates-to-the-students thing, sort of what I did in the kitchen, only I did it from good motives to help the poor kid while Shane did it because he got off on adoration.

"'Love your neighbor as yourself' means it is proper to love yourself," he lectured. "Jesus often practiced masturbation. It was a regular ritual of early Christian ceremonies until the fourth century, when Pope Pius the Second dried his stem and proclaimed self-love a sin."

The intense young man gazed at Shane. "You know so much information."

"Hey," I called over the loadies, "when Lloyd comes back, we're leaving."

His chins formed a frown. "I like it here."

"You would."

The tan girl leaned back on her hands to look straight up at me. I could have poured coffee down her cleavage. "Father Rinesfoos is explaining the smooth-side-up, rough-side-down balance of astral perspective. It's totally amazing."

Captain Beefheart must not be as deep as Hank Williams. "Father Rinesfoos?" I said.

Shane said, "I am a priest of the One Day at a Time Chapel. Where's Lloyd?"

At that point confusion broke out on the porch. What sounded like lawn furniture hit the side of the house, Freedom's voice rose, then Owsley's above it, then Freedom's, then the door opened and Lloyd popped through.

"I'd like to go now," I said.

Lloyd's eyes took in the room. "Marcella wouldn't come back. She and the kids are waiting at the cafe."

"I like it here," Shane repeated. "These people recognize my worth."

The door burst open and Owsley did a headlong into the room, followed by Freedom holding the boy's art pad.

"You're going to school!" Freedom shouted.

Owsley crouched on the floor, eyes jumping like a beautiful coyote. "School sucks. The kids make fun of my hair."

Freedom tried to rip the pad asunder, but it was too thick so he went to tearing out a page at a time. When the destruction wasn't fast enough he threw what was left out the door. His voice was Moses, p.i.s.sed off. "I won't have you bringing heat on this house. One more truant officer shows up here..."

He left the threat unfinished, but from what I'd seen punishment would not be "You're grounded."

Owsley was brave though. He barked, "Ha! There's more cops in those woods than squirrels. I couldn't possibly bring more heat than you do."

"I won't go back to prison because of you."

"I won't go back to school."

Freedom doubled his fists and advanced on Owsley. Shane cut his chair between the two. "Let us meditate on peace," Shane said.

"Get your a.s.s out of my way."

"Fat chance." Shane set his hand brake.

Freedom hesitated, then came around my side of the chair. Owsley darted low around the other side and took off out the door. Freedom made a two-step run after him, then gave up. He turned on Shane.

"Don't meddle in my affairs, cripple."

"I can take you, s.h.i.+t-for-brains."

Something in Shane's demeanor gave Freedom a flash of insecurity. His slit eyes did a room scan, searching for support among the followers, but they returned only blank stares, although whether they sided with Shane or were too stoned to process the action is a toss-up.

Freedom came back to Shane, whose face gave an involuntary tic. As they sank into the macho male stare-down thing, I looked around for a weapon. A coffee cup isn't worth much when you're used to a bottle.

The upright man blinked first. "Jesus," he said.

Shane answered, "Yes."

Freedom stomped off down the back hall, making as much racket as you can in wimpy sandals. I heard him fling open a door, and his voice: "How long does it take to suck off an a.s.shole?" The door slammed, more stomping, then the back door of the house crashed open and shut.

Shane reached down to cut off the stereo. You never realize how quiet a room full of people can be until you contrast it suddenly with a room full of noise. He pivoted his chair to face the tanned mother.

"That man has more problems than any of you. Don't follow him," Shane said.

"But Freedom takes care of us," the woman said.

"You may now take care of yourselves. Arise, gather your child, and leave this house tonight." Shane swiveled slowly, making eye contact with each member of the group. "Getting high is okay, making love is okay, but that man's hatred will destroy everything near him."

He didn't know the half of it; he hadn't seen the battery-acid-powder and blow-jobs-for-drugs tricks.

Shane's voice thundered. "Arise and flee!"

They didn't flee, but they dispersed. I'd been so proud of the one kid I saved in the kitchen, but Shane was set on converting the lot. The grandstander.

"You want some coffee?" I asked Lloyd.

"Yeah, that would be nice. I got the straw bales. You can't see Coors from anywhere."

Some gathered clothes from what I'd earlier thought were trash heaps. Others wandered away, shoeless, s.h.i.+rtless, clueless. From outside came the knock of a Volkswagen engine kicking in, then another.

"What's going on?" Critter stood in the doorway. The tapestry skirt had been replaced by a pair of cutoffs.

"The cripple told them to leave," Arlo said. "They were all on mescaline, so they did."

Arlo was like the old Indians Hank Elkrunner told me about who could shut down their auras or charisma or something so as to make themselves functionally invisible. The guy was missing a self.

"They'll be back tomorrow," he said. "How did the slurp job compare to others you've given? I'll front you three Quaaludes to do me."

Critter didn't even look at him. "Get lost, Arlo."

"If you don't take them, Freedom will."

I crossed the room to stand in front of her. "When will you escape?" I asked.

"When it's time."

"Don't wait too long, you'll lose your innocence and end up like me."

Her glazey eyes came to rest on my face. "You're not so bad, Maurey, you just think you are."

I hugged her. Never, in my whole life, have I initiated a hug with a woman.

She spoke over my shoulder. "I'll be okay."

"Leave the b.a.s.t.a.r.d," I said.

"Someday, not today."

Behind me, Shane celebrated the ma.s.s exodus. "Banzai, motherf.u.c.ker."