Three Day Summer (8 page)

chapter 26

Michael

I savor every bite of that cheese. It's cheddar, I think, sharp and delicious especially when placed in hunks between a rolled-up piece of Wonder Bread. I think this may have just knocked last night's burger out of contention for the top five meals of my lifetime.

The grocery store has shuttered its doors for good by the time I walk past it again. If they're smart, they won't bother opening up in the morning. Unless they magically get a new shipment of supplies in.

I'm down to my last two slices of bread by the time I can hear the music again. A woman's voice is faintly drifting over, getting louder as I walk past the half-finished gates.

Vaguely, I keep an eye out for Evan and Amanda, thinking it might be nice to find them again at some point. But if I'm honest with myself, I don't look very hard.

The field by the stage is still packed, but this time with prone bodies, some in sleeping bags and on blankets. Some not so lucky.

I'm going to have to be one of the latter if I can't find my friends.

I recognize Joan Baez's unmistakable voice once I reach the top of the big hill. It slides over me like moth wings, at once tangible and translucent.

I walk slowly down toward the stage. Joan finishes her song and starts talking about her husband and how he's been in jail for years for protesting the war. “I was happy to find out that after David had been in jail for two and a half weeks, he already had a very, very good hunger strike going with forty-two federal prisoners, none of whom are draft people,” she says.

It's still too dark to see her but I feel a pang of jealousy for all the conviction in her voice, and all the conviction that must be in her husband's. I wish I felt that strongly about something.

At least I can appreciate the music. I find a tree to lean against, and let it wash over me as Joan sings, this time without any musical accompaniment. Just her pure voice ringing out, “Swing low, sweet chariot, coming for to carry me home.”

She sings one more song before leaving the stage to loud applause and whistles. Then a man's deep voice comes over the sound system.

“That brings us fairly close to the dawn,” he says. “Maybe the best thing for everyone to do, unless you have a tent or someplace specific to go to, is carve yourself out a piece of territory, say good night to your neighbor. And say thank you to yourself for making this the most peaceful, the most pleasant day anybody's ever had in this kind of music.”

There is more applause and whistles and I can feel a wave of instant nostalgia wash over the audience as everyone reflects on their pleasant, peaceful, perfect day. I catch the eye of a short guy standing next to me and he nods at me in a gesture of camaraderie. Then he salutes me before walking a few steps over and settling himself down on the ground. More and more heads are starting to disappear from view, and it's clearly time for me to follow suit.

I sink right down into the mud. At least it's soft. I use the root of the tree as a sort of pillow, my body now cradled by grass and soft, wet dirt.

Right before I drift off, I start to worry that I somehow won't wake up in time to meet Cora.

Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m. Eight a.m.
I repeat it like a drill inside my head, hoping it will somehow act as an alarm clock in the morning.

Saturday, August 16

chapter 27

Cora

I wake up to the sound of Dad yelling.

“Bethel's been declared an
evacuation zone
, Iris. Everyone is being ordered to evacuate, and I, for one, am taking myself down there and making sure each and every one of those bums loafing around there knows it and gets out.”

Mom murmurs something probably intended to calm him down.

Evacuation zone, really? Does that mean the whole thing is over? Is everybody gone?

I stare at my clock. It's seven in the morning. I get up and dress quickly; definitely no white dress this time, I think, as I glare at the culprit still damp and hanging from my chair. I find a pair of denim shorts and a light orange, short-sleeved button-down shirt. I button it most of the way down and then take the bottom ends and tie them together. I quickly braid my hair and pin it into a crown around my head and slip into a pair of brown sandals.

I glance at the mirror. Definitely more hip than yesterday. And also less likely to flash a million and a half people if it rains again.

My parents' voices are coming from the kitchen. So much for baking bread. But I can at least get the eggs and see what I can scrounge up from the second pantry. I tiptoe past them and to the back door.

The rain has stopped but the ground is still wet. A basket in hand, I go into the henhouse and give my regards to
vingt-huit
through
quarante-deux
as I take their eggs.

I go back into the house. Our second pantry is a little door just off the den. It's pretty far from the kitchen and I can't even hear my parents' conversation, which makes rummaging around in there a lot calmer. I find another loaf of bread, a few more blocks of cheese, and some Macintosh apples. I also snag a couple of bags of potato chips and pretzels.

My basket is pretty full and heavy at this point; this is probably the best I can do.

By the time I emerge from the pantry and head to the front door, another voice has been added to my parents' in the kitchen. Ned.

Of course. So now I have to sneak around my dad
and
him. Added to which, I immediately conjure up the context in which I remembered him last night—right after being kissed by another boy—and I just feel deeply and utterly embarrassed for myself.

But there isn't much time for wallowing in self-pity.

The kitchen door is straight across from the front one. Of course, I could just sneak out the back door again, but then I'll never hear the end of it from my dad for leaving without saying good-bye.

There's only one way to do this and it won't be graceful.

I square my shoulders and, quickly and quietly as I can, sprint to the front door. I open the screen door gently, step outside, then yell, in one breath, “Byeseeyoualllater.”

I slam the door and walk as fast as I can without looking like I'm running for cover.

“Cora,” I hear both my dad and Ned call out in unison.

If they say anything else, I don't hear it. I've “walked” all the way to the end of our street and turned the corner in less than thirty seconds.

chapter 28

Michael

It turns out I don't need my internal alarm clock after all. I get woken up by trumpet.

I blink and sit up, bleary-eyed, and massage the crick in my neck as I look up to the stage.

Sure enough, a guy up there is playing a trumpet, and standing next to him is Hugh Romney. He's the leader of the Hog Farm, sort of big in the underground hippie culture, and I heard they were going to be responsible for the food here. Hugh is wearing a sleeveless white jumpsuit and a huge straw cowboy hat. He grins widely.

“What we have in mind is breakfast in bed for four hundred thousand,” he says to wild applause. He tells us to hang tight, that food is coming. “And if you've got food, feed other people,” he says before pointing to the guy on trumpet and asking him to play the mess call.

I stand up and stretch out as people start to stir all around me. I look down to the spot I picked as my bed for the night. It looks as if the ground and I have gone all the way together. Swirls of wet dirt peak and valley, with a deep vortex right in the area where my crotch would have been.

What the hell did I dream about last night?

And that's when I think to look down at myself and see that, obviously, my pants and shirt and arms are covered with mud. I feel really self-conscious about it for all of five seconds before I take a glance at everyone around me.

Overnight, everyone's vibrant clothes have turned a familiar shade of brown. I'll fit right in.

I squelch slowly around the field. In the distance, I see a small group of people standing on one leg in unison, their palms touching in front of them like they are in prayer. Amanda does yoga sometimes so I vaguely recognize the pose. A man in front is clearly leading the group, slowly guiding everyone into more elaborate bends and twists.

“Here you are!” a bright voice from next to me says, and I turn around to a small Dixie cup getting shoved into my hand. I look at the freckle-faced girl who has handed it to me. “Muesli and water. Eat up!” she says, before moving on to hand a cup to my neighbor.

I bring the cup to my mouth before I remember my feast from the night before. It's probably a pretty solid bet that most of the people here haven't been as lucky as I have. I bring the cup back down and, remembering Hugh's words, look for a suitable beneficiary. I finally come upon a shirtless young boy of two or three with a mop of wild, curly hair, running around in a circle, yelling raucously at the top of his lungs. I don't have to look far to find the couple staring at him dotingly, as if he's just sung “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on
The Ed Sullivan Show
.

I present the cup to them. “Muesli and water?” I ask.

“Oh! Thank you! That would be great,” the woman says, taking it. “Come here, Rudy,” she calls out to the boy, who runs over in a flail of limbs and primal screams.

I wisely get out of his way.

It takes me a little while to find someone with a discernible watch but when I finally do, I discover it is eight thirty.
Time to make my way over to the medical tent
, I think, and I can't help whistling a little as I do.

chapter 29

Cora

The field I cut through to get to work is a real mess. A lot of the grass is turned up and it's obvious quite a few people have spent the night there. Some of them are still milling about, hanging out before the concert begins. I think about starting to hand out food from my basket, but then decide against it. I'll wait for Michael; it's something we can do together.

An enormous noise comes from behind me and I whip around just in time to see a motorcycle making its way across the field. Three people are on it, whooping up a storm. “We made it! We're here!” I hear one of them yell, and I can't help but smile as the bike zips past me, kicking up mud as it goes. I can just imagine them weaving through traffic, taking whatever back roads they can, just to get here.

This morning, I brought the portable radio out with me to the henhouse and heard them talking about the festival: how the Thruway is closed down and, as my dad said, they briefly considered evacuating Bethel entirely. National radio is talking about
my town
; they even had a reporter “on the scene.” Never before has my hometown been anything close to “the scene,” and now here it is: the center of the country's attention for one brief, shining moment. Wild.

As I near one of Mr. Yasgur's big red barns, I see one of his sons outside, driving a wooden sign into the ground. It says
FREE WATER
and people are already lined up for it. I can see Mr. Yasgur himself in his button-down shirt and thick, black, square-framed glasses handing out paper cups of water and milk. He's the last person on earth you'd think would be up for hosting a whole bunch of hippies. The world is a weird and wonderful place.

I quicken my pace, the picnic basket swinging heavily beside me, eager to go and help out my fellow man myself.

I walk past the nonexistent gates and approach the yellow medical tents with caution. I don't want Anna or one of the other nurses to see me, just in case they accidentally suck me into work.

My watch says five to nine, so I hang around behind my tent for a while, my eyes scanning the area for a tall, blond boy.

But ten minutes pass, and then fifteen, and nothing. I wonder if we are standing on opposite sides of the tent, so I circle it in a wide berth, looking carefully into every face I come across.

Finally, I start wondering if he won't show. Maybe that kiss has thrown him off too. It admittedly wasn't my best and it's not like I was too encouraging, right? I frown.
Well, that's a bummer
, I think, looking down forlornly at my picnic basket.

“Cora!” I hear and turn around immediately with a smile, recognizing Michael's voice.

But he's not there. I scrunch my face in confusion before a brown hand reaches out and touches my arm gently.

I look at its owner and immediately laugh.

The mud-speckled person who's grinning at me has nary a blond hair in sight.

chapter 30

Michael

Cora looks different with the clothes she's wearing today and her hair put up. She suddenly looks a little like all the other girls here. I'm not sure how much I like it.

But it's good to see her.

“I brought provisions,” she says, pointing to her picnic basket. “I thought we could hand them out together.”

“Wow,” I say, peeking into the basket. It's packed to the brim. “I heard a rumor that the National Guard was coming in with food or something too. But who needs them when Woodstock has got you?” I shake my head in admiration.

“Well, you get first pick.” She holds out the basket to me.

I think about refusing again but, to tell the truth, I'm a little hungry. I finally settle for taking an apple.

“Thanks,” I say. “Let's go over by the lake. I thought I saw a bunch of families over there.”

“Whoa,” she exclaims as we near the water. “There are so many people. How on earth are we going to pick and choose who to give the food to?”

“Um . . . ,” I start, scanning the crowd. “How about . . . we pick the people who are wearing orange. Like you.”

“What would that make us? Orangists?”

“You've found me out.” I hang my head in shame. “My deepest, darkest secret. Good call on your shirt color, by the way. Otherwise, I don't know if I could've been seen with you.”

“Lucky me. Ah, there's one now.” She points to a middle-aged man wearing an orange bandanna.

We start toward him.

“So . . . ,” I say, taking a bite of the apple. “Tell me about yourself.”

She laughs. “What do you want to know?”

“Um, I'll settle for
your
deepest, darkest secret. And, maybe your shoe size.” She laughs again. It's looking to be a good day for me, charm-wise. Which is great; I only seem to have about five of them a year.

“Six and a half,” she says. “You?” We reach the man, and she bends down and opens up her picnic basket. “Sir, some food?”

The man's face lights up. “For me?” he asks.

“Absolutely,” she says. “Take what you need. Except the eggs. They aren't cooked yet. I have to get those over to the food stands.”

He reaches in and comes up with a couple of slices of bread, thanking her profusely.

“Of course,” she says with a smile before turning back to me.

“You sure you want to just open up the basket for people? What if someone takes everything?” I ask.

“Well, if they're wearing orange,” she whispers, “I trust them.”

“Good point,” I answer as we scan the field some more. “Two o'clock. Orange skirt.”

She nods and we head in that direction.

“So?” she asks.

“What?”

“What's
your
shoe size?”

“Oh, nuh-uh,” I counter. “You answer all my questions first and then I'll answer yours.”

“Oh, is that how it works?

“Absolutely. What, you never played this game before?”

“I have led a deprived life in my little farm town,” she says, putting on a drawl.

“It's okay. I will show you the way of the cosmopolitan world. And as payment . . . your deepest, darkest secret.” I stop and hold out my hand, my palm open as if waiting to receive my set price.

“Well . . . ,” Cora says, a line forming between her eyebrows as she stares down at my hand. “The truth is that I would like to be a . . . nurse. There. I said it!” She looks up into my eyes then, brazen.

“What?” I sputter. “That is unexpected. And shocking.”

“Isn't it just?” she says before walking over to the girl in the orange skirt and opening up her picnic basket. Once she's a few apples and hunks of cheese lighter, she comes back.

“I just never expected this from you, Cora.”

“I know.”

“I mean, you? A liar?”

“Hey!” Cora objects.

“Biggest, darkest secret, my ass,” I say. “Pathetic.”

“All right. Well, since we're on my territory, we're going to play the Bethel version of this game. In which you spill your guts in front of me, right here, right now.”

“I am an open book,” I say. “Ask me anything and I swear I will not lie.”

“Okay. What is
your
shoe size?”

“Ten.”

“And which of your teachers did you have a crush on?”

“Ms. Abernathy,” I say without any hesitation. “Tenth-grade science. Great legs.”

“And what's your favorite thing in the whole wide world?”

“Music,” I answer, throwing my apple core on the ground for emphasis. “Glorious music.”

“What do you play?”

“Play?” I ask.

“Yeah. Any instruments? Drums? The guitar?”

“Oh,” I say. “No, I don't play anything.”

“Why not?” she asks.

I shrug. “I don't know. I just . . . appreciate it, I guess. The music.”

“Oh,” Cora says.

Suddenly our playful banter has grown uncomfortable and I know exactly why. She has managed to hit at the one big problem of being me.

I chuckle. “See, the thing is, you're the type of person who knows exactly what she wants to be. And it's something amazing and useful. And that's awesome. But I'm the type of person who is completely useless. A lazy good-for-nothing, as they would say.” I try to lighten the mood with some good old-fashioned self-deprecation.

But she's not having it. “Why do you say that?” she asks. She stops walking and looks up at me, forcing me to stop too.

“Oh, you know.” I shrug helplessly. “It's like I don't want to go to college. And I don't want to go fight. I don't know what I want.”

Cora says, “You're seventeen. I'm not so sure you're supposed to know what you want.”

“Eighteen, actually.”

“Oh, well, in that case. What
is
your life plan, you hippie bum?”

I laugh. “Handing out food to people wearing orange. Obviously.” I take the picnic basket from her. It's heavy and I feel a little bad that I didn't think to take it from her earlier.

I head toward a guy with an orange-enough tie-dyed shirt and open up the basket for him.

“How much?” he asks suspiciously.

“What?” I ask.

“How much do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” I respond. “It's all free.”

His eyes widen. “Really? Oh, thanks so much, man. This is fantastic,” he says as he does what I was worried about earlier and takes an entire loaf of bread and four apples.

“Man, you wouldn't believe it. There was some old guy walking around here charging a dollar for water. Can you imagine paying one whole dollar for water?!”

“That's awful,” Cora says. “But, hey, if you walk over that way, you'll see a big red barn. They're handing out free water and milk over there.”

“Serious?” he asks.

Cora nods.

“You guys are far out, man. The absolute best. And here I was thinking this whole shindig was going to the dogs. An hour ago there was the guy with the water, and then there was another old guy telling us we'd all have to evacuate. It was crazy.”

Cora frowns. “Wait, really? What did he look like?”

“Who?” the guy asks.

“The man who said you might have to evacuate.”

“Oh, I don't know,” he says. “He had, like, white hair and glasses.”

“Ah, okay.” She looks visibly relieved.

After the guy leaves, I have to ask her. “Who did you think it was?”

She takes a breath, and I say “Your dad?” at the same time that she says “My dad.”

Cora laughs. “He made quite an impression last night, huh?”

“After a fashion,” I admit. “I can only thank the god of Woodstock—that's Jimi Hendrix by the way—he didn't see me.”

“Jimi Hendrix, huh?”

I close my eyes and bow my head in reverence. “Naturally. The one and only.”

“Can't say I ever listened to him,” she says in a shockingly casual way.

My eyes pop open. “Wait. What?! That's like saying you've lived on earth and haven't felt the sun. Or swum in the ocean. That's like you've never eaten a Hershey's bar. His playing, man . . . it'll just transport you. It's like he's one with his instrument and it's all coming from some great beyond where there's only pure inspiration and creativity. He's like a vessel to another land of unsullied, unadulterated . . .” I can't even think of the word, so I just take my air guitar and strike a pose with a look of intense triumph on my face.

Cora smiles. “I see. Well, that does sound pretty cool.”

“Pretty cool? No, no, no. Jimi is not pretty cool. Jimi is the. Man. Period.”

“The funny thing is, you know what I'm really hearing here?” Cora asks.

“What?”

“Maybe it's time you picked up a guitar of your own.”