Boonville (9 page)

When Dad rang the doorbell, Mom fired the first blast. Sarah could hear Dad curse on the other side of the door before being drowned out by the voice of the liberated American woman, the one who overdosed, choked to death on her own bile.

“Down on meeeeeee!”

Sarah didn't get it. Something was missing. What had gone wrong between Mom and Dad? How did the recognition of familiar suffering bring happiness? Where was the power in identifying yourself with being left behind, screwed again. What was so great about the B-side of “Pearl”? Someday she would understand, Mom promised. But Sarah hoped it was far into the future before she could sing “I'd trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday” and mean it.

Janis was playing the day they headed north to Mendoland, Mom gunning her convertible Karmann Ghia up 101, a silver streak against sunburned hills. The divorce was final, alimony and child support checks in her pocketbook. According to Mom, they were escaping from the lost souls living the lies of capitalism at the mercy of men.

“The Movement died,” she said. “There's no use sticking around for the funeral.”

The torn convertible top flapped in the wind. Sarah imagined
Dad behind the car on a stallion, getting ready to leap into the Ghia, take the wheel and steal her back. But he didn't jump because his good pair of bell-bottoms were caught in the stirrups and he didn't want to risk ripping them. Meanwhile, Janis sang “Bye Bye Baby” on the eight-track, the system Sarah had received a week ago from Mom as a birthday present.

“Hon, lookit, now you can listen to music when we're on the road,” Mom had said.

It was her eleventh birthday. The party was the pits.

“You're not still upset about the party, are you?” Mom asked. “I told you my friends were there because we don't have a traditional sexist mother/daughter relationship. My friends are your friends. Besides, I went through with the pregnancy. Don't I deserve something for that? And you got more presents. I didn't get any presents.”

To mark the day, Mom's friends had given Sarah a string of love beads, a bottle of root beer lip gloss, two eight-tracks of Carole King's “Tapestry” album, a subscription to
Ms
., a copy of
I'm O.K., You're O.K.
, and a diaphragm. All of which Mom had borrowed the following week. Dad was a no-show, contracting business in Tahoe. “Contracting herpes, I hope,” Mom said. He sent a dress from Macy's, which was Sarah's only decent gift, aside from the eight track, which she did enjoy, when she was in the car.

“You're not on a bummer because we're moving to this commune with Marty, are you?” Mom said, like Sarah had objected to cashing in a winning lottery ticket. “We're finally getting out from underneath your father. We're going back to the earth. I just wish I could have you all over again so you could start off pure, without all this imperialistic male materialism polluting you. We're going to become spiritually aware, hon. We don't know ourselves anymore. We've drifted from our centers. We've forgotten how to love.”

Sarah wasn't listening, learning to tune Mom out. She wished life could be as easy as singing backup for Janis, being a member of Big Brother and the Holding Company, coming in with a few “take its” and “break its.” But Sarah was certain her life would be more complicated than a four-bar blues. Judge Steinberg's idea of a nurturing environment wasn't going to be realized, “equity of responsibility” was just a phrase written on a court document.
Sarah had custody of herself.

“Besides, it's time for me to do something for myself for a change,” Mom said. “And it's nice for your mother to have someone who's there for her. And, hon, Marty's not like your father, he's there for me.”

“I'm there for you too,” Sarah felt compelled to say.

“I know, hon, and that's beautiful,” Mom said. “I got you Babe. It's special. But sometimes Mommy needs someone who is there for her with a penis.”

Mom began to steer the car with her knees, reaching into her Guatemalan satchel with both hands, searching for something without regard for the road. Sarah became aware of how fast they were traveling. If the Ghia crashed, tossing them from the car, they would be hurtling at that same rate of speed, 70, 80, 90 mph. She saw herself falling out of this already half-open car and imagined the impact, road removing her skin as she rolled to a halt. She replayed the vision until it seemed inevitable, then braced herself in her seat for that future. Mom produced a joint and a lighter from her bag while her hair danced in the wind, a thousand crazed ballerinas.

“C'mon, hon,” she said, taking a toke of the joint. “You looked so stressed. I hate to see you this way. Let's mellow.”

Sarah pictured the smoke swirling in Mom's lungs like in the film on cancer she had seen at school. Mom put her knees to the wheel again, snuffed out the joint, reached back into her purse and took out two tiny tears of psychedelic orange paper.

“Better yet,” she said, handing one of the tabs to Sarah, spires of smoke floating from her mouth as she spoke. “Let's trip.”

Yeah, waking up to Janis was a harsh call.

I don't need this shit, Sarah told herself, removing the pillow from her head. If Mom wants to drudge up bad memories and bad vibes, she can do it quietly and without involving me.

Stepping out of bed, Sarah grabbed her crumpled Levi's, pulling them over her hips. She felt bloated and sick. She wondered whether it was the alcohol or if she was getting her period. Morning air goose-bumped her arms.

God, it's cold, she thought, snagging a sweatshirt and jacket. I better check my patch after I deal with Mom. Maybe with this weather and everyone getting CAMP'ed, I ought to harvest early. The government's Campaign Against Marijuana Planting seizing
her crop would be even more depressing than an early frost.

She stepped into half-laced mountain boots, then, sniffing the air, put a cupped hand to her mouth. Is there something dead in here? Or is that my breath? In the bathroom, she swirled mouthwash, swearing off Jack Daniel's for the rest of her life. From the main house she heard Janis howling “Cry Baby.” She spit into the sink. “Fuck you, Mom.”

Sarah scooped up her Walkman from a pile of laundry. She had a habit of throwing things down when she came into the cabin, sunglasses, coats, keys, aiming for something soft with the delicate stuff, trying to avoid her art projects and board games. Which reminded her, the NEA application was coming due, Parker Brothers had expressed interest in “Hidden Agenda: The Passive-Aggressive Game,” and the Trojan company liked her idea of barbecue-flavored ribbed condoms. She had to write letters, highlighting the specifics of each project.

But later for that.

Her cassette player was cued to her favorite bootleg Cowboy Junkies song about a woman finding the strength to carry on after a breakup. In the song the woman spent the day lamenting her loss but invigorated by the power of her new independence, being able to make decisions based solely on her own needs. In the last verse she put it all together, conceding, “Sure I admit there are times when I miss you, especially like now when I could use someone to hold me. But there are some things that can never be forgiven. And I just have to tell you, I kind of like these extra few feet in my bed.”

That was the real freedom, Sarah had decided, being strong enough to sleep alone.

She put the speakers over her ears and let Margot Timmons drown out Janis Joplin as she made her way toward the main house. Seeing a splash of vomit on her boot, she thought of the previous night and wondered how the Squirrel Boy was doing. Mr. Local with his Dockers and Miami smile. He would be lucky if he got anywhere close to vertical today. She hoped he made it home and his car didn't get too fucked up. He had been a sweetheart, oddly sincere, cute in his awkwardness, not nearly as uptight as he looked, really seeming to listen when she talked. He deserved better than to be left with the Kurtses and Billy Chuck, but he had wanted to keep going and Sarah had grown tired.

I shouldn't worry, she decided, knowing she would track Squirrel Boy down later. He's probably doing better than I am.

J
ohn felt the tip of a steel-toed boot. It rolled him onto his back in the middle of the Lodge's parking lot. Concrete cut at his elbows. He tried to cover up, curling himself into a ball, arms over face, unable to fight back. Crash position. He squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for impact. He wasn't even angry, didn't really know what was happening. One minute he had been walking with Pensive back to their cars, the next he was taking a backwater biology exam. Kidneys? Right there, punch! Cerebral cortex? Back here, whap! Groin? Somewhere down there, smack!

“Enough!” Pensive shrieked, like she actually expected this maniac to stop beating him.

Daryl took a two-step running start and kicked him again. Out of reflex, John wrapped himself around the leathered foot.

“Fuck you, fat bitch!” Daryl snarled, trying to shake John loose.

“Fuck me?” Pensive said, obviously having heard that sentiment one too many times. “No, fuck you!”

John heard the release of an aerosol can and felt his throat close. His eyes seared shut. Daryl screamed, falling onto him like a soldier on a live grenade.

“Fat bitch?” Pensive said, losing her usual California-Quaalude-speak. “Don't you ever judge my body.”

She began punctuating her syllables with her own kicks, despite the fact that she was wearing sandals. John coiled up tighter. Daryl flailed at his side, trying to climb over him.

“Don't judge my person, my being, my spirit, based on my body,” Pensive said. “You have no right to do that to me or any woman.”

Daryl continued to curse, but John didn't hear the word
“fat” amidst the litany of insults. Bitch, stanky, hippie, whore, yes. Fat, no.

“I am a radiant being filled with light and love!” Pensive proclaimed, Daryl tasting the back of her Birkenstocks. “I am an open channel of creative energy! My life is blossoming into total perfection! I accept both the size and shape of my breasts!”

After a dozen more affirmations, John heard the spray of the aerosol can again, followed by a blood-curdling yelp from Daryl.

“That's enough physical release for one day,” Pensive said, yanking John from beneath Daryl.

John's eyes were burning, blood trickling from his head and arms. He was barely able to breathe let alone stand. Pensive was huffing too. Disoriented, he leaned into her, sinking into the gelatinous expanse of her breasts.

“C'mon,” Pensive commanded. “We need to get you some water.”

Water? John thought. Ambulance.

“Have you ever done any creative visualization?” Pensive asked, carrying him. “It helps actualize a more progressive situation.”

“I have no vision at all,” John whined.

“Good time to start,” she said. “Beethoven created his greatest symphonies completely deaf. Repeat after me, higher-self surround me in a wall of mirrored light.”

John was frightened of this new age voodoo, afraid Pensive was attempting some sort of karmic mouth-to-mouth. He was also concerned that somehow during the melee he had swallowed a mouthful of napalm. His face was on fire, body throbbing with the heat of a hundred bruises. He couldn't stop shaking or dry heaving.

Pensive chanted for guidance as she dragged him off the street, up a flight of stairs and inside a building. John was placed in a chair. Pensive asked someone for water and a wet towel. When the most minimal of medicinals arrived, she forced John to drink from a glass while dabbing at his eyes with a cloth.

“Didn't anybody teach you how to duck?” she asked, wiping a compress against a gash near his temple.

“I only got one chance,” John blenched, wiseass mode clicking to automatic pilot. “Lately, my reactions have been a little slow.”

“I don't believe in violence,” Pensive said, hitting John with another pat of the washcloth.

John winced, seeing static. Molecular activity. Pensive's snowy
electric outline disappeared. His brain fired random synapses, signal flares for self-preservation. He saw Grandma. She was administering care to him while giving a lecture on nonviolence.

“Civil disobedience can be effective,” Grandma explained. “But so can a left hook. Getting beaten for the cameras is one thing, fighting back is another. Malcolm X said, ‘I am not against violence in self-defense. I don't even call it violence when it's self-defense. I call it intelligence.' So, if someone hurts you, John, and you've tried nonviolent tactics and they're ineffectual, kick your enemy square in the nuts. Just don't throw the first punch, unless they leave themselves wide open.”

Grandma touched his face, fingers tracing wounds he didn't remember receiving. Birthmarks. She rubbed her thumb against the side of his nose, then across his swelling cheek. She wiped a tangle of hair from his forehead. Taking his hand in her own, she kissed his fingertips and pressed them to his bruise.

“‘Surgeons must be very careful/When they take the knife,'” Grandma quoted. “‘Underneath their fine incisions/stirs the culprit, life.'”

The lines swam in John's head, somewhere between a lesson and a lullaby. They were words spoken in alphabet soup letters on Fats Waller Sundays. Grandma's dusty anthology of Emily Dickinson and a bottle of Gilbey's gin. Soup and sermon. He never wanted to visit her, and once in Grandma's house, never wanted to leave.

He began to rock on his haunches to the rhythm of his own affirmations: “I am in charge of my own destiny. I will outlast this affliction.” The static cleared. He saw Pensive staring at him as if something even more than the obvious was wrong. He stopped rocking.

“John?” Pensive asked. “Are you all right?”

“Yes,” John replied, not believing it for a second.

“You've given me quite a scare,” she said. “And I'm out of Mace.”

“Mace?” John's voice was a panic, worried chemicals would cause him permanent brain damage, more flashbacks. Grandma would stroll into his head whenever she wanted to recite poetry and dime-store philosophy. He would be like David Carradine in
Kung Fu
, convinced Squirrel Boy was a name given to him in a martial arts monastery, every bar he entered, someone yelling, “Hey, Chinaman!”

“The stuff flies,” Pensive told him. “In my rage, I shot the whole can.”

John felt a rash rising on his face. His heart was beating double-time. The rest of him was numb with shock and adrenaline. But nothing felt broken. On the other hand, nothing felt. He was one dull ache, trying to put an arm back into a shredded shirt sleeve. He tried to move his leg to balance himself in the chair, but he couldn't bend his knee. Shifting his weight, he tried to find a position he could live with.

It might be easier to just stop breathing, he thought.

“You should be thanking me,” Pensive said. “Of course, your ego's bruised. Men are so ashamed when they can't defend themselves. But when you pay for the groceries you dropped, I'll call it even.”

John held his tongue. He dabbed at his eyes with the washcloth he had been handed. The first couple shots Daryl had landed were to his face, adding to the general swelling. He blinked, trying to clear his vision, but found himself looking through fly eyes, a kaleidoscope of confusion multiplied by a thousand.

“Every time I deek on you, you're lookin' a mite worse,” said a voice John recognized as Hap. “Next time I'll be tossin' orchids at you in the Boont Dusties.”

“He'll be fine,” Pensive promised. “Would you take care of him for a minute while I see if I can save my acidophilus?”

“Should I call Cal?” Hap asked.

“I think he's outside,” Pensive said, John able to consolidate his sight into a single smear to follow her figure to the door. “I'll tell him John's here.”

Wiping his nose, John smelled food, pizza, lamb, wine. Blood pudding. He realized he was back in the Boonville Hotel and wondered if customers were gawking at him. He could have used some backup from the man he had met at the bar here last night, the one with the earring and gun, Balostrasi. He had said the locals in these parts weren't tough, a bunch of hippies and rubes. He didn't mention giants and psychopaths. Would Daryl have backed down from Balostrasi's gun?

“Gettin' to meet the whole town, Squirrel Boy,” Hap said, interrupting John's thoughts. “This here's Deputy Cal.”

“So, you're Edna's grandkid,” Deputy Cal said. “My heartfelt condolences.”

Deputy Cal was as tall as he was wide, and as wide as he was deep, dressed in shorts and a brown shirt from which stretched impressive arms and an imposing beer gut. He wore a mustache beneath a pug nose and reflective sunglasses. Out of uniform, he could have been mistaken for a PE teacher or marine gone to seed. In John's condition, he could have also been mistaken for Imelda Marcos or Sonny Bono.

“It's unfortunate Edna ain't here to show you the ropes,” Cal said. “Boonville can be chaotic at times, but out of chaos comes a kind of freedom.”

Deputy Cal was the first law enforcement officer John had met to openly promote anarchy. But John came from Florida, the only state in the union where chain gangs were legal and there was a movement to bring back the guillotine. Cops in Miami collected hollow points like bottle caps. Every week an officer of the law was shot, usually walking the thin blue line to serve a simple citation; a Dade County citizen sitting on a million-two worth of AK-47s in the trunk of a stolen Buick Skylark, a Ziploc of coke in the glove box, couldn't stand the suspense, facing twenty years hard time because he didn't know enough names to get into the Federal Witness Protection Program.

“We got a different way of livin',” Deputy Cal explained. “We don't like folks meddlin' in our business, public or private. This town literally has its own language.”

“I think I heard Daryl grunting it,” John said, beginning to regulate his heartbeat.

“No,” the deputy corrected him, “it's called Boontling and it was developed by locals suspicious of outside influences. Hap here can speak it.”

“I know,” John said. “Leek bee'n.”

Hap grinned. Deputy Cal was unimpressed.

“Point is, we do things our own way,” Deputy Cal said. “We don't appreciate people pokin' their noses where they don't belong.”

“So, because I talked to this guy's ex-wife,” John said, looking at the bloodstains on his compress, “I deserved to get my ass kicked?”

“I'm sorry it happened,” Deputy Cal said. “Tell you the truth, Whitward looks worse. I think Prairie Mama broke a couple of his ribs. The damage has been done.”

“But what?” John asked, trying to see himself from Cal's
point of view, a city boy ground into country sausage. He had got what he deserved. His grandma was a nut, John couldn't have fallen too far from the tree. He should get out of town while he could and save everybody a lot of trouble.

Balostrasi was wrong, John thought. These people were tough.

“If you don't press charges, there's a lot less paperwork,” Deputy Cal told him, smiling as only certain rural cops could. “I'm certain Prairie Mama ain't got a license for that mace. You could save folks a lot of hassle. But do as you please. Remember though, everybody who has lived in this town, includin' your grandma, has taken a few punches. But they've also thrown some.”

John watched his knees bleed. He hadn't skinned them since he was a child, sliding on asphalt in a game of kickball. His parents had yelled at him, Father complaining about ruined clothes as he spanked John's butt. His mother warned about overcompetitiveness while she soaked him in Bactine. John was sent to his room to “think about what he had done.” Lying on his bed, he stared at the picture of Pete Rose his father had tacked to his wall. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth, what were you supposed to do?

“The other thing,” Deputy Cal said, “Daryl says he won't start nothing again if…”

“If what?” John asked, but knew what the deputy was going to say.

“If you stay away from Sarah,” Deputy Cal finished.

No wonder he isn't wearing a uniform, John thought, anybody relaying threats of violence from a sociopath shouldn't be on the force. Maybe I should ask to see his badge?

Fuck it, John told himself. Fuck it all. Fuck being hung over and getting beat up. Fuck Daryl and Pensive Prairie Sunset, this idiot deputy and pressing charges. Fuck Sarah with her blue eyes and fuck Grandma with her faulty DNA. Most of all, fuck Boonville.

“I won't press charges,” John said. “I don't plan to be here that long. But tell Daryl if he comes near me again, I have my grandma's shotgun and I'm not afraid to use it. So if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I'm going to sleep for about a week, and when I wake up, I'm calling my girlfriend and getting out of this shit hole.”

John stood to make a grand exit, but his legs forgot the basic
one foot in front of the other. They buckled, veering him toward a wall that he mistook for a door, and after reaching for a nonexistent knob, he hit it squarely with his face. John found himself looking up from the floor.

“Maybe you should have another glass of water,” Hap said.

“God damn!” Billy Chuck said, entering the hotel, looking exactly as he did the night before, no better, no worse. Not a hair in or out of place.

His children will be born with scales, John thought.

Deputy Cal and Hap seemed to expect John to reseat himself and order a beer now that his drinking buddy had arrived.

“This one's a draw,” Billy Chuck announced. “I 'bout fell over Whitward at the Pic 'N Pay. I needed aspirin, but these boys need body bags. We should count to ten and whoever can stand, we'll call winner.”

“Squirrel Boy was standin' a second ago,” Hap informed him.

“There we go,” Billy Chuck laughed. “Now I can collect on my bets. I got five-to-one from Kurts on a buck and ten-to-one from Melonie on a beer. I knew you could do it, Squirrel Boy, you ain't no tourist.”