Bad Moon Rising (2 page)

For a roomful of people dressed as hippies, most of the conversations sounded pretty square. The men discussed business; the women discussed domestic life and gossiped a bit. While Wendy excused herself to go to the bathroom—still hiccupping—I let a drunken city councilman tell me that he was going to start sending me all his personal legal business because “The big shots want too much money. You have any idea what they charge an hour?” Then, weaving around while he stood in place, he raised his drink, aimed vaguely for his face, and said, the glass a few inches from his lips, “You don't have the greatest reputation, but for the kind of stuff I'll be sendin' you it doesn't matter.”

Wendy reappeared and rescued me. Her hiccups were gone. She looked around the largest of the rooms and said, “I wish there were more people from our class here.”

“They aren't successful enough to be here. I only got in because you brought me.”

“You're like my gigolo.” She laughed, but a certain dull glaze remained in her eyes. Where liquor was concerned she was the ultimate cheap date. A couple of drinks and she was at least semi-plastered.

“Let's try the front steps this time,” I said.

“Huh?”

I grabbed a cup of coffee for Wendy. We sat on the front steps of the enormous house, enjoying the midwestern night. Trumbull, the man who owned it, was the director of four steel plants. His wife was from here, so they bought this place, turned it into a masterpiece, and lived in it during the warm months. Florida was their home when the cold weather came. The drive that curved around the place was crowded with cars. We'd be long gone by the time most of them left, so we wouldn't have any trouble getting out. But many people well into their cups were going to have some frustrating moments if they all tried to leave at once.

Wendy caught a firefly. She cupped it in her hand and said, “Hello, little fellow.”

“How do you know it's a fellow?”

“Take a look.”

In the shadow of her hand a golden-green light flickered on and off. “Yep, it's a fella all right.”

She laughed and let him go. After her head was on my shoulder she said, “I know these aren't your kind of people, Sam. But remember, your kind of people aren't
my
kind of people, either.”

“I thought you liked Kenny.”

“I don't mean Kenny. I mean your clients. Some of them are really criminals. I mean bad people.”

The front door opened behind us. Our haven had been invaded again. We could have kept on talking but we were self-conscious now. I got up and helped Wendy to her feet.

“Hope we didn't chase you off,” a woman's voice said from the shadows.

“No. We were leaving anyway.”

When we were out of earshot, Wendy said, “Very nice, Sam. You're really learning social skills.”

“You mean instead of saying, ‘Look, you sorry bastard, you ruined our whole evening.'?”

“Exactly.” She clung to my arm woozily and kissed my cheek. “See, isn't it fun being polite to people you hate?”

“You're crazy.”

“Look who's talking.”

As we drew closer to my car, I slid my arm around her shoulders. We had our battles, but most of the time there was peace, something I'd never had much of in my past affairs. I'd started to believe what I'd heard a TV pop psychologist say, that some people liked agitation in their relationships. I'd just always assumed that was the way it had to be. But Wendy showed me how wrong I'd been.

Somebody called my name twice. I turned around and shouted back.

“There's a phone call for you, Sam,” the female voice said.

I yelled my thanks.

“A client,” Wendy said.

“Most likely.”

“Poor old Sam.”

“Poor old Wendy.”

“I don't mind. Right now, relaxing at home sounds better than this anyway.”

A woman named Barbara Thomas was waiting for us on the porch. She was another one who'd skimped on costuming herself. A very flattering pair of black bell-bottoms and a white flowing blouse. She'd been in our high school class and had married a lawyer. She was one of those girls who'd ignited many a speculative sexual conversation among boys. She'd always seemed aware of just how stupid we all were.

“Hi, Wendy.”

“Hi, Barb. How're your twins?”

“Exhausting but beautiful, thanks. There's a phone in the den, Sam.”

They stayed on the porch while I worked my way through the costumed revelers. The den was as big as Wendy's living room and outfitted with enough electronic gear to make me suspect that the owner of the house might be in touch with Mars. He was some kind of short-wave enthusiast. Four different kinds of radios and three different gray steel boxes that made tiny chirping sounds contrasted with the traditional leather furnishings.

I picked up the phone. “Sam McCain.”

“Sam. It's Richard Donovan.”

“You really needed to call me here, Richard?”

“Look, we've got a real problem out here.”

Donovan was the leader of the commune. He brought rules and regs to the otherwise disorganized life out there. When one of his people got in trouble in town—usually being harassed for no reason by one of police chief Cliffie Sykes's hotshots—Donovan was the one who called me.

“And it can't wait until morning?”

“No.” Then: “Look, I'm not stoned or anything and I'm telling you, you need to get out here right away.”

The tension in his voice told me far more than his words. “You're not telling me anything, Richard.”

“Not on the phone. We've had run-ins with the feds before. They may be tapping our phone.”

Paranoia was as rampant as VD among the hippies these days. The troubling thing was that some of it was justified.

“I'll be out as soon as I can.”

“Thanks, Sam. Sorry I had to bother you.”

If the trouble was as serious as it sounded, and if I got involved in it, I would certainly hear from my boss. Though my law practice was finally starting to make reasonable money, my job as private investigator for the judge was still half my income. And Judge Whitney, along with many other people in town (including a couple who kept writing letters about me in the local newspaper), didn't like the idea that I was representing the people at the commune. They wanted the commune and its hirsute folks to move to a different county. Or maybe, if God was smiling that day, out of the state. Judge Whitney didn't believe any of the ridiculous rumors about them—they were satanic and were summoning up the old bastard himself to turn the town into flame and horror being my favorite—but they did violate her notion of propriety, which had come to her down generations of rich snobs who felt that all “little people” were suspicious, period.

I had the feeling that whatever Richard had waiting for me wasn't going to change the minds of either the judge or the two people who kept writing letters about me.

On the porch, Wendy and Barb were smiling. I remembered Wendy telling me that Barb was one friend who hadn't deserted her after her husband died in Vietnam, when she took up the bottle and inhabited a lot of beds that did her no good at all. Both women had warm girly laughs and the sound was sweet on the air, overwhelming the sitar music from inside. Oh, yes, somebody was playing sitar music now. I realize that not liking sitar music marks one as a boor and a likely warmonger and maybe even satanic, but I can't help it. Sitar music should only be played for deaf people.

“Oh, oh,” Wendy said.

Barb smiled at me. “Wendy said you'd look a certain way if you were going to go see a client and dump her at home.”

“‘Dump,'” I said, “is a pretty harsh word.”

“How about push me out of the car at a high rate of speed?”

They reverted to their girly laughter, leaning together in that immortal conspiratorial way women have of letting men know that they are hopelessly stupid. I could imagine them at twelve, merrily deflating the ego of every boy who passed by.

“I promise not to go over ninety,” I said, lamely continuing the joke.

“Well, I'll have to let you two finish this,” Barb said, as if I hadn't spoken. “My husband's in watching TV, and I'd better get in there before he loses all his clients. He made the mistake of telling Walton from the brokerage that if he was ten years younger, he'd probably be a hippie himself. Walton didn't think that was funny. Then they started arguing about the cops beating up all those kids. You know how Walton is. He thought Ike was a Communist. And he was serious.”

Wendy slumped against me as soon as Barbara got inside. “Whew. It just caught up with me. One minute I was sober and the next minute I was—”

“—drunk?”

“Again. That's the weird thing. I kind of sobered up but now—”

“Let's get going. I know this curve where I'm going to push you out. It'll be fun.”

“Yeah, well, the first thing you'll have to do is help me to the car. I'm really dizzy. All that drinking I used to do. I must be out of practice.”

She wasn't kidding. I had to half carry her to the car.

2

A
month earlier a gang of bikers had invaded the compound and smashed up the farmhouses and made several of the male hippies strip. For a few people in Black River Falls—anywhere you live there are a few people—it was a tough call. Who was more despicable? Drunken bikers or hippies?

The commune had a history. Shortly after the war two brothers decided to get a GI loan for a large farm they would work together. They built two modest clapboard houses about forty yards apart and proceeded to marry and raise their respective families. They were decorated warriors and popular young men who'd been raised on a farm in a smaller town twenty miles west of Black River Falls. Everything went according to Norman Rockwell for the next nine years, but then, true to many of the stories in the Bible, one brother began to covet the other brother's wife. Well, in fact, he did quite a bit more than covet, and when the cuckold caught his brother and wife making love in the shallow wooded area behind the outbuildings, he became so distraught he ran back to his home, killed their only child (a girl of seven) and then killed himself.

The survivors left the farm, the bank foreclosed, and despite the efforts of a couple of other farmers to buy it and lease it out to starter farmers who couldn't afford the purchase price, the land refused to cooperate. There was a scientific explanation for this, as a state agronomist repeated to anybody who listened, but locals preferred the notion that the land was “cursed” because of what had happened on it.

The hippies came two years ago. Twenty or so of them stayed in the main house, the white one; another fifteen or so stayed in the smaller, yellow house. Some of them worked in town; some of them raised a good share of the food they ate; and a handful, from my observation, were so stoned most of the time that they couldn't do much more than tell you what they'd seen in their last acid vision.

Peace and love, brother. Age of Aquarius. Brotherhood of Man. Every once in a while, stoned on nothing stronger than beer, I'd get caught up in one of the many rock songs that espoused those precepts. But then I'd remember Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy, both of whom had died earlier this year, and I'd remind myself of how naïve it all was. There was no peace and love in the slaughter of Vietnam or in the streets of bloody Detroit or Los Angeles.

In some respects I felt sorry for the hippies. I understood in a theoretical way what they were rebelling against. Our country was war-happy and our culture was pure Madison Avenue. What I didn't understand were the ways they'd gone about expressing their distrust of society. I'd look at their babies and wonder what kind of lives the little ones would have. The same for the sanctimony of their language. Without seeming to realize it they were just as doctrinaire as the straight people they put down.

Then there were the drugs, which was how I'd gotten involved with the hippies. Since no other lawyer in town wanted to deal with them, and since the public defender's office had only two attorneys, who worked eighteen-hour days as it was, I decided to help as many as I could. Clifford Sykes, our police chief, was jailing everybody who even looked as if he could spell marijuana (something I doubt Cliffie himself could do).

Marijuana I had no problem with. But I couldn't see the social or spiritual benefits of dropping acid. I'd heard too many stories from the emergency room about young people who never quite recovered from their trips. In March two high schoolers had contrived a suicide plan and had, while acid fractured their minds, locked hands and jumped off Indian Point. They were skewered on the jagged rocks below.

These days chickens, cats, and an arthritic old dog had declared the weedy yard in front of the larger, two-story white farmhouse their private domain. A rusted plow and an old-fashioned refrigerator with the cooling coils on top sat on the edge of the yard, remnants from the farm before it had been deserted by the owners long ago. The enormous garden was in back. They were dutiful about keeping it plentiful. No matter how much pot, acid, and cheap wine filled the night they were up early to work their land. They'd planted corn, carrots, beets, spinach, lettuce, and cabbage. Using a battered wood-fired stove, they also baked bread. That was another surprise. One of them gave me a slice with strawberry jam on it one day, and damned if it didn't taste good.

I snapped off the ignition key and slid out of the new Ford convertible I'd bought after my old Ford ragtop got too expensive to keep fixing up. Or maybe I got it to signal my father, who'd died three years ago, that in my thirties I was finally becoming the man he'd wanted me to be.

Now, as I stood under the glowing span of moon and stars, a song by Crosby, Stills, Nash & Young began streaming from the main house. A breeze fresh as a first kiss made me close my eyes for a moment and ride along with it to long-ago summers when my red Ford ragtop and the lovely Pamela Forrest had been my primary concerns.