Boonville Read online

  John dressed, and after bagging his former clothes to be washed or thrown out later, he felt ready to settle into his new home. Someone, presumably Pensive Prairie Sunset, had already swept and vacuumed, mopped and dusted. There were no major cobwebs or ghost turds. The coffee table glistened with a wet sheen. The trash can beneath the sink had been lined with a new bag. The refrigerator was clean. John checked the cupboards, satisfied with Grandma’s supply of pots, pans, glassware, plates, and utensils. The telephone was dead. He would have to get it connected. In the bedroom, he stuffed his socks, underwear, T-shirts, and sweats into the chest of drawers, hanging his good pants, ties, and dress shirts in the closet. He made a pile of Grandma’s clothes for the Goodwill. When he realized there was no cable, he stuck the TV in the closet as well, finding a shotgun and three boxes of shells sitting in the corner. He remembered the rumor that Grandma had shot someone. He left the gun and ammunition alone, wondering what the real story was and why Grandma felt she had needed a gun.

  Feeling motivated, he decided to make a general upgrade of aesthetics. With a whisk of his arm, he cleared a chessboard’s worth of squirrel sculptures from the coffee table in the living room. Mud-glazed ceramic forms joined the squirrels in empty fruit crates for storage. There were too many cushions on the couch. He cut the number in half. He took decorative baskets, flowers, and feathers off the walls. He let hang a Georgia O’Keeffe print of an aroused lily and a photograph of Grandma as a girl, staring into the camera like a gunfighter. A painting of a seascape done on cardboard with glue and sand crumbled in his hands when he tried to center it. There was a rusted wheelbarrow full of broken glass standing near the front door as if someone had intended to dump the shards onto the living room floor as a prank. John decided it was sculpture. Instead of rolling it outside, he moved it closer to the front window so it could catch the light. Lastly, he placed a picture of Christina on the nightstand near his bed.

  Just a bit of torture, he told himself. Just a bit of home.

  That done, John shut the windows and looked for a newspaper to start a fire in the woodburning stove that stood on bricks in the corner of the living room. It had never been cold enough in Miami to start an actual fire. People didn’t have central heating there, let alone fireplaces. Children didn’t go through a pyro stage in Florida because it was so hot. There was only air conditioning. John’s nose twitched.

  Not finding any newspaper, he turned to the bookshelves. Except for Grandma’s copy of Emily Dickinson’s poetry, most of it looked like metaphysics, stuff he could torch without much moral conflict. He selected a book by John White Eagle Free Soul, a discourse on inner peace through intuitive strength. Where did they get their names? What was Free Soul supposed to be? Irish? And White Eagle? He must have picked that up in the seventies when everybody was claiming to be half Cherokee or part Seminole. If they were going to change their names, those authors should be forced to name themselves Horseshit or Asshole, he thought, and then number themselves off like Muslims: Horseshit no. 1, Asshole no. 56.

  Another book of poetry caught John’s eye, Puppies Make a Porch More Cute by Margaret Washington. He knew she lived in the area and Grandma had belonged to her Radical Petunia Arts Community. He also knew the film based on her book Cecilia was touted as an important feminist statement. After seeing it, John had wanted his money back and two hours of his life returned. Christina had cried. The theater was thick with Kleenex. Leaving the cineplex, John saw a line of moviegoers wrapping around the block, waiting for their turn to weep. He didn’t want to ruin Christina’s experience, so he said nothing on the ride home. But his silence revealed to her that he had not been moved. She accused him of insensitivity. He was going to tell her that he cried every time he saw Dumbo, but she switched on the radio and turned away from him. They didn’t have sex for a month.

  John opened Puppies Make a Porch More Cute to see it had been inscribed: “Ruth, Remember in order to give birth you have to experience labor pains, Peace and love, Margaret Washington.”

  Flipping pages, John read a poem entitled “All White Men Are Evil Rapists.”

  Our foremothers cooked and cleaned and smiled

  as they stirred the pots that fed us all,

  sweat slipping down beautiful black skin

  while being repeatedly abused,

  though always standing strong.

  But if the world were perfect,

  we would sit in a green field holding hands;

  a calm constructive conversation,

  even the cows would join in.

  But no white men,

  because all white men are evil rapists.

  John tore that page out first, feeling it crumple in his hand before he tossed it into the stove. Without reading another sentence, the rest of the book followed. He threw on a dozen squirrel sculptures for kindling, a large one for a log. He lit the fire with a foot-long match, feeling the heat on his face. Lying down on the carpet, he tried not to think about Grandma or Margaret Washington, instead concentrating on the silence that surrounded the crackling flames.

  He had only experienced quiet like this on mornings when Christina jogged. Not knowing what to do, he usually fell back to sleep, reawakening to the sound of her shower, a Billy Joel cassette, the steaming gurgle of the coffeemaker. He had been reared on stimulus and distraction; introspection had not been encouraged as a pastime. Silence was as forbidden as masturbation. As a boy, John watched children’s shows where men in animal costumes introduced cartoons, lusted after Girl Scouts, and ran around, yelling, “Hold that bus!” In high school, he studied while Meatloaf screamed and Frampton came alive at 200 watts per channel. College was the drone of the campus radio station and students singing the theme to “The Love Boat” outside his door. Even in bed with Christina, Johnny or Dave delivered their late night monologues with the sound of the city as background, boom boxes, screeching tires, stray gunfire. Never silence.

  John resisted the urge to sleep, pondering instead the unfinished business he had to complete before he would feel established in his new residence. First, he had to call Christina and let his friends and parents know he had arrived. He still needed to get the keys from Pensive Prairie Sunset so he could lock the cabin. He had to buy groceries, do laundry, get rid of those road signs. Wine tasting was out of the question for a few days, but he could go to the coast, explore the area, write postcards, read that biography on Jim Jones. He also wanted to talk to that blue-eyed Sarah.

  Enough quiet time.

  Outside, he shoved the signs off the roof of the Datsun. Taking the helm of the battered vehicle, he wound down the hill toward town, his stomach protesting at each turn. He reached for the whiskey bottle in the passenger seat, running it along the edges of the broken driver’s side window, eliminating the remaining glass fragments. Unsullied air blew against his face. The drive straightened. To his right, he saw a red house on a knoll and the field of horses he had spotted from Grandma’s cabin. The tiny airstrip and the Anderson Valley Junior/Senior High School were on his left, then basketball courts, a pair of strange geodesic domes, a “Home of the Panthers” sign, a creek bridge, a stop sign, and Highway 128. The crossroads.

  John looked both ways, letting his sight settle for a moment on the asphalt where he had blacked out. A truck trailing a load of grapes roared past followed by a camper, a logging truck, and a group of teenagers in a green AMC Hornet. Someone behind him honked. He clicked his turn signal and drove, wincing at the sight of the brick building next to the Pic ’N Pay. The Lodge’s beer sign winked its neon eye. He steered into the parking lot of the Boonville Hotel.

  No alcohol this time, he told himself. Caffeine.

  “If it ain’t the Squirrel Boy,” the bartender greeted him. “Rumor had it, you died.”

  “The way I feel,” John said, the bartender’s voice booming between his ears, “maybe I did.”

  “You don’t waste no time takin’ over where your grandma left off,” the bartender observed. “Wha
t can I get for you? Hair of one of the dogs that bit you?”

  “You got cappuccino?” John asked, thinking how Christina would take care of him if he were home: coffee, grapefruit juice, ice pack, kisses.

  “Guess you’re on the dissie stool,” the bartender grinned. “Cuppa cappa comin’ up.”

  John didn’t know if he was on the dissie stool or not; his seat looked like all the other empty ones in the bar. He figured the phrase meant something like “on the wagon.” He didn’t bother asking the bartender to clarify the term. The energy he had generated at the cabin had disappeared.

  When his coffee came, he held his face above the cup, letting the steam play against his skin. Cooling slightly, he bottomed it in two gulps. The milk had been scalded and the espresso was bitter. He asked for a refill of regular coffee, which he loaded with sugar. His insides began to warm. On this trip into town, he had noticed the Horn of Zeese, the truckstop from the news article he had read about Boontling. It was across from the hotel and not too far down the road. He thought about braving it for some eggs, but his stomach didn’t feel ready.

  “You got a pay phone?” John asked the bartender.

  “Cross the street at the market, ours is out of order,” the bartender said. “But if you’re callin’ your hornin’ buddies, none of ’em got phones. Billy Chuck don’t pay the bills, Sarah’s too far outta town, and the Kurts ain’t good with numbers.”

  “I take it word travels fast anyway,” John said.

  “What else do we got to do in this town?” the bartender replied. “Sounds like you had a night. You remember any of it?”

  “Up to a point,” John answered.

  “Which one?” the bartender asked

  “How many were there?” John replied.

  “I heard you were higher ’n Dwight’s flagpole,” the bartender said. “Laid out in the road with the Kurts and Billy Chuck, sniffin’ after that hippie girl’s yeast-powder biscuit when I told you she was trouble.”

  “Can I ask you a question?” John said, uncertain if he wanted to know the answer or if he would be able to translate the bartender’s reply into Basic English. “How did my car get wrecked? And how did I get home?”

  “That’s two questions,” the bartender told him, then inquired if John’s car had collected any road signs.

  Not wanting to admit guilt, John took a sip of his coffee. Smiling, the bartender informed him that he was now an eco-terrorist, a soldier in Judy Bari’s army. John had never heard of Judy Bari and was even less enthusiastic about being linked to the word “eco-terrorist,” thinking it sounded worse than “dissie stool.”

  “Those hippie girls are environmentalists,” the bartender explained. “For kicks they hunt road signs. They think they’re ugly and bring the wrong kind of business to the valley. But that ain’t all they do. You weren’t at any lumber sites or LP land, were you?”

  “I don’t think so,” John answered, rummaging through his short-term memory.

  “Good, ’cause they’re also monkeywrenchers,” the bartender said.

  “Do monkeywrenchers and eco-terrorists sniff yeast-powder biscuits?” John asked, letting the bartender know he wasn’t following him.

  “Ain’t you heard of Earth First!?” the bartender said, surprised. “Protesters spikin’ redwoods and sabotagin’ lumber equipment, savin’ old growth and the spotted owl? Ain’t you never read The Lorax? Don’t you watch ‘Sixty Minutes’?”

  John had read The Lorax, but he didn’t know how the children’s story applied to the topic at hand. But he didn’t watch “Sixty Minutes” anymore; Andy Rooney annoyed him and Diane Sawyer was at the top of his list, with new-entry Margaret Washington, as one of the top ten women he would hate to be stuck in an elevator with. All that smug nodding, the person interviewed forced to respond to questions whose answers were later edited into whatever slant the network thought would earn better ratings. John used to fill his quota of Orwellian hate for the week by tuning in, but he saw a segment they did on the poultry industry and to this day couldn’t eat chicken. He figured if he watched long enough, he would develop the same reaction to all his favorite foods.

  “I try to miss it,” John admitted.

  “Earth First! is big up here,” the bartender explained. “I’m for the trees, but I sympathize with the loggers; like the steel workers, they’re losin’ their industry to bigger profits made elsewhere, mostly Mexico and Japan. But in a few years there ain’t gonna be any trees or jobs left. Everybody loses. I ain’t gonna climb up on a soapbox though.”

  “I appreciate that,” John said, then added. “Do you know how I got home?”

  “Eee tah, Squirrel Boy, invite me out with you next time, then maybe I’ll know.” The bartender extended his hand across the bar. “Folks call me Hap.”

  “What’s your real name?” John inquired, shaking his hand.

  “Hap,” the bartender said. “That’s why folks call me Hap.”

  “Nice to meet you, Hap,” John said, unsure whether he was being made a fool of. “You have a strange way of talking. Is that the local language I heard about?”

  “I’m a kimmie can harp Boont,” Hap said, proudly. “But lemme tell you one thing before you go. If I heard you was with that Sarah, you can bet her ex did too. Keep your eyes peeled. Leek bee’n. Get me?”

  “Leek bee’n,” John said, understanding Hap was telling him to watch his ass.

  He paid for the coffee and thanked Hap again. In the parking lot, two kids with skateboards were evaluating the damage to the Datsun, one saying to the other, “Dude, he’s totally foiled.” The other, seeing John approach, observed, “He’s the poster child for hating it.” John looked at his car, the loser in a demolition derby. With a wave of his hand, the first kid said, “Adios, Mr. Morose,” then both teens scooted off down the center of the highway, doing a few tricks as they rolled away.

  John drove to the pay phone at the Anderson Valley Market. The telephone booth had a sign above it, “Bucky Walter.” John wondered if the booth had been memorialized for some local motor mouth or if it was independently owed. Maybe it was more Boontling. He’d ask Hap about it sometime he didn’t want a straight answer.

  John searched his pockets for change. Depositing a quarter in the telephone, he remembered when the cost was a dime.

  “Hello,” he said, into the receiver.

  “Peace and love,” a voice answered.

  “Could I speak to Pensive Prairie Sunset?” John said.

  “I am she and she is me,” the voice replied.

  “This is John Gibson,” he identified himself against his better judgment, thinking he shouldn’t get involved with anyone named Pensive Prairie Sunset who spoke in Beatles lyrics. “You left my grandmother’s car for me at the San Francisco airport.”

  “How are you?” Pensive cut in. “Did you have a safe trip? I hope you ordered a vegetarian or low sodium meal for the flight. You can suffer severe autointoxication from just one in-flight meal, especially when you combine it with that terrible recycled airplane air. Last time I flew, I had to fast for a week after I ate the apple pancakes on a red-eye to Cleveland.”

  “I’m in Boonville,” John said.

  “Fantastic,” Pensive replied, no pauses or pitch change in her voice, coming at you like the flat groan of a Ray Manzarek keyboard solo. “We must be doing O.K. then.”

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. “I called to get the keys to my grandma’s cabin.”

  “Where are you calling from?” Pensive asked.

  “A pay phone that says ‘Bucky Walter’ outside the Anderson Valley Market,” John said.

  “That means telephone,” the woman informed him. “I’ll be there in twenty minutes.”

  Click. Dial tone.

  Some unwanted force was now bearing down on John like in a 1970s disaster film: Airport, Earthquake, Towering Inferno, Billy Jack. There was nothing he could do. He dialed zero, trying to place a collect call to Christina, but the line was busy. 911 seemed
extreme.

  Stepping from the pay phone, he peered into the Anderson Valley Market past a stand of magazines and romance novels. John’s eye caught the headline of the local paper: “Congressman Calls Coasters ‘Hippie Potheads.’” The cashier was counting out change for a man with a nylon Bush Hog hat. A woman dragged a little girl whose face was smeared with chocolate from the store, screaming and kicking. Dogs barked from the back of a truck. The woman stopped to swat the girl, but the girl broke loose from her grip and darted toward the truck with the dogs. “I want fudge!” the girl howled. The woman looked on the verge of violence. Nearby, a group of Mexicans in cowboy hats conversed in Spanish, their accents sounding different to John than the Cubans in Miami. They weren’t wearing guayberas either or playing dominoes. Peterbilts loaded with logs whizzed past, diesels roaring, chrome nude girl silhouette mud flaps. The man with the Bush Hog hat walked past the Mexicans and joined the woman and girl at the truck with the dogs. With a voice offering no room for argument, he told them both to get into the truck, the girl wasn’t getting any more fudge until after lunch.

  “When’s lunch?” the girl asked, swiftly obedient.

  “When your mama makes it,” the man said, petting the dogs and looking without affection at his wife. “Sometime before dinner.”

  “We’ll eat when we get home,” the woman said. “Fish sticks and chili.”

  For the sake of his stomach, John tried to put the woman’s lunch menu out of his mind. But what time was it? He checked his watch, black and silver, with flecks of green fluorescence. Waterproof up to two hundred feet. “In case you take it snorkeling,” he remembered Christina had said, before he could see what it was he had unwrapped. He kissed her, setting the watch aside, and they rolled into wrapping paper. Tinsel reflected bulbs of red and green. Pine needles fell into her hair. She kissed his hairless chest. His hands pushed at soft cotton and lacy underthings. Tiny lights pulsed. He felt the curve of her thighs, her firm buttocks, and the full of her weight came down to swallow him. His body stilled in paralytic ecstasy. She pressed wet lips to his, and whispered, “Merry Christmas.”