Acid Summer
The bus trip back to California was long and boring, especially across Texas. The only excitement was the reaction to my SNCC button with the clasped black-and-white hands from folks in a seedy little restaurant and bar. To make a long story short, I got thrown out on my ass right there in the middle of the desert.
There was plenty of time to think. I wondered what’s been going on in Berkeley. According to my friend Dynamite, people weren’t thinking about Mississippi. They were thinking about Vietnam. My mission to raise money for the Natchez Youth Movement’s campaign to integrate the YWCA might not be so easy in view of this shift in emphasis. And I knew mom had been back in the hospital, so there was no telling what was going on at home. I felt kind of worn out, tired. A little apprehensive. Not sure where I was headed.
***
I hadn’t decided what to do first: check in on my family or check out the Berkeley scene. Since the bus dropped me off in Oakland, I took the path of least resistance. I needed a couch to crash on while I got my bearings, so I headed for Jamie’s pad on Ward Street. Jamie was a “red diaper” baby. Her father was an editor of the pro-Mao Monthly Review. I met her at the Hallinan’s a few years before. She was a member of the Dubois Club, the Communist party’s version of Students for a Democratic Society (SDS). She was sexy, big-boned, with long, curly, almost kinky black hair: an exotic-faced beauty who resembled my idea of an Egyptian princess. Definitely different from the Marin County girls.
She opened her arms to me as if I was a veteran of the Abraham Lincoln Brigade returning from the Spanish Civil War.
“Mike, welcome home. Wow, you’re skinny! How was it? Sit down. You hungry? How about a joint and some food? I just got some Panama Red. Let me put on the latest Dylan record.” Jamie was the movement’s pot dealer. Into dope and music more than day-to-day organizing, she was arrested in Sproul Hall almost from tradition rather than newborn fire like me.
After dinner and another joint, Jamie changed the subject. “Mike, what was it really like down there?”
Super stoned, my tales of the South were a mix of spoken words and silent pictures. I told her about nights at The White House, the local juke joint and most popular hangout in Natchez. We’d been the only whites, surrounded by glistening black faces, jiving, talking freedom, forgetting fear, swaying together to Sam Cooke’s A Change Is Gonna Come and The Supremes’ Stop In The Name Of Love. Folks patting us on our backs, saying thanks with gifts of deep fried, grease-dripping pork chop sandwiches, steamy spiced gumbo crammed with shrimp and crawdads, and shots of brain-sizzling white lightning. There’d been a glowing sense of community in a sea of white hostility.
***
Early one clear June morning I sat on the Golden Bear Café terrace across from Sproul Hall, my belly filled with crispy bacon, over-easy eggs and well done hash browns, gazing at the shimmering blue-green bay and distant Marin County hills glistening in the sun. A friendly, familiar voice interrupted my thoughts.
“Hey, Mike I heard you were back from the South. How are you doing?” Linda Post, a tall, big-boned dirty blonde, horsey-faced but attractive with wide lips and deep emerald green eyes, beamed at me. “I’m late for class. No time to chew the fat. I’m staying up on Regent with some friends. Why don’t you drop by tonight? Here’s my phone number.” I jumped up, planted a more-than-friendly kiss on her lips.
“Sure. I’ll be there with bells on.’
I arrived at Linda’s around eight. The little brown-shingled Victorian on Regent Street was jumping
to the playful rhythms and lovesick lyrics of the Beatles.
…I think I’m gonna be sad,
I think it’s today, yeah.
…The girl that’s driving me mad
Is going away.
The next morning I woke up on a single futon in an alcove off the living room. Simple as that, I found my new temporary nest. Each night the music played on and on. Otis Redding crooning Respect, The Supremes insisting Stop In The Name of Love… and we kept dancing. Georgeanne, one of my roommates, became my de facto dance partner. Craig, her ever-vigilant, uptight, muscle-bound football player frat boyfriend, didn’t like to dance. I did.
Gradually, I became hypnotized by my partner, mesmerized by sensuous swaying hips and smoldering, seductive brown eyes. Portuguese-Irish, olive skin, long, shiny black hair; short, shapely peasant legs and pert breasts, she reminded me of my black Irish mother.
During the afternoon, when her watchdog lover was busy running laps, we got to know each other. Georgeanne was a good Catholic girl (no French kissing) from an upper-middle-class, conservative, all-white Sacramento suburb. Honor student, club joiner, office-holding school leader, she started Cal in 1962 as a psych major and member of a mediocre sorority just about the time I got out of the Army and returned to Marin Junior College, my UC springboard.
By the time we met, Georgeanne was into Buddha and the Kama Sutra, and an evangelical devotee of acid. Sensuality aside, her compassion, inner warmth, soothing voice, and raw sense of humor drew me deeper into her web.
***
Georgeanne was a treasure trove of facts, clinical trials, personal experiences, and local lore on lysergic acid. I was her attentive pupil.
The idea of acid attracted my attention. I’d been chasing Nirvana ever since my first blackout at age five from emptying cocktail glasses at my parents’ famous barbecue parties in Point Reyes. My weekend modus operandi by age 15 was to pop prescription Dexedrine to keep bopping all night—courtesy of my nurse mom’s sticky fingers—while chugga-lugging whiskey. My motto was “The higher the better, no matter what the outcome.”
“Mike if you want to change your life, drop acid. You’ll never be the same,” Georgeanne offered the mind-blowing suggestion. Well I don’t know about that, I thought.
“Look, is it fun? Is it a trippy experience?” I asked.
She shook her head, laughing. “Yeah, ultimately it’s a great high, higher than you can even imagine.” Frowning, I asked, “but what about bad trips? You know Denise? She jumped off the Greek Theater and ended up in the funny farm.”
Georgeanne shook her head, laughing, “She was crazy to start with! You’re kinda wild and far out there…but you’re not crazy, are you?”
My face turned red and I started to get pissed off. She smiled. “Hey, Mike, I was just kidding, take it easy. Look, it’s a powerful, mind-altering drug. In clinical trials it’s been successful in treating heavy-duty problems like alcoholism, homosexuality, impotence, compulsive behaviors, and fear of death in terminally ill patients. It’s a miracle.” Wow, I thought, I could use a little help in a couple of those areas, but that’s not what I’m looking for.
“Georgeanne, let’s get off the lecture circuit. Seriously, how does it work?”
“No one has all the answers, but acid has a profound effect on your brain. I believe it opens up your id. Sets your subconscious fears and desires free and shakes loose your ego, which keeps you in line. Unloosens your collective unconscious storehouse of memories, links to nature and your hidden soul. It seems to remove filters limiting sensory stimuli that surround us so we can function daily. Suddenly, on acid, we’re bombarded with unlimited colors and movement. Time stops, tactile sensations multiply and produce out-of-body sensations, hallucinations. Some have deep spiritual experiences.”
“Enough is enough. I’m in. Let’s do it.” I hugged her a little too long. She didn’t complain.
“Okay,” she said, excited. “Let’s get down to business. You’ll need a guide on your first trip. Someone who’s taken acid before.”
“Where will I…” She interrupted me. “Don’t worry! I volunteer.” She went on as if she had it all planned. “We have a place,” pointing to her bedroom, “that’s private. We need to pick a date when Greg’s not around. How about next Saturday?”
“Sure,” I said. “You don’t fool around, do you?”
“Here. Read this.” She handed me The Tibetan Book of the Dead. “It’ll help get you ready. Oh, and pick out three or four albums you love. Good music makes for good trips. One more thing: you should fast for 24 hours and don’t drink booze the night before. We don’t want your stomach to spoil your adventure. That’s all I can think of.”
“Okay, we’re on.” I shouted! We sealed the deal with a hot embrace.
***
Georgeanne, wearing a multicolored sari, dangling earrings, and a silky scarf, looked me over carefully.
“Mike too many clothes! You need to be loose.” The answer: gym shorts.
She glanced over my psychedelic music hit parade. A mixed bag: The Impressions, because they always set my bottom wiggling. The theme from Zorba The Greek sent shivers up my spine. Missa Criola, the mass in Spanish set to an Indian folk beat, touched the last vestiges of my Catholic soul. She nodded approval.”
“How you feeling this morning?” She sensed my apprehension.
“Oh, a little nervous.”
“Don’t worry,” she squeezed my arm gently. “Just remember: let go. No matter what happens, let go. Sometimes it’s a little scary. You’ll be fine; just don’t fight it.
I grimaced. Easier said than done for a scared little kid who survived by throwing the first punch.
Georgeanne led me to the bed. “Mike, lie down and relax.” With great reverence she whispered, “Close your eyes. Open your mouth. Have a good trip.” I felt a little object on my tongue. I swallowed and thought too late now.
Minutes went by. Nothing happened. Then slowly I felt strange sensations. My stomach rumbling, rolling up my throat and into my nose. Buzzing insects in my ears. Vibrating pinpoints pricking my skin. Shit my hands are melting. What’s going on? I jumped up. My legs were floating away. I fell to the floor, bugs crawling all over me. Where am I? Mirror mirror on the bathroom wall: find me. My face is changing. Dr. Jekyll. Dorian Gray. Weak, effeminate, simpering, girl-like. “No” I sputtered, my words gurgling away.
A touch. A voice. “Take it easy. Let go.” Arms melting into me. Me, her, mixed together, rolling on the floor. Me alone shivering. Metallic staccato sounds. Mom screaming “I’m not crazy,” Grandma cackling and spitting knives: “Put her away!” Fires burning. Grotesque devils reaching, grabbing, snatching, cackling “burn forever.” Ghoul-like misshapen priests growling, “Dirty! Dirty!” Flames exploding and a buzz saw bursting roasting skulls.
Swinging bodies hanging, hanging everywhere.
White hoods smothering choking red-hot blasts, shattering glass
Running
Ricocheting bullets clapping hands rich chocolate faces
Voices, thousands of voices:
Get on board, Get on board, People get ready
People all colors crying
Tears flowing. Salty tears. Rolling waves, choruses of energy drifting free.
Horses thundering across the sky and thousands of dads singing
Don’t fence me in…
Sinking into a dark abyss, then bursting into a throbbing tropical jungle surrounded by purring green-eyed prehistoric cats rubbing everywhere. Joined by supple swaying Aztec goddesses and wild-eyed biting angels. Drums pounding, warm spurting creamy melodies. Gods and goddesses dancing, beckoning let go, let go. Drifting, drawn deeper, animals everywhere changing shapes. Drums panting, pulsating, brown bodies, sparkling jaguars and sinuous snakes wrapping in and out, melting, reappearing as one
The Virgin Mary dancing, arms outstretched, enveloping.
Mother Earth, my Goddess swallowing me.
I am all life all creatures all men all women
Everything sparkling stars, sunsets melting, exploding together. Pure energy.
Joy. Love, love.
Seconds, minutes, hours, years, centuries later I slipped back into my body. Exhausted, my mind blown. I hugged Georgeanne and cried. Changed forever. Glints of hope. Glimpses of spirituality.
A cocky atheist no more.
***
My guide’s cat eyes and warm touch cast a spell over me. I was hooked. We became lovers. Well, everything but intercourse.
A bad experience with a drunken, older woman—she was 18 when I was the tender age of 15— in the front seat of a parked car had a profound effect on me. Her impatient shouts of “Put it in! Put it in!” with her 14-year-old cousin Barbara and my 16-year-old brother Bud in the back seat caused my virgin weenie to wilt. Her shriek, “what’s wrong with you?!” as she frantically pulled at my shrunken hard-on cinched the deal.
Georgeanne was patient. “It will work out, Mike,” she whispered tenderly. And anyway, I kept her satisfied. My talented fingers, amorous tongue, and cuddly nature had long since made up for my dick’s shortcoming.
A few days later, Wayne Collins, a redheaded, quick-witted Irish-American FSM veteran, asked if I knew anybody looking for an apartment. He was moving; I jumped on it.
The Pink Palace was actually pink and not a hallucination. A decrepit wooden building, a turn-of-the-century time warp, a San Francisco waterfront bordello from before the1906 earthquake. It stretched—or crept—from Regent Street to Telegraph Avenue. It featured a series of roofless wooden courtyards with two facing apartments off a long open passageway reached by creaky lopsided stairs. The only exceptions were my new home, which overlooked Regent, and another apartment overlooking Telegraph Avenue above the landlord Bing Wong’s bargain-priced cleaners. Bing tolerated the smell of pot, loud music, and occasional police raids. The tenants tolerated his peeping tom antics and unexpected appearances. Who could complain, for eighty dollars a month? Georgeanne loved the funky flavor. With no fanfare, we decided to live together, and celebrated with our first shared acid trip.
***
The blue green purple Free Speech Movement lettering on a white sheet stretched between two poles, suddenly shimmering, twisting, undulating snakes, devouring, all-consuming.
The room yawning stretching
Walls wrinkling expanding
Caressing choruses of Missa Criola rippling red-orange through my veins.
The moon melting into dancing streams of silver gold
Georgeanne, Indian goddess, quivering nest of shiny silky curls reaching out…beckoning…
CRACKING thunder, cruel, icy,
teeth-chattering wind-blasting, shriveling flesh
Yellow-violet-brown-green eyes mesmerizing, driving out fear.
shimmering shadows illuminating blackness
Soft purring words fluttering echoing…
Michael, Michael. Smoldering fingers guiding, stroking, flaming fires
Gently sliding pink succulent lips, pungent pulsating pulling quivering nerves singing.
Surging deeper, deeper.
vibrating sparks of ecstasy melting bodies
All men all women, all exploding across the sky
…on and on.
Centuries later, barely back in our bodies, we awoke to a gentle Van Gogh world. Wild, gentle creatures playing, mating, gazing, then wandering outside to a tapestry of stars and bursting shapes, colors. Like fawns in a new world, wide-eyed and tiptoeing, alert…savoring the sleeping street, each home a treasure radiating flowers, unique smells, distinct personalities.
Lost in a land of Oz.
***
Eons later, a voice—a slight whisper—startling, rising, demanding, intruding, confusing, cold cruel commanding words: court date today, free speech, jail judge now now, pleas, probation, not guilty todaY, plundering, ricocheting words between my head and through veins.
Catapulted across space and time: I was sitting in a mammoth cavern. Bright, penetrating lights. Everywhere, bodies half human, half beast. Familiar faces changing into screaming panthers and timid teddy bears, chairs changing to cages and back to chairs. Salivating, steel-fanged apes in blue capes, eyes glistening watching.
A black-robed buzzard perched in a granite nest, cawing shrilly, “Miiike Smith, Mi i i i ke Smith.”
Eyes glowing viciously, blood dripping from talons.
“How do you bleed?”
Drawn like a moth to a flame, standing before him, my insides becoming cold blue embers, paralyzing. Wincing, a gavel pounding my skull.
“Mr. Smith, what’s your pain?”
My heart pounding run run run. The walls waving, cracking into a halo of colors, showering sounds freedom freedom. Music wrapping around me.
“This little light of mine/I’m going to let it shine,” growing choruses, “ain’t gonna let no judge turn me around.”
Then: calmness, strength, flooding rising in me. Visions of black and white faces in the Selma sun. Students marching proudly into Sproul Hall, voices booming “We shall overcome,” their energy flowing up and down my spine.
“Your Honor, I’m proud I was arrested for what I believe in. I won’t take probation. I’m not going to stop fighting for freedom.” Turning, spirit soaring, striding down a long tunnel. A ray of sunshine shimmering, growing closer.
Then a searing, jolting, iron vice crushing my arm.
A stern, tough voice ripping, tearing. “Mike Smith, you’re under arrest for operating the FSM sound truck on December 2 without a driver’s license.”
***
Bars, guns, billy clubs, steel doors slamming, my body turning to stone, snarling rage boiling into spitting words. “I was in jail three times in Mississippi. If you lock me up I’ll go crazy.”
The voice, soft, dripping drops of feeling, a gentle touch. “It’s okay, son, it’s okay. I understand. I’ll let you go. We’ll deal with this later.”
Bursting free, humanity wrapping around me showering red white and blue flowers. Muscles shivering currents of love. My body floating free. A song flooding my ears.
I love all the PEOPLE
I love all the PEOPLE,
I love all the PEOPLE I love all the PEOPLE in my heart
***
Lying in bed after a restless August night, the thought of meeting mom’s psychiatrist at Napa State Hospital in a few hours churned in my mind. What’s this all about? Why me? What can I offer?
I wasn’t worried about mom, though she was back in the hospital for the second time since dad died in 1963. After a month’s rest, the right combination of medicines, no stress, no double shifts at San Francisco General Hospital psych ward, no eviction notices, money pressures, booze or Dexedrine, the old mom emerged. She was clear-eyed, confident, and compassionate. She was at peace for the moment, her heart of gold shining bright.
She was also unofficially running the Open Ward, helping the staff, consoling the frightened, listening to the ravings…and followed around by a bevy of goo-goo eyed admiring men… even an occasional woman. She was the undisputed Queen Bee of the loony bin.
Napa State Hospital was a world of its own: Alice in Wonderland, The Snake Pit, and the Land of Oz. To its people, the crazies of the Bay Area, it was their town with jobs, stores, events, old friends, and old enemies. A safe haven from cold mean streets. A place of contrasts: loneliness and community, straight jackets and dances, shock treatments and stolen love. Mom fit in, and in a strange way, so did I.
***
“Mike, we gotta get going if you’re going to take a trip. Your breakfast is ready.” Breakfast: half tab of Owsley pure, a snack for me and a glass of orange juice. Food and psychedelics didn’t mix. We had decided the night before that a little acid wouldn’t hurt. Just a touch to open my synapses, set loose my Jungian collective unconscious, get past the institutional bullshit and down to reality.
Georgeanne, the sober guide, and driver, would handle any unforeseen problems. She was in one of her good moods, upbeat and smiling, thank God. The acid took hold as we left, turning my world into bursts of colors. Cruising down the highway, lost in the Beatles the Byrds and the Temptations, the world wrapped in, out, and through me.
The Bay:
Sparkling blue green yellow showers of light
soaring smiling dancing whales and dolphins carrying me on their backs
vanishing in a kaleidoscope of images as I soared across the San Rafael Bridge
Floating to Sonoma:
Italian restaurants sizzling smells, fields of apples, pears, and cherries sweet tasty touches.
Boyes Hot Springs…Aqua Caliente…Fetters: warm pools, cold pools hot pools
The car stopped, a voice brought me back. “Mike, we’re here. Mike, we’re here.” Looking out the window at a weird village, the buildings weaving while creatures wandered around. It was a fairyland, strange not threatening, a gesturing streaming, wounded humanity. We went in.
The door slammed, locks snapped behind me.
Windows wire mesh, bars choking, screams, the shrill mad laughter of the wild-eyed
Playland-at-the-beach lady, her piercing voice rising louder and louder.
The hunters, stalking…jangling keys, the hunted turning into Ming’s mud people fading in
and out of the walls, crying
Georgeanne grabbed my hand. “Mike. Mike, it’s okay.” The panicky claustrophobia receded. Just in time, a door opened: escape! A smiling secretary.
“Mr. Smith, please have a seat. The doctor will see you in a moment.” Closing my eyes, “oh freedom, get all over me walking and talking…” My mind stayed on mom, mom, I’m here for mom. Fannie Lou Hamer smiling, singing, Deep in our hearts we are not afraid, and turning into mom’s Negro coworker, Honey, it’s okay. Your mom needs you. Be strong like her.
Another door sprung open. Mom’s shrink, no Glenda the Good Witch, wand in hand: a tall, green-eyed, beautiful blonde. A melodic, calming, loving voice. “Michael, good to see you. Your mom’s doing well.” Caring eyes wrapping around me. A slender hand grasping mine, a flood of warmth enveloping me. Fear melting, tears flowing, words gushing.
“Save mom, save me, save the kids. What am I going to do?”
Her arms went around me. Earth Mother. Mary Magdalene, Goddess of Love, Virgin Mary: a chorus.
“Mike, believe me, people love you.” Tremors of relief. “You’re not your dad. You can’t save your mom. You can’t save your family. It’s time for you to live your own life. It’s not healthy, trying to be your dad, and it’s not good for you. People love you. Be like Zorba the Greek. “… undo your belt and look for trouble.”
***
Like a homing pigeon, I’m headed to Corte Madera to celebrate my brother Bobby’s fifteenth birthday. He was a quiet, serious kid; shy, no girlfriends, lots of buddies, played sports. Didn’t date. Just one of the guys. A five-foot, seven-inch, sharp-eyed point guard, a team player, a great playmaker. A deadeye in practice, and like me, he, often joked in front of crowds. We were always close. He liked talking about history and current events. But since last spring, when I deserted the family for Mississippi, there was a distance between us.
I spent most of my share of the movie-pot-eat-out money from my $250 a month work study job as a PE teacher at Berkwood School on birthday gifts: a new basketball, a few clothes, a couple of sports books, and five dollars stuffed in a card. The rest went for frozen Banquet fried chicken, a small chocolate cake, and vanilla ice cream.
Jane, my 13-year-old sister and relief family caretaker, had called the week before. She was an intense, pretty girl, with a smidgen of freckles on her nose, dad’s hazel Irish eyes, and mom’s warm smile.
“Mike, mom’s not doing so well. Last night she lost it, flipped out at Ginny, started yelling, throwing things around. The neighbors called the cops. They almost took her away. Somehow she convinced them they shouldn’t bust a nurse. Mike, she’s awfully sick. She hasn’t been going to work. I’m worried.”
It sounded familiar. Some things never change, I thought. “Look, Jane, I’ll be at Bobby’s birthday party next week. I can’t do anything right now: I got a job, and school.” And a life, I thought.
Georgeanne was less than enthusiastic about our visit. “Mike, let’s keep it short. You know how it will be. Can’t you just avoid the pain, say happy birthday, drop off the presents, make up an excuse, and leave?”
My anger flashed. She’d touched a sore spot. “Knock it off. It’s my family. I can’t let my little brother down.” Something had changed in me. Maybe the worry was wearing me out.
Georgeanne hugged the passenger door, stony faced. Lightening up a little, I thought that maybe she was looking out for me. I reached over and touched her cheek. “Look, I understand where you’re coming from. Thanks for caring. The kids are counting on me. We just have to hang out for a while. We won’t stay too long.”
***
The little second-floor apartment on Pixley Avenue was just off Interstate 101. It was more like a cheap motel. It was L-shaped, two stories with a cloudy, funky swimming pool and a few beat up beach chairs. Folks staying there weren’t on a Marin County vacation. More like the end of the line, the last place for the down-and-out trying to stay in Corte Madera.
The apartment was barely two bedrooms. The largest was shared in a shift rotation: the two girls at night, mom—if she slept at all—during the day. Bobby’s room was little more than a closet. The family space was a combination living room/dining room and kitchen that barely held two people.
The last time I lived there was just after my arrest in Sproul Hall. I was selling shoes at Montgomery Wards during the Christmas season, and camping out on the living room floor, falling asleep to Johnny Carson or late-night movies. As we walked upstairs the sound of Tony Bennett belting out I Left My Heart In San Francisco made me wince. I flashed on visions of mom plastered at the Embers bar, driving everyone crazy playing Tony on the jukebox, over and over again mumbling about dad, while I tried coaxing her to come home.
Jane answered the door.
“Hi, Muchie.” She winced at her hated nickname. Maria, the last of our Mexican live-in maids, had called her Muchachita, and I shortened it.
Jane leaned toward me and whispered. “Mike, mom’s in one of her moods.” Mom sat at the table with a half-empty gin bottle, plastered, puffy-faced, and weepy. It was the same old refrain: “Oh Bud” referring to my dad, “how can I live without you?” Ginny, 11, sat wide-eyed on the couch.
Mom suddenly shifted from morose to belligerent and barked, “Mike, where the hell have you been? You too busy raising hell in Berkeley to spend time with your family?”
“Ah, come on, mom. Take it easy. Let’s have fun. It’s Bobby’s birthday.” I gave her my best smile, put down the presents, and hugged her.
Bobby, heard his name and came out of his room. “Hey Mike! How’s it going? Haven’t seen your name in the paper lately.” I hugged him and he tolerated it.
“Happy birthday, Bobby. How’s basketball?” A safe subject.
“Great! We’re in the playoffs!”
Mom’s voice seemed to get louder. “He’s gone…he’s gone. He’s not coming back. How can I live without him?” I shuddered and thought, this is too much.
“Hey kids, I got a new Beatles record.” I turned Tony off but before I could put the Beatles on, Mom shrieked.
“No, don’t you dare put on that hippy garbage. Put Dad’s song back on.”
Georgeanne squeezed my shoulder. “Mike, let’s get out of here.”
Bobby’s face froze. Ginny whimpered, and Jane pleaded. “Mike you gotta stay. Just don’t pay any attention to her. Just ignore her.”
Pissed off, mom bellowed, “Jane how dare you talk to your mother like that. And you,” focusing her anger on Georgeanne, “you little smartass, who the hell do you think you are? You’re not so special. Remember, you don’t shit violets.”
Suddenly, I heard a warm compassionate voice echoing in my head.“Mike, you’re not your dad, you can’t save your family.” Tears streamed down my face. I choked out “I’m sorry, Bobby, here are your presents. I have to get out of here.” Ginny started crying. Jane was still pleading.
“Mike, don’t go.” Bobby was withdrawn, silent.
“Don’t you dare leave,” Mom snarled. Turning, I grabbed Georgeanne and opened the front door.
The last words from mom’s mouth were, “You’re no good. The Hallinans ruined you. You’re a no-good little son-of-a bitch Communist.”
***
From far off, a strange, out-of-place sound plunged through the pleasures, limbs entwined, bodies melted into one, pulsing, pounding, purring mass. Again: sharp, insistent, different.
A knock, a penetrating, piercing knock. Unraveling minds and bodies. Struggling, pulling me back together. Again a knock. Survival. Ears quivering, sensing, smelling.
No, not the cops, but not the gentle rap of our neighbor. Something different.
The voice. Out of place, out of time, out of a misplaced history. My bother Bud.
“Mike! Are you in there? Mike, are you home?” My body turned icy cold. A primitive chorus wailing in me.
“Oh no, oh no oh no. It can’t be true.” I knew. The door blew open and black clouds swirled around Bobby and Bud. A voice ripped through me, splintering my soul.
“Mike. Mom’s dead.” My body twisted jolted gasped for air, smothered in oily waves of guilt, stung by stabbing knives. I fell to the floor, rolling rocking sobbing. Hands touched me. Voices swirled, made no sense. Warm arms around me, finally comforting, calming, crumbling, then a crazy, wrenching crescendo.
“No. No. It can’t be. I’m sorry I’m so sorry. Mom, come back. Let me hug you once more. Oooooooooooohhhhhhhh.” Bud’s voice a spear piercing my madness, stirring Celtic roots. The family, the clan, my people, they need me. A song swirled in my head. The Minstrel Boy To The Wars Has Gone.
“Mike, pull it together. The kids need you. We need you.”
Another voice. Mom’s. “I need you. You can do it. You’re a fighter.” I got up off the canvas, shook my head, tears still flowing, feelings raging. I hugged Bud and Bobby and walked out the door.