Like People in History (20 page)

Baking too, it turned out.

"We were wondering if you guys would ever wake up," Michelle said. She wore a large hand-stitched apron over her skirt. She'd done something to her hair: maybe washed it, definitely put it up on her head in a style I'd never seen on her before, perhaps for the cooking, possibly in imitation of the other women. Whichever, she was unquestionably in a good mood.

"Isn't this all great!" Michelle enthused, her statement encompassing the kitchen and the large rough-hewn table where she motioned me to sit, while she poured coffee out of a battered metal coffeepot into a large hand-thrown mug. "This is exactly where I wanted to be this weekend!"

"Lucky thing Edgar picked us up when he did," I offered between sips.

"Nothing like that ever happens by chance," Francine said and smiled enigmatically. Sarah, at the stove, turned around, and the three of them stood within inches of one another, The Three Graces in Homespun, looking at me with a combination of satisfaction and secretiveness.

"It was
meant
to be," Sarah said. "Michelle was
meant
to be here."

She said it, and the others ever so slightly bristled behind her, as though daring me to deny it. But it was far too early in the morning for me to discuss Fate, Chance, and other ontological matters, and what seemed to matter in what they were saying, while it was quite vague, nevertheless was its exclusionary aspects. Properly excluded, I sipped my coffee in silence.

A huge breakfast, complete with homemade bread and ham steaks, distracted me more happily for the next ten minutes.

The smell of the coffee and food awakened Tom and Edgar. We were finishing breakfast when Sarah announced: "All the food in town is sold out. All the food in the surrounding towns too."

"There's going to be a lot of hungry people." Michelle said the obvious.

"So we're baking bread—for the people at the concert," Francine said.

"We're going to feed them," the three women concluded.

"The radio broadcaster said there's already a quarter million there," Edgar said. "How much bread do you intend to bake?"

By ten that morning, they'd baked about three dozen fat, thick loaves, which were sliced and buttered, with honey smeared on. These were put into all sorts of various sized baskets and open containers, and we three males and two of the women were assigned to help hand them out at Yasgur's farm. We figured perhaps four hundred people would each get a thick slab of fresh bread this morning.

The early morning clarity had given way to clouds, although the sun seemed at times to burn hard through the mist, as though trying to clear it off. It was warm again, warm and muggy. So many apples had fallen into the back of Edgar's pickup from the previous afternoon's stay in the orchard that looking at them Sarah mused, "Wouldn't these go well with the bread?" Answering her own question, she began stuffing her dress and apron pockets with apples.

We did the same, adding apples to whatever containers held the bread, picking more once we'd reached the orchard, where Edgar again parked.

Only a few steps down from the bluff today and we were directly within the crowd. We advanced in a ragged line, trying to remain about ten feet apart. Despite the morning mugginess, people seemed in a terrifically good mood, laughing, dancing, making out under and half-out of blankets. We saw small children playing; either we'd missed them last night or they'd just arrived. There were long lines near the portable toilets, and some people had found wellheads at various spots on the property and were washing up and drinking from them. The food we'd brought might be all some kids ate today—it was vocally appreciated, and we were all in terrific high spirits as we returned to the pickup and headed back to the house for more food.

As we were stepping into the kitchen, Michelle stopped me and quietly said, "Edgar and Sarah asked me to stay after Tom and Francine leave."

She said it with such finality, also with such exclusivity—I wasn't to dream I was also invited to stay, not that I'd even thought about it— that, coming on top of all that business earlier in the morning about her having been
meant
to be there, it made me believe I was supposed to feel as though I'd been slapped, or at least hurt in some less spectacular fashion. But I didn't feel hurt at all. Instead, I felt calm, detached, glad to be separated from the action, even a little relieved despite the accompanying and distinctive sense that her decision would somehow prove to be crucial in my life.

I was also curious.

I wondered which of them—Edgar or Sarah—had approached Michelle and asked her to stay—Edgar first or Sarah first, and when during our quite brief visit they'd had the time to confer with each other and agree upon the ménage à trois, which couldn't, after all, have been an everyday matter. I wondered how Michelle planned on telling Leighton, who was ostensibly waiting for her back in Manhattan. Above all I wondered who would father her child: Leighton, whose astro-data was up to snuff, or Edgar, whose wasn't?

To her I merely said, "Want me to mail your things here or what?"

For the first time, I could actually see Michelle thinking something, literally see her face thinking, My God, all of this is so complex and
that's
all he can think of? Of course it wasn't all I was thinking, but I certainly wasn't about to be accused of sensitivity. She sighed. "I'll let you know."

An hour later, we were all back in the crowd distributing a second baking and a second shaking of the apple trees' bounty, when I suddenly heard a very loud, very British male voice peremptorily utter:

"Boy! I say, boy! Would you bring that here?"

I turned to locate the source of the voice. Uneven as the crowd was, my path had taken me close to an outer edge near the earliest assigned parking area. At first I couldn't tell who exactly had called me, then I made out a dark blond head and an arm gesticulating out of the sunroof of a large, midnight-blue limousine stopped at the crowd's edge.

"Over this way! That's it!" He continued to encourage me and to wave me over as though I were a waiter in some vast outdoor cafe.

As I came closer, I could see he was a Long Hair, which somewhat obviated the fact of his annoyingly commanding tone of voice and his general condescension, as well as the very large limousine he was in and his black-skinned chauffeur.... Somewhat obviated it all. It also helped that I was in a smashing mood today, a little high from all the grass in the air around me, and completely ready to be entertained.

"What exactly do you have?" he asked. He'd pulled himself out of the sunroof to sit upon the limo's roof so that his legs hung over the side windows. It was clear now what he was: a tall, rich hippie half a decade my senior. His clothing, like the car, was expensive: the moiré silk shirt open low, down his hairless sternum, looked to be one-of-a-kind, the sequined black trousers fit his long, well-muscled legs as only custom-made garb could, the chunky, handmade jewelry on his wrists and around his neck proclaimed him a patron of the arts.

"Bread," I said. "Homemade bread with honey and butter. And apples."

"Sounds perfectly marvelous," he exclaimed.

I held my basket aloft for him to reach into.

"May I have some for my friend inside the car?" he asked.

"Sure."

He handed it in through the sunroof.

"We've been on the road all morning," he explained while chewing. "Mmm. Lovely. Just got here a short while ago. Astonishing crowd, don't you think?"

Now that I was looking at him close up, his face was attractive in that peculiarly British manner—both ugly and pretty at the same time, with far too much character, too much exaggeration of feature to be really handsome. His dark blond hair fell heavily straight to his shoulders and in thick sideburns deeply scalloped onto each cheek, to partly cover the ravages of once acned skin. Most striking was his luxuriantly lashed, almond-shaped eyes, which weren't dark, as one would expect such eyes to be, but instead exotically light blue-gray. His slender, aquiline nose and large mouth added an aristocratic touch, especially when his elastic lower lip formed a wicked, enchanting smile.

"Ummmn," he moaned in ecstasy as he bit into the hunk of bread, and honey-butter slipped down his chin. "Don't go," he quickly added when I turned to move into the crowd,

"Have to. There are still hungry people."

"Are you some kind of angel?" he asked, and fixed me with those pale eyes the way a collector fixes a rare specimen onto a page of vellum.

"Of course not." I laughed, aware I was blushing at his extravagant flattery. "Thank those three women." I tried pointing out Sarah, Francine, and Michelle handing out food in the distance. "They baked."

"I don't care a fig about them," he said, testily. More softly, "But I would like to thank you."

"You're welcome," I said, and since I was suddenly feeling his interest far too intently upon me, upon my body, upon my face, for comfort, I left the stopped limo and sailed into the crowd, continuing to hand out bread and apples, aware all the time of his gaze on my back.

"I'd like to do something nice for you," he called out.

"You don't have to," I called back. "Here," to people, "apples too! Fresh off the trees in that orchard."

"I'd very much like to," he continued to insist.

I now realized that the limo was alongside me. He remained atop the roof as the driver slowly drove on, stopping whenever I did.

"Something very special," he added, and he said it so lubriciously I blushed again. I was definitely feeling uncomfortable. Yet for the life of me I didn't want him to stop insisting.

"No, thanks!"

"I know some folk in the bands here today," he said.

I wasn't in the least bit surprised by this fact. I'd already guessed from his accent and car and clothing that he was connected with one of them.

"Do you want to meet someone?" he asked.

"Lennon and McCartney!" I shot back.

"They're not coming. Someone else?"

How could he know with such certainty they weren't coming? "Grace Slick?" I asked.

"And Marty and Jorma? Certainly. Anyone else?"

He was putting me on. I continued through the crowd, stopping to let folks rummage around for whatever they could find in my increasingly empty basket. The limo was there whenever I looked, my pal in his expensive duds washing down breakfast with a fifth of unblended Scotch.

"How about, oh, Stephen Sills?" he tried.

"Okay," I said, thinking that would shut him up.

"And Graham Nash? Or Julian Gwynne?" he said, naming two of the best bass-guitar players in the business.

"Great! Fine!" I said, amused. That he knew
all
of them seemed more and more unlikely.

"Really? You'd like to meet them? Nash and Gwynne?"

"Sure would."

"You would? Well, come on then, isn't that basket empty yet?"

"Almost," I admitted.

"Then you'll come in the car here and meet Julian Gwynne?"

"I don't know. I have to join up with my friends. We have to get back to the house for more food."

"You'd rather do that than meet Julian Gwynne?"

"I can do both," I temporized. The basket was empty. Only one apple left. I held it out, offering it to the general public, and suddenly felt his hand close around mine holding the apple. He lifted it to his mouth and bit into it richly with great smacking noises, apple flesh cracking, apple juices flowing down the stubble of his chin. He offered the apple to me.

"You finish it," I said.

"How can I tempt you if you won't even take a bite?" he asked in a tone of voice so obviously seductive it was both amusing and quite serious.

I bit into the apple.

"Tell you what. Come into the car now, and I'll suck your prick."

I pulled away, but he'd foreseen I'd do that: his other arm lashed forward to hold me tight.

"Wouldn't you like having your prick sucked?" he asked.

I continued to pull away. His arms were really strong. No chance I'd get loose.

"Wouldn't you like to meet Julian Gwynne and let me suck your prick?" he repeated.

"Is he in there?" I asked, trying to get away and look into the limo.

"He will be."

"Well, I'd meet him. But not... you know, the other."

"Then how about letting Julian Gwynne suck your prick?" he asked.

Fat chance of that happening. But if he'd let go of me... "Sure. Okay!"

"You will?" he asked.

"I said so! Now, let go!"

"Did you hear?" he asked into the car's open sunroof. "He said yes."

Confused now, I asked, "Is Julian Gwynne really inside?"

"Better than that." He still hadn't let go of my hands.

"Who then? Who's there?"

"Come on up," he spoke into the sunroof. "I'll collect on my bet."

"Bet? What bet? Who's there?" I asked, trying to see who it was.

I was still trying to figure out what he was talking about, when, of all people, Alistair Dodge popped through the limo's roof.

"I bet him your cherry," my second cousin said. His hair was long and darker than I remembered it, and he was also expensively and hiply dressed, if otherwise unchanged from the last time I'd seen him in Beverly Hills.

"I lost my cherry years ago," I said.

"I meant your homo-sexual cherry," Alistair clarified. "Which it appears you've just now promised to Julian."

"That was a joke," I said. "Besides, he's not even here."

"Isn't he?" the rich hippie on the car roof asked.

"Dear Cuz, Roger Sansarc," Alistair swung his legs over the side of the car, "allow me to introduce you to my friend, the infamous Julian Gwynne."

"You?" I asked the hippie.

"Me!" he said. "Come give us a kiss."

"What are you doing here?" I asked, holding back.

"What do you think? Playing with the band." Julian continued trying to pull me onto the roof next to him.

"No, I meant you, Alistair?"

He'd now slipped off the roof and, getting behind me, was helping to lift me up alongside Julian, who let go of my hands long enough to grab me around the waist.