My Beautiful Hippie (20 page)

“Then I'd be a disappointment to her.” He jumped up from the bed and reached for my hand. “I know what we can do.”

“What?”

“Guess what's hiding in the basement?”

“The piano!”

I led the way, down the stairs and through the kitchen, but at the door to the basement, I stopped and turned sadly to Martin. “I can't go any further.”

“Why not?”

“There's a door blocking my way.”

“Turn the knob.”

“Oh.” I was amazed that the solution to my problem was so easy.

The piano was out of tune, and the warbling of the dissonant harmonies fighting each other made me feel like there were exotic birds squawking in my brain. As I pressed the keys, the sound seemed to come from my fingers rather than the piano. The piano played legato; it played staccato. My fingers pattered like rain on the keys.

I was aware that others were sleeping in the house, so I played softly. There was a book of Scott Joplin rags on the piano, and I opened it and began to sight-read “The Strenuous Life.” When I got to the end of the second page, I stopped and looked at Martin, who was sitting on the sofa. “There's no more music,” I said sadly.

“Turn the page.”

Another obstacle easily overcome. Was that really who I was? Someone who was so easily discouraged?

I played some more in the Joplin book. I played everything I knew by heart, even little parts of pieces I had memorized long ago and hadn't thought of for years. It was fun to play the piano like this, just playing, not practicing, not getting ready for some dreaded date in the future. I thought about the expression “play the piano.” I wondered if I could play better if I worked less.

I sat staring at the keys, trying to think of something else to play. Behind me, Martin was snoring softly. I wasn't at all sleepy; I wasn't hungry. I had nothing to do and no one to talk to. The dawning light was seeping through the windows, so I decided to go home.

I slipped out of Martin's house, crossed the street, and waited a few minutes for the trolley. It was cold. I reached in my car coat pockets for my cap and mittens. I stomped my feet, and then I began to put one in front of the other. I reached the Golden Gate Bridge and stepped out onto it, just to prove to myself I was no longer afraid. I walked through the Presidio, down Lincoln Way, and along the Great Highway, past the Sutro Baths, Cliff House, and Seal Rocks. The walking seemed effortless, like the road was as springy as the soles of my red Keds.

I was coming down. It wasn't a crash landing into hard, cold reality like I'd dreaded, but more like a gentle descent by parachute. Everything in the world was more beautiful than when I had left on my trip: the sky, the seagulls, the wind, the water, my life.

I had never hiked the entire length of Golden Gate Park, but I was going to do it that Sunday morning. I turned in at the windmill and kept walking, past Spreckels Lake and the Japanese Tea Garden. Lying on the walkway near the de Young Museum was a perfect long-stemmed rose, something that had not grown in the park in this season. A gift for me. I picked it up and carried it with me, past the band concourse and Hippie Hill.

Soon I had crossed Stanyan and was walking up Frederick Street, home from my trip. I had survived. I would be a better person, I decided, good to Lisa and my parents, even Dan. I opened our gate, ran up our driveway, and bounded through the back door into the kitchen.

Both my parents were waiting for me at the table. They didn't look happy.

My mother snatched the rose I was holding and began thrashing my head with it. I tucked my face into the crook of my elbow, even though it didn't hurt. The petals fluttering to the floor made me sad. When my mother was done, my beautiful rose was nothing but a stem, which she threw on the floor. I picked it up.

“You ungrateful brat!” she screamed. “You had us up all night worried sick.”

“I told you I was spending the night at Lisa's.”

Dad folded his newspaper. “Lisa didn't come home last night, Joanne. Leo Girardi called here looking for her.”

“But we were together at the dance and—”

“The dance got out at eleven,” said Mom. “Where have you been all this time?”

I sat at my place at the table and set the rose stem carefully before me. A single tear slid down my cheek. “The dance got out at two a.m. Me and Lisa went to the Fillmore. I knew it was too late to come home so I stayed at some friends' house.”

“What friends?” asked Mom.

I shrugged. “Just some people I met around the neighborhood.”

“Hippies?” asked Mom.

“Well . . . yeah.”

“My God! Were you raped?”

“No, Mom.”

“Was Lisa with you?” asked Dad.

“Uh . . . no. I saw her get into a camper with a bunch of people she met at the Fillmore.”

“Ah, hell. Leo said she's been running wild,” said Dad.

“And our daughter hasn't been?” asked Mom.

“She's not a drug addict like the Girardi girl!” Dad rose from his chair. “I better call Leo. Let him know what we know. You're not lying to us now, Joanne?”

“No, Dad!”

When he left the kitchen to make the call, Mom glared at me and shook her head. “I don't even know you anymore, Joanne. You've always been the difficult child to raise, but I never thought it would come to this, staying out all night at the age of sixteen.”

“I'm sorry, Mom. The Purple Cockroach is my favorite band. They were playing at the Fillmore, and I wanted to hear them. If I asked you, you wouldn't let me go.”

The doorbell rang. I could hear Dad hanging up and going to answer it.

“Going into the Negro slum, hanging around with hopped-up
hippies? No mother in her right mind would allow her daughter to do that!”

“You never let me do anything! If I waited for your permission, I'd never go anywhere.”

Dad appeared at the kitchen entrance. “Lisa still hasn't come home. Leo's calling the police,” he reported, obviously shaken. “There's someone here to see you, Joanne.” He stepped aside, and there was Martin! He looked so out of place in my mother's rooster decor, I thought I was still tripping. He wore clean Levi's and a denim shirt, tucked in. His hair was washed and brushed back in a neat ponytail. I wanted to scream, “Run, run! My parents are so mad they'll kill you!”

Martin extended his hand to my mother, and she reluctantly shook it. “Hello, Mrs. Donnelly. I'm Martin. Joanne spent the night at our house, and when I woke up, I found out she was gone. I was worried about her, so I just came over to see she got home okay.”

“She's here,” Mom said flatly. “Have a seat. Would you like some coffee?”

“I don't do caffeine. Do you have any herbal tea?”

“No, we don't have any herbal tea,” said Dad.

“Just a cup of hot water, then,” said Martin.

“Plain hot water?” Mom exclaimed.

“Water from the tap would be fine,” said Martin.

Mom poured a glass of water and handed it to him. “Do your parents let you stay out all night?”

“Um . . . well, I live with my older brother, and he uh . . .”

“Lets you do pretty much what you want,” said Mom. “Do you think we should let Joanne do whatever she wants?”

“Well, she has pretty good judgment.”

“You think staying out all night is good judgment?” asked Dad.

“No, that wasn't,” said Martin. “I should have taken her home at two, when the dance ended, but it was late and—”

“Are you having sexual intercourse with our daughter?” roared Dad, leaning over Martin, his hands on his hips.

“No!” Martin raised both palms. “No,” he repeated softly.

“But you have been seeing each other for quite a while,” said Mom.

“No!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Martin. “Long enough for me to drop by and meet the family.”

“And what do you do together?” Mom asked.

“We talk a lot,” said Martin.

“And walk a lot,” I added.

“And drink tea,” said Martin.

“Herbal tea?” Dad clarified disdainfully.

“Right,” said Martin, “with honey. And sometimes we play music together. Last night we went dancing.”

“Joanne is forbidden to attend the Fillmore or the Avalon dances ever again!” said Mom. “Are we clear about that?”

“Right,” said Martin. “I won't take her there again.”

“What are your intentions toward our daughter?” asked Dad.

“Well . . .” Martin rubbed his chin. “I was just going to ask her if she wanted to go down to Tracy's for a donut.”

“You better run along to Tracy's Donuts on your own,” said Mom. “I was just about to ground Joanne for life.”

“Oh. Okay. Well . . .” Martin slowly stood. “It was nice to meet you, Mr. and Mrs. Donnelly. Thanks for the water.” He turned and gave me one of his beautiful smiles. I wanted to kick him for coming to my house. “Bye, Joni. Glad you made it home okay.”

“Not everyone did,” said Dad. He showed Martin out the back door. My parents and I were silent, listening to the gravel crunch beneath Martin's boots as he passed under the kitchen window.

When we heard the gate clink shut, Mom started yelling again. “What are we going to do about this, Dick? What sort of man wears a ponytail?”

“I don't know,” said Dad. “But a fella who comes around to my front door, looks me in the eye, and inquires about the safety of my daughter is the sort of man I like.”

Mom flapped her arms. “It's okay with you that your daughter dates a hippie?”

“I'll let you handle this one, Mother.” Dad picked up his newspaper and shuffled into the den.

Sitting at the kitchen table with all the roosters looking on, I knew I was in for a serious interrogation. I was going to try to be honest with my mother, something I hadn't had much practice with.

“Do you and Martin smoke marijuana together?”

I winced. “A couple of times.”

Mom sighed deeply. “I thought so. I read a survey where sixty-two percent of you kids have tried it, so I knew you'd be one of them.”

“I don't really like it, Mom. It makes me confused, and I'd rather think straight. You know I have a hard time remembering my music as it is. I don't know how musicians play stoned. Even in rock you've got to remember chord changes and lyrics.”

“Does Martin go to school?”

“No.”

“Does he have a job?”

“Sorta. He works for his brother sometimes.”

“Doing what?”

“Setting up his rock band.”

“Oh, brother. He's all wrong for you, Joanne, but I can tell by the way you look at each other that no matter what Dad and I say or do, you'll find a way to keep seeing him. Don't get pregnant, Joanne. It would ruin your life if you married him.”

“Mom! I'm too young to be looking for a husband.”

“Exactly what your sister said. She barely lasted a year at Cal before she got one. Don't get me wrong. You know we love Jerry, but it would have been nice if someone in this family had actually graduated from college, and Denise was the one who could actually do it.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well, Joanne, I honestly don't have much hope for you. Smoking marijuana and playing the guitar and running after hippies, I imagine you'll soon be one yourself.”

I swallowed hard. I tried not to show that she had succeeded in hurting my feelings. “Can I go to Tracy's now?”

“I'd better let you. If I sent you to your room you'd leap out of the second-story window to chase after that hippie.”

When I got to Tracy's, Martin had my favorite donut, a custard-filled, chocolate-iced Bismark, waiting for me. “What made you think I was coming?”

“Your parents seem to be reasonable folks.”

“Martin! Are you crazy?”

He laughed. “We've been sneaking around long enough. It's bad karma the way you lie to your parents because of me.”

“They could've forbidden me to see you ever again.”

“I thought of that. But you'd find a way.”

“That's what my mom figured.” I scarfed down my donut.

Martin reached across the table with a napkin to wipe the chocolate from my mouth. “Why'd you take off without telling me?” he asked softly.

“You were asleep, and I was wide awake.”

“How do you feel now?”

“Good. Thoughtful. I don't know if I'll ever want to drop acid again. It's going to take me about ten years to sort this trip out.”

“I knew you were a quick learner.” His smiling eyes grew soft and deep. “You said something last night that made me sad.”

It was impossible to remember everything I had rattled on about. “What?”

“What makes you think I have other girls?”

I felt myself blush. “Well, we don't . . . you know, and Rena told me that once guys start having sex they have to have it, and now everyone is into free love, and—”

“You're doing it again, Joni. Stereotyping me. Can't you think of me as my own person?”

“I'm sorry. I—”

“There's nobody but you, got that, lady? I'll let you know when that changes.”

“Not
if
, but
when
.”

“I warned you from the start. I'm a rolling stone.”

“I know.” I looked down at my hands. There was chocolate icing stuck under my thumbnail.

“And you've got big plans. Juilliard. Carnegie Hall.”

I knew all this, and Martin was right in thinking I occasionally needed to be reminded. I noticed a smear of pink Day-Glo paint on my arm and had to think hard where it came from. “Where do you think Lisa is?”

He lifted one shoulder and dropped it. “Sleeping it off wherever that camper took her.”

“She was going to the bridge.”