She's Gone: A Novel (14 page)

18

You Say You Want a Revolution

On Saturday, Will and Jolie headed to Cambridge for the anti-war protest. They were meeting Adam at Liberation Books. Jolie buttoned her wool pea coat and tugged her beanie down to keep out the spring chill while hurrying to keep up with Will’s long stride. She’d told Will a customer had left the hat. What was wrong with her? Now she was lying to Will. But he would never let her wear it if he knew the truth and she loved the Harvard emblem.

In Harvard Square, students and shoppers flooded the sidewalks. Will and Jolie crossed the street and a car horn blared. Jolie jumped, startled by the angry blast. The drivers were so rude. They didn’t care if pedestrians had the right of way. In California, no one honked.

They walked past Brigham’s. She stopped and looked through the window. The long line at the ice cream counter snaked to the door.

“That’s me during the week,” she said, looking at the girl behind the counter.

Will hadn’t stopped and was already halfway down the street. She ran to catch up with him. Wasn’t he interested in what she did all day?

Musicians serenaded passers-by, hopeful for some coins. The jazz trumpeter commanded his usual corner with sweet Miles Davis tunes. Panhandlers were out in force with a chorus of “Spare change?” A white-faced mime imitated people, exaggerating their walk.

She followed Will six blocks down the Avenue to Liberation Books. They entered the bookshop to an aroma of fresh coffee. Shelves of books lined the walls. In the middle of the room a plaid couch and a few chairs welcomed readers. So this was Liberation Books. Posters of Lenin, Mao Tse Tung, and Ché Guevara hung on the walls. Underground newspapers were piled high on the table. It was more like a private library. Will led her into the back room where she recognized Adam from the week before.

“Where’ve you been, man?” Adam said. “We missed you at the meeting Wednesday night.”

“Hanging out in Boston,” Will said.

A twinge of humble pride spread through Jolie. She looked away, embarrassed. He was too proud to say he didn’t have subway fare.

“Did you bring it?” Martin, the bookshop owner, asked.

Will nodded and handed him a hand written copy of his socialist manifesto.

“I’ll read it this weekend,” Martin said. “Let’s get together Monday morning.”

Martin introduced them to a group of men and women. Pamphlets and signs for the protest were stacked on the table. In the back of the room, stacks of folding chairs lined the wall. Jolie envisioned the lively meetings held there.

Carrying signs and pamphlets, Will and Jolie set out with the group to the Common. A crowd had gathered near the three historic cannons. The earthy scent of patchouli oil wafted in the air. Musical refrains from the steel band and a string quartet tangled together overhead. Adam quickly took charge, handing out signs and giving instructions for an orderly protest.

“No violence, even if the pigs want to clash. Absolutely no violence,” Adam said. “Stay out of the street. Do not disrupt traffic.”

After more instructions on the protest route, Adam assigned a handful of people to pass out pamphlets at the entrances to the Common. Jolie was directed to the familiar corner with the steel band. She glanced at Will and their eyes met. She didn’t want to separate from him. It was her day off and she wanted to be near him. But he nodded and she headed off with an armload of pamphlets, reading one as she walked: BRING OUR TROOPS HOME.

Over 500,000 US troops are on the ground in Vietnam. Over 45,000 of our sons and brothers have died. 14,501 were killed in 1969 alone. What are we fighting for? Who are we fighting?

The two hundred or so protesters fell into place and began their slow march around and through the Common. Cambridge police stood at attention, their nightsticks ready at their sides. Policemen on horseback were strategically stationed at each entrance. Every twenty minutes, the protesters marched by Jolie. On the first pass, the group had doubled in size. With each pass, the crowd swelled and doubled again. Soon the gap closed from the front to the back, its width spreading outward. The energy level soared. The steel band, drowned out by the chanting of slogans, played on with more passion. Jolie joined the chant that went by at that moment, “Stop the war, feed the poor.”

Jolie thought she glimpsed Nick in the crowd, but the swell of bodies merged together, and she lost sight of him. She hadn’t seen Will for over an hour. The protesters spilled out onto Massachusetts Avenue. Police on horseback tried to move the mob back onto the sidewalk and into the Common, but the crowd was too large and getting bigger. No one was in control.

Jolie, out of pamphlets, stood firmly-rooted and watched. Someone should be taking photos. She’d never seen such a large protest. She stayed in her spot. She couldn’t see Will in the sea of people but he knew where she was. He would find her. Horns blared as one lane of traffic was blocked and drivers tried to maneuver around the protesters. Drivers shouted out of car windows.

“Jolie?”

She turned to find Nick standing next to her in the sea of bodies marching with their signs. “I thought I saw you,” she said. Her hand instinctively touched his beanie she was wearing.

“This is a big protest,” Nick said.

“I wish I had a camera to capture it. The strength of it,” she said.

“You like photography?” he asked.

She smiled and thought of the small Kodak Instamatic she’d left at home. She had taken it everywhere. But she wanted a real camera, a 35 millimeter. “I don’t have a camera anymore but I plan to get one. I want to photograph all of this.”

“There is a camera store in the Square that sells used cameras,” Nick said.

Jolie strained to hear. The crowd was getting louder, chanting “Stop the War.” A new line of police stood in riot gear in front of the officers on horseback. The police squawked into their bull horns: “Move out of the street.”

“This is getting crazy,” Nick shouted over the din.

The mood had changed. The protesters marched on, now chanting: “Hell no, we won’t go.” A moment later tear gas rained down on the marchers in the street. Nick grabbed her arm and pulled her toward the Square. They had to push their way through the solid wall of protesters advancing toward them. Nick held her wrist and pulled her along. Once they reached the edge of the crowd they ran a block, slowed, and looked back at the melee.

“It won’t do any good to get clubbed and gassed,” Nick said.

Her eyes stung from the tear gas drifting in the air. They stopped and watched the peaceful protest turn into an all out police assault. The Cambridge Common was too small for the crowd. They couldn’t help but spill out into Mass Avenue. She strained to see Will. What if he got clubbed? Or arrested?

The police continued to spray tear gas on the crumpled bodies in the street as the protesters kept up their march around the Common. Those that had been gassed were helped by others onto the grass on the Common. The marchers cut a swath around them. Drivers honked their horns, in support or anger, Jolie couldn’t tell.

Jolie and Nick watched in disbelief.

“The police look like gladiators with their shields and armor,” she said.

“I was in Chicago the summer of sixty eight. This is nothing.”

Jolie couldn’t take her eyes from the scene.

“I’m sorry but I’ve got to go. I lead a study group and they’re not going to pass an exam Monday without my help. Can I walk you somewhere?” Nick asked.

He was leaving? She’d never seen anything like it. “No, I’ll wait here. I’m with some people back there.” With some people? Why didn’t she say she was waiting for Will, her boyfriend?

He gave her a brief hug. “Okay, promise me you won’t go back.”

Jolie nodded.

“Ciao,” he said.

“Ciao,” she replied, her eyes transfixed on the scene. Police had overrun the corner that Adam had assigned her. A television crew started setting up their cameras. She didn’t need her picture on national TV or to end up in jail. Will knew to find her at the clock post in front of the Co-op.

Jolie walked up the block, and began her wait at the clock post. Students streamed in and out of the Co-op bookstore. She went inside. It was quiet and calming, a world apart from the protest a few blocks away. She browsed through the books and stopped before the photography section. Massive shelves were lined with photography guides, darkroom guides, and books of photographs. Turning the pages of a book of black and white photographs, she studied them. Everything looked stark and haunting. When they got on their feet she would buy a used 35 millimeter camera and then she’d buy Will a guitar. He was restless without his music. But first they had to move out of Berkeley Street.

The din of the protest still pounded in her head. Concerned about Will, she went outside and leaned against the clock post. Her eyes searched up and down the street for him.

Finally he appeared beside her. “Why did you leave?” he asked.

“The corner was overrun with police and tear gas.” She gave him a hug. “I thought you got hurt or arrested.”

“It mushroomed,” he said. “The news crews are out in force. It should get some good coverage.”

“I wish I had a camera,” she said. “To capture it. The real version of the news.”

His smile radiated through her. “The Revolution needs a photographer. We’ll get you a camera.”

She smiled up at him. She would set up a darkroom in their quaint brick house and learn how to develop her own photos.

The subway was crowded on the way back to Berkeley Street. At the hotel, they stopped by the TV in the lobby. Two men sat watching the news on a threadbare couch. Will and Jolie sank into unmatched, overstuffed chairs. Sure enough, there it was on TV, Jolie’s corner with the crowd of protesters, snarled traffic, the police on horseback and in riot gear. The news crew interviewed protesters who claimed the tear gas was unwarranted. They were peaceful and unarmed. The crowd size was enormous and the police looked intimidating in their riot gear.

“Look at all of those people coming together,” Will said. “All with their own agenda. If only I could harness that energy.”

“They should lock them all up,” said one of the men on the couch.

Jolie looked at the man. “Who should be locked up? The police?”

“No, the damn communist hippies,” he said.

Oh, so now she was a communist hippie? She smiled. He sounded like her dad. But the smile faded instantly when she thought of him. He’d only wanted to love and protect her the best way he knew how.

19

Central Underground

Monday morning, Will accompanied Jolie to Cambridge. They walked into the warm glow of Liberation Books. Adam and Martin sat talking in the overstuffed chairs.

“Hey, guys, coffee?” Adam said.

“Sure,” Will said. “That was quite a protest.” Will and Jolie made themselves comfortable on the couch.

“The pigs ruined it.” Adam handed them cups of black coffee. He smiled at Jolie. “But we got great press coverage.”

Jolie took a sip and clenched her jaw, not wanting to swallow the bitter brew. She’d buy some tea for the bookshop with her next paycheck.

“I read your manifesto,” Martin said. “It’s good. It’s really good.”

Will regarded him. “Thanks man.”

Jolie studied Martin. He was solemn and pensive. His blue plaid shirt was tucked neatly into his jeans, and his black military boots were laced with precision. His short brown hair fluffed out from the sides of his glasses.

“I want to publish it,” Martin said.

Jolie smiled at Will with pride. Liberation Books wanted to publish his work.

“We’ve been talking about starting a new underground press.” Adam said.

“The old press crashed and burned last year under its own messed-up internal politics,” Martin said.

“What do you think, Will? Do you want to be part of it?” Adam asked.

Will nodded slowly and a wide smile spread across his face. “We can use the paper as a catalyst for the movement. We’ll merge all of the separate movements into a single socialist revolution. The paper will be a vital mouthpiece for the movement.”

“We’re thinking along the same lines,” Adam said.

“You can use my printing press after hours,” Martin offered.

Jolie looked at the three of them. An underground newspaper? She’d read them all the time in Eugene.

“I was thinking about starting an underground news agency,” Will said.

Jolie spun to look at Will. This was the first she’d heard of the plan and what was an agency?

“We’ll collect news articles from reliable sources all over the world and send them out to other presses all over the country. We’ll start a subscription service for news articles.” Will’s arms waved in the air as he spoke. “We’ll link the nation and the world, not just one city. The socialist manifesto will reach every street corner. We’ll build a cohesive national movement.”

He always thought big. This was the Will she loved. His dark brown eyes shone with energy. He had never looked handsomer.

Jolie rose, holding her still full coffee mug. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“Bye, Jolie girl,” Adam said, smiling. “Have a nice day.”

She smiled back at him. She liked Adam. He didn’t seem as serious as Will and Martin. He was committed to the cause, but he lightened the mood. Martin and Will talked enthusiastically as she slipped out the door.

Have a nice day.
She stood on the corner and pulled her mom’s frayed note from her wallet and reread it. She carefully refolded it and tucked it away. “Have a nice day, Mom,” she whispered and hurried off to work.

All week Will, Adam, and Martin met daily in the back room of the bookshop, hatching their plans. They decided that Adam would run the Boston/Cambridge underground press, and Will would be in charge of the central news agency. Martin would help find resources. They needed an office, supplies, phones, and a staff.

When her shifts were over, Will met her outside Brigham’s. He was always late. The first two nights she worried. But on that night, she was miffed, her body stiff in the cold night air. She had been standing all day and wanted to go home to Berkeley Street, such as it was. He was oblivious about her day. Her work was inconsequential, scooping ice cream was insignificant. Heat spread across her cheeks as she stood and waited. What was she doing with her life? She needed to get involved with something important.

Will appeared, smiling. “I’m meeting a political science professor at Boston University tomorrow. Martin said he has one floor of a triplex we may be able to use as an office.”

“What about looking for a job?”

He looked at her. “I just created my job.”

“I mean a paying job.”

“Money is trivial compared to what I’m doing for the movement.”

A heavy feeling weighed on her chest. Money was trivial? Her working hard all day was trivial? He had promised to take care of her and now the burden was on her. She sat silent in the subway train. Maybe what he was doing was more important than money, but how were they going to get out of Berkeley Street?

The next night Will described his meeting with Professor Barnes to Jolie. “He was sitting in his office behind a massive desk piled with books, wearing a brown herringbone jacket. He’s this classic aging professor until he opens his mouth.”

“What do you mean?”

“He unleashed his theories on misguided U.S. imperialist policies. He even agreed to write an article.”

“He’s willing to do that?”

“Yes, but under a pseudonym. Some of his theories about U.S. government actions in Latin America seem so bizarre they must be true. Anyway, he offered the use of a ground floor apartment in Central Square, utilities included.”

“Wow, really?” Will already had an office, and they didn’t even have a house yet.

“He’s planning to renovate the triplex in the future, but as long as we keep a low profile and don’t bother the student renters on the two floors above, we can use it.”

“He’s a generous man.”

“He gave me the keys, and I checked it out. It’s perfect. I’ll take you there before work in the morning. We can start the cleanup.”

“What cleanup?”

“You’ll see soon enough.”

Will was up at six the next morning, ready to go to Central Square. He unlocked the first floor of the triplex. Jolie followed him in and surveyed the scene. It must have been quite a party. Furniture was scattered all around, some damaged beyond repair. They could put the rooms in order. The lights worked. The bathrooms needed cleaning. A sturdy wood dining room table survived the mayhem. An old couch could be salvaged if a bedspread was thrown over it. The kitchen plumbing worked. The stove and refrigerator were trashed but usable. It had potential, but a massive cleanup was in order.

“You got this for free?” Jolie asked, looking at the tall ceilings and windows.

“Until he’s ready to remodel.”

Unearthing cleaning supplies in the crusty pantry, they began the clean-up. Bag after bag of garbage and debris was hauled outside to the curb. After hours of labor Jolie left Will cleaning and walked to the T to catch the subway to work.

Late at night at the end of day two, the underground agency and free press office was ready for business. Jolie, Adam, and Will sat at the big wooden table in the dining room.

“We need a name for the agency,” Will said.

“Central Square location, Central Agency, how about Central Underground?” Jolie suggested.

“Central Underground,” Will tried out the name. “That works.”

“I like it,” Adam said.

Jolie’s face lit up. She liked the name, too. “Central Underground.”

“I have an idea.” Will got up and walked to one of the bedroom doors. They hadn’t touched the bedrooms yet. She followed him.

“Let’s move in here.”

She looked around at the austere surroundings. A mattress on the floor was covered with a ragged bedspread. She shot him a glance. Was he serious? She looked back at Adam who peered in behind them, his eyebrows arched.

“I want our own house, not a bedroom in an underground news press.”

“You’re going bourgeois on me again.”

“I’m not going to live in a circus.”

“Oh, and it will be a circus,” Adam said. “The crowd at Liberation Books will make themselves right at home here.”

Jolie stepped back into the dining room. She had to make a stand. “I’m not living here.”