Three Day Summer(18)

He points down at my foot and I look to see the culprit behind what is likely to be a very large lump on my head. It’s a beautiful, perfect, big (and heavy) orange.

I look back up at the guy, stunned. “For me?” I ask stupidly.

Blackbeard nods. “For sure, man.”

I pick the fruit up. It even feels delicious, its pockmarked skin heavy with juice.

“Are you sure?” I have to ask again, especially as I’ve just noticed the very pregnant woman sitting down on the blanket right at his feet.

“Definitely,” he says. “We have to feed each other out here, dude. Peace and love and music, right? Besides, it’s the least I could do for conking you in the head with it.”

I stare down at the woman again, who keeps one hand on her belly as she waves the other one at me in a friendly gesture. “Take it with our blessings,” she says. And then I see her take out three more oranges from a canvas bag she has beside her. She hands them up to her man, who starts walking around, giving them out to other people.

I look down at the orange and for a second feel like Ravi is picking out the music straight from inside me: the immense crescendo of gratitude and peace and awe toward my fellow man seems interpreted exactly in the swell of his sitar strings.

I look up at Cora and grin.





chapter 21


Cora


I think the last time I saw someone staring at something the way Michael is staring at that orange was a Christmas morning when Wes got the green army men he’d been coveting for half the year. The irony of which is not lost on me.

Michael peels into his orange slowly, staring at it as if it might disappear at any moment.

“Don’t worry, it’s not a hallucination,” I say as he reverently excavates the fruit from the skin.

He breaks it open into two sections and then gallantly holds his hand out with one of them cradled inside.

I laugh. “You’re kidding, right? Eat the whole thing.”

“But you must be starving too.”

“I’m not. And besides, I thought we established that I live three feet over that way. On a farm. Where there is all sorts of food and food-producing things.”

Michael stares at the half orange he’s holding out to me again. “Please?” he says.

“Michael. I appreciate the ridiculous chivalry but come on.” I push his hand back toward him. “What kind of a nurse would I be if I deprived my patient of food when he’s about to pass out from hunger?”

“I thought you said you were a candy striper?” Michael grins.

“Oh, fine. Rub it in.” I stare pointedly at the orange. “This candy striper is medically ordering you to eat.”

Michael carefully peels off one orange section and plops it in his mouth. He can’t help but close his eyes as the juice hits his taste buds. A slow, savoring smile creeps stealthily through his peach fuzz.

Until there’s a rumble and his eyes immediately pop open and go to my stomach. “See? I told you . . . ,” he starts.

There is another loud rumble and we both look up, knowing full well it isn’t either of our stomachs this time.

A big fat raindrop plops down right on my nose, followed by one more. Until, suddenly, it’s like there’s a tear in the sky and a deluge has been unleashed upon O little town of Bethel.

I hear a collective squawk as people try to take shelter. Some are burrowing into sleeping bags or putting newspapers over their heads. A few enterprising individuals had the foresight to bring umbrellas and are popping them open now. There is a mass exodus toward some trees on the far side of the field.

But for most people, there is simply nowhere to go.

“Hopefully it’ll pass soon,” I hear the pregnant girl with the oranges say placidly as she remains on her blanket, absentmindedly rubbing her belly.

I look down at my once white dress, which is basically now completely transparent. Hastily, I take my red-and-white apron from my arm and put it on, though not before I spy Michael getting a good long look. Within moments, the individual stripes are indiscernible; it just looks like one soggy pink mess. I guess I’m giving the people behind me a show since the apron doesn’t cover my back. But then I look around at the many, many other young women wearing white shirts, a lot of them braless, and figure they’ll have better things to stare at than me.

Though when I look up again at Michael, he doesn’t seem to have figured this out yet, his eyes only on me. A sly grin he can’t seem to hide fast enough appears through his stubble again. I clear my throat, making a mental note to keep only my front to him at all times.

I realize then that the music hasn’t stopped for even a moment; the man on stage keeps picking out his intricate tune despite the world turning into a waterfall around him. I watch him in awe.

It’s minutes later that I even think to look at my watch. It’s still working despite the water. Ten thirty. My curfew is eleven. I really should go.

I look up at Michael, who is drenched, his own shirt sticking tightly to every definition in his lean body. He’s staring raptly at the stage.

I touch his arm gently. “I think I have to go home,” I say.

“Oh,” he says, not able to hide the disappointment in his voice. “Of course. Yes. It’s horrible out here.”

“Are you going to be okay?”