Three Day Summer(20)

Lovely.

Michael opens his mouth and then turns to look longingly at the stage. I can see the word “no” forming on his lips. And then, to my surprise, he turns back to me and says, “Yes. I’ll walk back with you.”

He smiles and I smile back, despite the fact that my stomach is now doing flip-flops at the prospect that a) I have just asked a strange boy back to my house where b) my father lives and c) I will have to think of a way to sneak him in and out of there and d) also feed him.

He squeezes my hand as we turn around and slowly make our way through the crowd.

“I can’t wait to finally see this farm,” he says. “You’ve been going on and on about it for ages.”

“Yes,” I counter. “All six hours we’ve known each other.”

“Hey! I thought we met this morning. It’s been at least twelve hours.”

“I don’t think those first six hours count, since I’m pretty sure you thought I was a bird or something.”

Michael goes a little red. “I said something about that?” he says in a small voice.

I laugh. “Don’t worry. It was all very charming. And complimentary,” I can’t help adding. “Anyway, I like birds. We have chickens at home.”

“Delicious,” Michael says.

“Don’t let me catch you saying that in the henhouse. They are very sensitive.”

Despite what my miraculous watch continues to tell me, we don’t hurry while making our way out of the concert grounds. The singers have changed again by the time we make it to the edge, and someone I actually recognize is now onstage: Arlo Guthrie.

“I don’t know, like, how many of you can dig, like, how many people there are, man.” Arlo’s voice is fading out. “Man, there are supposed to be a million and a half people here by tonight. Can you dig that? The New York State Thruway is closed, man.” He laughs. “A lot of freaks!”

A million and a half freaks. In Bethel. Unreal. And absolutely fantastic. I can dig it.





chapter 24


Michael


Holy Christ. I don’t know what happened in the last day, but if I thought my car was the only one pulled over on the main road, I was dead wrong. There are rows upon rows of empty cars, joyfully abandoned in the middle of the street. It looks like an alien abduction scene from The Twilight Zone.

“That’s a first,” Cora says as she points down the road.

“What? Bethel isn’t normally a parking lot?”

“Definitely not. But I was actually talking about the little market that’s down there.” She points down the street, where I can see the lights on in a small building with a long line snaking out of it. It looks like someone is at the door, monitoring how many people enter and leave.

“Is it usually open this late?” I ask.

Cora laughs. “Nothing in Bethel is open this late. Until this weekend anyway.”

We are on the other side of the street and, as we pass it, I glance into the shop’s windows. Rows upon rows of empty metal shelves gleam in the moonlight.

“Wow,” Cora says, eyebrows furrowing with worry. “I hope everyone will be okay. With food and everything.”

“How long can people survive without food anyway?” I ask her.

“Well, technically, a few weeks. Water is a different issue, though,” she responds.

“I think we might be okay on water,” I say, holding my hand up and letting raindrops collect in it.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” She pauses. “Of course, then there’s the matter of catching a cold. Or pneumonia.”

“You medical people are just a garden of optimism, eh?” I tease.

“Just prepared for all eventualities,” she says. “It’s a fine quality to have in a doctor, trust me.”

A couple of buildings past the market, we make a right, and walk down a large stretch of farmland dotted here and there with big houses. She holds my hand until we see a large gray house come into view. Then she takes her hand back and wipes it nervously on her dress.

“So . . . about getting into my house . . . ,” she starts to say as we walk under a big leafy maple at the foot of the driveway.

But then the screen door slams open and I hear a gruff voice call out, “Cora Eloise Fletcher. That better be you out there and you better have an outstanding explanation as to why you’re coming home at midnight.”

Cora looks at me in mortification. I immediately sink back within the shadows of the tree trunk and try to nod at her encouragingly, telling her to go.

She nods slightly, takes a deep breath, and steps into the light spilling out the front door. “Hi, Dad.”

“Hi, Dad? That’s it? That’s all you have to say to me?”

“Things ran really late at the medical tent and there were people that needed help . . . ,” Cora starts.

“And there were medically trained adults there to help them. What business does a seventeen-year-old girl with a curfew have being there this late? With all the drunken, drugged-up louses desecrating our land? Are you out of your mind, girl?”

“Technically, it’s Mr. Yasgur’s land,” I hear Cora grumble.

“What?” her dad says sharply.

“Nothing, Dad. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”