Three Day Summer(24)

I bring the cup to my mouth before I remember my feast from the night before. It’s probably a pretty solid bet that most of the people here haven’t been as lucky as I have. I bring the cup back down and, remembering Hugh’s words, look for a suitable beneficiary. I finally come upon a shirtless young boy of two or three with a mop of wild, curly hair, running around in a circle, yelling raucously at the top of his lungs. I don’t have to look far to find the couple staring at him dotingly, as if he’s just sung “I Want to Hold Your Hand” on The Ed Sullivan Show.

I present the cup to them. “Muesli and water?” I ask.

“Oh! Thank you! That would be great,” the woman says, taking it. “Come here, Rudy,” she calls out to the boy, who runs over in a flail of limbs and primal screams.

I wisely get out of his way.

It takes me a little while to find someone with a discernible watch but when I finally do, I discover it is eight thirty. Time to make my way over to the medical tent, I think, and I can’t help whistling a little as I do.





chapter 29


Cora


The field I cut through to get to work is a real mess. A lot of the grass is turned up and it’s obvious quite a few people have spent the night there. Some of them are still milling about, hanging out before the concert begins. I think about starting to hand out food from my basket, but then decide against it. I’ll wait for Michael; it’s something we can do together.

An enormous noise comes from behind me and I whip around just in time to see a motorcycle making its way across the field. Three people are on it, whooping up a storm. “We made it! We’re here!” I hear one of them yell, and I can’t help but smile as the bike zips past me, kicking up mud as it goes. I can just imagine them weaving through traffic, taking whatever back roads they can, just to get here.

This morning, I brought the portable radio out with me to the henhouse and heard them talking about the festival: how the Thruway is closed down and, as my dad said, they briefly considered evacuating Bethel entirely. National radio is talking about my town; they even had a reporter “on the scene.” Never before has my hometown been anything close to “the scene,” and now here it is: the center of the country’s attention for one brief, shining moment. Wild.

As I near one of Mr. Yasgur’s big red barns, I see one of his sons outside, driving a wooden sign into the ground. It says FREE WATER and people are already lined up for it. I can see Mr. Yasgur himself in his button-down shirt and thick, black, square-framed glasses handing out paper cups of water and milk. He’s the last person on earth you’d think would be up for hosting a whole bunch of hippies. The world is a weird and wonderful place.

I quicken my pace, the picnic basket swinging heavily beside me, eager to go and help out my fellow man myself.

I walk past the nonexistent gates and approach the yellow medical tents with caution. I don’t want Anna or one of the other nurses to see me, just in case they accidentally suck me into work.

My watch says five to nine, so I hang around behind my tent for a while, my eyes scanning the area for a tall, blond boy.

But ten minutes pass, and then fifteen, and nothing. I wonder if we are standing on opposite sides of the tent, so I circle it in a wide berth, looking carefully into every face I come across.

Finally, I start wondering if he won’t show. Maybe that kiss has thrown him off too. It admittedly wasn’t my best and it’s not like I was too encouraging, right? I frown. Well, that’s a bummer, I think, looking down forlornly at my picnic basket.

“Cora!” I hear and turn around immediately with a smile, recognizing Michael’s voice.

But he’s not there. I scrunch my face in confusion before a brown hand reaches out and touches my arm gently.

I look at its owner and immediately laugh.

The mud-speckled person who’s grinning at me has nary a blond hair in sight.





chapter 30


Michael


Cora looks different with the clothes she’s wearing today and her hair put up. She suddenly looks a little like all the other girls here. I’m not sure how much I like it.

But it’s good to see her.

“I brought provisions,” she says, pointing to her picnic basket. “I thought we could hand them out together.”

“Wow,” I say, peeking into the basket. It’s packed to the brim. “I heard a rumor that the National Guard was coming in with food or something too. But who needs them when Woodstock has got you?” I shake my head in admiration.

“Well, you get first pick.” She holds out the basket to me.

I think about refusing again but, to tell the truth, I’m a little hungry. I finally settle for taking an apple.

“Thanks,” I say. “Let’s go over by the lake. I thought I saw a bunch of families over there.”

“Whoa,” she exclaims as we near the water. “There are so many people. How on earth are we going to pick and choose who to give the food to?”

“Um . . . ,” I start, scanning the crowd. “How about . . . we pick the people who are wearing orange. Like you.”

“What would that make us? Orangists?”

“You’ve found me out.” I hang my head in shame. “My deepest, darkest secret. Good call on your shirt color, by the way. Otherwise, I don’t know if I could’ve been seen with you.”