Three Day Summer(55)

“I don’t care. I’ll always wear it.” I bend down and scoop up a dab of mud with my finger. Then I use it to draw a teardrop right over my sternum.

Michael grins and then bends down to get some mud of his own. In short, soft strokes, he finger-paints around my neck, creating a chain for my pendant. The cool mud mixes with his warm touch, and my skin drinks in a jolt that travels from my neck to my heart. I close my eyes, and only open them again when I feel Michael’s lips softly touching mine. I look up at him, and then down at our creation, already washing away in the rain, and yet forever etched there in my mind’s eye. “It’s beautiful.”

Michael touches his forehead to mine. “Aren’t I just the most thoughtful boyfriend?” he teases. “Nothing’s too good for my lady.”

“The best,” I laugh, surprised at how much him calling himself my boyfriend delights me.

We watch the mudsliders for a few moments more before my inner caretaker kicks in. “You must be hungry,” I say to him.

He looks at me and shrugs. I take that as a yes.

I feel like there is only one place to take him. A part of me is scared to go there. A part of me is defiant.

But I take Michael’s hand and start to walk away from the stage, away from Mr. Yasgur’s farm, and to my house.





chapter 64


Michael


We walk hand in hand in the rain, past the grocery store and the fields and all the landmarks we passed just two days ago. When the world wasn’t as promising as it seems now. Now I have the same person beside me but I belong next to her in a way I’ve never felt I belonged anywhere.

It’s quiet when we get to Cora’s big gray house, except for the persistent patter of rain.

She takes my hand and leads me straight to the front door this time. She opens it and I catch her looking around warily before she steps inside.

“Come in,” she says. I can’t help but look at the immaculate white tile that runs down her front hallway. I am dripping all over her front stoop and she is dripping all over the floor inside. I don’t want to mess up her house. Not my first time as a guest in it.

“Cora?” A soft voice says, and I look to see the spitting image of her standing in the kitchen doorway. A little bit taller, and older of course, but the same dark hair and wide brown eyes. And, even, a smile for me.

“Could you get us some towels, Mom?” Cora asks.

She nods and disappears for a few minutes, emerging with two fluffy yellow towels.

“I’m Iris,” she says as she hands me mine, and then proffers her hand.

“Oh, sorry, Mom,” Cora says. “This is Michael.”

I smile and take both the towel and Cora’s mom’s hand sheepishly. “Sorry I’m so wet.”

“The clouds should be apologizing, no?” she says with a smile. “Are you here for the festival?”

“Yes, ma’am,” I say, immediately slipping into my parental-politeness mode.

“How is it? Besides wet?” she asks.

“Wonderful,” I say, and can’t help but look at her daughter, who is using the towel to dry off her arms and face before wrapping it around herself.

I follow suit.

“Would you two like any food?” Cora’s mom asks.

I smile. Apparently the resemblance goes deeper than just looks.

“That would be great, Mom,” Cora says immediately. “We’re starving.”

“Come on in.” She leads us into the kitchen and we sit down at a small breakfast table that’s set up there.

“Dinner won’t be ready for an hour or so still, but I can definitely tide you over with some leftovers in the meantime.” She bustles around in the fridge and emerges with a few dishes covered in tinfoil. “You’re not at the tent today?” she asks Cora.

“Not right now,” Cora replies simply. Her mom doesn’t press the issue further.

“Do you like chicken?” Cora’s mom has turned to me.

“Love it,” I say, and mean it.

She smiles and heads over to the stove to light it. “Did you travel far to get here, Michael?” she asks as she starts to heat up the food.

“Not too far. A couple hundred miles. I’m from just outside Boston. We’ve met some people who’ve traveled from much farther.”

“I’ve lived here almost twenty-five years,” she says. “Never seen anything like this.”

“Did you go down there, Mom?” Cora asks.

“No, just saw on the television and the newspapers,” she replies. “Dee went down yesterday and came and gave me a full report too.”

“Dee is our neighbor,” Cora explains to me.

Cora’s mom asks a few more general questions about what we’ve been seeing at the festival. I keep my answers solely focused on the musical acts and not, say, on her daughter’s body parts, even though that’s all I’m thinking about.

Luckily, she doesn’t probe too far.

Soon, I have a steaming plate of chicken, peas, and corn in front of me. I dig in, only remembering about three quarters of the way through the meal that it’s not entirely polite to completely inhale one’s food.

The chicken is good, though not as good as my mom’s. I actually surprise myself with that sentiment, but find myself thinking of her chicken cacciatore. With lemons and those little green, olive-y things. I forget what they’re called. I seriously miss her food.