Kinflicks (54 page)

I was distinctly unamused. ‘No,
really?'

‘I'm sure we'd figure something out. You're not as irreplaceable as you seem to think.'

‘I could get all the money back in about seventy years,' I pointed out thoughtfully.

Laverne and Eddie fell out of their chairs with laughter.

All of a sudden, Eddie stopped laughing and said darkly, ‘I don't happen to buy that.'

I shrugged. “Well, it's the man's profession. I guess he should know.'

“No, I mean I don't buy the idea that insurance
is
his profession.'

‘What are you talking about?'

‘Whoever heard of selling life insurance to women?'

‘Not even to liberated women like us?'

‘What kinds of questions did he ask you?'

I tried to reconstruct the scene. “He asked what we lived on and whom I was living here with.'

‘Aha! I knew it! He's an FBI agent! I'm sure of it!'

Laverne was massaging her left thigh thoughtfully. ‘Oh, come
on,
Eddie,' she said.

‘Look, he was a decent friendly man, Eddie. That's all.'

‘He let
you
believe he was decent. Don't you see, Ginny? He's trying to make you fall for him so that he can use you as an informant.' Her eyes were gleaming.

‘Crap! You've been watching too many grade B movies.'

‘Look, I'm not holding it against
you,
Ginny. But he's definitely putting the make on you. I've seen the way he looks at you. Now, I'm not saying that you're responding — even though you
have
been out of the office several times when I've stopped by…But I just want you to be aware of what's going on so that you won't get hurt. And so that you won't hurt us. The man is an FBI agent, Ginny. I'm sure of it.'

‘You flatter yourself, Eddie. Why should the FBI waste its time on small-time hippies like us?'

Eddie looked injured.
‘Well, lots
of reasons — drugs, political protests, the money we've given to countercultural enterprises. Maybe they think we're concealing political fugitives or draft dodgers. Remember, we're citizens of a fascist state. Why, I can think of any
number
of things we've done that might merit attention from the FBI.'

‘You're crazy!'

‘I may be. But I know what I know. And I know that you'd better watch out for that man.'

‘You're not jealous or anything like that?'

‘Me? Jealous?'
She laughed. ‘Jealousy is a bourgeois emotion based on property instinct, and I don't believe in private property. You're a grown woman, Ginny. You're free to come and go as you like, to choose friends and lovers as you deem appropriate. I wouldn't
think
of trying to restrict your options in any way whatsoever. I just want you to be cognizant of the possible political repercussions that your indiscriminate balling might have on your sisters, that's all.'

‘What
balling? Christ, Eddie, I just met the man formally today! Anyway, I don't ball indiscriminately. You know that. But lay off me, or I might.'

‘Don't threaten me, Ginny.'

‘I'm not threatening. I'm just warning.'

‘And
I'm
warning
you.'

‘Well, now that we're both well-warned…'

One night after supper we all sat around the stove chewing peyote buttons that were the consistency of orange peels. I was nibbling at mine, trying to avoid swallowing. Atheliah was sharpening her ax. Mona, in languid bumbling movements, was making a couple of dried arrangements with weeds and seedpods she had gathered through the snow in the meadow that afternoon. Scattered liberally through each arrangement were stalks of dried marijuana, which heretofore had hung in bunches from the kitchen beams. She was trying to conceal them in preparation for the FBI raid that she and Eddie were convinced was about to descend upon us.

Laverne was massaging herself behind her collarbones with both hands, her blond curly head back and her green eyes closed with contentment. Eddie was sitting facing me, holding my head between her hands and tilting it this way and that. ‘No, really, Ginny,' she insisted. ‘I think I can see the Indian in you. In your forehead and your cheekbones. Well, in your coloring, too, for that matter.'

‘It's just one thirty-second of me, Eddie. Everyone has sixteen great-great-great-grandmothers, and only one of mine was an Indian. Her contribution is very diluted, I'm sure.'

‘No, I definitely see it. Don't you, Mona?'

‘Far out,' Mona muttered, her bruised eyes beginning to glaze over behind her purple lenses, and her straight black hair getting tangled up in her dried weeds.

We heard a roar down by the beaver pond. Eddie jumped up and stalked to the window and looked out.

‘Come here quick!'

We all raced to the window. It was very dark out, but as we stood watching, headlights appeared all along the hilltops behind the pond. They wound their way down toward the pond, back and forth through the bare trees. More kept coming, rank after rank, over the hills from town.

The pond had frozen by now, and the machines proceeded out onto the ice. The whining roar was deafening, even at our distance and inside the cabin. There must have been a hundred or more. It looked like a coven of witches assembling.

Before we knew it, a bonfire was blazing on our shore. Races were under way across one end of the pond. At the other end, the beavers' frozen mud lodge had been packed with snow and was being used as a jump, as the more daring drivers hurtled off it at top speed, flew through the air, and landed with a jolt many yards in front of it.

We looked at each other hopelessly. The five of us against a hundred Stark's Bog thugs and assorted wives and girlfriends. We resumed our seats in the kitchen. Mona passed around more peyote buttons, and we sat chewing them like cows their cud. When we went to bed, the party to which we were not invited was still in progress. We crammed pillows over our ears and finally managed to sleep — very late.

The morning after our fifth sleepless night, Eddie organized our defense. We carried bucket after bucket of water onto the pond surface. The race track was lightly packed with snow. With our buckets we created discreet patches of glare ice, with special attention to the spots at which the machines made turns.

That night, in order not to miss the action, we put on our skis and glided down to the pond edge for ringside seats. There were no bushes to hide behind. But we felt confident that if we sat still, our presence on that moonless night would go unnoticed.

At what had become the usual time, the headlights appeared on the hilltops and wove down to the pond. For a while, the drivers — men, women, and children — loitered on the ice socializing and tossing around empty cans and papers and bottles. Then the races got under way. Like the charioteers in
Ben Hur,
two drivers, on their knees in their seats, would start out even. Scowling and shouting obscenities, they would climb to higher and higher speeds, each straining to pull ahead.

Several races were run without a hitch. Our icy patches appeared to be a bust. Just as we were about to herringbone back to the cabin, a machine suddenly spun sideways out of control. Its driver flipped high in the air. As the machine spun, it crashed into a second machine, causing that one to lurch sideways and dump its driver on the ice. I was watching with dread, waiting to see if the man who had flown through the air was hurt. I hadn't expected such dramatic results from our little stunt. As I sat with my heart in my throat, Eddie started cackling with glee.

‘Shut
up,
Eddie,' I said, gouging her with my elbow.

She was howling louder and louder. Soon the other three joined her, rolling in the snow and screaming with delight.

Some men were squatting examining the icy patch. They looked up and glanced around.

‘They'll
hear
us,' I whispered.

Unfortunately, they already had. The man who had flown through the air was walking shakily on the arm of another man, flexing his knee joints. He had removed his helmet. I could see that it was Rodney. And the man with Rodney was none other than Ira.

Rodney stared toward my friends who lay writhing in the snow with laughter. Someone turned his machine around so that the headlights lit us up as though we were on stage.

Rodney limped over to his machine and hopped on. He headed right at us.

‘He's going to run us down!' I yelled to the others. I started waddling ducklike on my skis away from the pond.

Eddie leapt up and poled herself fast out onto the ice right into Rodney's path. His headlights shone directly on her as he bore down at forty-five miles an hour. Eddie stood there calmly on her skis, her hands poised on her poles.

‘Get out of the way, Eddie!' I screamed, as the machine bathed her in its flickering headlights.

Just as the machine reached her ski tips, Eddie deftly jumped sideways. As she did so, she raised her arms high over her head and planted her pointed ski poles in Rodney's sides, like a banderillero planting darts in a charging bull. Rodney screamed.

The four of us halted our frantic stumblings up the hill, turned around, and began schussing toward Eddie to drag her away.

In a blind rage, the poles sticking out of his sides and swaying in the wind, Rodney spun around and headed back for Eddie, who was standing placidly, evidently awaiting her death, hypnotized like a deer by car headlights.

Ira ran to his Sno Cat and hopped on and also roared toward Eddie. Oh no, was
he
going to run her down, too? She didn't stand a chance of dodging two of them. She had been right all along: Ira was no friend. He was in league with the others. Mona and Atheliah and Laverne and I poled frantically across the ice.

I watched in terror as the two hulking machines converged on Eddie, who stood there without flinching. Then I realized that Ira was trying to force Rodney off course, like a police cruiser pulling over a speeder. Their front runners collided, sending up a flurry of sparks. As Ira edged Rodney ever so slightly out of his direct line on Eddie, he screamed to her, ‘Get
out
of here!'

At last Eddie started stumbling toward us on her skis. Without her poles she was helpless, but if she took off the skis, she'd be in snow to her waist. Atheliah and I each took an arm and dragged her up the meadow.

For good measure, we grabbed sleeping bags and evacuated. ‘Does that look like the action of a man who's trying to do us in?' I demanded grimly of Eddie, as we poled through the woods to Mona's and Atheliah's former farm.

When we returned a few days later, our cabin was still standing. There were no visible signs of damage, and no one had looted our supply of soybeans. We were quite busy that week. The weather was warming up during the day, and the sap was rising in our sugar maples. Every morning four of us drove our huge workhorses in their clanking harnesses up the hill to the sugar bush. The fifth person stayed behind to do the housework and fix the meals. By the end of the week, we had washed out all the buckets and hung about half, drilling holes and inserting metal spouts and hanging the buckets on the spouts.

In spite of the skirmish, our pond was still serving as the town race track and social center. Drivers continued to use the lodge of the poor traumatized beavers as a jump. The participants continued to strew cans and wrappers all across the ice. Exhaust fumes continued to form a ground fog through our valley. The deafening roar continued to make conversation in the cabin without shouting an impossibility.

But we had learned to live with this mechanized Winter Wonderland, since the only alternative appeared to be
not
to live with it by not living at all. We had all learned to live with it except Eddie, who continued to sulk and brood and fill the wood stove with crumpled sketches of diabolical traps based on Vietcong guerrilla techniques.

‘We
can't
just sit back and take this,' she insisted. ‘Human beings can adapt to almost any level of degradation, that's not the point. Sure, I
could
put up with it. The point is, I don't think we should. If someone hits you, you hit back immediately, or else you end up with numbers tattooed up your forearm.'

On her less rational nights, Eddie lay writhing on our bed, clutching a pillow around her head to blot out the din and gnashing her teeth.

‘We stretch a single strand of barbed wire tight between those two birches to the left of the pond,' she suggested one night. “We attach it to the existing fence so that it looks like an extension of it. We use old wire so that it looks as though someone just forgot to take it down. Then, when those damn machines come hurtling down for an evening of fun on
our
property — crunch! The wire gets all tangled up in their goddam runners!'

‘No, I don't want any part of it,' I said, and was roundly seconded by the others. ‘If we can just endure this for another month, the snow will turn to mud. Maybe we can find another farm by next winter.'

‘Yeah. In the middle of a gun-testing range,' Eddie sneered. ‘What's the matter, Ginny? Afraid your Stark's Bog boyfriend will hurt his shiny big machine?'

I glanced at her wearily. ‘I assure you you're mistaken. And he
did
save your life.'

‘Saved
my life! Please — spare me your melodrama. I was handling the situation just fine by myself. Who asked him to interfere?'

I stared at her in disbelief.

‘I swear,' she went on cheerfully, “you guys are the most timid, unimaginative bunch of gutless females I've ever had the misfortune to cohabit with. If the Klan had knocked at your door, you would have helped them tie the noose, wouldn't you have? And
you
most of all, Ginny. After what your people went through on the Trail of Tears, you can just sit back and take all this?'

‘Which people?' I asked, forgetting about the one and a half ounces of dilute Cherokee blood coursing through my veins. ‘I don't believe in violence.'