My Beautiful Hippie (2 page)

“Is this how you're going to act on your wedding day?” I goaded her. “Are you sure you want to get married so soon?”

“What a question!” She rolled her eyes around our room with the rosebud wallpaper and the frilly pink homemade curtains that matched the frilly pink homemade bedspreads. “I'll be getting out of here.” Her voice softened as she looked at me in the mirror with that nauseating glow she'd been wearing through her engagement. “Oh, Joanne, you'll see! When you find the right guy, nothing but him will matter, and everything in your life will slip away.”

“Not my piano!”

She emitted a little puff of air. “I didn't expect you to understand.”

I got out the hair dryer, released the plastic hood from the nozzle, and blasted hot air over each orange juice can. Denise applied pearly-pink lipstick, rosy-pink blush, blue eye shadow, and thick eyeliner with little check marks at the ends. Together we got all the cans out of her hair. Denise stood, bent over, and brushed her hair forward to add volume. She flipped it back and arranged it in ripples over her shoulders. At last she smiled with self-satisfaction in the vanity mirror.

“Jerry's here,” I reported matter-of-factly.

“Gerald's here?” she gasped.

“Uh-huh.” If her hair hadn't turned out, I wouldn't have mentioned it. “Maybe he wants to see what presents you get.”

“Very funny. He knows this hen party is only for—Oh, my God! Jerry's talking to Mother's
friends
right now?”

“Calm down. He's in the den, watching the Giants game with Dad and Dan.”

“That's even worse! Gerald is antiwar and Dan is prowar. Gerald's major is psychology, and Daddy doesn't even believe there's any such thing!”

Denise didn't get it. Jerry was eventually going to find out all about us unsophisticated Donnellys. It was only a matter of time. “Your bridal shower has been going on without you for a half hour.”

“I need to compose myself,” she said wearily. “Tell Mother I'll be right down.”

As I passed Mom's sewing room, I noticed Denise's massive white wedding gown and four pink empire-waist bridesmaid's dresses hanging at attention across the closet. Of course my mother had made them all. If she staged an event and it didn't knock her off her feet for three days afterward, then she hadn't put enough effort into it. After Denise's wedding, Mom would have to go to a rest home or the nuthouse in Napa.

Downstairs, Mom was relating her latest favorite story in her loud bray to a circle of her dearest, oldest friends whom she rarely saw. “He was her psychology
professor
! On the first day of class he looked out in that auditorium of three hundred brand-new freshmen, laid eyes on our Denise, and just
had
to have her!”

“Isn't he still a graduate student?” asked Maxine Fulmer. She had gained quite a bit of weight since her husband had left her for his much younger secretary last year. She wore an African-print kaftan, big jewelry, and no bra, her breasts basking on her front like seal pups.

Mom's mouth hung slightly open, as if holding her place in her story. “Jerry is getting his PhD, and soon he'll be a psychoanalyst!”

“He's a Freudian?” Mrs. Fulmer flopped back on the sofa cushions and slapped her lap. “God help your poor child, Helen.”

“Denise will be right down,” I announced.

Mom drew me near and whispered, “Pass the hors d'oeuvres trays, Joanne.” She made her way to another group of friends and said, “He was her psychology
professor
! On the first day of class
he looked out in that auditorium of three hundred brand-new freshmen, laid eyes on our Denise, and just
had
to have her!”

I rushed over to my best friend, Rena, the one person I had been allowed to invite. Her eyes were done up like Twiggy's, false eyelashes and two colors of shadow, and her lipstick was Yardley's pearl white. Her black, waist-length hair was in snarls because it took so long to comb out. We greeted each other with squeals, waving two peace signs at each other and leaping around in circles. Nobody understood me like Rena.

I glanced over my shoulder to be sure my mother wasn't looking, then flashed Rena my love beads. “I met someone,” I whispered.

“Where? When? Who
is
he?”

“I'll tell you later. Let's go get the hors d'oeuvres before my mom has kittens.”

As we passed Mom, she called, “I see you've recruited some help, Joanne. Thank you, Serena.”

Rena cringed when she heard her hated complete name. After years of tremendous effort, she had succeeded in getting most people to call her Rena, but my mother had known her since we were in the third grade, and to her, Rena would always be Serena. It only proved that to become the person you wanted to be, you had to move far, far away from everyone who had watched you grow up.

Our kitchen was yellow with barnyard wallpaper. My mom was wild about roosters. They were on our plates, towels, and appliance cozies. Rena eyed the large white sheet cake, which read
CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR WEDDING, DENISE, THE FIRST DAY OF THE REST OF YOUR LIFE
.

Rena looked at me knowingly and whispered, “The first day of the
end
of her life.”

We howled with laughter. Rena and I had big plans. After college, we were going to live together in New York City, where she would act on Broadway and I would attend Juilliard and play recitals at Carnegie Hall.

By the time we returned to the living room with the hors d'oeuvres trays, Denise had made her entrance.

“Where will you live?” asked our cousin, Beth, one of the bridesmaids.

“In an apartment near campus. A darling place on Shattuck.”

“What's your major?” asked Judy, one of Denise's neighborhood friends.

“Art history, but . . . well . . .” Denise gave a brave smile. “I won't be returning to classes in the fall.” Usually the docile, obedient daughter, Denise had fought Mom tooth and nail to allow her to cross the Bay Bridge every day, alone, by bus to attend the University of California in Berkeley instead of going to local San Francisco State College. Now she was giving it all up after one year to marry Jerry.

“Why would she continue?” asked Thelma Newman, my mother's best friend. She was a small woman and, like my mom, wore a polyester double-knit dress and kept her hair in a lacquered bubble. “She's getting her M.R.S. That's really the only reason a girl needs to go to a university.”

“It isn't
that
,” said Denise, flustered. “Gerald's stipend just isn't enough for us to live on. I'll be working as a secretary here in the city, on Market, while he finishes his doctorate. Then we'll be set.”

“What if you get pregnant?” asked Beth.

Denise blushed beneath her blusher as if all the ladies were imagining her doing what it took to get pregnant. “Oh, we aren't planning to start a family for several years.”

“Thank God for the Pill,” said Judy.

“Oh, Denise would never take such a thing!” said Mom, but I knew Denise already was taking it, having timed it precisely so that its effectiveness would kick in on her wedding night.

“You're getting a prenuptial agreement, I hope,” said Mrs. Fulmer.

Denise cleared her throat and said in a whiny, indignant tone, “Oh, I don't believe that's necessary.”

“No blushing bride ever did,” said Mrs. Fulmer. “Until now. Times are changing, Denise. Women are demanding their rights. Suppose you work for several years, your husband finishes his
doctorate, sets up a thriving practice, and then dumps you for the prettiest patient with the biggest emotional problems. At least you would be assured of financial compensation, an opportunity to complete your education.” Recently Mrs. Fulmer had shocked all her friends by returning to the university herself to complete the degree she had started over twenty years ago. She wagged her finger at Denise. “I'd look into it if I were you, dear, for peace of mind.”

The awkward silence in the room was pierced by Denise's silvery laugh. “I trust Gerald implicitly.”

“Look at that mound of presents, Denise!” exclaimed Mom, clapping her hands together. “Hadn't you better get started?” She handed me the telephone notepad and a pen. “Joanne, you be recording secretary for Denise's thank-you notes.” She handed Rena a paper plate with slits cut into it. “Here, Serena, you make the ribbon bouquet for the wedding rehearsal. Slip the ends in like so, the bows on top.”

Denise unwrapped an olive-green fondue pot. Then an orange one. After the fourth fondue pot, she glanced across the room at Mom's worried face. The two of them had fought over Denise's choice of silver pattern, and the fact that she hadn't gotten a single dessert fork only proved that Mom had been right in warning her against registering something so expensive.

A male voice erupted from the den. “Honey? Honey?”

The women's conversation died down. “Honey, could you get us some beers?” called Jerry.

Mom's palms flew to her cheeks. “Those poor men! I completely forgot about their beer.”

Mrs. Newman patted Denise's knee. “Hop to it, dear. You want him to keep thinking he's one lucky fellow.”

“Hmph,” said Mrs. Fulmer, crossing her arms over her unrestrained bosom, her eyes following Denise's progress out of the room.

After the cake was cut, Rena and I escaped with our pieces into the privacy of the bedroom, which would soon be all mine.

“Out with it,” said Rena. “Tell me every juicy detail.”

I tried to make my encounter with the beautiful hippie as
thrilling as possible, but at the end of my story, Rena merely raised one side of her upper lip. “That's it? He asked for spare change and gave you love beads? You don't know a thing about him.”

“His eyes, Rena. He has dreamy eyes. He plays guitar! And you shoulda seen the cool way his jeans sorta hung off his hipbones.”

“How old?”

“Dunno. Seventeen, eighteen.” I gulped. “Maybe older.”

“Too old for you. Long hair?”

I tapped my shoulders with my fingertips. “Groovy.”

Rena rolled her eyes. “We weren't gonna do this ever again. 'Member? No teenybopper crushes. We aren't gonna fall for a guy just cuz he's cute. We're gonna get to know him first. He's gonna call all the time, take us out on dates, then maybe, just maybe we might get interested.”

I winced. “I thought that just meant for the boys at school.”

“Nope.
All
boys.”

“You're right,” I said grudgingly. “I spent so many lunch periods hanging around playing guitars with Dave. Then he goes and asks me for Terry Schumacher's number.”

“Terry Schumacher is a nothing,” said Rena. Terry had actually been sophomore homecoming princess. Rena and I had a better chance of being the first women on the moon than of being homecoming princesses.

“Sure, Terry's cute and sweet,” said Rena, “but she hardly ever says a word.”

“Guys don't like smart girls.”

“Or ones with opinions. 'Member when Rusty asked me to the movies? He goes, ‘What do ya want to see?' and I go, ‘
The Graduate, Cool Hand Luke
, or
Guess Who's Coming to Dinner
. You pick from those.' After that one date, when I asked him why he was ignoring me, he goes, ‘When I ask a girl what she wants to see, I expect her to say whatever I want to see.' ”

I had never been asked on a date, just kissed once at music camp. It was a slimy, teeth-knocking kiss, and I had hid from the
boy the rest of camp, afraid he would try it again, even though I had liked him before the kiss.

Rena was rummaging through her huge suede bag bordered with long fringe. She withdrew a 45 RPM record, exclaiming, “Hey! Look what I scored!” It was “Evolution! Revolution!” by a new San Francisco group, the Purple Cockroach, which was quickly becoming known simply as Roach. The hit single had soared up the Bay Area chart past the Jefferson Airplane's “Somebody to Love” and the Doors' “Light my Fire,” and had been number one for three weeks.

“Far out!” I exclaimed, lifting the lid of my record player.

On the record's paper sleeve were four hairy guys sitting in a tree, glaring vacantly into the camera. Rena pointed to the guy front and center, who had a white man's light brown Afro, a wiry black beard, and penetrating eyes. “Gus Abbott is so out of sight.”

I put the record on the turntable and placed the needle on it, and a blast of psychedelic rock erupted: loud drums, warbling reverb, and shouts of “Evolution! Revolution! We gotta be free, free, free! Break those chains of society!”

Rena and I bobbed our heads and shook our bodies until Mom shouted up the stairs, “Turn that racket down!”

“I saw some auditions posted for this play the Buena Vista Players are putting on,” said Rena. “Will you come with me?”

“To the Buena Vista? I guess.” The previous month, the theater had been shut down on an obscenity charge because it staged a reading of Michael McClure's
The Beard
. “What's the play?”

“It's called
The Blacks
. I don't know anything about it.” “Are you worried about foul language?”

“My mom won't care.” Rena was kind of a rebel, and her mom backed her up. In junior high, when she was suspended three times for wearing slacks to school, Mrs. Thompson insisted they were more modest than miniskirts and warmer. In our freshman year the principal gave in and let girls wear pants to school.

The record ended, and I shifted the arm of the phonograph to the edge to play it again.

“What's this?” Rena picked up a newspaper clipping propped on my desk:

The California Highway Patrol checked out 100 hitchhikers over a three-month period on a stretch of Highway 101. Consider this: exactly 84 had criminal records. And 12 either were runaways or servicemen absent without official leave. That left four, just four, who hadn't been crossways with the law, or were about to be.