Rich Friends (43 page)

She was. As the ring touched her finger—cold—she had shivered. A nightmare flash. This wasn't hers, this never would be removed for Roger's daughter. On some unknown day, in some unthought-of manner, she'd have to give it back. She said, “I better get my sweater.”

Roger went along.

Vliet watched his brother slide the glass door shut, watched as Alix—doubtless thinking them invisible—turned to his brother. Seen through a glass dimly, Vliet thought. I deserve an Emmy. Best supporting actor in a continuing drama. Today's is a sterling performance. I love her, my brother I love, and there they are. They weren't kissing. Their bodies were meshed, his legs around hers, his shoulders curving about her: he seemed to be protecting her. There was intense passion about the embrace without any of the thrashing contortions that generally reward a Peeping Tom. Depression overpowered Vliet. Normal, he thought, under the circumstances. He forgot his friend-and-brother role. He let his face relax.

Cricket, who had been watching him, looked away.

3

A few minutes later they emerged, Alix buttoning a lemon cardigan.

“It's my dinnertime,” Vliet said.

Alix said, “We better get some food.”

“Out,” Vliet said. “It's celebration time.”

“On me,” Roger said.

“On me,” Vliet said. “Where?”

Alix turned to Cricket. “Didn't you work here one time, in a health-food place?”

That Cricket had worked in Carmel, that she had lived with a group, never had been secret. Only her son had been secret. This is inevitable, she thought.

A quiet hubbub of year-round regulars filled the patio, Vliet pointed to a free table, and Cricket trailed after the others. Candlelight flickered on handwoven napkins (her son had been wrapped in one) that were heavy with sea damp.

Orion, behind the antique brass register, saw her. He frowned. She remembered his worry over the unexpected. Then his face melted into pleasure. He hurried over. His chest and shoulders had filled out, and his pale beard, though still scraggly, no longer was tentative. He grasped both her hands.

“See? Father Genesis was right. You're back.”

She pulled away. “For a weekend.”

“That's all?”

“All,” she said. And introduced the others.

When—at last—Orion went to give their order, Vliet leaned forward, saying in a stage whisper, “Everyone catch that? The boy's ape for our Cricket.”

A customer hurried by, almost dousing the candle. Cricket protected the flame with her hand. She rarely talked about herself. Who was interested? Other than Caroline. Caroline would inquire eagerly, “Anyone
new
, luv?” There had been seven—no, eight others—since Vliet. The longest tenure belonged to the most recent—Carl Werkhausen, a gentle, round-shouldered Berkeley linguistics major—it had ended only a few days ago. She still lived in Carl's place, she still liked him. She liked all of them. And it was this continuing affection that disturbed Cricket. How could she be willing to lend this one a ten, be able to introduce that one to a girl? For her, sex (invariably fine) was a gold coin disappearing in a deep lake, leaving wider ripples of the original friendship. Any older woman, hearing of this, must be shocked. Caroline, secretly, was. To Cricket—unclouded by value judgments—her ability to remain friends was simply a bad sign, the final proof that misery, excitement, and love still centered on Vliet. A loves B who loves C who loves D, she thought. Hopefully C and D will live happily ever after.

Eggplants and quiches arrived, huge portions bubbling with cheese and giving off a steam of garlic. Alix leaned toward Roger. “I don't have a knife,” she said. “They don't use them here,” Cricket said, and a passing waiter remarked, “Knives are weapons.”

Alix, Roger, and Vliet shared glances.

They ate hungrily. “Crazy as loons,” Vliet said. “But man, can they cook!”

People Cricket knew came to welcome her.

“Where's Magnificat?” she inquired. “Our women don't work anymore. They stay home,” Orion answered. He laid the check down. Vliet and Roger grabbed. Roger won. “No charge?” he said.

Orion gave Roger his worried smile. “It's, you know, for Cricket.” He pressed red-knuckled hands on the table. “Come on Sunday,” he said.

“Thank you,” she said. “Is Genesis around?”

“In back,” Orion said, glancing at the other three. “He wants for you to bring everyone.”

Cricket thanked him again. “Okay to talk to him?”

Orion stacked plates. “Tonight he's not one with the world,” he apologized.

She was surprised. Always Genesis had been their gray-bearded pivotal point, his deep voice tying them with comforting orders: Except for those few terrible days, he'd always been at one with their world.

The four decided to stroll off their organic dinner. At a pretty little Ocean Avenue shop, Alix paused to turn a revolving paperback rack. Roger, arms clasped around her waist, his body pressed to her back, watched the titles.

Vliet and Cricket continued along the narrow brick sidewalk.

“Even if the boy's ape about you, that bunch give me goose pimples,” Vliet said.

“Why?”

“Why? Don't you get the resemblance? Really, I swear to God, it's old Charlie Manson revisited.”

The bricks had sunk. Cricket stepped cautiously. “When I lived here, nobody had heard of the Mansons.”

“Okay. But there's a point here. Cricket, believe me, counterculture isn't necessarily better culture.”

“I know it, Vliet. You don't have to think you're playing iconoclast.”

A fat man was smirking up at Vliet and down at Cricket. Vliet fixed him with a superior Van Vliet look. The man turned his bullet neck, hurrying by.

“I love it when you put in those five-buck words. Someday you'll have to tell me how you know these freaks.” Vliet ran a friendly hand across her shoulders. She stepped away. “Listen,” he said. “Father Geritol, or whatever he calls himself when he's in this world, I bet he believes he's the Second Coming. And what's with this segregating women just for sex?”

“No sex,” Cricket said.

“None?”

“Well, for having babies.”

“You're kidding! Should I kneel or something? For procreative purposes!”

They walked a couple of minutes.

When Vliet spoke again, his voice was sober. “You see only the good, little cos. But Christ! Can you imagine Ma or Caroline living with a bunch like this? Creeping around in whites, talking about cutlery as weapons? Maybe they aren't Mansons, but this is a cult. A cult. C-U-L-T. Caroline and Gene would file joint heart attacks if they knew you'd lived in a place like this.”

The reason she'd lived here—procreative purposes—made her walk faster. He kept up.

“That's what's wrong with today's setup,” he said. “Some young people assume that any group who live other than the normal life-style belong in the Greater Galilee area.”

“You eat one dinner, and—”

“And get that murderous glint out of your eye, Cricket. I'm worried about you.” He looked down at her. Concerned. If Vliet were concerned, the handsome, whimsical face got an expression that charmed. And was meant to charm.

“It's not necessary.”

“They want you back.”

“No,” she said, “they don't.”

“Hey, what's wrong?”

“Nothing.”

“Then why so?” he asked, pulling down the corners of his mouth.

“I'm not.”

“You can tell old Vliet.”

She was silent.

“What sort are they?”

“Mostly middle class, like us.”

“Not me, not like me. And what does that mean—mostly?”

“Before, Genesis was sort of wild.”

“Hairy wild?”

“I guess,” she said.

“Sunday's out.”

“I have to.” They stopped at a red light. “Genesis, he was … very good to me … helped me a lot.” The light changed. They crossed. She asked, “Let me have the Porsche. I'll only be a couple of hours.”

“No.”

“Please, Vliet?”

“If you remember, I was invited.”

“You'll go?”

“Not willingly.” The smile went up on one side, and the lower lip, the tender lower lip, moved forward in the center. “I don't trust you in their clutches is all.”

4

Indian summer and Carmel Valley sweltered, but cool shadows filled the north side of the porch. Here, on Chinese boards worn silky, sat Cricket, Alix, Roger, Vliet, and Orion. Genesis had not put in an appearance. The Select came and went. There were over twice as many as the last time Cricket had been here, maybe eighty, with a ratio of three women to each man, plus an even half dozen babies under a year old. Cricket's friends relinquished their monastic calm, hugging her. And Magnificat, redheaded Magnificat, Cricket's old roomie, was saying with dignified pride, “Now I'm Mother Magnificat. Father Genesis and I were married May first.” Cricket kissed her friend, since May elevated to the blessèd.

“It's good to have you here again,” said Mother Magnificat as she departed.

The Select gazed at Cricket with shining eyes as if expecting her to announce something. What? I'm going to stay?

Roger had been looking at Orion. “Your hair,” he said. “It wasn't tied back the other night, was it?”

“No,” Orion replied.

Roger held his finger in front of his own ear. “Had this long?”

Orion touched the fleshy scab on his cheek. “Six months, about. It's nothing.”

“Ever bleed?”

“Uhh, yes.”

“How often?”

“Couple of times. Father Genesis cured me, you know, with salve.”

“Mind if I take a look,” Roger asked, zeroing in. “A doctor seen it?”

Orion gave Cricket a pleading glance.

She explained for him. “They don't believe in doctors.”

“This must be looked at,” Roger said. “Right away.”

“Father Genesis'll make more salve,” Orion said.

“No. A dermatologist.”

And Mother Magnificat returned, circling the court, hand-woven white blossoming around her lanky legs. “Cricket,” she said. “Father Genesis is waiting for you in the great hall.”

Boughs of Saint Catherine's lace, dried to a delicate rust, filled the altar vessel. Genesis propped his gray beard in a thick hand, looking silently at her. In the underwater light his eyes never seemed to blink. He nodded at the tatami by his feet. She sat.

Why did he seem so different? It was hard to say. Was she seeing him as Vliet (and Alix and Roger) would? Or had he changed? Take this not talking. He'd done it before. But for the first time she was grasping that it was planned showmanship. How he imposed his will on others. The disloyal thought made her uneasy. She crossed her legs, pressing the sole of her right sandal into the opposite jeaned thigh. She inhaled his familiar odors.

And she stopped questioning his disparities. She was remembering. Not wanting to, but remembering. Sharp-edged pictures of the birth, the hospital cubicle, emerged as if she had developer in her brain. The cruel minutes of her life. At this point, Genesis began to speak. She didn't hear words, simply the rumbling voice.

He leaned down to her. “You mustn't, daughter.”

She came to, her hands tightening on her ankles.

“Live in the Eternal Now,” Genesis said.

“I try;” she said. “I do.”

“You aren't now.”

“He was born here.”

“That pretty boy, the tall blond, he it?”

“Vliet,” she said. (How long had Genesis watched them? Had he always spied, adding to his deck of secrets? How could she think this way about someone who had been only good to her?) “Yes.”

“And he doesn't know?”

“Nothing,” she said.

“Why didn't you tell him?”

“I couldn't. I couldn't tell anyone.”

“There's no point,” Genesis agreed. “You're back.”

“For the afternoon,” she interjected hastily.

“And you hurt?”

She nodded.

“This isn't enough time,” he said. “Give me more time.”

It was a command.

After a moment she said, “I'm in school.”

“School!” he snorted. He gazed up at the commandments. “Last year I went down to Guatemala. Some villages there haven't been touched. No corruption by outsiders. They follow the ancient ways. Pure Maya. I studied their book.
Chillam Balam
. The Maya was great while we groveled in caves. Peyote taught the old ones. It still teaches.”

“Carlos Castaneda,” she said. “Did you try acid?”

“Acid is chemical. It burns the brain. Peyote is natural. With it you see beyond the horizon, hear voices of trees, know everything. Peyote is from before corruption. Yes, I tried it.” He laced his fingers, tensing his powerful forearms. “It's become the central fact of our lives.”

“Cricket,” Vliet called. “Hey, Cricket!”

They turned.

Vliet was peering in, his fingers curved around the doorjamb. “You in here?”

“Yes,” Cricket said.

And Genesis said, “Come in.” Another order.

Vliet, followed by Roger and Alix, moved forward, silhouettes in the dimness. Cricket made the introductions. Genesis examined each in turn.

Vliet looked up at words burned into wood. “The Big Ten?” he asked.

“For us,” Genesis rebuked quietly, “they aren't a laughing matter.”

“I wasn't laughing. Really. I'm interested.”

“It's our Rule.”

And in the ensuing awkwardness, Alix said that the compound was fascinating, and had some China buff imported it board by board? Ignoring her, Genesis turned from Vliet to Roger, who also was studying the etched panel.

“Why no knives?” Roger asked.

“Knives kill.”