Page 52 of And Still Her Voice
I smiled, wishing I had Maggie’s self-confidence. “So how is Mom?”
“She took a job cleaning houses. It got really scary, and he didn’t want Mom working. So, we finally just packed up and left.”
“Can I send some money?”
“Sure. And I’d tell you to come home, but honestly, I don’t know where you’d sleep. I share a room with Mom. Josie and Patty share the other. Michael sleeps on the couch in the living room. It’s pretty cramped.”
“What about Bella?”
“We left her with Dad for company.”
Even though I shouldn’t have cared, I was happy he had a companion.
“You’re probably better off wherever you are,” she said.
I wouldn’t tell her I’d been sleeping on the cold floor of a stinky bus full of rock and rollers and before that on the floor of a flophouse in the Haight with three other hippies.
“How long will you be in Idaho?”
“Just until tomorrow.”
“Anyone famous like the Doors?”
“Not yet. Anyway, I should get going. I’ll call again when I get the chance.”
“Okay. Hey, so when do you think you might come home?”
Without thinking, I told her Thanksgiving and then the thought warmed my heart like the kitchen on a holiday morning, until I remembered our house was gone and I was pretty sure so was that giant table we’d gathered around when we tried to act like a normal family. The table had a button to call the maids and butlers—not that we ever had any help—and the chairs were covered in royal blue mohair. My grandparents had imported the set from Normandy after their honeymoon. Rumor was, it belonged to the Medici. “Maybe Christmas,” I said. “I’ll let you know. I’ve got to go.”
My head throbbed. Stuffed with nostalgia and painful memories, I stepped outside of the phone booth with a lump in my throat and a knot I my stomach. I then boarded the bus, stumbling to the back to crawl into my sleeping bag. I covered my head with a blanket and prepared to ride out a migraine.
CHAPTER 19
Blonde Indians
Christmas 1967 was just another day on the tour. We’d been on the road for a couple of months giggin’ in different venues. I’d learned to play different instruments, like the sitar that was hooked up to a Fender amp driving a couple of Wurlitzer horns. On stage at the Tulsa Assembly Center, we played a couple of Christmas carols. Dressed as an elf, I imagined being on a magic winter sleigh ride with the psychedelic sounds vibrating through my fingers to my boots. As the drumbeat pounded a sensual rhythm with my heart, I looked over at River. Wearing a jeweled headband and a red and green sequined pantsuit, he outshined long-haired John who wore a pair of boring brown corduroys and a tan chambray shirt. As egocentric as I thought John was, he didn’t seem to mind being upstaged by River who shimmied and shook around him, the sparkles lighting up John’s bearded face; as a matter of fact, there’d been a moment when I thought I picked up on something electric between them. The crowd cheered and the collective roar buzzed enough energy to light up all of Oklahoma.
During a side trip the next day to a trading post out in Broken Arrow, River and I strolled the dusty aisles shopping for souvenirs. Even though it would be late, I wanted to send home someChristmas trinkets. As I finished paying for a turquoise bracelet for Mom and some matching turquoise rings, one for me and for each sibling, I looked up to see John and River ambling away head-to-head, acting like a couple of conspiring, giggling school girls on a shopping spree. I was so confused and a little jealous. River turned to me and held out his hand. “Hurry up, slow poke,” he said. “John has some ideas,” he added. Ideas that include me?
Within a couple of months, the band had fine-tuned their set and regurgitated the same arrangement as the night before, except for a couple of new additions. By the time we reached Oklahoma City, John had arranged to fly in a couple of loud, well-endowed, bleached platinum back-up singers, Cindy and Cheryl, from Los Angeles. There wasn’t much for them to do, except wiggle their hips and look sexy—not hard for them to do.
From a stage in Norman where every seat in the arena had been sold, no one sat as John strutted across the stage, lashing a beat on his guitar, flipping his hair back, whipping the fans into a frenzy. The drummer receded into the background, the beat pounding inside my ribcage as River crow-hopped on, bare chested with warrior paint on his face. The crowd went wild as the girls, including me, came on dressed in the short leather fringed dresses he’d purchased for us back at a trading post in Tulsa. We also wore feathers in our hair. I took my place at the keyboards, my hands flying. A couple of white-faced blonde Indians, Cheryl tapped a small leather-skinned tribal drum as Cindy slapped the tambourine on her butt.
Set in position on stage, drenched in sweat, chests heaving, including River who dropped back behind the mic near me, Cindy and Cheryl sashayed around John. They crouched, chins up, arms extended in worship. He stood in the middle strumming his guitar, the band behind them lit with just a faint glow of blue light. The devotees knew every word, their voices swelling andsoaring, a unified flock in musical formation. The arena crackled in anticipation of the show’s climax.
After the break, the fans stirred into a sufficient fever, we sauntered back on stage, John all strut and arrogance, hands in the air, demanding more applause.
One by one, the band dropped out leaving only John and his guitar on the dark stage, but for a halo of light. His fans adored him.
And then the chanting started. “River! River! River!” John stormed off.
***
On the road out of Norman, Oklahoma, mighty gusts of white-capped breakers of snow tumbled across the plains, lulling me as the tires beneath the bus thudded rhythmically with a sound reminiscent of a boat splashing through waves. Other than the noise, I enjoyed bobbing along the miles of human silence.
Asleep now, the girls and John would be traveling with us on the bus throughout the tour. Earlier they’d been laughing and chatting incessantly behind a makeshift curtain, the Indian blanket I’d purchased at the trading post, where they also cuddled up with John, keeping him company from town to town. My mind still raced, but I wasn’t ready to turn in. River and I sat up a bit longer to digest the night’s experience.
“I’d say that went off pretty well,” River said.
