THE_GREAT_WHITE_NORTH

he great white North was a new world for Kerry Foster. She was securely nestled between the Catskill Mountains and the Adirondacks in her new home with Howard Bates. The cold of mid-March was an incredible shock to her system. Her thin body wrestled with the chill of the nights, and she woke each morning curled into a tight, cramped ball buried beneath a mountain of blankets. It was her first encounter with real snow, the sort of snow that engulfs you with its presence. Yet, it was not the weather which impressed young Kerry there in Saratoga Springs, New York; it was the intellectual climate that raced her mind to exhaustion and left her anxious at the end of each day for the beginning of the next. Saratoga was a resort community. It had also been a haven for artists and writers for many years, and Kerry found herself burdened with her own na‹vete.

Howard went to great lengths to assure Kerry that she was not "just plain stupid," during her first two weeks in Saratoga Springs. Regardless of his encouragement, she continued to refer to herself as such.

Since Howard had leased his house to the Wilsons until July, he and Kerry had moved into a boarding house in the center of town, which was owned by an old friend of Howard's named Clare Friedman. Clare Friedman was a tiny whisper of a woman with dark, curly hair sprinkled with gray. She had exceptionally intense, brown eyes. She was not the sort to smile without sincerity, and Kerry, who was accustomed to the constant tradition in Texas of smiling in salutation, felt intimidated by Clare. She was certain that Clare Friedman had no use for her whatsoever.

Clare was a published poet. She also published a popular weekly newspaper based around the arts and policital issues. Her paper was aptly titled The Avalanche. Because of the newspaper, she housed a constant flow of musicians, poets, artists of all sorts, and political radicals within her huge, wandering house.

Howard had met Clare twenty-five years before in New York City; she had been a client of his insurance firm. They had become close friends shortly after meeting each other. It had been Clare who'd inspired Howard to retire in Saratoga Springs. She was a strong-willed woman in her mid-fifties, and as the years had passed, Howard had come to love her as an adopted daughter. Clare, seemingly, had no family of her own; Howard was her only link to familial graces, and he provided an air of normality which, in truth, did not exist in her lifestyle.

Clare did not dislike Kerry; quite the contrary, she was most impressed with this young woman from Texas who had devoted herself to Howard's welfare. Kerry mentioned in passing one day that she wrote poetry and prose. Clare had heard her sing and play guitar, and she liked some of Kerry's original songs so she asked Kerry if she could read her work.

Well, Clare thought her poetry was very weak; it seemed to lack its own melody, as though Kerry could not write poetry without placing it within a song. The prose was a different story altogether. Clare was impressed with the approach Kerry took in relating the subject matter. She left herself open for the reader in her essays; she was believable yet so vulnerable in her work that the pieces held a quality of charm to them that Clare had not expected. She held such a refreshing view of things that Clare decided to ask Kerry to write a record review for The Avalanche. It was a Phil Ochs album, I Ain't Marching Anymore, that Clare presented to Kerry during her second week at the boarding house. The album itself was actually several years old, and Clare wasn't totally convinced that it would be appropriate for The Avalanche to run the article, but she was anxious to instill new social thoughts in Kerry's mind.

Kerry became obsessed with the album. She spent two days sitting in Clare's parlor listening to the record non-stop. The entire boarding house became quite familiar with Phil Ochs during those two days, and Clare was almost to the point of calling the project off for the sake of her tenants when Kerry presented her with her review.

Clare ran the review; she edited one line which was, "Phil Ochs' lyrics punch injustice right smack in the nose!" Kerry didn't miss the line when the review ran in The Avalanche; she was too consumed with the pride of seeing her name as a by-line in print.

It just so happened, in the way that things are bound to happen, that Clare was one of the organizers in New York State in planning the massive march on Washington to be held May Day against the war in Vietnam. One of the events included a free outdoor music festival which would feature, among others, Phil Ochs and a Texas band that Kerry was fond of, Tracy Nelson and Mother Earth. Kerry decided she was going to Washington, D.C., with Clare. They in fact planned on traveling in Howard's 1967 Pontiac.

Howard forbade it. He sulked around the boarding house with his cane looped on his arm for days before he gave his verbal opinion of the plan. Once he'd made his statement out in the open to Kerry and Clare, he ceased to sulk and would in fact repeat the same statement each time he passed one of them anywhere in the house. Howard was quite concerned that he didn't have a chance of persuading Kerry not to attend the rallies; his only hope was to play upon Kerry's sympathies. He would corner Kerry, and in his soft-spoken manner he would say, "Leota will chip the enamel right off her teeth chewing me out if I let you do this. Through all these years, I've come closer than a mosquito's whiskers to having a serious falling out with your dear grandmother, Leota, and now that I am finally out of her doghouse, I wish to heaven that you would not throw a log on the old fire, Kerry." Howard would then wink at Kerry and shuffle off in search of Clare.

Now, Howard could afford not to be so eloquent with Clare; once he'd located her in the house, he'd simply wave his cane at her and scold, "Oh, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, and I'll just be damned if you're taking my Pontiac!"

"Really, Howard," Clare would reply. "Don't you think you're being a bit selfish in this matter?" Clare would roll her eyes skyward and continue with whatever chore Howard had interrupted, which aggravated Howard to no end. Seconds after each of these encounters Clare would hear the slamming of Howard's door and the gentle sound of his pacing back and forth in his room.

Kerry was determined to gain Howard's approval for the trip to Washington. She finally shocked Howard by simply saying, "Oh, Howard, who cares what Leo thinks anyway?"

Howard's eyes lit up like the Fourth of July fireworks displays, and he replied, "Now, don't you start that 'Oh, Howard' business with me, young Kerry. I get quite enough of that from Clare, thank you. You're not going on this adventure, period, and neither is my Pontiac. Clare's a grown woman, and she can do as she pleases, but you just don't have any idea what you're getting into. That is all I'm going to say on this subject, and I'd appreciate it if you would improve your tone of voice next time you address me; you're almost as sassy as your grandmother Leota." Howard doggedly walked away from Kerry, firmly tapping his cane of the floor and mumbling, "Closer than a mosquito's whiskers, by God . . . Leota's going to skin me alive." Kerry could see the curls of Howard's handlebar mustache twitching as he walked away from her. She was now certain that Howard had resigned himself to the fact that she was going to the rallies even if he wouldn't admit it to her. If only he'd change his mind about the Pontiac!

One of the tenants in Clare's boarding house was a young photographer named Puttnam. Puttnam was a Vietnam veteran who had come to live in Clare's house as one of the fringe benefits of being the staff photographer for The Avalanche. He had only been out of the army for a year and a half and still had a lot of demons to exorcise from his experiences in Vietnam. Puttnam was six-foot-five with strawberry blond hair and a lanky frame. His appearance was most often disheveled, and he had a habit of pushing his long hair out of his face constantly. He had enormous sky-blue eyes which held such deep sorrow that, even though Puttnam was often given to fits of bellowing laughter, you could still feel the pain within him; you could even hear his anguish within that boisterous laughter.

Lunches at Clare's could be maddening. Clare served a plate lunch each day. Her dining room seated about twenty folks and had become a gathering place for pseudo-intellectuals. Afternoons were given to screaming matches among the customers. Howard was an excellent referee as he was past the point in his life when he felt compelled to make an impression on anyone concerning his intellect. On days when the noise level became too much for Howard to tolerate, he would tap his cane on the floor sharply and say, "Sure is getting up in the day around here. Haven't you folks got some work you could be doing? The world's a-waitin'."

Of course most of the folks that hung around Clare's at lunch time didn't have jobs of any kind, but Howard's age made him the voice of authority, and they would usually begin clearing out of Clare's once Howard had made it clear that they were wearing out their welcome.

Kerry spent a great deal of time with Puttnam. He was the only individual in the group around Clare's who did not try to intimidate Kerry. Puttnam was a history buff and could go on for hours about American history, which Kerry found to be fascinating. Kerry was an avid reader of contemporary American fiction which Puttnam hadn't yet discovered so they had an even trade of information for each other. While the others sat around the dining room discussing Proust and Shelley in literature and plotted their plans to overthrow the world by quoting Lenin, Engels, and Marx, Kerry and Puttnam sat off in the corner at a small table greedily exchanging knowledge current to their own generation. The two of them made no plans to change the world situation; they were, in fact, a change in American society because they were do-ers rather than procrastinators.

Once a week Clare held a staff meeting for The Avalanche in the dining room after lunch. The meetings were a free-for-all with Clare usually making all the final decisions herself since the staff could not bring themselves to agree on anything with each other. The staff had grown to eight members since the addition of Kerry as music columnist. She also contributed essays on various subjects, which Clare used, when the space was available. Kerry's columns were becoming quite popular among the readers of The Avalanche, and she began receiving mail soon after her first article on Phil Ochs. The rest of the staff members enjoyed their own particular niches in preparing the paper each week, except for Kerry who was filling a double slot with a writer named Ernest Hinkle. Ernest was quite indignant about having to compete with Kerry for what had been his slot before her arrival.

Ernest was from Teaneck, New Jersey. He was a small man who bathed only once a week, wore the same wool sweater day in and day out, had an annoying habit of meddling in other people's business, and professed to be an expert on just about everything. He was particularly peeved that Clare had chosen to take Kerry to the Washington rallies as a music reviewer for the paper. Ernest felt that he had earned the right to go since he had been with the paper for almost three years and underneath his intellectual rhetoric dwelled the heart of a hard-core male chauvinist. When Kerry began receiving favorable letters from the readers (he'd never received any letters), Ernest set about trying to discredit Kerry in any way he could at staff meetings and attempted to finagle an invitation to the rallies as a staff writer from Clare. By the third staff meeting in April it became clear to Ernest that he was not going to be included as a staff member at the rallies. He was convinced that anyone from below the Mason-Dixon Line was an absolute nit-wit, and this person who was stepping in on his territory was not only from Texas but was also, very obviously, a girl.

Clare was embarrassed by Ernest's attitude. She hoped that in time Ernest would accept Kerry as part of the staff and that their duo role could become a somewhat disjunctive asset to The Avalanche. Clare felt that she could not intervene in Kerry's behalf since she was well aware of Ernest's attitude towards women. She, instead, was inclined to feel that sooner or later Kerry herself would catch Ernest at his own game, and she quietly sat back to wait for that moment to present itself.

Ernest was a sincere writer as a rule. His columns were very basic, yet they had served The Avalanche well in defining the format for the magazine. He was a bit narrow in his choice of material to review and chose not to listen to anything which was not political in nature. Clare had been encouraging him for months to expand his interests as there were many records being sent to them by women artists; she'd had little success as Ernest left those albums stacked in a pile in the corner of Clare's office. Kerry filled a gap in the paper which Ernest himself had created with his closed mind. She listened to every record sent to her, plus going through that stack of records which Ernest had abandoned with a deaf ear.

Kerry had thus far written reviews of Carole King's Tapestry album, Rosalie Sorrels' Travelin' Lady, Townes Van Zandt's Our Mother the Mountain, and a review of a performance by Don McLean at the coffeehouse, Caffe Lena, there in Saratoga Springs. Kerry did not write unfavorable reviews; she instead adopted a system of singularizing the material which she felt was performed with subtle clarity by the artists. She was not particularly discriminating in terms of the quality of the musical production itself; she focused on the lyrical content and the emotion those lyrics could turn in the listener. This flaw in her technique became Ernest's legitimate bone of contention at weekly staff meetings.

Margaret English was a poet. She reviewed the new poetry submitted to the paper. She was a shy, thoughtful young woman from Auburn, New York. Margaret had never been a social person. She wrote her reviews and her poetry with the tender observation of one who longs to experience without bias. Jack Simpson covered world events and wrote either a political commentary or submitted a political cartoon for each issue. Ty Gallagher covered art and theatre; he kept an apartment in New York City and only traveled to Saratoga for staff meetings. He was beginning to move up in his field; several of his articles had been picked up by a larger daily newspaper in the Northeast. Marlin Stancell covered national events and the underground political scene plus writing on occasional review of new fiction. Clare was editor; she collected articles on health and the growing ecology movement.

The Avalanche was still a small produciton. It had about three thousand subscribers in the North and sold about the same amount on the newsstands. Though it was small by any standards in distribution, it was still a highly respected publication and more successful than most of the small magazines and newspapers which were attempting to follow the same format.

The staff meeting before the May Day Rallies was a heated gathering. The staff was being forced to choose between an article Ernest had written on the collected works of Paul Robeson, and a review Kerry had written on Jerry Jeff Walker's album, Driftin' Way of Life. The staff was voting in favor of Kerry's article--not for its merits, but because Ernest's piece on Paul Robeson hadn't quite come together on paper, and though it was more in line with the tone of that issue, Ernest had written it in haste and it rambled off the subject . . . it in fact focused more on the political stance of Ernest Hinkle and was a blatant attempt by Ernest to validate his own intelligence. Robeson lived in Philadelphia at that time after spending many years abroad. Margaret had timidly suggested that Ernest arrange an interview with Robeson on the telephone, which would bring the article back to a more direct and personal level. This would mean postponing the article on Robeson for at least a month, and Ernest was enraged over the possibility of being voted down by his colleagues, especially since the toss-up involved an article on some bimbo from Texas. Ernest had not done his homework. . . . Jerry Jeff Walker was in fact from the Northern regions of the country. Ernest pointed out vehemently that Kerry and Marlin already had a slot in this issue. They had collaborated on a review of Larry McMurtry's new novel, Movin' On. He insisted that it was simply redundant to print two reviews in the same issue on Texas writers . . . the fact that he thought they were both from Texas doubled his rage . . . he considered Marlin a traitor.

"This is just outrageous that we're going to present two pieces in the same issue on Texas writers. Our readers know there are no real writers in Texas. . . . They'll think we have Katherine Anne Porter on the brain . . . we'll be the laughing stock of the Northeast. This article on Paul Robeson is much more relevant to the interests of our readers. Texas writers have no credibility in this region of the country . . . they are a bad joke," Ernest proclaimed.

Kerry was sitting directly across the table from Ernest. She guessed that this must be the sixth day since he had last bathed as the whole room reeked of damp wool and perspiration. The situation was not eased much by Ernest, who began to flap his arms wildly to make his point. Margaret sat on one side of him while Ty sat on the other side. Margaret excused herself from the table several times during the meeting. Kerry wondered if she was excusing herself to avoid contact with Ernest's body odor because it was nauseating to everyone at the table.

"What you're saying is bullshit, Ernest. Maybe an article on Paul Robeson would be more in tune with this paper, but you just didn't pull it off," Kerry remarked. Howard sat in a rocking chair across the room by the window reading a magazine. Upon hearing Kerry's remarks he closed the magazine and folded it gently in his lap while his ears perked up in anticipation of Ernest's rebuttal.

Ernest slapped his hand flat down on the table, which woke Puttnam up from his daydreaming. "Just how would you know whether I pulled it off or not? You're not even old enough to know or value the work of Paul Robeson . . . who is this scathing gravel-voiced Jerry Jeff Walker anyway?" Ernest bellowed.

"You're missing the damn point here, Ernest. I do not agree with your attitude towards Texas writers, but I do agree that an article on Paul Robeson makes a hell of a lot more sense than a review of a Jerry Jeff Walker album . . . but the Robeson thing just didn't come together, and you're too hard-headed to admit it. Age has nothing to do with art . . . I know a good line when I read one and a decent score of music when I hear it . . . Robeson's work was and is more politically valuable to the arts than Walker's, but you did not do it justice, you didn't even come close. Walker is a good, solid artist . . . his lyrics are a bit light, but the music is great . . . he's gathering a strong following up here . . . he's from up here, by the way, . . . my article was simply intended to introduce our readers to something they might enjoy," Kerry replied.

"Your choice of vocabulary is disgusting! It's a prime example of your Texas no-talents. If you can't find any words to express yourself that aren't laced with profanity, then would you mind just keeping silent? You have absolutely no taste whatsoever in literature, music, or art," Ernest hissed. He then leaned back in his chair and began tapping a pencil on the edge of the table. He was extremely smug, deciding he'd finally put Kerry in her place, and his beady gray eyes gleamed with satisfaction beneath his thick horn-rimmed galsses.

Kerry stood up from the table while collecting her papers in front of her. She fumbled with the papers just long enough to get them in order before clutching them tightly to her chest. "You're a fucking snob, Ernest. You wouldn't know a good line or a decent song if it reached out and slapped you right in the face. You sit here each week claiming to know more about art than any of us, yet you leave a stack of artistic endeavors two feet high piled in Clare's office; untouched by your filthy fingers . . . you don't know art . . . you can't even make a solid decision of your own without reading the reviews of other writers first. You use the lyrics of the performers you do review to pat yourself on the back. When was the last time you took a chance on an unknown artist, when was the last time you even listened to one? You're not interested in finding out what made Paul Robeson's work so heartfelt . . . you're interested in the prestige of writing about Paul Robeson. Ya better get your ass on the phone to Philadelphia if you want that piece to work . . . I'd think it would be quite interesting to have a conversation with him, you might learn something . . . perhaps he could lend you an ounce or two of credibility," Kerry said through clenched teeth. She strolled to the door, leaving her chair in the middle of the floor. She turned around just before making her exit to address Ernest once more, "Ya know, Ernest, I'd enjoy these meetings a lot more if you'd take a bath now and then. It's no wonder that you're called a chauvinist pig behind your back considering that you actually do smell like one!"

"Bravo," Puttnam exclaimed, jumping to his feet and beginning a round of applause which spread to each staff member around the table. . . .

"Oh, grow up, Puttnam . . . this is an absolute outrage," Ernest shouted, but his voice was barely audible over the clapping hands of his fellow staff members.

Kerry could hear Puttnam's bellowing laughter from her room, and before too long she also heard the front door slam shut. She walked to the window which faced the street just in time to see Ernest stomping down the sidewalk with a swift click. Papers were flying in all directions from his briefcase as he'd forgotten in his haste to close the latch. Kerry opened the window and shouted out to Ernest, "Ernest, you're losing your papers. Hey, Ernest, pay attention to what you're doin', man!"

Ernest looked back at Kerry and shouted, "Fuck you, Foster, you little creep."

An older woman who lived down the street happened to be passing by at the time, and she stopped alongside Ernest, gave him a shove on the arm, and replied, "You just watch your language, young man . . . there are children in this neighborhood."

Ernest scrambled around the sidewalk and street to retrieve his scattered papers while Kerry stood in the window and giggled over her triumph. She had won this round with Ernest, and somewhere within the squabble she had also won his respect. That was evident in the fact that he had just bestowed the greatest honor possible on Kerry by addressing her by her last name; that was a ritual normally reserved by men like Ernest for situations involving men among men.

Kerry returned to the dining room to find the entire staff still discussing the incident. Puttnam was still standing; he was in the process of delivering an impersonation of Ernest's indignant reaction to the rest of the staff after Kerry had left the room. Clare was trying to calm Howard down; he was shaking his cane in the air and shouting, "That young man should be banned from these procedures . . . if he ever talks to my Kerry like that again, he's going to be picking rosewood out of his teeth!"

Even Margaret was laughing; Kerry had never seen her laugh before. She was normally such an intensely serious young woman. But at this moment she sat at the table with a delicate, slender hand poised over her mouth, giggling uncontrollably. She reached out with her other hand upon seeing Kerry enter the room and motioned for her to come stand beside her at the table. She wrapped her arm around Kerry's waist and hugged her tightly.

"Oh, but he's had that coming for so long," Margaret began. "I'm so proud of you for not letting him intimidate you. It's something I've been waiting for since the first day you joined us."

"But, he's such a good writer, Margaret. He really does have a lot more on the ball than I do. He's so dedicated to keeping his columns pure. I feel terrible that he's walked out on the paper. I can't possibly fill the empty space it'll leave in The Avalanche, Kerry said.

"Oh, he'll be back, Kerry. When he comes back, he'll have that piece on Robeson honed down to the edge of perfection. This has happened before with Ernest. We've all had to humiliate him in public in order to get his attention. It was obvious that he wrote that article to spite you, and now he'll have to write that article to defend his art and the journalistic integrity of the paper. We can all relax now as Ernest will go back to writing for this paper with the dedication he had before he began this campaign to oust you from the staff. It is the understanding that matters, and it's hard for Ernest to understand anything except his own narrow view. We are a family here at this paper; Ernest is part of us, and we'll love him in spite of himself and regardless of his faults because in many ways he is simply the bad side of all of us, and it's impossible to dismiss a portion of one's self," Clare said as she helped Howard to his feet.

"Well, I think that a swift kick in the old rear-end is what that young man needs," Howard said. He placed the magazine he'd been reading in the rocking chair and followed Clare out of the dining room with his cane securely looped on one arm and his other hand nervously twiddling the curls in his mustache.

Kerry had earned a place in this family. In a sense, all of the staff members had put her through a probationary period; Ernest had simply been more vocal about it. In any family, whether it is by birth or one that is created out of loneliness for the lack of a natural family, there will always be a role that each individual is expected to fill, as each member of a family must be productive and contribute to the definition of that unity.

Many truths had been revealed about these peculiar individuals with Kerry's outburst. Margaret had shown a side of herself which the others had never considered her to have--a sense of humor. She and Kerry began a friendship that would last throughout their lives. It was a friendship which would open up new worlds for both of them for in the same manner in which Margaret had never opened her life to the shared bonds of friendship; Kerry had never known the unspoken trust of having a woman friend, and it created an awareness in Kerry that all women face a difficult and painful task in tackling an occupation controlled by men. Many of their female contemporaries would refuse to compete with the male world and would instead band together to form their own empires separate from the mainstream, in fact, separate from reality, with the end result of only reaching each other and reinforcing their own beliefs which had already been established. Kerry and Margaret were so far removed from their contemporaries that they would unconsciously dive head first into the male establishment and while neither would ever be considered serious artists by the "women's movement," they would survive and function within the media as proof that women could be equals in a male-dominated society. They would be more successful in changing the attitudes of chauvinistic men than their contemporaries who simply circulate among themselves, yet it would always be their contemporaries who would receive the credit for having changed the structure of the establishment itself. They had a grand example to follow in Clare. Margaret would one day devote herself to writing the biography of Clare Friedman, and it would be accepted in the literary world not simply as a book by a woman author about a woman author but as a definitive classic about the life of a gifted and dedicated artist and publisher.

Clare, as a living example to Kerry and Margaret, taught them both that they could not simply produce their works and demand that they be accepted because they were women and thus deserved to be acknowledged; she instead instilled within the two of them the reality that their work had to be equal if not better than that of their male counterparts and that they themselves were the only individuals who could make their work succeed or fail.

A love affair began between Margaret and Puttnam. Her lovely laughter during the staff meeting had stolen his heart. Howard's room in the boarding house was situated between Margaret and Puttnam's and the sound of Margaret's cautious footsteps passing his room began waking him during the night as well as the indiscreet thunder of Puttnam's visits to Margaret's room which could shake the whole house.

No one was supposed to know about the affair except for Kerry, but the entire household was well aware of this blooming spring romance. Howard simply wanted a good night's sleep, and one night when he'd been awakened twice by the pitter-pat of Margaret's feet in the hallway outside his door, he decided it was time to address this problem. It was about three in the morning when he heard Margaret's door creak open and the crash of Puttnam's footsteps heading towards his room. Howard, who was dressed in his flannel nightshirt, yanked his bedroom door open, which startled the hell out of Puttnam, who was clad only in his boxer shorts; he immediately began his ritual of pushing the hair out of his face.

"Puttnam!" Howard barked.

"Yes, sir," Puttnam replied, wishing he could melt into the woodwork.

"By God, I wish you'd stop this nonsense and simply retire with Miss English at bedtime. It's all this sneaking about from room to room that's keeping me awake at night, not the creaking of the bedsprings. Just what in the hell is the intrigue of shuffling back and forth all night long?" Howard asked. He only stood as tall as Puttnam's chest, and he had to lean his head back uncomfortably to addrss Puttnam eye to eye.

"Well, nothing, sir," Puttnam said shakily.

"Well, then, by God, choose whose room you're going to horse around in and stay there," Howard bellowed.

"Yes, sir," Puttnam said while Howard swiveled around on the toes of his bare feet and retreated to his room, loudly banging the door shut behind him.

Howard settled back into bed that night, and the sound of shuffling feet ceased to wake him after that . . . on some nights the creak of the bedsprings or Puttnam's boisterous laughter would jolt him to an upright position and his eyes would snap open in confusion, but the sounds were so joyous in nature that Howard never complained and he would fall back to sleep almost immediately; he'd sometimes dream he was snuggled in the nape of Kerry Pearl's neck, and during those dreams he could actually smell her sweetness, which had always been the scent of lilac. "Sweet dreams, my dear," he would mumble in his sleep and a contented smile would rest upon his face as he slumbered, as though Kerry Pearl had actually been there to return his affections.

*****

The staff members who were to attend the rallies included Kerry, Clare, and Puttnam. On Friday at six a.m. they met in the dining hall only to find Howard seated stubbornly on his suitcase tapping the floor with his cane. He'd reluctantly consented to allowing them the use of his Pontiac . . . they were all three now aware of the one condition he'd forgotten to mention.

"Good morning, Howard," Clare said nonchalantly as she strolled by Howard clutching her large straw handbag in both hands. "You're up awfully early this morning. . . . Going somewhere?" she asked.

"You bet I am," Howard replied, shaking his cane at Clare. "I'm going to Washington, D.C., and you'd best not argue with me because I hold the keys to the Pontiac, and it's not leaving the driveway without me in it."

"Howard, this is not a vacation. This trip would be too hard on you. We'll be sleeping on the floor of a dorm at the university there . . . that's no place for an eighty-seven year old man," Clare said. Kerry and Puttnam had decided to stay out of the conversation completely and had withdrawn to the doorway to wait for Clare to settle the argument and send Howard back to bed.

"My dear, I was not in the outhouse when you were making plans for the housing arrangements, and since I can afford to do so, I have taken the liberty to reserve rooms at the Holiday Inn in Arlington. I intend to pay for the rooms out of my own pocket as I won't have young Kerry sleeping on the floor of some dorm with strangers, and as I've already stated, THE PONTIAC IS NOT BUDGING WITHOUT ME!"

"Howard, you're impossible," Clare replied in exasperation. They stared each other in the eye for several tense moments in an attempt to dissuade the other's intentions. Howard broke the silence; it was his victory. "We're history in the making, by God. Puttnam, put these bags in the old buggy and let's get rollin'" Howard boasted in triumph. He gently pulled Clare aside at the front door and whispered, "I'll stay in the motel room if I feel I can't handle the activities. I know my own limits, Clare, so don't fret over my health. I'd like to feel useful, and at my age, the days of feeling useful are few and far between. I just wanted to see these young people speak up for their rights for I surely agree with their cause, and what better way is there for an old man like me to show his support, than to join them. I'll be serving my own generation by going to our nation's capital. You see, it isn't just the young or the radical left who are opposed to the war, and I have the same right to voice my opinion as they do. I promise to behave myself," Howard said with a grin.

They settled into the Pontiac for the long drive to Washington with Clare driving first. Puttnam sat in the front with Clare and carried on a hushed conversation with Kerry, who was seated in the backseat behind Clare. Howard fell asleep almost immediately after they turned onto the highway; his mustache twitched in the morning glow and his hand which clutched the worn handle of his cane would jump occasionally when Clare would pass over a dip in the road. He snored quietly with his head resting on the window of the Pontiac, and the car was engulfed with the smell of fresh coffee which Puttnam poured for Clare out of the thermos she'd packed in early dawn. They were out to defend America; they were soldiers of peace, and none of them knew better than Puttnam how important it was to bring peace.

After lunch Clare switched places with Kerry, and Puttnam drove. It was mid-afternoon, and Puttnam was cruising down the interstate going eighty miles per hour when Howard was awakened by the sound of loose gravel hitting the side of the car. He looked out the window just in time to witness a small foreign car swerving onto the shoulder to his right.

"Puttnam, I hate to be a back seat driver, but do you realize that you've just run someone off the road?" Howard remarked.

"Where's that?" Putnam asked somewhat in a daze.

"Back there, that little sports car . . . you nearly ran over those folks," Howard said.

"Oh, that . . . they'd been driving along for miles with their blinker on. . . . I just sort of helped 'em make up their minds. They're okay. Look back there . . . see they've finally turned that blinker off."

Howard turned to look out the rear windshield, and sure enough the little sports car had managed to veer back on the highway.

"Well, that's one heck of a way to get somebody's attention. Let's slow down a bit . . . I mean, after all, I don't really have insurance for you as a driver, and we should proceed as careful as is possible," Howard pleaded.

"Ah, I'm a good driver, Mr. Bates, I'm just trying to get us into D.C. before rush hour traffic starts," Puttnam said while pushing his hair back from his face with an exaggerated gesture.

"Puttnam," Clare barked, aggravated at having been wakened from her short nap. "Slow this vehicle down and don't argue with Howard; it's his car."

"Yes, ma'am," Puttnam replied cheerfully.

They did indeed pull into Washington at rush hour, and Puttnam managed to get in the wrong lane several times, therefore placing them on the wrong freeways. It was dark when they finally pulled into the parking lot at the Holiday Inn, and after Howard and Clare had registered at the office and Puttnam had deposited their gear into the adjoining rooms, they all ordered sandwiches from room service and soon after, collapsed from exhaustion. Howard was the last to fall asleep; he'd slept for most of the the trip, and he always had a difficult time falling asleep in a new environment. Puttnam, who slept in the other bed in their room, snored so loudly that Howard finally coaxed himself to sleep by placing a pillow over his head.

Clare was the first one up the next morning. She was scheduled to speak at an organization meeting for the New York delegation at St. Edwards Church. She took Kerry with her to the meeting, leaving Puttnam in charge of getting Howard up out of bed.

Howard was quite cranky that morning. He spent his first waking moments berating Puttnam for snoring all night.

"Puttnam, I do hope that you will try to fall asleep on your side tonight. Your snoring is so loud that I would not have been surprised had the management called to complain. Have you ever considered consulting your physician about this problem?" Howard asked.

"Well, if I ever decide to have a physician, Mr. Bates, I'll certainly consult him about it," Puttnam replied. He had settled into a chair by the window and was in the midst of trying to read the morning paper. It was a daily ritual for Puttnam to read the paper cover to cover without interruption. Having Howard as a roommate did not lend itself to this end.

Howard sat on the edge of the unmade bed still in his nightshirt, the tails of which he had tucked snuggly between his clenched knees.

"Where did you say Clare was gone off to?" Howard asked while straightening the curls in his mustache.

"Aw, she and Kerry went down to some church for a meeting. Each state is going to be assigned to different locations for the rallies. She said she'd be back 'round lunchtime," Puttnam said with a crack of the spine of the newspaper and a hard stare at Howard.

Howard pushed his feet into his slippers which he'd left tucked neatly under the side of his bed. He stood up slowly and began to stretch his small wirey limbs with a hearty groan followed by two sets of knee bends.

"You don't think there's a possibility of Clare getting lost out there in the Pontiac, do you, Puttnam?" Howard asked shyly.

"Naw, fact is, she didn't take the Pontiac. Some gal came by here to pick her and Kerry up," Puttnam said in amusement. He folded the newspaper in his lap and watched as Howard performed his morning exercises. It wasn't the type of performance one would normally expect of an eighty-seven year old man.

Howard had positioned himself on his back on the floor with his hands folded across his chest; he counted his sit-ups out loud as he did them; sometimes he counted without actually performing the sit-up.

"Do you do this every morning, Mr. Bates?" Puttnam asked.

"Only when I want to nowadays. I'm too old to make myself do anything I don't want to do. It's good for the old ticker now and then. My dear departed wife was a firm believer in keeping the body pure . . . she was a walker, you know. I used to exercise like this every day for her benefit. I only do it every now and then these days . . . when I get to feeling guilty," Howard puffed.

Watching Howard exercise caused Puttnam's stomach to growl. He proposed to Howard that the two of them grab a bit of breakfast. Howard was a slow dresser. Puttnam paced the floor for a good half hour while Howard waxed his mustache and combed his hair just so.

Howard wore a white long-sleeved shirt and gray pleated trousers while Puttnam had chosen yesterday's blue jeans and a clean, navy blue t-shirt. The two of them strolled briskly to the coffee shop with Puttnam continually pushing his unruly hair back off of his forehead and Howard gingerly tapping his cane on the asphalt. Puttnam kept his free hand stuffed snugly into the front pocket of his jeans as he had this irresistible urge to reach over and unbutton the top button of Howard's crisp white shirt which Howard had meticulously fastened. It had always bothered him to see any man with his top button fastened. He viewed it as a sure sign of fastidiousness and he did not wish to think Howard fastidious, as he had grown to respect this old gentleman.

Decidedly, he did not relish the thought of sharing a motel room with Howard for the next few days, but he lingered in thought on each sentence Howard spoke in conversation because Howard did not speak without importance. He waited for truths to come from Howard as though the old fellow held the key to all truths within him. The truth for Puttnam Burley would not come from Howard Bates . . . it would rest in the clear blue eyes of Margaret English; her heart would connect him with the rarity of contentment, and contentment was the exact truth which Puttnam sought.

The two men chose to sit at the counter in the coffee shop.

"So, tell me, Puttnam, what are your plans for the future?" Howard asked as the waitress poured their first cup of coffee.

"Can't say as I have any, Mr. Bates," Puttnam sighed.

Howard interrupted him gracefully, "Please call me Howard. It seems so formal with you always addressing me as Mr. Bates. You're the only one around Clare's who does so."

"It's a habit I suppose; I was taught to treat my elders with a certain amount of respect," Puttnam said.

"Oh, I quite understand, I had that same habit in my youth. Pounded into me, it was, by my father. He had high hopes that all his children would rise above their humble beginnings in Plainview, Texas . . . none of us did, of course; we simply moved away," Howard responded. "Now, let's hear more about your plans. All young people have them. Surely you must have some goals in mind for the coming years," Howard continued.

"Well, my main goal for the immediate future is to survive these rallies with my camera equipment intact. There's been quite a bit of scuttlebutt going around that this ain't gonna be no picnic here in D.C.," Puttnam said as he winked at Howard. He bellowed with laughter then, and Howard thought it odd that Puttnam could laugh at such serious matters. Puttnam chose the most peculiar situations in which to find humor. It was a desperate sense of humor; Howard hoped that years would ease the desperation for this young man who had seen too much for his age.

The waitress served them breakfast soon after Puttnam's burst of laughter. They ate in silence. Howard ate his food slowly, cleaning his mustache periodically with his paper napkin while Puttnam attacked his scrambled eggs voraciously. When they had finished their meals and the waitress had cleared the counter, Howard resumed the conversation.

"What about Miss English? I hope you don't mind my asking such a personal question," Howard said while pouring cream into his second cup of coffee.

"She wants to move to the South sometime soon. She doesn't want to spend another winter here in the North. She's good, ya know. She really doesn't belong at The Avalanche. Not that it's a bad publication or anything like that; she'd just be a lot happier in some sort of academic setting . . . maybe teaching at some college somewhere," Puttnam said.

"What about you, Puttnam . . . what'll you do if Miss English moves away from Saratoga? Will you stay at The Avalanche?" Howard asked.

"No sir, I expect I'll go with her when she goes . . . if she'll have me," Puttnam replied with a tone of gentleness . . . somewhat hesitant, somewhat unsure of his own position in Margaret English's heart.

Back in the motel room Puttnam spread his camera equipment out on his bed and began the task of getting organized for tonight's concerts. Howard pulled a chair up in front of the television to watch an old movie in anticipation of a baseball game set to air at noon. The thundering sound of trucks rolling along Highway 395 could be heard clearly in their room as they silently went about their individual tasks, awaiting the return of Clare and Kerry.

Clare and Kerry arrived at the motel in a cab. Howard strolled to the window to watch them. Kerry was carrying a bundle of flyers in one hand and her notebook in the other; Clare held only a road map of some sort and her large straw handbag which she balanced awkwardly on her hip as she fumbled to close her coin purse within the tangled belongings inside her bag. She pulled a hairbrush from the bag which had several paper clips, an ink pen, and the keys to Howard's Pontiac trailing after it.

"Kerry, how did this get in my purse? I do wish that you would carry your own things with you," Clare bellowed at Kerry who was slipping quietly into their room.

Puttnam was waiting impatiently inside the door to their connecting rooms. He was ready to get on with their mission of covering the activities around the city.

"The boss is not in a good mood this afternoon, Puttnam . . . I advise you to step lightly in her path," Kerry whispered as she passed Puttnam in the doorway and proceeded on into Puttnam and Howard's room to visit with Howard. Puttnam turned and followed her back into his own room.

"Whaddaya mean she's not in a good mood, Kerry?" Puttnam tried to whisper. Puttnam didn't quite have the knack for whispering.

"My mood is just fine, thank you, Puttnam . . . so nice of you to be concerned," Clare said, slamming the door closed between the two rooms, leaving Puttnam staring at a blank wooden door which had barely escaped smacking him in the nose when it closed. He turned to face Kerry with a bewildered look on his face.

"What's up with Clare?" he asked.

"Oh, she's just upset because she doesn't feel that the rallies are going to have much of an impact with the way they've been organized. She's not really getting a chance to have much say so about anything . . . not that she wants to . . . but the rest of the organizers just sort of treated her like a hostile member of the press," Kerry said as she sat down on the end of Howard's bed. Howard was pretending to watch the television; he did not feel it was appropriate for him to get involved.

"Well, what's she planning to do?" Puttnam asked, dropping himself down beside Kerry on the end of the bed.

"She wants to go home. I don't think she will . . .maybe she just needs a nap or something. She's mad at me because I said I didn't want to leave until after the concerts tonight, said she wished she'd brought Ernest instead of me because he was more interested in the politics of the whole thing," Kerry said with a sigh of discouragement.

"Aw, don't take it personally, Kerry. She's just very intense about her beliefs. She'll get over it. If Ernest was here, he'd be driving her crazy by now," Puttnam replied, placing a comforting arm around Kerry's shoulders.

"It's a long way home for me, Puttnam. I'm not used to this sort of thing," Kerry cried.

"It's a long way home for all of us, darlin'. Welcome to reality," Puttnam replied. "Clare can be a tough old bitch sometimes, Kerry. She's got a business to run and a group of misfits for employees to direct. If you're gonna be a journalist, ya can't be getting upset each time things go a little haywire . . . it is the nature of such things to go haywire."

"I beg your pardon," Howard interrupted.

"Oh, sorry, Howard, no disrespect intended there about Clare," Puttnam winced realizing his slip of the tongue belatedly.

Howard cleared his throat loudly and gave Puttnam a stern stare before turning back to the television, placing his elbows in his knees and cupping his head in his hands.

"So, what's the agenda here?" Puttnam asked withdrawing his arm from around Kerry's shoulders.

Kerry removed her glasses and brushed the tears from her cheeks before answering Puttnam's question. "Well, there's the concerts tonight. Clare says we need plenty of pictures of that. There are a couple of meetings tomorrow at Georgetown University. The whole intention of the rallies is to shut this city down come Monday morning by blocking the bridges with marchers. Clare says it isn't going to work because organizing starts at six a.m. on Monday, and she says John Mitchell will make damn sure we're all in jail before rush hour traffic gets under way. Anyway, we're assigned to Dupont Circle," Kerry said.

"Sometimes Clare knows what she's talking about. She's a pretty sharp cookie," Howard said, not looking up from the television.

"Well, I think I'll take my camera gear and go on downtown and get some sight seeing in before the concerts. Tell Clare that I'll be back here by five to meet up with you guys," Puttnam said collecting his gear on his bed.

"I think I'll watch the baseball game with Howard," Kerry said.

"Puttnam, why don't you take the old Pontiac? It's not gonna do any of us any good just sitting out there in the parking lot," Howard said over his shoulder.

"Thanks, Howard . . . Kerry, would you ask Clare for the keys?" Puttnam said. Kerry and Howard gave him one brief glance, then they both turned back to the television. Neither could believe that Puttnam had asked such an obviously foolish question; they then turned to face on another, Kerry began to snicker, and Howard just grinned.

"Never mind," Puttnam said as he knocked softly on Clare's door.

"What is it?" Howard and Kerry heard Clare bellow. Puttnam disappeared into Clare and Kerry's room; soon they heard the room door to the outside close and the sound of the engine starting up in the Pontiac followed.

Puttnam drove slowly into the city. He had been in Washington many times yet still found it difficult to navigate in the traffic. He caught himself wondering, "Just what the hell am I doing in this city with an eighty-seven- year-old man, a middle-aged lady editor, and a vulnerable kid from Texas." He'd read an article in the paper that morning about a protest march earlier in the month by Vietnam Veterans and felt that he should have been here then, not now, not with all these misfits. He headed for the National Zoo in hopes of clearing his thoughts.

The traffic was heavy in Georgetown. It seemed to him that every long-haired hippie in the country had decided to sight-see today. He found a place to park the Pontiac several blocks from the zoo on Connecticut Avenue.

It was a clear sunny day in the nation's capitol. Puttnam ambled along the avenue with his camera bag swinging slowly by his side. Once inside the stone gates of the zoo, his nerves began to calm, and he whistled softly to himself.

He sat quietly on a bench near the seals' pool with his camera ready to shoot interesting passersby. He noticed a short, slender, young man with oily brown hair tied back into a pony tail with a leather strap and a bright red headband around the top of his head. He was wearing blue jeans littered with paisley patches, the denim in his jeans was faded to a pale blue, and an army fatigue shirt with the sleeves cut off just above his boney elbows, the edges of the sleeves ragged with loose threads. Puttnam had put in his time wearing fatigue clothing; he was quite perplexed that this clothing had become a fad here at home. The young man came closer to Puttnam and eventually sat down on the bench next to him. In close observation Puttnam noted the peculiar shape of the young man's nose which was extremely pointed and off center on the boy's face; it cast an unusual shadow on his right cheekbone and the bridge of the nose was sunburned while the rest of the young man was tanned to a light bronze. The air around them smelled of springtime and the voices of birds and small children mingled into one cacophonous symphony, a sound unique to zoos and recognizable to anyone who had ever visited such a place.

"Hey, man, how's it goin'?" the young man slurred. He reached into a pocket of his shirt and pulled out a pack of Marlboros, generously shaking the pack in front of Puttnam in a gesture of offering.

"Can't complain," Puttnam said in an effort to discourage conversation with the stranger. He declined the offer of a cigarette with a waving motion of his left hand.

"Beautiful day, ain't it?" the young man replied. He lit his cigarette by cupping his hands around the flame of the match against the wind. He held the match awkwardly between his first two fingers of his right hand while shuffling his sandal-clad feet, which were caked with dust, in the gravel beneath the bench. Once the cigarette was lit, he bent forward, placing his elbows on his knees and letting the cigarette dangle in his hand; he held it loosely between his thumb and forefinger with the lit end pointing towards his palm. He blew his first puff of smoke, which he'd inhaled deeply, out into the atmosphere, then turned to face Puttnam, resting his head in the palm of his left hand. He had small brown eyes which seemed not to focus on any one object and shifted back and forth with a constant flurry. The presence of the stranger made Puttnam uneasy, and he directed his attention to the seals in hopes that the kid would go away.

"You do that for a living?" the strange kid asked.

"Do what for a living?" Puttnam asked suspiciously, forgetting his camera gear.

"Shutterbug stuff, you know man, takin' pictures," the kid replied with an odd chuckle while miming the movements of holding a camera and making a clicking noise with his tongue as though he were taking pictures with his invisible camera.

"Yeah, I do this for a living," Puttnam mumbled. He pushed his hair back off his forehead and moved his large frame a couple of inches farther down the bench from the stranger in an exaggerated movement.

"Well, hey, man, I got some great pot here. You wanna buy a half a lid? I got myself stuck here in this city with no scratch. I just wanna round up a few bucks to get back home," the kid whispered to Puttnam.

Puttnam turned to glare at the strange young man beside him on the bench. He was surprised to find a hint of sincerity in the kid's eyes. A sudden curiosity for the disheveled young stranger overcame him. He wondered if perhaps this kid was as lost as he in the world. "That's dangerous stuff, fella, asking a total stranger if he wants to buy some pot. Where's your head? What if I had been a narc? Ain't you got no sense? Besides, only a fool would be walkin' around D.C. right now holdin' any drugs. Haven't you seen all the cops loitering around this city . . . they're just looking for a reason, any reason, to throw hippies in jail. . . . Where you from, anyway?" Puttnam asked sternly.

Ignoring Puttnam's lecture, the kid replied, "Atlanta, Georgia . . . I come up here with some pals of mine for the V.M.V. march earlier in the month, and those fuckers left me here."

"You're a Vet?" Puttnam asked in disbelief.

"Naw . . . my brother would've been 'cept he didn't make it home, if you get my drift," the kid said.

"So, I guess you decided to come here in his place?" Puttnam asked, receiving a nod of confirmation from the kid who took a drag from his cigarette and tilted his head back to exhale the smoke. "What's your name, kid?" Puttnam asked.

"Chuck Renfro. What's yours?" the kid asked, extending his hand to Puttnam.

"Burley . . . Puttnam Burley," Puttnam replied while shaking the kid's hand firmly. "So, Chuck, what'd you do back there in Atlanta?" Puttnam asked in a friendly tone.

"I play the bass . . . electric bass that is, in a soul band. We're pretty hot down there. I'm the only honky in the group," Chuck said with a grin. He again put on a mime show for Puttnam, only this time he was pretending to play his electric bass, bouncing back and forth on the bench with one arm tucked in close to his belly and his other arm extended out to his left as though he were clutching the neck of his guitar. "Ya sure you don't wanna buy some pot, man? It's some good old home grown stash, guaranteed to getcha off, man," Chuck asked.

"Like I said, Chuck, this ain't exactly the most ideal setting in which to be holdin' anything. Thanks for the offer though," Puttnam replied. He then let loose with his bellowing laughter which startled the young man, who jumped a bit on the bench beside Puttnam.

"How 'bout some acid, then?" Chuck asked hesitantly. "I got some orange sunshine here," he added.

Puttnam pushed his hair back slowly, thinking of the concerts scheduled for that evening and the fact that Kerry had mentioned once that she and her boyfriend, Fletcher, had done quite a bit of acid together . . . he'd done a lot of acid himself, but not since he'd been stateside. "How much 'ya sellin' that acid for?" Puttnam asked fidgeting on the bench.

"Oh, to you, man, one hit for two-fifty, two for five, or five for ten bucks. How much do ya want?" Chuck asked, leaning close to Puttnam's ear.

"Gimme a couple of hits for five," Puttnam said as he pulled his billfold out of his back pocket and retrieved a five dollar bill from its innards. He handed the five over to Chuck in the palm of his hand and Chuck in turn slipped him to small barrel-shaped tablets. Puttnam glanced quickly at the contents of his palm; the tablets were familiar to him from the past, and he closed his hand around them gently before depositing the two tablets into his camera bag.

"Much obliged to ya, Puttnam Burley. This is gonna help me get back on the road south. You have a safe trip, now, paisano," Chuck said as he stood to make his exit and stuffed the five dollar bill in the pocket of his jeans.

"Yeah, same to ya Chuck. Hey, now you be careful with yourself, kid," Puttnam said.

Puttnam packed up his camera as Chuck trotted away down the path. He left the zoo with the LSD stored neatly in an empty film can in his camera case and began searching for the closest pub on Connecticut Avenue where he might grab a cold beer before returning to the motel to meet Clare and Kerry. He strolled along the sidewalk, occasionally pushing his hair back humming the melody to a Don McLean song, "American Pie," quietly to himself. Puttnam drew quite a few stares and turned the heads of many when he walked down the street due to his great height, and he often forgot how tall he was, which caused him to wonder why people looked at him so strangely. He was happy though, feeling the sunshine warm upon his skin and daydreaming about Margaret. He ducked into a pub just a few blocks from the zoo and perched himself on a barstool close to the television. It was a dark barroom . . . one of those places where the daytime did not exist; it was always nighttime in this bar . . . you could drink in good conscience. A person could be whoever they wanted to be in this bar . . . say whatever they pleased . . . stay as long as you wanted; as long as you paid your tab and left peaceably at closing time. Puttnam lifted his hand in a toast to the bartender when he was served his beer. He watched the tail end of the double-header on the television and the announcer's voice boomed out across the barroom from the speaker in the T.V. set. Puttnam chugged down three draft beers before leaving the bar. He stopped outside on the sidewalk long enough to let his eyes adjust to the bright sunlight. The Pontiac was parked just a few blocks up. A bright green Chevrolet had parallel parked so close to his back bumper that he had to maneuver the big Pontiac several minutes in order to free himself from the parking space. He headed back to the motel with a light heart, elated with his recent purchase for him and Kerry, and anticipating an enjoyable evening at the concerts.

"WE ARE EVERYWHERE . . . POWER TO THE PEOPLE. . . ." screamed a young woman standing next to Kerry close to the front of the stage. The crowd swayed together with the beat of the music. The Beach Boys were playing "Good Vibrations," and Kerry was high having taken a half a hit of the orange sunshine two hours earlier. Puttnam rushed in and out of the crowd in front of the stage taking pictures of the band for The Avalanche. Kerry had been able to spot him by the flash of light from his camera when the concerts had first started, but now there were so many flashes of cameras within the crowd that Kerry had a hard time keeping up with Puttnam.

Clare and Howard had stayed behind at the motel to rest. Clare had been fearful of losing Howard in the dark and the turnout for the concerts was expected to be large, which meant that it would be virtually impossible to locate the small gentleman in the crowds.

Kerry wore a permanent smile upon her face. She'd left her glasses at the motel, and her eyes seemed to sparkle in the dark. She wore a soft cotton Mexican dress of light lavender with bright colored embroidery stitched in the yoke. Kerry had pulled the long hair around her face back and braided it into a long flowing braid; several wisps of hair had fallen loose from the braid and they curled slightly around her face. The rest of her hair, caught in the gentle breeze, danced around her waist. Puttnam had caught her unaware of his camera many times and had quickly snapped some animated shots of Kerry dancing to the music. He hoped he had captured her light heart on film, to preserve it for Margaret. It was so rare to see Kerry abandoning herself to such gaiety; she seemed intent on carrying the burdens of the world on her slender young shoulders, so lost in the seriousness of it all was she, that her youth lay guarded within her, unexplored. Never had he known a person so withdrawn as Kerry. Outwardly she projected the carefully constructed image of one who is involved with the actions around her, yet it was a thin disguise, for Puttnam could see that she was merely observing; that participation was impossible for her; the giving of one's self to the emotion of fleeting moments was beyond her realm of understanding. She thrived on the emotions of others; she sampled those emotions within her own heart and savored their effects just as a wine connoisseur would retain the drops of a fine wine on the tongue. She sought to palliate the intensity of emotion within herself for she could not forget pain once it was felt and she could not forgive its origins.

Puttnam pushed through the crowd to find Kerry. She was quite easy to spot in her lavender dress. They both laughed loudly as they collided into each other amidst the throng of people dancing wildly with their hands high in the air.

"Did you get your interview with Phil Ochs?" Puttnam yelled to Kerry.

"What?" Kerry yelled back with the music pounding in her ears.

"I said, did you get your interview with Phil Ochs?" Puttnam repeated leaning closer to Kerry's ear.

"Oh. . . . no, I couldn't find him. It's a madhouse backstage," Kerry screamed. "Seems that every musician in the country has gathered here to get a chance to go on stage. What about the photographs? How'd you do?" Kerry asked with a grin and poked Puttnam sharply in the side with her elbow in reference to their partnership in being high on the acid.

"I think I did okay . . . it's so crowded around here that there hasn't really been much room to navigate . . . hey, a couple of times I got so spaced out that I forgot to reload the camera . . . what a dumbass . . . out here running around snapping shots with no film in the damn thing," Puttnam replied, straining to be heard over the music, then throwing his head back, shaking with massive spurts of laughter. "Let's move back so we can hear each other," Puttnam screamed reaching out to grasp Kerry's arm in order to lead her away from the front of the stage and the madding crowd.

As they walked along through the crowd Kerry ducked just in time to miss being smacked on the head with a large picket sign topped with a poster of Ghandi spiriting a clenched fist. The young man holding the sign was waving it wildly over his head completely unaware of those standing close beside him. Puttnam recognized him immediately as being none other than the notorious Chuck from the zoo.

Puttnam tapped him lightly on the shoulder and upon getting his attention, he said, "Hey, man, how's it goin'?"

"Hey, this is somethin', ain't it? . . makes me glad those guys went off and left me here," Chuck replied nodding his head at Puttnam . . . "Oh and hey, man, I even got a ride back to Atlanta day after tomorrow with some cats from Mobile, Alabama. I'm crashin' out in some dorm at American University. How's that stuff, man . . . you get off?" Chuck added with a wink to Puttnam.

"Sure thing, kid . . . it's pretty tame stuff though compared to some of the trips I had over in Nam," Puttnam said. Kerry was growing impatient. She tugged at Puttnam's arm and motioned for the two of them to move farther back in the crowd.

"Puttnam, who is that guy . . . come on, let's go sit down somewhere," Kerry said impatiently. Puttnam opened his mouth and pointed at his tongue, then motioned towards Chuck in an effort to make Kerry understand why he'd stopped to talk with the guy. Kerry caught on immediately and released her grip on Puttnam's arm, turning her attentions temporarily back to the music.

"That your old lady, man? . . . she's a fine looking mama . . . did all right for yourself there didn't 'cha, dude?" Chuck asked pointing towards Kerry.

"No . . she's a friend . . . I mean we work together . . . nah, she's not 'my old lady'. Hey, Kerry this is Chuck, he's that fellow I met at the zoo today," Puttnam said gaining Kerry's attention and grinning from ear to ear.

"Pleasure to meet you, Chuck," Kerry replied while trying to focus on the young man's eyes which didn't seem to see her at all.

"Hey, likewise, doll," Chuck remarked, and he stood up on his tip toes to whisper in Puttnam's ear. "Man, if she ain't your date . . . what 'cha think . . . maybe she might be interested in this old boy from Georgia?"

"No way, man . . . she's got a boyfriend back in Texas . . . nah, she wouldn't be interested, Chuck," Puttnam said, shaking his head in amusement. He hoped that Kerry hadn't overheard Chuck's inquiry; she had, of course. She moved closer to Puttnam wishing that the conversation would come to a halt as situations such as this one were difficult to deal with when she was stoned.

"Well, I mean, hey, man, like they say, 'outta sight outta mind'. Know what I mean? I could sure show her a good time," Chuck said in a snicker to Puttnam.

"What'd he say?" Kerry yelped. Puttnam began shuffling them away from Chuck, and Kerry reluctantly followed Puttnam's sharp tugs on her arm.

"Well, we gotta split now, Chuck . . . we'll check ya later," Puttnam called back over his shoulder while pulling Kerry along beside him. Kerry kept looking back at Chuck with an irritated grimace on her face.

"Sure thing, man, hey; be seein' y'all down the road, man," Chuck called back as Kerry and Puttnam disappeared into the crowd.

"The nerve of that guy," Kerry said. "Where does he get off thinkin' he could pick me up like that."

"It's just that you're so damned irresistible, Miss Kerry . . . ya little heartbreaker. Poor old Chuck'll probably never get over your rejection," Puttnam said, beside himself in amusement over the incident. Margaret would get a kick out of the story.

"Yeah sure, Puttnam," Kerry groaned. They turned to face each other in the crowd, there beneath the stars with the flood lights casting a surreal glow and the sound of light-hearted rock and roll crashing into their ears. The atmosphere was charged with the electricity of thousands of souls gathered together for a common cause. Kerry and Puttnam gazed into each other's eyes for a second or two before both doubled over in laughter from the effects of the acid which made all things humorous to an extreme degree and any diversion well worth investigating.

"I'll race 'ya over to those benches," Kerry said once she'd recovered from the spasms of laughter. She turned flippantly on her heels and dashed off towards the east in a fast clip.

Kerry was no match for Puttnam's long legs. He stood back, watching her slender shape dart into the night with her hair flowing out behind her before breaking into a run himself. He pushed his hair back from his face as he ran, the sweetness of the humid night air lingering on his breath. He threw his head back, beckoning the May moon with laughter while thinking to himself, "Forgive me, dear Margaret, for I have sinned by thinking such lecherous thoughts about Kerry." He slowed his pace as he approached the bench where Kerry had collapsed in laughter, thoughtfully reminding himself, "It's only the acid, Puttnam old boy, remember dear Margaret and it's only the acid."

"It's a wonderful night, isn't it, Puttnam?" Kerry asked. Her hands were clasped firmly in her lap as she gazed up at the stars. She had kicked her sandals off and was running her feet through the grass.

"It's a welcomed distraction, indeed," Puttnam replied. "I met this freelance photographer a couple of hours ago who invited us over to his apartment for a pickin' party later on. I've been thinking that that might be a good idea since we're both so stoned . . . can't see the two of us going back to the motel this way. Can you imagine me trying to carry on a straight conversation with Howard? He's a far-out guy for such an old fella, but I don't think he's gonna understand LSD like we do, and the way I'm feeling right now, I know I'm not going to come down for a while," Puttnam said. He pushed his hair back from his face, crossed his legs, and placed his other arm on the back of the bench behind Kerry, gently patting her on the head as he did so. Her hair was fine in texture; he had grown accustomed to the coarse fullness of Margaret's shoulder-length auburn mane, so the softness of Kerry's chestnut hair took him by surprise and he rolled his large blue eyes skyward, berating himself once again for his prurient thoughts.

"Howard?" Kerry began with a snicker. "He'll probably be asleep when we get back. It's Clare I'm worried about . . . nothing gets by her. She'll probably give me another one of her lectures about social reforms and journalistic responsibilities. Frankly, I don't think I could sit through one of those with a straight face; Clare seems to think I'm not dealing with a full deck as it is," Kerry said, with a sigh.

Puttnam noticed that Kerry's accent seemed to become more severe with her current high. Her Texas accent was quite refreshing to his ears and the slowness of her speech created a suspenseful quality to their conversations.

"Aw, Clare's a piece of cake. She's been around lots of kids who were stoned on acid there at the boarding house. She probably wouldn't even say anything to 'ya about it . . . what 'cha think about going over to this party for a while, though? Guy's name is Hank, he's got a little dark room set up at his place. I'd like to see how some of his stuff from tonight came out," Puttnam said.

Kerry was so stoned that the low resonance in Puttnam's voice seemed to take on the sound of an echo, and she had to reflect on the context of their conversation in order to comprehend his questions. "Well, dad-gum, Puttnam, I just don't know about going over to this guy, Hank's . . . I mean, if he's anything like that character you scored from in the zoo, I don't think I'd be interested," Kerry giggled.

"Oh, get off my case about that jerk, Kerry. . . . How was I to know that the little weasel would show up down here?" Puttnam replied light-heartedly and let loose with his side-splitting laughter.

"Oh, weasel, my ass . . . that guy was just a plain old weirdo; one of those loud-mouthed southern boys whose mother probably raised him on paregoric," Kerry cackled. They both shook with laughter from Kerry's joke as the crowd began going wild over the last encore from The Beach Boys.

"Anybody ever tell you ya got a smart mouth for such an innocent looking broad?" Puttnam asked, as Kerry stood up to watch the end of the concert.

Kerry hadn't heard his question above the roar of the crowds. Most of the band and musicians who'd performed earlier in the evening were coming out on stage for the last encore. Kerry stood on her tip-toes, straining to get another look at her new hero, Phil Ochs.

Puttnam got up slowly from the bench. He stretched his muscular arms high in the air then moved close to Kerry's side.

"I told that fellow, Hank, that we'd meet up with him down in front of the stage. He said we could walk to his apartment from here . . . we'd better get down there pretty soon. . . . Guess I should get a few shots of everyone out on stage together," Puttnam said bending down close to Kerry's ear.

"What about Clare and Howard?" Kerry replied. "They'll worry if we don't come back."

"We can give Clare a call from Hank's place," Puttnam said, digging into his camera bag for a new roll of film. Once his camera was reloaded they strolled side by side back into the tightly knit crowd of thousands whose voices had joined together in unison to chant, "WE ARE EVERYWHERE . . . POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"

Puttnam reached out for Kerry's hand as they worked their way through the crowd. Kerry imagined that the whole world could hear the chants, and they chanted along with them in all languages in harmony.

Kerry and Puttnam began to dance as they neared the front of the stage. The Beach Boys were closing up with their song "Wouldn't It Be Nice" and for a fleeting moment Kerry thought of Fletcher. This was a song they had sung to each other when they were younger, before they'd trusted their hearts to each other by making love, back when making love was a wicked temptation in their young minds. She remembered long Texas nights when they'd sit out on the curb at Kerry's house and dream for their future. They would kiss until their lips were sore and their hearts were stilled in the musky night air; sometimes they could hardly breathe for the longing they shared for each other's touch. She missed Fletcher then and she missed her home, where the seasons barely changed, where practically everything remained the same forever.

Puttnam studied the pensive look on Kerry's face for a few seconds. She had stopped dancing, and he reached out to touch her softly on her cheek, which brought her back to reality. She glanced up into Puttnam's sorrowful blue eyes and winked candidly at her companion.

". . . Wouldn't it be nice if we were older then we wouldn't have to wait so long . . ."

*****

Ernest was working late in Clare's office. His typewriter was on the blink and he'd had to swallow his pride and return to the fold at The Avalanche so he could get some work finished. The phone out in the main hall had been ringing off and on for several hours; he refused to answer it and Margaret was upstairs reading, also refusing to respond to the nagging peal of the phone. He heard her padding downstairs just as the phone began ringing again.

"Margaret, answer that phone, for Chrissakes!" Ernest bellowed through clenched lips nervously clinging to a lit cigarette, the ash of which measured at least an inch long. He squinted his eyes at the page in the typewriter and continued pounding away on its keys as Margaret reached for the phone out in the hall.

She gave a nasty look to the door of Clare's office as she tucked her thick auburn hair behind her ears, straightened the collar of her flannel robe where it had fallen open from her descent down the stairs, and picked up the receiver on the third ring.

"Hello," Margaret said in her shy tone of voice.

"Hello . . . is Kerry there? . . . Kerry Foster, is she 'round?" Fletcher asked cautiously; it was late, almost eleven o'clock in Denton, Texas which meant it was close to midnight in Saratoga Springs, and he was afraid he might have woken someone up at the boarding house. He'd been trying to reach Kerry all night; he had to talk to her tonight. . . .

"She's in D.C. for the march on the Capitol. Is this by any chance Fletcher Seibel?" Margaret asked. She sat down quietly on the first step on the stairs to await his reply.

"Yes, Ma'am, this is Fletcher . . . sorry to be calling so late. May I ask who this is?" Fletcher asked, gaining a bit more confidence at the recognition of his name. He was sitting in an old wooden cane-backed chair at his desk with only his study lamp on for light. Kerry's picture sat in front of him on the desk; he pondered her smile, the dimples on either side, her high rosey cheek bones, and the hint of passion in her hazel eyes. He scratched his full brownish-black beard as he cupped the phone to his ear. His dark brown hair was tousled on top and it waved thickly just an inch or two below the break in the collar of his short-sleeved denim work shirt. Fletcher was a breathtakingly handsome man of twenty-two. He was six-foot-one with a medium build, squared broad shoulders, penetrating dark eyes, and an air of gentleness about him which made him most attractive.

"This is Margaret English, Fletcher. Kerry talks about you constantly. I'm sorry you've missed her," Margaret replied.

"Me, too," Fletcher began, "she's written to me about you so often. It's nice to finally make your acquaintance, even if it is over the phone. . . . I almost feel like I know you from the way Kerry talks about you and your friend, Puttnam, in her letters. You know, I knew she was going to those Washington rallies, but I guess it just slipped my mind. When's she due back into Saratoga?" Fletcher asked.

Margaret sensed a tone of urgency in Fletcher's voice. He had a smooth southern drawl somewhat like Kerry's, but his voice flowed more smoothly with a quiet eloquence more akin to Louisiana rather than Texas. Fletcher's voice held the mysteries of bayous and pine trees, cool green moss, and old families dating back for generations in the south while Kerry's voice brought forth images of wide dusty streets, Ford pick-up trucks, tumbleweed, and short, spiked cactus plants. "She won't be back until Tuesday, Fletcher. It sounds like this is some sort of emergency. Is there anything I can help you with?" Margaret asked.

"I don't know . . . well, maybe . . . you see, I really needed to talk to Kerry tonight. I hate to just write her a letter with what I have to say . . . just wouldn't be right," Fletcher said quietly.

"Tell you what, Fletcher, . . . I have the phone number for the motel in D.C. upstairs. Hold on a second and I'll run up there and get it for you. She's sharing a room with Clare; they both keep pretty late hours, so you shouldn't have to worry about waking one of them up," Margaret said thoughtfully. She laid the phone down on the step and lifting her robe up at the knees to avoid tripping over its hem, she ran up the stairs to her room to retrieve the phone number for Fletcher, wondering what could be wrong with him.

"Here's the number, Fletcher. They're at the Holiday Inn in Arlington, room one-forty-seven, area code seven-zero-three-five-five-two-four-four-nine-nine," Margaret said into the phone gasping for breath.

"Thanks, Margaret. You know, on second thought, I think it would be a good idea to fill you in on what's going on down here. Kerry's not likely to talk about it . . . she sorta keeps things to herself . . . and I feel she's going to need a lot of understanding from her friends up there for a while once she hears my news," Fletcher said somberly.

"Well, I don't want to pry, Fletcher, but I'd be glad to help in any way I can," Margaret said as she settled back down on the bottom step of the stairs. She glanced off towards the door to Clare's office and began listening to Fletcher's urgent news wishing that Ernest would just drop dead as the sound of the pounding typewriter became more and more irritating as Fletcher went on with his story.

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened to Clare's office just as Margaret was replacing the phone to its cradle. Ernest poked his head out into the hall, and finding Margaret there he replied, "Who in God's name has been calling here all night long? . . . It's late and I'm trying to get some work finished in here."

"Oh, why don't you just go crawl back under a rock somewhere, Ernest. The world doesn't revolve around you, Buster," Margaret snapped.

Ernest stared at Margaret in disbelief for her outburst. Margaret was normally so docile that he could hardly believe what he was hearing. He pushed his heavy glasses back up the bridge of his nose, made an attempt at taming his hair, which was freshly shampooed for a change in honor of his return to The Avalanche, and stepped out in the hall, curious about Margaret's behavior.

"What's wrong, Margaret?" Ernest inquired in genuine concern.

Margaret stood with her hand still on the receiver of the phone and her other hand clutching the collar of her robe. "It's absolutely none of your business, Ernest," Margaret said, advancing towards the dining hall to her left. She was contemplating making a pot of coffee in the kitchen and the last company she desired right now was that of Ernest Hinkle.

Ernest seemed to read her thoughts exactly and he called after her, "Hey, Margaret, if you're making coffee . . . would you mind throwing in a couple of cups for me? I really do have to get this work done tonight."

Margaret stopped in the center of the dining room, turned on her heels seething in anger over Ernest's thoughtless request, and strolled right back past Ernest in the hallway. She stopped as she was halfway back up the stairs and replied, "Make your own damn coffee, Ernest Hinkle."

Ernest was bewildered by her reaction. Margaret had always been kind to him, and he did not relish the thought of having another enemy at The Avalanche. He reluctantly mounted the first step on the stairs after her.

"Ernest, by God, you'd better be nice to Kerry when she gets back here," Margaret said out of the blue. She turned to face Ernest on the stairway. She had an intense look on her face, and Ernest was confused in trying to figure out what any of this had to do with Kerry Foster. He was intent on finding out what the problem was; Ernest prided himself on having the scoop on everyone.

Ernest sighed deeply in frustration. He had never understood women, and this one was a poet, a very beautiful poet at that.

"How about this, Margaret . . . I'll make the coffee. I was ready for a break anyway. We can talk about it . . . whatever's bothering you. I'm not such a bad guy sometimes. Come on in the kitchen," Ernest said. He reached a hand out to Margaret, which she promptly refused. She did, however, follow him reluctantly through the dining hall.

Ernest's offer to make coffee was a shock to Margaret. She pushed a loose strand of her wavy hair back into place behind her ear, and studying the back of Ernest's head as they entered the kitchen, she replied, "I'm anxious to see if you really know how to make coffee Ernest, but I'm warning you, no funny stuff!"

"Scout's honor, Margaret . . . coffee . . . no funny stuff," Ernest said jokingly, waving his hand in the air without looking back at her.

"Promise?" Margaret asked hesitantly.

"Oh, good grief, Margaret . . . I promise not to lay one hand on your lily white flesh. I'd have to have a death wish to do something that radical, now wouldn't I? Puttnam Burley would break every bone in my body for an offense such as that," Ernest scoffed as Margaret sat down at the small breakfast table in the corner of the kitchen. She watched in curiosity as Ernest fumbled with the Melitta coffee maker over the sink; it was a scene she could not have imagined, even in her wildest dreams.

"Everything's fine on this end, Puttnam. Howard's been asleep for hours. I don't think he'll even notice your absence as long as you're back by morning. I do have messages for both you and Kerry," Clare said quietly. She was propped up in her bed reading some notes for Kerry's next article in The Avalanche.

"Let's have 'em," Puttnam said jovially. Kerry was kneeling down in front of Hank's record collection. Hank had excused himself to his dark room, leaving Kerry and Puttnam out in the living room to greet the other guests he'd invited over to his place during the course of the evening.

"First of all," Clare began, "Fletcher called from Denton and requested that I have Kerry get in touch with him tonight, no matter how late . . . he'll be waiting up, and second, Margaret called, oddly enough, in reference to Fletcher's phone call, and she asked that I have you call her at the house before I let Kerry call Fletcher. Sounds pretty important to me, but Margaret assured me that it has nothing to do with death or illness in the family . . . it's just some sort of personal crisis," Clare said. She noticed an unusual tone of high spirits in Puttnam's voice; she could not resist the temptation to make note of it, "By the way, Puttnam, are you high on some sort of controlled substance?" she asked.

Puttnam never bothered to lie to Clare, and he smiled to himself as he replied, "Yes, ma'am, I certainly am." He shook with laughter as he spoke as did Clare on the other end of the line.

"Shame on you . . . and be careful," Clare said before hanging up the telephone. She overheard the music starting up in the background at Hank's apartment as she replaced the receiver on its cradle and began going over the notes again. During her reading, she fretted over the reasons for Fletcher's insistence on having Kerry call him, though they remained a mystery to her. She was in no way pleased that the young man was disturbing her reporter while on assignment, a point she had contemplated expressing during her conversation with the young man, but he had sounded so despondent that she had neglected to bring it up. "Reporters," she thought to herself, "Puttnam and Kerry are out there lolly-gagging around stoned on something or another and I still call them reporters . . . some staff I have here." Clare pulled a pencil from behind her ear and began correcting Kerry's spelling, which was atrocious. Her glasses rested on the tip of her nose and she'd pulled the blanket up over her chest. Clare was a small woman with such a youthful face that, had it not been for the streaks of gray in her close-cropped curly dark hair, any onlooker could have mistaken her for a child, curled up on a sleepless night reading a story book.

"Well, I suppose this is why this magazine sells," Clare mumbled to the empty room, surprising herself by actually speaking out loud; her voice had broken the silence in the room like a heavy clap of thunder.

*****

Puttnam waited for the operator to clear the collect charges with Margaret, noting how wonderful Margaret's voice sounded on the other end of the line.

"Puttnam, where's Kerry?" Margaret asked immediately.

"She's right here, darlin'. What seems to be the trouble?" Puttnam replied as he leafed through the pages of a photography magazine Hank had left out on the coffee table waiting for Margaret's reply. It was a long reply, and he glanced up occasionally at Kerry, still pulling records out of the record bin. Kerry was unaware of his phone conversation and the attention directed towards her. She was listening attentively to the Janis Joplin record she had played on the stereo.

"He can't tell her that tonight, Margaret . . . she's stoned on acid. That's a terrible thing to tell somebody who's stoned," Puttnam said. His smile had quickly faded from his face. "Yes, I'm stoned, too," he added a moment later. There was a pause in Puttnam's end of the conversation, Kerry turned to address Puttnam just in time to hear Puttnam close the conversation with, "No, I won't leave her alone tonight . . . I love you, too, Babe." Puttnam hung up the phone and looked up at Kerry, who now stood in front of him as he sat on the sofa.

"Kerry, Margaret says that you're supposed to call Fletcher tonight," Puttnam said.

"Oh, I'll wait till tomorrow. It's after midnight already," Kerry replied cheerfully.

"He's waitin' up for ya to call, darlin', better go ahead and call him now. Here take my place by the phone," Puttnam said sadly. He stood up and walked to the stereo as Kerry sat down in his place on the sofa and began giving the required information to the operator for her collect call to Fletcher. He could only speculate Fletcher's end of the conversation from Kerry's responses; she seemed quite calm considering the circumstances.

"Hi, Kerry, I'm glad you got my message," Fletcher said. Their connection was a weak one, and he strained to hear her voice on the other end.

"It's nice to hear your voice," Kerry said loudly.

"How are things in Washington. Have you gotten an interview with Richard Nixon yet?" Fletcher teased. He toyed with the phone cord, prolonging breaking his news to Kerry as long as he could.

"Oh, he's called several times, but I just told him my schedule was full and he'd have to get in line, just like everybody else," Kerry giggled. "Why'd you call Fletcher? Is something wrong?" Kerry added, not falling for Fletcher's attempts to beat around the bush.

"Hey, my mom had lunch with your mom last week . . . she says your dad's moving to Houston; his company is opening up an office down there. I wondered if you knew since you haven't mentioned it in any of your letters," Fletcher said, still stalling for time.

"That's interesting . . . no, he hasn't mentioned it, but I haven't talked to him in almost a month. I'm not surprised though. He's been wanting to move out of Austin for a long time now," Kerry said, a bit surprised at the news. She couldn't help but notice that Puttnam was staring at her, though he was pretending to look over an album jacket for a Simon and Garfunkel record.

"Kerry, that's not why I called. I gotta tell you something and I know this is not the right time, but there will never be another time and I had to tell you myself," Fletcher began.

"What is it, Fletcher?" Kerry asked, realizing that this was no ordinary phone conversation with Fletcher.

"Kerry, ya know, we've had this understanding between us that we should both date other people while we're so far apart . . . Kerry, I'm getting married next week," Fletcher said reluctantly. The muscles in his throat became tight, and he could barely get the words out of his mouth.

"You're what?" Kerry replied in shock. "I don't think I heard you right . . . I don't understand," Kerry said in disbelief. "You can't do that, you're supposed to come up here after exams in a couple of weeks." Kerry added.

"I won't be coming, Kerry," he replied, pausing briefly to regain his composure. "Remember a few weeks ago, I mentioned that girl who's the daughter of an old classmate of my dad's? Her name's Denise . . . she's a freshman and I took her out to 'The Office Club' to hear Dee Moeler," Fletcher said.

"Yeah, I remember . . . that was before I moved to Saratoga . . . you said you didn't really want to take her out, but you did it as a favor for your Dad since she didn't really know anyone up there. I remember you said she turned out to be pretty nice and you hoped I got to meet her sometime . . . you even suggested that we fix her up with Wiley and the two of you could come down to Austin for a weekend . . . yeah, I remember. . . . I thought that was a great idea 'cause Wiley was always such a hermit," Kerry said.

"She's pregnant, Kerry . . . I don't know how it happened, but she is and we have to get married . . . she doesn't believe in abortion," Fletcher said in agony.

"Well, hell-bells, Fletcher, you know damn well how it happened . . . that's stupidity at its max," Kerry said sarcastically. The news was just beginning to sink in and the acid caused her state of mind to turn to anger rather than tears. "How could you, of all people, make such a negligent mistake . . . you, who used to watch my calendar like a hawk. . . . How could you do this to us, to our future?" Kerry winced.

"Kerry, let me explain. . . I know it was a stupid mistake, but . . . ," Fletcher began before Kerry interrupted him.

"Who went to the 'free clinic' last year, took a number, and sat sandwiched between some freak with crabs and a female heroin addict waitng for methadone treatment for four hours just to get The Pill so we wouldn't have to worry about accidents anymore . . . you asshole . . . who loved you, man . . . who's loved you for almost nine years . . . what makes her exempt from abortion, Fletcher . . . it was your first choice for me a couple of years ago when we had that little scare," Kerry cried.

"We were too young then, Kerry, besides it was a false alarm . . . we're adults now, and I have to take on the responsibility for my actions . . . she told her folks . . . they told mine . . . there's just no way around it," Fletcher pleaded.

"We had it all mapped out, Fletcher, you and I . . . . we had those all-American dreams, we would live our lives together and we would change the world . . . what a crock of shit that turned out to be . . . nothing lasts forever . . . the last person in the world I ever expected to break my heart was you . . . ," Kerry said trailing off with a soft shudder of anguish.

"Kerry, I'll always love you . . . it isn't that I love Denise . . . it's just my responsibility . . . ," Fletcher tried to explain. His head rested in his hand and the tears began to roll down into his beard.

Kerry blurted out in anger, "Don't you tell me that, Fletcher Seibel . . . I don't want to hear you tell me you don't love this person you've decided to throw away our future for . . . I don't want to have to live with that . . . it's you who has to reconcile that little dose of pain, not me, so don't try to pass that guilt on to my shoulders. I can tell you this; I'll always feel the same about what we had, it'll always be sacred . . . it was the first love . . . it'll probably be the last. I'm gonna hang up now, Fletcher, . . . I'm about as stoned as one can get . . . I don't want to deal with this now . . not now, maybe not ever," Kerry said calmly.

"Oh, Kerry, don't say that . . . you sound like your Leo when she talks about old Edgar . . . so defeated . . . we'll get over this . . . tell me you won't become as bitter as your grandmother, Kerry, I'm not dying . . . not dead . . . our relationship will just take on a new meaning now, as friends. . . . I want us to be friends," Fletcher replied. In all his life, he never thought he would be saying farewell to the one who'd shared his dreams, to the one who held his heart.

"Well, maybe I'm just like my Grandmother Leo, Fletcher, maybe we're just two peas in a pod . . maybe all people who hurt inside are alike in that regard . . . maybe just two of a kind heart, we are . . . not sharing the same mind . . . just sharing the same pain," Kerry said softly into the phone as Puttnam watched on.

"Kerry, we started out as friends . . . we'll always have that special bond between us," Fletcher said in response to her statement. "I don't want to live without that friendship," Fletcher added.

"We didn't start out as friends, Fletcher . . . we started out as adversaries, cursing one another across a tetherball pole . . . no, we didn't start out as friends . . . that came later . . . that was something we gave to each other when we learned to trust one another . . . we had secrets . . . we had trust . . . something you should have thought about two months ago or whenever the hell little Denise got pregnant. I have to go now . . . congratulations . . . sorry I won't be able to attend the wedding," Kerry cried as she hung the phone up on Fletcher, who sat for several minutes with the dead receiver in his hand. When he finally composed himself enough to get up from his chair and stretch out in his bed, sleep did not come to him; it eluded him that night just as it would for many nights to come. The peacefulness he had once held in sleep, in his dreams of Kerry and their future, would not return for many years for the happy-go-lucky days of his youth were spent now for both of them, and the first real trials of adulthood and disillusionment lay before him wrestled firmly to the ground, the hard cold earth, in his nightmares; the most dreaded nightmare of all, the loss of the love of Kerry Foster.

Puttnam kneeled down in front of Kerry where she sat on the sofa with her elbows on her knees and her face buried in her hands.

"You knew, didn't you, Putts?" Kerry said in a muffled tone.

Puttnam reached out to stroke her hair in a comforting gesture. "Yeah, I knew, darlin' . . . I'm awfully sorry. . . . Life's a drag sometimes . . . ain't it, Babe?" Puttnam said.

"It's so humiliating, Putts . . . that you know . . . that Margaret knows and probably Clare. What's it all for, anyway? What good does it do to love someone if they'll never love you back?" Kerry said tearfully. The doorbell rang at Hank's, and Puttnam feared that they would soon be surrounded by an apartment full of strangers.

"Let's get out of here, Kerry," Puttnam said as he got up to answer the door for Hank.

"But . . . Hank said that the cops are everywhere tonight . . . we can't be walking the streets this late stoned on acid," Kerry replied.

"We've got a motel, remember . . . we can cruise on over there and sit out in the parking lot till we come down . . . cops can't bust us there. Don't you worry, doll, it'll all work out. . . . I know he was special and I won't try to convince you that he wasn't but you're special, too and you'll survive . . . hell, you might even be happy again someday," Puttnam said, trying to add some humor to the subject as he reached for the doorknob to let in Hank's guests.

"You're right Puttnam," Kerry called out. "Just screw old Fletcher . . . God knows everybody else has."

Puttnam and Kerry lingered at Hank's just long enough to say their farewells to him. Hank tossed a six-pack of beer at Puttnam as they were walking out the door. He sensed that they were both troubled about something, and remembering that Kerry was from Texas, he winked at her as she slipped past him and said, "Y'all come back, now."

Kerry and Puttnam sat together on a lounger out by the pool at the motel. Kerry quietly recounted many humorous tales of her years with Fletcher. She would burst out with wild laughter occasionally during the telling of such stories, and Puttnam held her close to him, comforting her as only a friend or a brother could do; all thought of prurience vanished from Puttnam's heart.

They came down slowly from the effects of the LSD, both felt Kerry's pain, both became enchanted by the early morning glow in the heavens. They were hypontized by the sound of the water slapping against the side of the pool, and they fell into a deep sleep in each other's arms as dawn came to greet them. The sound of the water gently stroking the edge of the pool created a healing force during her sleep; so far from home was she, so far from her true course in life's travels and so young to be wounded so deeply. They had playfully tossed the six-pack back and forth across the pool to each other when they'd first arrived back at the motel; neither one had been interested in the drinking of any alcohol. The six-pack rested on its side beneath the lounger where they slept, unopened. Its contents were shaken and lukewarm, just waiting for the first sucker to come along and pop one of its tops.

Sunday seemed to fly by for Puttnam, Howard, Kerry, and Clare. Clare spent the beter part of the morning at organizaitonal meetings at St. Edward's church and the afternoon driving around the city just to get familiar with the streets. Slogans had been painted on all the bridges and on some of the federal buildings. Clare was most disappointed in the rallies; she felt the whole thing was been infiltrated by the F.B.I. and that they were in control.

She had committed herself to staying for the duration. She was even proud of Howard for coming with them to Washington to throw in his own two cents for the anti-war movement though she still did not feel that he had any idea what lay in store for them during the next two days.

Clare was livid in her beliefs that the citizens had a right to march on their capitol in protest against American involvement in Vietnam. The war was wrong, though all wars were wrong in Clare's heart. She was fearful that the Nixon administration was intent on making these rallies into a mockery of the movement.

Puttnam and Kerry, understandably, napped off and on throughout the day. They took turns playing cards with Howard; he won every hand and was extremely pleased with himself until he realized that Kerry and Puttnam weren't really giving the cards their full attention.

During one hand of "Go-Fish" Howard became so frustrated with Puttnam that he threw his cards down on the table to gain Puttnam's attention and replied, "By God, Puttnam, are you playing this game or not?"

Howard's outburst had barely rattled Puttnam, who was lost in his own thoughts and he answered, "Yeah, sure . . . now what game is this we're playing here?"

Needless to say, they all retired early that evening in anticipation of the long day they had waiting for them on Monday.

Kerry's youth was her saving grace in the face of such hurt she felt over Fletcher's abandonment of their relationship. Her outward appearance of resilience deeply touched Puttnam and he admired her courage. Yet, the impression she purposely gave to Puttnam was a false one because in her heart she was bleeding from the open wound of rejection. Her dreams were restless ones, full of conversatons with Fletcher for all those things she had not told him on the phone, all those secrets she did not recite to him. She would share her pain with no one for the time being; she would now be one who gathered strength from suffering alone, because in the end, only she could heal herself. She had been luckier than most, as she had had the warmth of company during the desolation of adolescence and young adulthood; he had had a hand to hold and a hand to give. She would have to learn the meaning of the word loneliness now and in doing so she would gain a better sense of compassion for those around her who were lonely. Though Fletcher would not be alone in physical terms, he would also learn of loneliness with the vast, empty space in his own heart.

Monday morning was frantic for Clare. Howard insisted on carrying a small camp stool with them to Dupont Circle; he and Clare faced each other in the doorway to their adjoining rooms arguing over the matter for several minutes. Puttnam finally solved the problem by simply snatching the camp stool from Howard's hands, stomping out of the motel room, and literally giving the camp stool a swift toss out on the sidewalk in front of their rooms. The act in itself shocked Howard and Clare back to reality, and they went about their business of preparing for the day in silence.

It was early in the morning, not quiet five a.m. when they spun out of the parking lot in Howard's Pontiac with Puttnam behind the wheel, Clare snapping directions, Howard dozing in the back seat, and Kerry braiding her hair next to him. Unbeknownst to Clare, Howard had stashed the notorious camp stool in the trunk of the car still insisting to himself that it would come in handy to someone later in the day.

The streets were still quiet in the twilight of predawn. Street lights glowed with hazy halos reluctantly casting their last hour of illumination on the pavement. Puttnam drove north on Twenty-second Street; he couldn't help but notice the abundance of police vehicles, and in nearing Washington Circle he was shocked to see Military Police scattered throughout the area.

At Clare's request, Puttnam parked the car just a few blocks from DuPont Circle in a lot on Twenty-first Street. They walked the remaining distance to the circle with Puttnam toting Howard's camp stool on his arm with his camera gear resting on top of it. It was actually more of a good luck charm for Howard; small and compact, it was made of two wooden frames which folded together sandwiching a brightly striped strip of canvas which served as the seat of the stool when the wooden frames were unfolded. Howard had used it countless times on fishing trips, and it had always brought him luck. The canvas in the center was worn from years of use. Howard strolled alongside Puttnam tapping his cane on the pavement, occasionally catching Puttnam's eye by tilting his head to the side and shooting him an exaggerated wink while his mustache twitched from the bounce in his walk. Howard had worn his gray flannel suit, a white shirt, his blue bow-tie, and a metal pin clasped to his lapel of the American Flag whose colors had become quite faded. Kerry Pearl had gotten the pin at the Fourth of July picnic in Raymondville back in 1960, and she'd sent it to Howard in payment of a bet they'd made over an all-star baseball game. He sported the pin proudly on this day in her memory.

Clare and Kerry walked side by side as they approached the small crowd of protesters already gathering around the traffic circle. Clare wore a green and white striped seersucker dress belted at the waist and navy blue tennis shoes. She carried a small portable tape recorder for interviews and her large straw handbag, which she regretted bringing as it did not have a shoulder strap and made her load a bit too awkward to juggle. Kerry had braided her long hair into one long braid down her back, and she wore Levi jeans, a yellow tank top, and her leather sandals. She carrried only her notebook, with a ball point pen clipped to its front cover.

As six a.m. drew closer, the protesters began to take their positions around the circle with the intention of blocking morning traffic from all directions. Policemen also converged on the circle with the Marines following behind them with orders for the crowd to disperse peacefully. Network television crews arrived on the scene as the protesters stubbornly stood their ground. It was still too early for the traffic to start backing up, but the few cars whose route had been blocked by the protesters began to honk their horns in angry protest. Puttnam became separated from his companions as the crowd grew to chaotic proportions. He weaved in and out of the masses snapping photos and occassionally stopping to join in the chants of his fellow marchers. "WE ARE EVERYWHERE . . . POWER TO THE PEOPLE!"

Clare was in the process of trying to interview an elderly grandmother, who like Howard, had come to represent her age group in protest against the war. She had a difficult time working her tape recorder and juggling the straw handbag. In frustration she returned to where she'd left Howard sitting on his camp stool and reluctantly asked if he would hold the handbag while she went back to conduct the interview.

Kerry stood just off the curb in the street next to where Howard sat on his camp stool. He delighted in chanting the slogan and was totally immersed in the emotion of the crowd. He had never seen so many people gathered together in disobedience in his entire life, and the thrill of it all filled him with sentiment for their cause. He could hardly sit still on his stool. Each time the police ordered the crowd to disperse peacefully, Howard would jump up from his seat and shake his cane in the air barking, "You just come right here and make me, BY GOD. . . . I know my rights!" Howard would occasionally forget which hand held his cane and instead he would wave Clare's large straw handbag high in the air. Howard's shouts of protest directed towards the rows of policemen and the occasional waving of Clare's handbag caught the eye of a network news correspondent who eventually worked his way through the crowd to approach Howard for an interview. The camera crew followed and the next thing Howard knew, a microphone was being jammed into his face. The crowd was becoming restless and police were beginning to make arrests just across the intersection from them.

". . . and what is your name, sir?" the commentator asked Howard.

Howard rose to his feet for the momentous occasion, blurting out proudly, "My name is Howard Bates and I'm from Saratoga Springs, New York," and reaching out to grab Kerry's arm, pulling her alongside of him, he added, "This is my step-great-granddaughter, Miss Kerry Foster." The reporter smiled at Kerry briefly, then turned his attentions back to Howard.

"How old are you, sir . . . and what made you decide to take part in these marches here in the Capitol?" he asked bluntly.

Howard stood fully erect clutching his cane and Clare's handbag firmly in front of him and replied, "I turned eighty-seven years old in July. I have come to our nation's capitol with my dear Kerry here to protest the abominable war our country is waging in Vietnam . . . too many lives of our young are being spent there for a cause which is not in the best interest of our nation's people."

"Do you feel you will be arrested today and will you go peacefully?" the reporter asked, somewhat taken aback by Howard's responses.

"If it is against the law in our country for the masses to ban together to protest against the wrongdoings of our government, then I shall go to jail alongside these young people when the time comes, but, by God, it will be a sad day in our nation's history and will certainly be a reflection of the poor administration in our White House," Howard stated, shaking his head adamantly.

"Do you consider yourself a radical, politically speaking, Mr. Bates, or do you feel representative of the opinions of other people across the country in your age group?" the reporter asked, jabbing the microphone close to Howard's face while the camera crew zoomed in for a close-up of the elderly man.

"First of all, young man, I don't know any other people in my age group . . . I would say that we are very few, indeed . . . and second of all I am not any sort of radical, I am simply one of the millions within that so-called 'silent majority' who was fed up with being seen but not heard. My mission in coming here was to prove with my presence that all Americans, regardless of age, sex, or social status, do have a say-so in the actions of their government . . . that's all I have to say by God," Howard replied sitting back down on his camp stool. The camera crew and the correspondent moved away from Howard, eventually being swallowed by the crowd.

Clare came bounding up to Howard and Kerry just as the interview was ending. Once the network crew had departed she reached down and grabbed Howard by the arm anxiously and said, "Howard fold that silly camp stool up right now. We have to get back to the car before we get arrested. . . . Kerry, you carry that stool for Howard."

"I can carry it myself, Clare," Howard boasted in a huff.

"Where's Puttnam?" Clare shouted over the crowd. "Anybody seen Puttnam?"

"I haven't seen him for the past half hour," Kerry shouted back. She was engaged in a tug of war over the camp stool with Howard, who finally gave in and loosened his grasp on his side of the wooden frame which almost sent Kerry sprawling out onto the pavement. He turned sheepishly to follow Clare through the crowd of protesters mumbling his apologies to Kerry while suppressing a snicker over the tussle.

"I want to get over to Georgetown University to record the reactions of students to the marches. We can't worry about Puttnam now; he knows where the motel is and he's certainly capable of taking care of himself," Clare shouted to Kerry as they slipped past the edge of the marchers and headed towards the Pontiac on Twenty-first Street. Police sirens and paddy wagons swept past them as they hurried along. They had the good fortune of escorting Howard to the car, which more than likely was a blessing in disguise and aided them in making a clean get away without the threat of arrest. Puttnam would not be so blessed.

Clare fished the keys out of her straw handbag and slid into the driver's seat of the Pontiac. Howard and Kerry both jumped into the front seat beside her and the three of them headed down Twenty-first Street in search of a diner where they could stop and have breakfast and wait for the streets to be cleared. Kerry and Howard were elated over Howard's being interviewed for network news and were discussing whether or not it would actually be used in that evening's telecast. Clare could not resist the temptation to tease Howard about the interview. She turned her head slightly and said, "Howard, didn't your mother ever tell you not to talk to strangers?"

"By God, maybe she did, but it had to have been so long ago that I plum forgot," Howard said with a burst of laughter and a relaxed Texas accent so long out of use and so uncharacteristic of Howard that all three of them shook with laughter until Clare pulled into the parking lot of a Toddlehouse restaurant.

All three returned to somber moods as they sat in a booth at the restaurant. They worried quietly over the absence of Puttnam, each hoping that Puttnam had managed to get out of Dupont Circle without being arrested, but the chances of that now seemed very slim as Puttnam was not the sort to simply walk away peacefully.

*****

The police were closing in on all directions on the protestors. Puttnam was weaving in and out still snapping pictures of the chaos when he noticed a lone protester being chased by a policeman on P Street. The man turned his head slightly and Puttnam, thinking he recognized the profile of the protester as being that of an army buddy of his, broke into a run behind the policeman to help the man. The wind slapped him in the face as he closed in on the cop; he remembered an instance in Vietnam when he had been running full tilt across a rice field. He was under fire then, running wild through the field with his boots sinking into the mud on each step and the sensation that his feet weighed a ton. Bullets had whistled by his ears and his breath had come in short, shallow puffs, so shallow that he'd felt he was hardly breathing at all. He remembered not caring about the other men falling around him in the field; their screams upon being wounded did not slow him down. He'd just wanted to survive, not to fight, as though running were the essence of survival. Someone had fallen behind him, and as he fell he brought Puttnam down with him. He clearly recalled the face now, silent in death, that he'd turned to see resting on his boot. It was the same face that he thought he'd seen on the protester he was racing to aide. He stopped running then and veered off to the right ducking into an alleyway. He walked cautiously through the maze of alleys surrounding DuPont Circle, knowing that somehow he had to get back to the other side in order to meet up with Clare.

Police were everywhere and Puttnam had about given up hopes of not being arrested when he came through an alley and saw that it was relatively clear on that side of the circle. Puttnam sucked in his breath in anxiety over his predicament as he turned the corner. Just in front of him, five cops stood leaning against a squad car and he realized he would have to get past them. He decided to simply display his press badge and take his chances by nonchalantly strolling past. It was impossible for a man of Puttnam's size to stroll nonchalantly; his hair was too long and his clothing too reminiscent of the other protesters for the police to let him pass. Puttnam was just about to step off the curb, having come side by side with the policemen and thinking himself safe from arrest, when a sturdy dark-haired cop grabbed him by the arm. "Step back on the curb, sir. Place your hands on top of the vehicle; feet apart," the policeman barked.

Puttnam did as he was told, turning his head to make one final protest as they searched him for weapons, "I'm a member of the Press . . . here, man, check out the badge. . . . I work for The Avalanche in . . . ," Puttnam shouted but was not allowed to finish as the handcuffs were slapped onto his wrists.

"Just get in the car, sir . . . don't talk . . . just get in the car," the dark-haired cop replied.

"Jesus Christ," Puttnam roared as the squad car in which he was riding turned on its sirens and spun out into the traffic as though it held in its backseat the world's most sought after criminal. Canisters of tear gas began exploding in the streets behind them. Puttnam stared in disgust at the policeman sitting next to him in the backseat. The policeman in the back kept making jokes about the arrests of the protesters and boasting about the numbers they themselves had taken in.

"Either of you fellas ever served in Nam?" Puttnam asked.

"Nah," the cops replied in unison.

"Well, I did and let me tell you, if you had gone you'd be right out there in the streets demanding that Nixon get our asses out of there . . . you'd be right out there with the rest of us," Puttnam said. He tried hard to control his anger, realizing that basically the cops were just doing their jobs.

"Oh yeah," said the cop next to Puttnam. "Well, maybe that's so, who can tell, but it ain't gonna help you any right now and that's for sure."

The two cops laughed loudly at the smart remark.

"All of this is gonna come to somethin' someday," Puttnam began. "Wait and see . . . ya can't just go 'round arrestin' innocent people and throwin' their asses in jail just because you disagree with their point of view. When all is said and done, it's gonna be you guys who come out with mud on your face and those of us you hauled to jail who'll be the heroes."

It was the dark-haired cop who'd initially grabbed Puttnam to arrest him who sat in the backseat. He snickered at Puttnam's statement, and leaning forward in the seat he replied to the driver, "How about this guy, thinks he's some sort of hero . . . maybe we oughtta get his autograph before we book 'em."

Puttnam interrupted his laughter to ask, "Just what are you going to book me for?"

"We gotta nice list of choices, Buddy. Most likely we'll stick ya with, 'conducting yourself in a manner which might lead to a breach of peace' . . . so be quiet back there 'cause it could be worse. You're lucky . . . you're goin' in by 'ya-self'. You'll be out in a few hours. Those guys goin' in in the paddy wagons is gonna be there a while," said the cop who was driving. He didn't like the thought of arresting a vet . . . in his opinion, the whole situation stunk.

Puttnam was placed in a small holding cell with ten other men. The cell was only about five by seven feet in dimensions forcing everyone to stand except for one old codger who was slumped against a far wall with his feet sprawled out in front of him. Nine of the cellmates were protesters from American University and the old man was a drunk who'd been carted in long before dawn to sleep it off.

People were shouting at the guards and at each other up and down the long row of holding cells. Most of the protesters were trading accounts of their arrests, giving descriptions of friends whose whereabouts were unknown, in hopes of finding out if they, too, had been arrested. Puttnam overheard one fellow down the hallway telling of an elderly woman who was a diabetic and had been arrested in DuPont Circle. He yelled out a description of Howard to the guy, but the man hadn't seen any old men being hauled in. Puttnam came to the conclusion that if Clare, Kerry, and Howard had, indeed, been arrested, he'd hear about it soon enough. He resigned himself to leaning against the bars of the cell, listening to the stories of the students, and wishing like hell that he'd eaten breakfast. He had a long hungry wait ahead of him as it would be almost five o'clock before he saw daylight again.

Clare, Kerry, and Howard spent the morning dodging cops and interviewing students on the campus of Georgetown University. Clare had had to park the car a considerable distance from the campus and Howard was worn out before they ever got there. Kerry fretted constantly over Puttnam's whereabouts, causing Clare to seriously contemplate ditching them both. Ten a.m. found the three of them resting on the steps of one of the buildings. Though the campus was in a state of panic, classes were apparently still being held and those students who were not involved in the protests traveled cautiously to and from their classes avoiding any and all eye contact. A hint of tear gas still lingered in the air.

"Clare, it really looks like it's over for today. You've got plenty of interviews. Can't we work our way back to the motel now?" Kerry pleaded thumbing the notebook resting in her lap. "Puttnam might call the motel for us to come get him and we won't be there," she added.

"The only interviews I've gotten so far have been from sympathizers. I want to get one solid counter-point before I leave this campus. Besides, Puttnam isn't going to be able to call the motel if he's in jail . . . too many have been arrested; I just don't think he'd call there anyway," Clare said with a sigh.

At that moment Clare spotted a young woman, loaded down with books, scurrying towards them. Clare took note of the fact that the woman was several months pregnant, very middle class in appearance, and dressed in normal maternity clothes consisting of a long tunic and skirt. Her hair was light brown and she wore it neatly tied back into a ponytail with a colorful scarf which matched the colors in her tunic. She was a pretty young woman, very thin aside from her bulging middle. Clare thought her the perfect candidate for her last interview. She stood up on the steps to intercept the young woman.

"Excuse me, my name is Clare Freidman from Avalanche magazine. Do you have a few moments to give us your opinion of the May Day Rallies and the massive arrests that took place this morning?" Clare asked as she switched on her tape recorder.

The woman gave Clare a puzzled look as she stood in front of her. She thought for a moment before replying, "I don't think I've ever read your magazine. I've seen it around campus though I don't know. You see, I'm late for a biology exam, and as you can see I may never get another crack at it." She started to bypass Clare and noticed Howard and Kerry sitting on the steps behind her.

"Please, I could use your opinion," Clare said. "I promise not to take up too much of your time."

"Okay," the woman replied reluctantly and slowly lowered herself onto the steps to sit down.

"How do you feel about the war in Vietnam?" Clare asked.

"Well, I'm not sure that it's right for us to be over there. You should've seen the Vietnam Vets who were here last week, even they are against it," the woman replied thoughtfully.

"What's your name, dear?" Howard butted in. Clare looked over her shoulder to give him a nasty glare of reprimand.

"Can I just give you my first name? My folks would be unhappy if they knew I was doing this," the woman asked.

"Yes," Clare replied.

"My name is Ann and to tell you the truth I've been too busy trying to finish school and solving my own problems to get involved with the anti-war movement. My husband works here at the University . . . we're both just trying to get our educations and our careers started. I should graduate at the end of this semester . . . working part-time, going to school, and carrrying a child hasn't left much time for politics," Ann answered.

"How did you feel about the protest marches around the city this morning? Did you have a difficult time driving to campus?" Clare asked.

"Well, I don't drive to campus, I walk. We live close to here. Not to sound cruel or anything, but I was glad that the police had the streets and bridges cleared before rush hour began. The radicals had been boasting around campus for days that they were going to close the entire city down and frankly it didn't work. You see, this is a city, not much different from any other city, not everyone works for the government here . . . it wasn't fair to the innocent people for the marches to disrupt their lives . . . it would've been like punishing the civilians for the actions of the government and the military. I really do have to go now . . . I can't miss this exam," Ann said as she clumsily tried to lift herself up off the step. Kerry and Howard stood up to help her while Clare held her books.

They watched her climb the steps and enter the building, hurrying as best as she could.

"She seemed very special to me," Clare said breaking the silence between them. "She didn't have to stop and talk to me, but she did. She certainly has a long road ahead of her in balancing a career and raising a child . . . it's a road I never had the courage to travel. In my day, you either had a career or you had children, never both," Clare added.

"Indeed," Howard replied. The three of them turned to walk off in the direction of the Pontiac with Clare and Kerry stationing themselves on either side of Howard. Howard did not truly need their support; they in fact needed the support of one another. In their exhaustion they borrowed on each other's strengths to carry them the distance to the car.

Leota had had a wonderful day. She had her windows open to the spring air and the breeze blew into the house from the south with such a gentle easy cross flow. Her yard was in full bloom; she'd spent most of the afternoon out puttering in the flower beds. The day had started off on a wonderful note when the postman had delivered to her door not only a postcard from Raleigh, but a three-page letter from Kerry as well.

She leaned back on the kitchen counter sipping on a large frosty glass of iced tea. Her television was blasting