Look at Flower Page 16

  “Jesus.” I didn’t know Superspade but remember hearing about him. He was a big-time acid dealer.

  “They only found $15 on him, but everyone knows he carried, like, twenty, thirty grand.” Loretta’s eyes are huge. She leans in toward me again. “They say some other dealer did it.”

  “Really?”

  She nods. “That’s not the only bad shit goin’ down. There’s a lot more cops, a lot of busts. Everybody’s getting hassled.” A frown. “There’s also some funny new drugs around—”

  I don’t say anything, but Loretta’s looking right at me.

  “Oh, that’s right, Flower, you don’t trip.” She raises her head, and the look is almost a glare. “You still don’t?”

  “Unh-uh.”

  A long pause, then: “Well, that’s cool, I guess.” Loretta gives her hair a long shake. “Anyway, I’m thinking of splitting the scene here.”

  “Where to?”

  “I’ve heard there’s a groovy scene up the coast at this place, Morning Star?” Her voice flutes up on the last word. “But, you know, lately the pigs are hassling it, too.” A shrug. “I’ve heard even more amazing things about New Mexico—”

  “New Mex—” I start to say, startled.

  “Yeah, people are creating communes down there, really groovy ones. Back in touch with the Indians—I mean, Native Americans. A lot of really righteous drugs like peyote and mescaline, and some truly astonishing things going down.”

  “Um, Loretta, I—”

  “I mean,” she rushes on, “like miracles, Flower. I heard the other day that some longhairs set every animal in the zoo free—” What! I start to interrupt her, but she’s ripping right along. “Can you imagine! What a beautiful thing, lions and tigers and bears and snakes all free and back in nature. That’s sooooo cool.”

  Up go her eyebrows. “And I also heard, there’s this girl down there, at one of the communes? She got so far out she just floated away. Like—”

  Wait. What is she saying? Could this be. . . . “Loretta, I gotta tell—”

  “Oh, Flower, imagine it, it’s sooooo beautiful. This young girl, I mean like no older than us, she was so pure and perfect and in tune with the godhead that she just raised her arms and the wind lifted her up and she sailed away into the sky.” Loretta closes her eyes, lifts her hands, then says in a whisper, “What a beautiful dream.”

  I don’t know what to say. I simply stand there. Then one of the painter chicks calls out, “Ladies. Your turn.”

  Loretta gives me a quick nod and a smile, then takes a chair in front of one of the white fairy girls. She pats the seat next to her, but I shake my head. No, I don’t want flowers painted on my cheeks and forehead. At least not right now.

  “It’s great seeing you,” I say, walking away. “Look beautiful.”

  Loretta smiles. “You, too, sweetheart.”

  I float through the Panhandle a little longer, then turn back up Cole. This time I skip quickly across Haight Street, where traffic’s still jammed, dodging a flock of Gypsy Jokers, all of ’em winding out their engines, and another Gray Line tourist bus. I head up past Waller, then Beulah. I’m among the tall white Victorians again, and feel noticeably calmer and more together. There’re no kids hanging out up here. Just the houses and a few people out front who live in them. It all feels weirdly, wonderfully normal.

  I’m not really thinking where I’m going, at least I’m not thinking I’m thinking, but then I turn on Frederick Street. Head down a few houses. It’s not that hot, but I’d like a rinse, and a drink of water.

  Oh, look, there’s a hose there in that streetside garden. Maybe I’ll just lean over and. . . .

  The fresh water is burbling up into my mouth, gushing strong enough I’m swallowing some while most of it runs down my chin. I’m ditzing around, trying to lean over so my blouse doesn’t get too wet, when I hear a rumbly sharp woman’s voice: “What do you think you’re—” I look up and hear, “Oh, my! Flower . . . is that you?”

  I’m smiling. “Hi, Kay.”

  “It is you!” Kay’s eyes sparkle and her voice jumps a little, then she ratchets it back down. She’s wearing her floppy-brimmed gardening hat and a gray Mexican poncho; her clipping shears are in her hand, along with something green. Her voice is even-toned when she says, “You know, I’m not surprised you’re here.”

  “You’re not—”

  “Actually, I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Really!” I keep grinning; it’s like my smile’s just blooming out of me, can’t keep it down. Kay looks shorter than I remember, and maybe a little older—the lines on her face deeper—but that might just be in my mind.

  “Yes, I have a letter for you,” she says briskly. “Come on in, dear,”

  I shake my head. Of all the things I might have expected to hear, this isn’t it. “You have a—”

  “It’s on the mail table.” She gives me a sharp look, as if: Where else would it be? “You remember the mail table?”

  I nod. I’m following her up the stairs to the front door. Inside, there’s that statue I remember that Kay said came from whoever that famous artist was, with the eight ivory hands peeling off from the white stalk. From the second-from-the-bottom hand, kind of facing the back, Kay plucks off an envelope.

  “You’re sure it’s for me?”

  “It says Flower.” She makes it obvious she’s peering at me. “You are Flower, aren’t you? At least the only one who would have given my address out to someone.”

  I take the letter. It does simply say flower, 419 frederick, san francisco. The return address is blurred, but I can make out most of the name: a. sawyer.

  “Andy,” I whisper to myself. I put my hand on the edge of the oak table as a whole world of memories floods back.

  “Come on to the kitchen . . . Flower,” Kay says, lighter. “I’ve got some nice iced tea.” She holds up her hand, and I see that the green stuff’s sprigs of fresh mint.

  I follow her, and when I’m settled at the table with the lemon-yellow table cloth and sipping my iced tea, I shake my head. Something’s bothering me; doesn’t feel right. I say, “Kay, why are you of all people calling me Flower?”

  “That’s your name, isn’t it?” She holds up the envelope and taps it sharply. She’s smirking at me. What does she see? I think about what Loretta just told me, that I look so different from before. I’m wondering right then, Who does Kay see?

  “I’d rather you call me Lucinda,” I say softly. I take a sip of the glorious tea. “Or Cynda. Like always.”

  Her hawk gaze is flush on my eyes, but I don’t turn away. After what seems like forever, she nods, just once, then says, “All right, Cynda.” Finally, a smile. She lifts her own glass of tea, then reaches out and clinks mine.