In my third week of work, the middle of June, longer days and hotter weather brought tourists in droves. They arrived in car after car, station wagon after station wagon, from Minneapolis and North Dakota and Iowa and Illinois and Indiana, all of them desperate to reach the lakes, cabins, and resorts.
I waited on creaking motor homes that sighed slowly into the station and docked at the far pumps, square tin schooners driven by middle-aged captains whose nightmares were of dead-end roads without sewage dumps.
I waited on station wagons jammed with kids and manned by dads in shorts, black socks, and Hush Puppies, fathers who called out, “Everybody try the bathroom—no souvenirs or candy—there’s food in the cooler. Five minutes and we leave without you.”
And, on the hottest days, I waited on the summer girls. In their fathers’ long and boatlike Oldsmobiles, Buicks, and Cadillacs, the girls came to town for outboard-motor gas and ice cream. Fresh from waterskiing, wearing swimsuits that left the damp dark shapes of their bodies on the upholstery, they emerged in gleaming curves and smelled of coconut oil. They opened the trunk to clusters of orange fuel cans, which I removed
and filled with a 50-to-1 gas and oil mixture. Barefoot, the girls shrieked at the hot pavement as they went to the freezer for Eskimo Pies, then returned to the pumps where I knelt, topping off their tanks. Ice cream dripped from their wrists and fingers onto the concrete, and sometimes onto their tanned and pink-tipped toes. The paler arches of their feet, as if dipped in a bowl of sugar, carried sand from the beach—a sparkling curve of granules that sprinkled their anklebones. As the girls ate ice cream, their smooth brown thighs shivered and sent goose bumps unfurling, like a gust of wind on smooth water.
“Gawd—I can’t believe how much water went up my nose that last time!”
“Did you see DeeDee! She did a triple flip!”
“She didn’t come up for a long time ’cause she lost her top.”
They giggled wildly.
I worked there, crouched beside their fuel tanks, my face eye-level with the damp bottoms of their bathing suits, which smelled like sand and reeds and wet maple leaves, and I was glad my pants were baggy.
On Tuesday afternoon, I made a parts run uptown for Kirk, whose frequent “service calls” had left him with a backlog of real mechanical work. I passed by Elmo’s Barbershop, which seemed empty and sad these days, and neared the NAPA Auto Store. Through the window I saw a man at the counter with a black bushel-basket of
hair. I froze. It was the van man. The yellow Volkswagen peace-van man.
I considered retreating; he had not seen me.
Kirk needed the Ford thermostat, however, so I stepped inside. Along the counter—stacked with huge master catalogs of car parts—were the usual hangers-on, local men wearing caps and perched on stools, smoking cigarettes, in no hurry for their parts. On the wall, the Snap-on Tool and American Wheel Bearing and Midas Muffler calendar girls smiled down on everybody.
The store was weirdly silent except for a radio in back that played a Hank Williams song. Nobody was saying anything. They stared at the van man, who smiled pleasantly, arms folded, as he waited his turn.
“Who’s next?” the manager, Dick Andrews, said evenly. A good auto-parts man was analytical, logical, open-minded. The best had the least personality, and Dick Andrews, with his wide-set, heavy-lidded eyes, was world-class.
“I’ve got a 1960 Volkswagen van, four cylinder, 1300 cc,” the van man said to Dick. “I need a set of piston rings and sleeves.” His hands were oil-stained and smudged.
Dick winced at the word Volkswagen but dutifully began to fan pages of an oversize parts book.
“Ain’t in stock,” one of the hangers-on said immediately.
The hippie held his half smile without looking about.
“Probably right,” Dick said, not looking up and not slowing the fan of pages beneath his rubber-tipped thumb, “but let’s check.”
“That’s because this is an American auto-parts store,” one of the seed-cap fellows said. He winked at the other boys, who grunted with laughter.
Dick stopped on a particular page, ran his finger down it. “Sorry, don’t carry those,” he said to the van man, clapping shut his big book. “Fargo is your best bet.”
“Well, I’m sort of stuck here,” the hippie said.
“Could you order them for me?”
“I could,” Dick Andrews said noncommittally. He totted up the price, showed it to the van man.
“Ouch,” the van man said.
“Cash up front, it’d have to be,” Dick added, with the faintest note of apology in his voice. He looked past the van man to the street.
The van man was silent. He stroked his beard for some time. “If I ordered them, how long … ?”
“One week minimum. Truck comes on Thursdays.”
“Well, I guess I’m not going anywhere,” the van man said pleasantly. “I’ll get back to you.” As he turned he spotted me: me and my Shell station uniform. “Hello again, brother,” he said. His dark eyes glowed briefly larger, then he passed by and out the door.
We all stared after him. Then the hangers-on started up.
“Cripes, did you smell him?”
“What a freak!”
“I hear they’re camped out in the state forest west of town, a whole family of them.”
“Paul? What can I do for you?” Dick said to me in his usual voice.
“The Ford thermostat Kirk called in?”
Dick nodded and disappeared into the back. I thought of the peace van, its curtains. A family?
“Living right in the damn bus. Crap in the woods like animals.”
“Raccoons are cleaner than that. At least they know enough to wash in the river.”
“I hear the woman was around asking for food or work.”
“Ought to arrest them for vagrancy.”
“Jail food, that would teach ’em a lesson or two.”
“Little kids, too. You wonder what kind of life they have.”
“Ought to take kids away from people like that.”
“Here you go, Paul,” Dick said evenly.
I signed for the thermostat and headed for the door. Behind me Dick said, “Who’s next?”
That evening I told my father about the hippie van. We were by the machine shed, working on the mower, fitting it with new sickle sections in preparation for the second hay cutting. I was surprised to hear myself speak—but then we always talked better when there were tools passing back and forth between us.
As I related what Kirk had done to the hippies my
father slowly stopped cranking on his ratchet. He looked up at me from underneath the mower. There was a smudge of grease on his cheek. “Loosened the oil plug?”
I swallowed and nodded.
“On purpose?” he said, raising up on his elbows.
I nodded.
He laid down his wrench and sat up. Carefully, thoughtfully, he wiped his hands one finger at a time, then leaned back against the tire and chewed on a piece of grass for a spell. “You couldn’t have stopped him?”
“It happened so fast,” I replied. “Plus I wasn’t sure he had really done it.” I told him about seeing the van man in the auto-parts store.
He shook his head sadly, then bent again to his work. “God will punish Kirk. You can be sure of that.”
I heard a noise over my shoulder. My mother, passing to the garden, had paused to listen. She had heard everything. “That doesn’t help those poor people right now,” she said.
As my parents and I drove through town, I glanced at the station and slouched an inch lower in the seat. I could have kicked myself for mentioning the subject of the hippie van. The last thing I needed was trouble at work. But we proceeded straight through the stoplight past the station, and headed west into the sun.
“You said the state forest. Any idea where these people are?” my father asked. He drove, and was not happy about it.
I shook my head.
Ten miles west of town we pulled into Milo’s Bait Shop and Gas. In the cool interior, minnow tanks hissed and gurgled. Milo himself soon appeared from his trailer house, which was connected, and from which came the sound of The Lawrence Welk Show and the smell of bacon. Milo was a wizened man with fingers bent like fishhooks.
“Yup. I’ve seen ’em. They come walking in here once. Right through that door.” He pointed.
“They’re camped around here somewhere?”
Milo nodded. “Up there off the gravel road near Duck Lake. Just out of sight of the highway. Lot of traffic by there,” he said. He leaned forward and whispered. “They say the woman most of the time don’t wear a stitch of clothes.”
“I doubt that,” my mother said sharply.
“That’s only what I hear,” Milo said defensively. He glanced back toward the trailer, The Lawrence Welk Show, the even stronger smell of bacon. “Any minnows, leeches, or crawlers today?”
We found the yellow van. Its rear end was tilted up a foot and late sun blossomed in a green army-surplus parachute rigged as a porch roof.
To the side a small circle of blackened rocks ringed a tiny fire, atop which, dangling from a tripod of sticks, was a small kettle and the skinny, burnt legs of what could have been a rabbit or a squirrel. The van man rose to greet us. Two small children, as mosquito-bitten as if
they had chicken pox, stood up to stare. A woman with very long hair, a tie-dyed shirt, and heavy breasts stepped from the van.
“Peace, friends,” the van man said.
“Good day,” my mother said.
The hippie mother smiled cautiously.
“Will you have a cup of tea and a bite to eat?” the van man said.
“We’ve had supper, thanks,” my father said.
“We usually don’t eat flesh,” the mother said apologetically, turning toward the fire, “but we’re low on rice.”
The van man turned to me. “Hello yet again, brother.”
I nodded.
“Paul tells me your van broke down,” my father said. The man nodded to my father. “A slight oil problem.” He glanced at me again.
“Piston rings and sleeves are more than slight,” my father said.
On the road a carload of locals drove by slowly, staring at the van. The bigger child stepped behind her mother.
“Relatively speaking—to the earth, to human happiness—piston rings are slight matters,” the hippie said, “though another part of me hears and agrees with you.”
“Where are you bound?” my father asked.
“San Francisco. Berkeley in particular. We’re spreading teach-ins against the war.”
“When do you have to be there?” my mother added.
“When we are supposed to,” the van man said. “Arriving is less important than the journey.”
My father glanced at my mother, then at the shabby campsite, at the children. Another vehicle, a pickup, passed slowly on the road; country music thumped from its radio, and its occupants, several boys, rubbernecked unashamedly. One of them shouted something.
“Do you have tools?” my father asked.
The van man nodded. “All but a taller jack. Though I think I’ve found a strong tree limb that I can use as a fulcrum, then some river stones to block up the rear end.”
My father looked again at the smallest child, who was playing near the wheel.
“I have a hydraulic jack at home,” my father said.
“You could use it.”
The van man smiled and bowed slightly. “Thank you. I accept.”
“I’ll bring it around tomorrow,” my father said.
“Glen Allen,” my mother said, “may I speak with you a second?” She pulled him over by our pickup.
The van man turned to me. “Your parents are proof that there is goodwill in the world.”
“I guess,” I shrugged.
He extended his hand. “Is.”
“Is?”
He nodded. “That’s my name.”
“Paul Sutton.” We shook hands; Is hooked my thumb with his and turned our palms in to each other.
“That’s the peace handshake,” he said. Behind me, my parents were speaking to each other; rather, my father was listening. My mother nodded again toward the children.
Is introduced the rest of his family. “This is Rising Moon.” The tie-dyed mother smiled at me.
“And Safflower.” He pointed to the larger child, a girl of about six, who frowned at me from behind her mother’s skirts.
“And Soybean.”
The toddler turned; she smiled, then came bumbling forward and clamped her arms around my leg.
“She feels your good heart,” Rising Moon said.
“She likes your soul,” Is agreed.
Luckily my parents returned. My mother smiled at the sight of the child attached to my leg. I didn’t know what to do so I just stood there. “Glen Allen and I were wondering,” she began, “if you might want to park your van on our farm.”
“Just for a few days,” my father added. “Until you get your van fixed and can be on your way.”
The van with the hippie family towed easily behind the pickup. My father always carried a log chain for such occasions, and Is manned the yellow van’s steering wheel as our little caravan rolled down the highway toward town. I sat on the outside, my parents together.
My father looked sideways at my mother.
“The children,” she said. “I was worried about those
kids, especially the little one—if they’re getting enough to eat.”
“They might have thought of that before they started cross-country,” my father said, glancing in his mirror.
My mother was silent. Then she said, “Maybe it’s good to take chances in life.”
My father didn’t reply. Through the chain I could feel the bump and tug of the hippie van. I looked in the right side mirror. Behind us, following always at the same distance, the bright bus was like a new little planet attached to our own.
In town we slowed for the stoplight, which of course turned red. This left us on display dead center in Hawk Bend. Several locals slowed their pickups and turned to stare at our convoy. It was a long red light, but soon we were on our way again. Just about through town, passing the drive-in, my luck gave out. Kirk’s blue Chevy was parked at the Dairy Queen with a highway view.
“There’s Kirk,” my father said.
“Maybe he won’t see us,” I said quickly. Then felt foolish.
My father glanced at me, then drove on.
Through the back window I saw Kirk suddenly pull out of the drive-in and accelerate behind us. He passed us, craning his neck at the peace van. Is gave Kirk the peace sign. Kirk glared and turned sharply, headed back to town.
“What will you tell him tomorrow?” my mother said, concern in her eyes.
“Paul will tell him the truth,” my father said. “The truth sets us free.”
And gets us beaten to a pulp. But I didn’t speak.
At the farm it was sundown. We towed the peace van between the garden and the machine shed, parked it there close to vegetables and tools.
“And running water,” my father said to Is and Rising Moon. “There’s cold water from the hose and warm water in the milk house. Plus soap. Use as much soap and water as you like.”
My mother nudged him.
“Many thanks, brother,” Is said. Then he and Rising Moon looked about, did some kind of strange circle, pointing skyward in all four directions, and afterward turned to us and smiled. Butch, our old Labrador, raced up with tail wagging, and buried his nose in Rising Moon’s crotch. She let him sniff.
“Butch!” my mother called.
“It’s very peaceful here,” Is said, nodding, looking about the farm.
“We like to think so,” my father said, unhooking the chain.
“Tomorrow I’ll show you around the farm,” my mother said, shooing away Butch with a discreet but sharp boot to the flank. “You’re welcome to all the milk you can drink, plus there’s fresh eggs as well.”
“Thank you so much,” Rising Moon said, and hugged my mother.
“The hydraulic jack is just inside the shed,” my father added. “Use what tools you need. We’ll get you back on the road in no time.”
“No time,” Is repeated. “Interesting.” As he launched forth on time in general and clocks in particular, for some reason I turned toward the van, to a rear window. There I saw another face, a girl with long pale hair framing an oval face and brown eyes. She was my age. As our eyes met she quickly drew the curtain.