27
Berkeley, May 1969
Finally, I’d finished my paper, and turned in the preliminary version of my thesis. I’d studied all I was going to until time for exams.
Now it was time for my real love––in the studio, painting. I cranked up the music, shutting out the sounds of the city and my housemates. I was lost in the flow of the paint off my brush, the battle to get just the right shade of blue.
A tap on my shoulder made me jump. I hadn’t even noticed the door open.
“Lexi, can we talk for a few?” Carol faked a smile as though she hoped I would allow the interruption without anger. She turned down my stereo.
I sighed and placed the tube of blue acrylic next to the black one. “Of course. What’s up?”
“Something’s bothering me.” She sat in the wreck of a wicker chair in the sunny corner of the light filled greenhouse I called a studio. “You could paint while we talk.”
“Just tell me.” I swirled a brush in a jar, cleaned it on a rag.
“I know you think someone has it out for me––so I’ve been thinking, there’s really only one thing that could’ve been on purpose. What worries me is that guy could have been after you as well as me.” Carol stood up then walked over to look at my canvas before returning to the chair. “I keep thinking that the guy who attacked us, well, tried to attack us, after the concert was somebody we know.”
“Yeah, I know what you mean.” I had trouble getting him out of my mind too.
“You do?”
“Yeah, because he didn’t say anything, like he was afraid we’d recognize his voice.”
Carol jumped forward in the chair. “Exactly. Got any ideas?”
I shook my head.
“It could’ve been one of Jeff’s short friends. The guy was short, but in the dark, hard to tell if he was pudgy.”
“You think it was Elliott, or Dave?” I failed to keep the surprise from my voice. “Really?”
“Do you know anybody else that short?”
“Good point.” I twirled the palette knife through the black swirls in the blue paint. “But why in the world would either one do such a thing?”
“For kicks. The thrill,” Carol said.
“You think one of them is crazy?”
“Maybe he hates us.” Carol pulled her knees up to her chest and rested her feet on the front edge of the chair.
“Why?”
“Because we’re beautiful and he’s ugly?” She hugged her knees.
“You think it was Elliott?” I asked her.
“I don’t know. Maybe it’s a crazy idea.” Carol jumped from the chair. She strode to the window behind me “Did you hear someone out there? Can people hear us in here?”
“Probably. I can hear when people talk out there.”
She moved close to me and whispered. “My point is, it could just as easy be you that someone has it in for. Think about that.”
I turned to look at her. She raised an eyebrow at me before she walked out of the greenhouse.
I didn’t want to think about Carol’s theory. As soon as she left, I turned the music back up and painted through the night. The sunrise glow greeting the new day behind the Berkeley Hills surprised me.
I’d finally gotten the blue the shade I’d had in my mind’s eye. Even the yellow looked pretty close to right. So seldom was I able to capture the colors, get the light and shadow just the way I had imagined it. It was a thrill, a tremendous sense of satisfaction when I was able to get a painting to look right. I hoped I would feel the same way after some sleep.
Carol pushed the door open with her foot, a steaming mug in each of her hands. She handed me one.
The steam off the tea smelled wonderful “Thanks,” I said.
“You been out here all night?” Carol asked.
“Yeah.” I stood back to admire my work, suppressing my smile of satisfaction.
“Wow.” Carol whistled.
I blushed, sipped the hot tea.
“That is so-o fuck-ing beautiful. The colors, I love it.” Carol grinned. “You are damn good, aren’t you?”
I sank into the creaky, wicker chair. The tea soothed the rough edges, mellowed the bite of exhaustion that hit once I’d gotten the color right.
“Even though it’s abstract,” Carol said, “looking at it makes me feel like I could walk right in between giant redwoods and smell the fresh scent of a forest.” She stared while she drank her morning cuppa before she spoke again. “Lexi, I didn’t sleep much myself.”
I looked at her with surprise. “I thought you’d finished your thesis.”
“Yeah, I did,” she hesitated. “It was our conversation, what we talked about last night. Here’s what’s bothering me. In Big Sur, Elliott and Dave were both with me coming down that cliff.”
“I thought you just, tripped,” I said.
“Yeah, I did.”
“So?”
“I don’t know how I tripped. What I mean is . . . someone could’ve tripped me.”