Boonville by Robert Mailer Anderson Page B

broken refrigerator doors were routinely blamed on him and his absence. Dad was more a compilation of smells, Old Spice, the San Francisco Bay, sweaty jogging shoes. Charisma. The fast food they ate together not because they liked it, but because it wasn’t allowed with Mom.
    When Dad rang the doorbell, Mom fired the first blast. Sarah could hear Dad curse on the other side of the door before being drowned out by the voice of the liberated American woman, the one who overdosed, choked to death on her own bile.
    â€œDown on meeeeeee!”
    Sarah didn’t get it. Something was missing. What had gone wrong between Mom and Dad? How did the recognition of familiar suffering bring happiness? Where was the power in identifying yourself with being left behind, screwed again. What was so great about the B-side of “Pearl”? Someday she would understand, Mom promised. But Sarah hoped it was far into the future before she could sing “I’d trade all my tomorrows for one single yesterday” and mean it.
    Janis was playing the day they headed north to Mendoland, Mom gunning her convertible Karmann Ghia up 101, a silver streak against sunburned hills. The divorce was final, alimony and child support checks in her pocketbook. According to Mom, they were escaping from the lost souls living the lies of capitalism at the mercy of men.
    â€œThe Movement died,” she said. “There’s no use sticking around for the funeral.”
    The torn convertible top flapped in the wind. Sarah imaginedDad behind the car on a stallion, getting ready to leap into the Ghia, take the wheel and steal her back. But he didn’t jump because his good pair of bell-bottoms were caught in the stirrups and he didn’t want to risk ripping them. Meanwhile, Janis sang “Bye Bye Baby” on the eight-track, the system Sarah had received a week ago from Mom as a birthday present.
    â€œHon, lookit, now you can listen to music when we’re on the road,” Mom had said.
    It was her eleventh birthday. The party was the pits.
    â€œYou’re not still upset about the party, are you?” Mom asked. “I told you my friends were there because we don’t have a traditional sexist mother/daughter relationship. My friends are your friends. Besides, I went through with the pregnancy. Don’t I deserve something for that? And you got more presents. I didn’t get any presents.”
    To mark the day, Mom’s friends had given Sarah a string of love beads, a bottle of root beer lip gloss, two eight-tracks of Carole King’s “Tapestry” album, a subscription to Ms ., a copy of I’m O.K., You’re O.K. , and a diaphragm. All of which Mom had borrowed the following week. Dad was a no-show, contracting business in Tahoe. “Contracting herpes, I hope,” Mom said. He sent a dress from Macy’s, which was Sarah’s only decent gift, aside from the eight track, which she did enjoy, when she was in the car.
    â€œYou’re not on a bummer because we’re moving to this commune with Marty, are you?” Mom said, like Sarah had objected to cashing in a winning lottery ticket. “We’re finally getting out from underneath your father. We’re going back to the earth. I just wish I could have you all over again so you could start off pure, without all this imperialistic male materialism polluting you. We’re going to become spiritually aware, hon. We don’t know ourselves anymore. We’ve drifted from our centers. We’ve forgotten how to love.”
    Sarah wasn’t listening, learning to tune Mom out. She wished life could be as easy as singing backup for Janis, being a member of Big Brother and the Holding Company, coming in with a few “take its” and “break its.” But Sarah was certain her life would be more complicated than a four-bar blues. Judge Steinberg’s idea of a nurturing environment wasn’t going to be realized,