Kress Department Store #2
The look of despair in Ron’s eyes had nearly killed me the day Dad marched him down to the army recruiting office. It was a Saturday in April, Ron’s senior year in high school. He was not quite eighteen, and the mere thought of war filled him with terror.
“I’m not a soldier, Dad,” Ron said, an hour before they left. “Not all boys are meant to fight wars.” Ron and I had been sitting on his bed listening to his transistor radio when Dad sauntered into the room. Ron’s guitar was in his hands. It lived in his hands.
I met Dad’s gaze. “He’s a boy who believes in peace, not war. He wants to make music, not gunfire.” I shouldn’t have said it. The US military was tradition in our family. But I had to say something, didn’t I? Even if it meant I’d get in trouble. The whole thing was my fault.
Dad peered angrily at me over his glasses, the ones he wore low on his nose. “That’s precisely why he must go. War has a way of turning a boy into a man.”
Ron pleaded with him. “Please let me go to college with my friends. None of their parents are making them go to ’Nam. They’re finding ways to get their boys out of it.”
“I don’t care about them,” Dad answered. “I only care about you.”
Ron and I cut our eyes at one another. That was bull crap. Our dad only cared about the military.
“If you care about me, then let me go to college,” Ron begged. “I’m sorry for what I did.”
“This is best,” Dad said. “One day you’ll understand.”
“I’m not like you, Daddy,” Ron had said with tears in his eyes. He never called our father Daddy anymore. “I know you wish I was, but I’m not.”
“And you never will be,” I had muttered under my breath.
Livy nudged my foot under the table. “Suzannah?”
I blinked. “Sorry, I zoned out. Thinking about Ron.”
“At Harvard kids think differently about the war. I belong to two campus antiwar groups. I’ve been to several demonstrations at—”
I had to interrupt. “Aren’t you afraid of getting arrested?”
“No.” Livy shook her head, wide eyed. “I hate what’s going on in our country. Don’t you?”
That was rhetorical. She already knew the answer. Still, I offered a nod.
“I’m sure plenty of protests are going on at your college,” she said in earnest.
That made me belly laugh. “No. They’re not.”
She knitted her brows. “Huh. Well, I guarantee you the kids are listening to the cool protest music. You’re listening, aren’t you?”
After a long pause, I lowered my eyelids. “I’m not all that familiar with protest music.”
“How can you miss it? It’s everywhere.”
Livy poured a bucket of shame on my head. It’s not like I didn’t want to listen to the cool protest music. I did. But after John Lennon made his stupid proclamation, Dad banned me from all forms of rock music. He took away my transistor radio, all my forty-fives, and all my albums.
Truth be told, I had cheated while driving the Mustang but, like a moron, left the volume turned up after parking in the driveway.
It happened to be the very day Dad decided to take my car for an oil change.
Afterward he marched into my room, told me I had disobeyed his command—like I was one of his soldiers—and then had my radio yanked from the car, leaving me with the Hole of Horror.
As I eyeballed the haughty look on Livy’s face, it crossed my mind to say, Does that liar Marianne Gentry like the cool protest music? But I restrained myself. No sense in digging up the past. Not here anyway.
She crossed her arms on the table and leaned toward me. “You know Bob Dylan’s songs ‘The Times They Are a-Changin,’ ‘Blowin’ in the Wind.’”
“Sure.”
“That’s protest music. You’ve heard of Joan Baez, haven’t you?”
“I’ve heard of her, but I don’t know her music.”
“You would love Joan. Her voice gives me chills. Like yours.”
Did Livy just say my voice gives her chills?
“Joan’s outta sight, man. She’s extremely outspoken about the war.”
“Cool,” I said, though I was sure Livy could tell by the tone of my voice I wasn’t all that interested. What was the point? I had no radio, no record player. How could I possibly listen to Joan Baez?
“SuSu. There’s so much great music out there. It’s about peace and love. You would dig it all.” Hearing her call me SuSu brought back memories of a sweeter time. Besides Ron, Livy was the only one who ever called me that.
I shifted in my seat. No other way around it. I had to confess why I didn’t know about Joan Baez or any of the other protest music. Our friendship had ended before she would have known. “To be perfectly honest, Dad forced me to give up all rock music after what John Lennon said.”
She rolled her eyes. “Your dad is out-there.” With a soup spoon to her lips, she paused. “But you’re still gonna be a singer.”
My heart dropped as I slowly shook my head from side to side.
“Why not? You’re so good!”
I dipped my chin. It pained me to talk about it. “I just told you. Dad made me give up rock music.” As tempted as I was to tell her more, I didn’t. As far as I was concerned, she had lost the right to ask. I didn’t trust her anymore.
“You’re in college now. Can’t you just do it behind his back?”
“No way. This is my new life, Livy.”
With her lips pressed together, Livy squeezed her eyes shut.
I knew she was probably holding her tongue; she knew all about Dad.
But it made me wonder if she could be considering an apology for giving that liar Marianne Gentry my Beatles ticket.
I was hoping she might finally admit what she’d done and say she was sorry for not calling for three years.
“I have a record I want you to hear,” she said instead, completely ignoring what I’d just told her about Dad.
“Let’s go to the music section when we finish lunch. ”
With only fifteen minutes left in my break, we hurried over to the music department. It was a big waste of time, but I didn’t know how to stop Livy. She had always been headstrong.
She sprinted over to the B’s, then hurriedly flipped through the stack until she found a white album with a sunshine on the cover.
Holding it up in front of her, she said, “This is Joan Baez. Oh, SuSu, you’ll love this record.
Joan’s a little edgier than Peter, Paul and Mary, but her voice is angelic. Like yours.”
Livy’s compliments made me curious. Compliments weren’t her style.
“All the songs were written by Bob Dylan—those two were in love—and it was recorded in Nashville.” She pointed to the cover. “That’s Joan’s artwork. How cool is that?”
I just stood there with an aching spirit as she shoved the album into the crook of my arm. The mere feel of it against my skin flooded my heart with a yearning I hadn’t felt in ages.
The next thing I knew, she was holding up an album with a hand-drawn painting of a pretty blonde on the cover.
“This is Joni Mitchell. Wait till you hear her voice. Your whole life is gonna change. That’s her self-portrait, by the way.
” She added the album, Clouds, to my growing pile, then, as an afterthought, said, “Y’all’s voices are similar. ”
Before I could comment on her third compliment of the day, she scurried back to the C’s.
“Hang on. You’ve got to hear this one first. It just came out in May.
” She retrieved an album with three longhairs sitting on a dilapidated maroon velvet sofa and held it in front of her chest. “You will love Crosby, Stills & Nash. They harmonize like celestial beings.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously. Crosby was with the Byrds. You know, ‘Turn! Turn! Turn!’” She tried to sing it.
Knowing that song well, from before my rock and roll ban, I said, “The lyrics are straight out of Ecclesiastes.”
“No way.”
I jerked my head back. “You mean I know music trivia you don’t?”
Livy laughed. “I’d have never known that. Anyway, Stills was in Buffalo Springfield, and Nash was in the Hollies.” She sang the first line of a Hollies song we used to love. “‘Hey, Carrie Anne.’” She pointed to me.
“‘What’s your game now?’” I sang back.
In unison we crooned, “‘Can anybody play?’” It was so much fun it made me long to reverse time and never beg my parents for Beatles tickets.
“You’ll love them, man,” she said.
As much as I wanted to listen to the records, I handed them back, wondering if she’d paid attention to a word I’d said. “Rock and roll is a part of my past.”
Livy looked me dead in the eye. “I find that tragic.”
“That makes two of us.” I glanced at my watch. “Gotta go. I’ll get in trouble if I’m late.”
She put the records down and reached out for a hug.
At first, I resisted. But upon remembering all the good times, and the safe feeling I’d once had around her and her family, I hugged back. With vigor. In truth, I didn’t want to let her go. “I had fun today,” I said, wishing we could do it again soon.
“So fun,” she answered.
I threw my hand up in a quick wave and bolted out the front door.
I peeled out of the Laurelwood Shopping Center, only to catch the red light at Poplar Avenue.
While drumming my fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, I read the sign in front of Christ United Methodist Church: “Forgiveness opens the door to trust and freedom.” Just one more church telling people how to live their lives, I thought but stared at it anyway.
I didn’t trust anyone, except Ron. And I damn sure didn’t have any freedom.
“What am I going to do with you, young lady?” Gertie asked—hands on hips—when I returned without my cologne. She didn’t care about the hairspray. “If you don’t start taking care of yourself, I’m likely to have a fit. Men love perfume. Don’t you even want a boyfriend?”
I stashed my purse under the checkout counter, then slowly turned to face her. “I haven’t met one single boy who interests me except Paul McCartney. And we broke up.”
As my final customer of the day stepped away from the counter, I did a double take at the sight of someone heading swiftly toward me, a large brown paper tote dangling from her grip.
Plopping the bag on the counter, Livy sighed. She combed her fingers through her hair. “It took me forever to find you. You didn’t tell me you worked”—she glanced around—“in the brassiere department.”
I leaned in toward her, shutting the money drawer with my belly. “Cupping ladies’ breasts is not something I brag about.”
She chuckled, then handed over the heavy sack.
A quick peek inside revealed a bushel of albums. “You didn’t have—”
“Oh yes, I did. The thought of you giving up rock and roll won’t leave my brain.”
I noticed Gertie eyeing us from a few feet away, eavesdropping.
“After you left, I remembered more of my favorites. There’s a surprise in there too.”
“A surprise?” I loved surprises.
“You’ll see,” said Livy.
Like Dad’s many apology gifts, this was Livy’s nonverbal olive branch, her I’m-sorry-I-betrayed-you present. Even so, she had spent an exorbitant amount of money. Twenty dollars. Maybe more.
“Gosh, Livy, you spent way too much. I’ll pay you back.”
She shook her head. “Oh no you won’t. It’s the least I can do. These albums will change your life. I swear.”
“Change my life? That’s a big swear.” Truthfully, butterflies swarmed in my stomach as I eyed the stack of records. I was dying to listen to them. But how? Where? When?
Gertie butted in. “Why don’t you girls paint the town tonight? I hear the Bitter Lemon is a hot spot for all you young folk.”
“No ma’am. Not tonight,” Livy told her. “My boyfriend’s calling me long distance at six thirty. I promised him I’d be waiting by the phone.”
“Perhaps he has a friend for little Suzannah here,” Gertie said, rubbing a gentle hand across my back.
“She’d have to move up north for that to happen.” Livy tapped the counter. “Gotta split. Hope you love the records.”
While I watched Livy move toward the escalator, it occurred to me that I’d forgotten to thank her. “Thank you,” I yelled as she was stepping on.
She looked my way, then flashed me the peace sign.
Hope clung to my heart. Maybe life holds a second verse for us, I thought as Livy’s head slowly disappeared from sight.
I turned to Gertie. “Livy’s an old friend. I guess she’s a hippie now.”
“I’ll say.” She pursed her lips in disapproval.
I had no desire to be a hippie or become part of the counterculture.
The laid-back, hippie-dippie scene flat out annoyed me.
Hippies are too wild, I often thought. Though I had to admit eating lunch with hippie Livy had given me a lift.
A big lift. As mad as I’d been at her, spending time with my ex–best friend had boosted my spirts and given me a reason to hope again.
After quickly tidying up the checkout area, Gertie and I reached for our purses at the same time.
“That young la-dy looks awfully fa-mil-iar,” she singsonged, slipping her purse strap onto the crook of her arm. “I’ve seen her be-fore.”
“You’re thinking of Ursula Andress. Livy looks just like her. Only prettier.”
“Oh, I know Ursula. She’s that sexpot in Dr. No. Wayne’s dragged me to see it three times now, and it’s not because of Sean Connery.”
I had no idea what to say to that.
As we weaved our way through the robe racks, I yanked Gertie’s sleeve. “I know! You saw Livy at the last protest rally you attended.”
“Why, Miss Withers, you caught me.” Gertie’s eyebrows lifted as she gave me the peace sign, and we headed toward the escalator.