Chapter Two Sassy
two SASSY
Sassy Rankin hugged her arms around herself, trying to stay warm despite the May chill. Forty-six degrees, someone had said. Nowhere near the seventy it had been only four days ago. It had been so warm then, she had loaned out her poncho, and she hadn’t seen it since, which was too bad. She really could have used it right now. She glanced up, wondering where her friends had gone, and hoping they’d bring back snacks. Whatever Sassy had just smoked was making her crave peanuts. The buzz was fading fast, and her stomach was demanding attention.
Today was an awesome day: the biggest love-in the country had ever seen. After weeks of planning, the organizers filled Queen’s Park with people like her, providing entertainment through singers and poets and speakers. The day was all about peace, and about proving to the public that she and the other hippies were not the monsters they were made out to be. Most were nonviolent and loving and offered no threat at all. They were happy just to be .
She couldn’t tell if their message was getting out, though. The waves of people dancing and singing around her blocked her view of everything else. It didn’t matter. She was here for a good time. She’d worn the mod dress she’d sewn, which covered her in big flowers but left her goose bump–rippled arms bare. She lamented her missing poncho again, but she had no idea who she had loaned it to.
She and her friends had arrived at the park early enough that they’d found a spot on the grass in the midst of hundreds of warm bodies, as close to the stage as they could get.
The blond girl sitting on her left leaned toward her. “I think I should paint a flower on your cheek.”
Sassy took in the girl’s crown of daisies and her peaceful, glazed expression, and she offered her face.
“Wiiild,” the girl said, long and drawn out. She reached into an overstuffed bag at her other side, embroidered with all the colours of the rainbow. “Here you go.”
Sassy closed her eyes, enjoying the caress of the stranger’s paintbrush skimming over her cheek.
“You need two,” the artist declared critically, dipping her brush into a bright orange pot. When she was done, she handed Sassy a compact. “How’s that?”
Sassy angled her face toward the little mirror, appreciating the simple, childlike flowers that took up her entire left cheek, as if she grew a garden from the corner of her lip to just under her eye. One was yellow, the other orange, and their centres were switched.
“Groovy,” she said with a wide grin.
“Yeah,” the artist agreed. “I’m Sagittarius.”
“I can tell. It’s in your smile. I’m Libra.”
“The keeper of peace.” The girl sighed, soaking in the meaning. “Cool.”
Joey is Sagittarius, Sassy thought vaguely. Her brother would have loved this scene. When she glanced up at the stage, a random memory came to her of sitting on the school’s gymnasium floor, watching the grade threes put on a play. Three Little Pigs , she remembered. Joey was supposed to be sitting with the grade twos, but he’d snuck back to the grade fours to sit with Sassy. The two of them had nearly split their sides laughing at the girl playing the wolf. She had worn a ridiculously huge wolfskin coat, probably provided by her mother, and its hood kept falling off her head. Doing her best to appear big and bad, the diminutive actress kept yanking the hood over her blond curls. Joey laughed so hard at her frustration that the teacher dragged him back to the place of discipline, at her feet. Even then, he’d glanced over his shoulder at Sassy, still grinning.
He hadn’t been afraid of that teacher or anyone else. Not that Sassy knew of, anyway. Joey lived in his own world, and she’d often felt lucky that he brought her into it. He was always doing unexpected things, and he did them with commitment. Like that toothpick house he’d glued together one time. The teacher had asked the students to assemble four simple walls and a roof, but Joey added a second floor and only quit building walls when he realized the stairs he’d built didn’t fit.
When she was ten and he was eight, the two of them had constructed a playhouse within the trees around their large home by bending saplings together and piling branches for walls. They’d rolled in stones and a short log to serve as stools. Joey lost interest in the playhouse after a couple of days, but Sassy loved the little shelter. She carried books out and read them there in private.
She preferred the playhouse to their home, a mansion that echoed with empty rooms and hiding spots. Her father had inherited the big house from her grandfather, and to Sassy, it always felt too big and too quiet. One night in her playhouse, the soothing sounds of the woods lulled her enough that she forgot to go home once it began to get dark. She’d glanced up from the pages and found herself in dusky shadows, a place she’d never been before. With wide eyes, she’d stepped out from between the branches and surveyed an unfamiliar night that suddenly screeched with scary-sounding crickets. Somehow she’d gotten turned around and had no idea how to get to the house. Her father’s estate had extensive grounds, but with so many tall shade trees, she couldn’t see any lights from the house between the boughs.
Then Joey was there, like a puppy with a wagging tail, waiting for her to follow him. He didn’t tease her for the tears on her face that night, never made fun of her for getting lost in her own backyard.
“I can’t,” she said.
“Come on. It’s easy. Just two little steps.”
Then he just took her hand and chattered the whole way back. The following afternoon, he’d suggested they go out to the secret spot together, but she’d refused. No way she was going to get stuck like that again. He persisted, so she reluctantly agreed, but only for a short while. She even wore a watch to make sure she didn’t overstay. When they reached the spot, Joey was beaming, looking like a cat who’d swallowed a canary. Confused, she ducked inside to find a bouquet of flowers he’d plucked just for her and stuck in a bottle of water. He’d even built a wobbly little bookshelf, where he’d stacked her favourites along with a flashlight.
“See?” he said. “You never have to be scared, because I’ll never let anything happen to you. You and me, Sass. We’re like peanut butter and jelly, remember?”
That was something their nanny, Minnie, had said, shaking her head at the song they’d performed at her birthday party years ago. “Peanut butter and jelly, you two. Good on your own, but better together.”
Sassy’s stomach growled. Now she was craving a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. She sighed and leaned back on the grass, determined to appreciate the gorgeous day. The only thing that could have made today better was if Joey was here.
“Ladies and gentlemen, we have a surprise guest artist coming onto the stage now.”
Sassy held her breath and crossed all her fingers. There had been rumours, but she’d hardly dared to believe. Could this be…
“Please welcome Vanguard recording artist Buffy Sainte-Marie.”
With a cry of joy, Sassy jumped to her feet and threw her hands into the air. She’d listened to Buffy’s records so many times, doggedly attempting to mimic the singer on her own guitar, that the record player’s needle needed to be replaced. Now she stared up at the stage, holding her breath as the legendary woman walked to the microphone and stopped only a few feet away. Her long black hair flowed like water over her shoulders, and she wore a deceptively shy smile as she began to strum. When she belted out “Universal Soldier,” Sassy felt torn between closing her eyes and watching every little thing that Buffy did. The next song was “Until It’s Time for You to Go,” and Sassy’s fingers itched to play along. Every woman in the crowd must know this song, she thought. This was the anthem they all needed, reminding them they did not need to wear shackles because of a man’s set of rules. Women were powerful, mothers and daughters sprung from the maternal spirit of the earth, and they needed their freedom. Sassy sang along, rocking from side to side and watching Buffy’s shining black eyes, feeling one with her as they shared the words.
After Buffy left the stage, Sassy sank back onto the grass, still buzzing with adrenaline. Her makeup artist lay dazed beside her, blinking at the sky.
“Buffy’s righteous,” a young man said, sliding in on Sassy’s right. He was medium height with brown hair almost to his shoulders, and a flop of it fell over one side of his brow. Without hesitation, he gave her a shining smile. He held out a thin, tightly rolled joint, already lit.
“You knew all the words.”
Sassy observed him as she inhaled, letting his face blur a little as the high entered her brain. She liked the look of him. Soft, but strong. Casually intelligent. She also liked that he’d been watching her. She held her breath a moment then released the smoke.
“I know everything she sings,” she said, passing the marijuana to the girl lying beside her. “She speaks to me, you know?”
“Far out. You sing like a bird,” he said.
A plume of smoke rose on Sassy’s left, then the artist returned the joint. Sassy took another puff and passed it back to the young man. She wrapped her arms around herself again, keeping warm, relishing the sense of mellow as it spread through her.
“You couldn’t hear me.”
“Sure, I could. I was listening. I can’t sing a note.”
“Bet you can,” she said, taking to him.
His gaze dropped briefly to the goose bumps on her arms. Without a word, he slipped out of his brown sweater and handed it to her. The soft polyester fibres still held his heat, and she was instantly warm once she’d dropped it over her head.
She went back to what she was saying. “Anyone can sing.”
The young man finished the joint, and his eyes drifted closed. “I don’t know about that,” he said tightly, holding in his breath while he spoke, “but right now I’m feeling so good I might jump on the stage and give it a try.”
She leaned back on her elbows. “You’re funny.”
“Funny enough to take you out sometime?”
“Fast, too,” she noted, catching a glimpse of lion-gold eyes under long lashes.
“Toronto’s a busy place. I might never see you again. I gotta act quick.”
He might have been fast, but his laid-back accent was nice and slow. It charmed her. “Where are you from? I like the way you talk.”
He reclined on his side beside her. “South Carolina. I like the way you talk, too.”
Another performer approached the microphone, and the announcer introduced her as Cathy Young. Sassy had never heard of her, but she liked her voice. Lulled by cannabis and music, she closed her eyes and drifted, letting herself forget where she was, who she was, why she was… Eventually, she glanced back at the boy and wondered how much time had passed since he’d spoken. Time was a funny thing in all this smoke.
“What’s your name?”
“Davey.”
“Why are you here? In Canada, I mean.”
He held her gaze, as if he was daring her. “I came here because I ain’t gonna fight another country’s war.”
She had no argument with that. “Davey,” she mused, curling a lock of her long chestnut hair around one finger and regarding him through soft eyes. “Davey the Dodger. Interesting. My brother’s fighting over there.”
“So was mine.”
Past tense. The finality of his words silenced her.
You had better be all right, Joey.
“But your brother’s Canadian,” Davey said, sounding keen to continue the conversation. “Why’s he there?”
“I guess he’s the opposite of you.” She shook her head, jostling Joey from her thoughts. She didn’t want to wreck the day by being sad or angry. “I’ve never met a draft dodger before.”
“I prefer ‘war resister.’?”
“Far out. Whatever you call it. We should be loving, not fighting. Why are we sending our sons and brothers to kill another country’s sons and brothers? In the end, no one wins except big corporations and government. It’s all about money to The Man.”
“I think I’m falling in love with you,” Davey breathed.
She laughed. “Cool. This is a love-in.”
He chuckled and produced another joint from his pocket. He raised an eyebrow at her.
“Why not?” she said.
The face painter had fallen asleep and was quietly snoring. A girl in a beige, lacy dress danced behind her, not noticing or caring that the music had stopped. She spun so fast her feet barely touched the ground, and the sun took advantage of the angle, making it appear as if she was naked. It was a beautiful illusion. What was the girl seeing? Sassy wondered. What did she hear?
“You know who’s coming on soon, don’t you?” Davey asked. He squinted as he lit the joint and drew in the smoke, then he slowly let his breath out through his teeth so it hissed on the exhale. “Leonard Cohen.”
“I saw him once at the Riverboat. His poetry was out of this world, but in my opinion, he has a terrible voice.”
“Ah, so you’re more than a nightingale. You’re a critic.”
“I’m a singer. Someday I’ll be famous.”
Davey brought back that slow smile, and she felt her cheeks warm. “Out of sight. Now you gotta tell me your name so I’ll know who to watch for.”
“I’m Sassy.”
“Sassy. Very cool,” he said.
Over the course of the afternoon, between loud music sets that drowned out attempts at conversation, they talked. To her delight, she rediscovered a package of Starburst candies in her pocket, and they feasted on those. Eventually, he asked more about Joey, wanting to know why he’d chosen to go to Vietnam. She wished he hadn’t asked. Almost a year later, it hurt to think of her brother over there. When she let herself remember, what she saw was the apology in his expression. She hadn’t accepted that apology, and he’d gone anyway. Off to war. Off to die. God, she had hated him and his selfishness in that moment. When had he gotten so cruel? When had fighting another country’s war become more important to him than his sister?
She didn’t hate Joey anymore. She’d changed. She still missed him constantly, but now instead of anger, she mourned for him. She’d never admit it out loud, but she knew what happened to men who went to war. Even if he came back physically unharmed, he’d never be the same. War broke people.
Davey didn’t seem to understand that Sassy was trying to sidestep thinking about her brother, so she gave him a different sort of answer. She told him their father was a bigwig in the city, and a rich man, so she figured Joey’s move was rebellion.
“I’m not about to rebel,” she admitted, feeling smug. “Dad made me a deal. If I hold down a full-time job, he’ll pay all my bills for three years, including rent.”
“Sweet,” he said, awe in his voice.
“Yeah. Joey couldn’t have gotten that deal. He doesn’t do anything that people tell him to do.” She scowled. “Like stay home.”
She’d gotten occasional letters from her brother, grimy and stained, telling her Vietnam was a terrible place and that men over there were either dying or going crazy, but when she wrote back and begged him to come home, he said he couldn’t. He and his “brothers” had a job to do down there. Try to understand, Sass.
She couldn’t. Never would.
“I don’t want to talk about Joey anymore,” she said. “It’s bringing me down. Tell me about you, Davey the Dodger.”
His family had a small farm. He had three older sisters, a mom, and a dad, who would probably never speak to him again. The only thing he missed about his home was his dog, a good old hunting hound named Bowzer. When she asked him what he liked to do, Davey said he liked to paint, but he wasn’t any good at it.
Sassy leaned in closer, increasingly attracted to him. She studied the lines on his face and the light scruff around his jaw. She wanted to touch his cheek.
“So you can’t sing and you can’t paint. What are you good at?”
“Cooking. It’s like art, only you can eat it after.” He grinned. “I’m real good at cooking. And I’m starting to get active in, like, the movement, you know? Like, with organizing protests and stuff like that. Somebody asked me to set up a sit-in last week, and I didn’t think it’d be my thing, but pulling all the details together was cool. Went off without a hitch.”
“So, like, you could have run today’s show?”
He smiled languidly. “Yeah. Someday I’ll run something like this. Gotta start slow.”
After the music and the poetry and the speeches ended, men began disassembling the speakers and clearing the equipment. Members of the audience reluctantly wrapped blankets around themselves and wandered off the field, leaving a trail of cups, cigarette butts, and various plastic wrappers behind them.
When Sassy looked at Davey, he was watching her.
“I guess it’s over.”
He gazed back, smiling. “Guess so.”
“I’m hungry,” she declared coyly, wondering if he’d take the bait.
“I have an idea,” he said, reading her mind. “How about I make you dinner at your place?”