Chevy Stevens - Always Watching

That day there were a couple of young men in the store, wearing faded bell-bottoms and loose, caftan-styled shirts, ponchos for coats, strange knit toques, their hair almost as long as my mother’s. Back then, in the late sixties, it was common to see hippies in town, but I still thought them fascinating. I flipped through some magazines at the counter while I watched my mom talking to the earnest young men. I was used to men paying attention to my mother, with her pale blue eyes and long dark hair, her body slim from working on the ranch; she always attracted attention, but something seemed different about the tone of this conversation. Though it was cold out, the men were wearing sandals, and I couldn’t stop looking at their feet.

I don’t know what they had said to my mom, but by the time we drove home, she had switched to her up phase. Laughing as she careened around corners, her eyes too bright, teasing us kids, who were terrified, for being “scaredy-cats.” Robbie tried not to show his fear, but his knuckles were white as he gripped the truck door, his other arm around my shoulders, holding me in place. It wasn’t the first time she’d taken us on one of her wild rides.

Years later, when I was twenty-six, my mother was killed in an accident. She’d slid on wet roads and lost control, hitting a tree doing a hundred. But I’d read the report, there were no skid marks: She never tried to slow down. She wasn’t trying now either.

When we finally made it home, Robbie climbed out, and I slithered after him on wobbly legs. Mom had already leaped out, slamming the door behind her. We followed her into the house, a small rancher with cedar-shake siding, a sloping floor, and so many leaks we had buckets all over the house when it rained. Mom was in her bedroom, throwing clothes into a suitcase.

Robbie said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

“We’re getting out of here. Grab your things.”

Robbie said, “Are we going on a trip?”

“Pack everything—we’re not coming back.”

Robbie’s face was scared. “We can’t just leave Dad—”

She stopped and turned to us. “He leaves us alone for months—I can’t live like this anymore. We’re going to stay with some people out by the river.”

A kaleidoscope of confusing thoughts spun through my mind. Was she going to divorce our dad? What people? Did she mean the hippies we’d met?

She said, “They’re a revolution, and we’re going to be a part of it. We’re going to change the world, kids.”

Both Robbie and I knew that she wasn’t going to change anything, except probably her mood in another day or so, but we also knew it was best just to go along with her. She would come down eventually, and then we’d go home.

Now she pulled some old suitcases out of the closet and handed them to us. “Pack your clothes and anything else you want to bring.”

Robbie and I looked at each other, then he nodded: Just do as she says, it will be okay. I was scared, but I trusted Robbie.

All I brought were some clothes and my books. When we were finished, we found Mom outside by the truck, her suitcase and bags full of food already thrown in the back. Our dog, Jake, a black border collie mix with one blue eye, followed us out of the house, his tail wagging in concern, and an anxious whine leaking from his throat. Terrified she was going to leave him—we had two cats, Jake, and a couple of horses—I said, “What about the animals?”

She paused in the middle of throwing some of Dad’s tools in the truck, a confused expression on her face, like it was the first time she’d even thought about our pets. After a moment, she said, “We’ll take them. They should be free too.” She turned to us, her eyes lit up with frantic energy, her skin coated in a fine sheen of sweat. “You kids don’t know how lucky you are. You’re going to experience something amazing. Your lives are going to change forever.”

The commune was in a clearing alongside the river, hidden from the logging road, which leads up to Glen Eagle Mountain, by a thick wall of forest. The river wrapped around one side of the clearing and glimpses of jade green pools were visible through the trees. As we came into the center of the camp, the forest opened up beside the river to reveal a sandy beach, with the odd dead tree from winter runoffs littering the shore. One tree made a makeshift clothes hanger as a woman did her laundry in the water, soap bubbles frothing in the current. Across the river, the high bank was a sheer dirt wall, trees and ferns clinging to the earth as it eroded from underneath their roots.

There looked to be at least a couple of dozen people living at the site, the women dressed in loose dresses and skirts, their hair long. The men wore cut-off jeans, their chests bare, also with long hair and beards. Cats, dogs, chickens, and kids were roaming free, and there was a tangible air of excitement in the air. It was cold, and it had snowed the week before, but some of them were living in tents. Two old yellow school buses had been converted into sleeping areas, and there were signs that they were building more cabins. A couple of horses grazed in a meadow to the right of the main clearing. I also noticed a tractor, and pens with goats and pigs. A group came to greet us, pulling us in for hugs, touching and stroking our hair as they welcomed us to their camp. One blond woman, smelling of cedar and smoke, turned to my mother.

“Peace, sister. What’s your name?”

“Kate. These are my children, Nadine and Robbie.”

The woman smiled. “Welcome, Kate. I’m Joy.”

A tall kid with red hair and freckles, who looked about the same age as Robbie, came over and introduced himself as Levi. He clasped Robbie on the shoulder. “Welcome to our camp, man. Want to meet some cool chicks?”

As they walked off, I said, “Robbie, wait.” But he was already out of earshot, moving toward a couple of teenage girls, who looked happy to see Robbie. Since he’d turned sixteen, girls had been flocking to him—tall, with lean muscles from working on our ranch, shaggy black hair framing his face, and a perpetual tough-guy scowl, he looked like a moody rock star.

Mom was following Joy toward one of the cabins and gestured for me to come along.

I said, “You said we had to unload the horses from the trailer.”

Over her shoulder, she said, “We’ll do it in a minute.” She turned back to Joy. “Nadine’s my little rule follower.”

It was true. I did crave the comfort of rules, of science and math. With a mother as mercurial as mine, I was constantly searching for absolutes. I stood near the truck, wishing Mom had left the keys. I didn’t like the camp, the way it smelled, a bitter, metallic scent. The scent my mother gave off in her manic phase.

Then I saw an attractive young man, maybe early twenties, sitting on a log at the side of the clearing. The winter sun slanted down through fir trees and made his hair, a thick mane of chocolate brown, glow with rich tones and bathed his face in light. His dark brown eyes, with long eyelashes, had an almost sleepy look to them, and his cheekbones were high, creating shadows and hollows on his face. His mouth was full, the lips perfectly symmetrical and turned down at the corners. He also had a full beard, even darker than his hair, and he was wearing jeans, a tan corduroy jacket, and a string of leather tied around his neck. He was watching me as he held an old guitar, the embroidered strap across his chest. He smiled and motioned me over. I wanted to stay near the truck and shook my head. He shrugged, gave a wink, and started to strum the guitar, softly singing.

Jake, who’d been guarding my feet, sauntered over. The man paused his singing and ruffled the fur around Jake’s neck. Jake didn’t like anyone normally, but he rolled onto his back, wiggling on the ground. The man laughed and rubbed his belly with his foot. I was a cautious, distrustful kid by nature. But when the man lifted his head and said, “What’s his name?” I left the safety of the truck.