Dana Spiotta - Eat the Document

“Like what?”

“Like?” Caroline paused and collected herself. She shrugged. “Hmm. Like Dylan was great because he went electric. Or my Beach Boys records were shallow or even reactionary. Or that you should only smoke pot in a pipe. Or that the business world was more the enemy than the government. Or that you should be a vegetarian. He was certain of a lot of things. I was not certain, but I was learning to be. Anyway, I was certain of him, at some point.”

“So what happened?”

Caroline watched Berry get up and cross the room. She sucked at the pretzel as she walked and tossed the record she was playing on a pile of other uncovered records. She pulled out a Roberta Flack album and put the record on the turntable. She began to sing along to the music, looking at Caroline.

“I can’t talk about it yet. If that’s okay.” Caroline was too tired, too high to figure out how to lie or not lie at this point. “I can’t talk about it.”

There was a pause. Berry finally chomped down on her pretzel, chewed briefly and swallowed.

“The first time ever I saw your face,” Berry sang to the record and started laughing. Caroline also laughed, suddenly relieved, then sang with her a bit, laughing harder. Berry choked on bits of pretzel dust in her throat.

“I’m sorry,” she said, laughing even harder.

“No, it’s funny.”

“Love is very heavy,” Berry said, not laughing any longer. Caroline began to understand she could just not say anything, and people would make up their own lies for her. She just had to remember to say less and less. Say and do less and less.

In August, Caroline started up a tiny cafe at the Black & Red. She had been at it only a few weeks when Bobby came up again. Mel sat in the back office talking on the phone. She nodded as Caroline entered. Caroline looked at the books and newsletters on Mel’s desk. She must have had every counterculture rag in existence. The top paper was the issue of Rat with the infamous Radical Lesbian’s declaration in it. Caroline figured Mel had positioned it for effect. The cover was smudged and hard to read. Why must revolutions always have crappy type and poor ink quality? Why aren’t they beautiful? Mel finally said, “Okay, thanks,” and hung up the phone.

“Bobby wants you to know he’s okay,” she said to Caroline. Caroline felt her chest completely empty out.

“What?”

Mel just looked at her.

Just breathe in, Caroline thought, and say nothing. But she heard what Mel said.

“How did you know?” Caroline finally said, her voice choked.

“I didn’t know, I just suspected.”

“Did you talk with Bobby?”

“No, I didn’t. I think he was at a safe house in Los Angeles a while back, but I don’t know where he is now.”

Caroline felt enormous relief. He was safe somewhere. Then, more than relief, she felt suddenly hurt that he hadn’t really tried to contact her. That there really was no message. Some part of her believed somehow, still, that she would be in contact with him. And there was only Mel, staring at her.

“Look, I don’t want to talk about this with you. You are safe here for now. I’m the only one who’s figured it out. But who knows how long that will last. You better be prepared to move soon. You’re still hot, you know that, don’t you? You have to keep moving, especially the first couple of years, and everywhere you go you endanger what’s going on there.”

Caroline looked down at the dirt on the wood floor. Why dirty floors, always?

“Caroline?”

“Yes?”

“You have no right hanging out with us — it is dangerous. Dangerous for you and for us, do you understand?”

“You’re right. I’m sorry.”

Mel moved the papers together on her desk as though she was finishing a grueling performance report, or an employee termination, or a blackball.

“There are places you can go. I know some safe places where there isn’t scrutiny, or they don’t mind the scrutiny, or where everyone is hiding out so one more doesn’t matter.”

“Our intentions—” Caroline said quickly.

“—look, I’m not a supporter of tactics that give them an excuse for more harassment of the left. But that doesn’t matter. What’s done is done.”

“But—”

“I don’t want to hear about it. It is already too much. It is all too much.”

“Yes.”

CAROLINE WAS Freya and the feds pounded on the door. She was in the motel again, but for some reason there were weapons all over the room. She wore a miniskirt and knee boots, like Bernardine Dohrn, bullets strapped across her chest, commando-style. They were pounding at the door. “Open up!”

She awoke in her apartment in Eugene, no guns, no Bernardine Dohrn getup, just washed-out blond Caroline. But someone was pounding on her door. She jumped up, looked at the bedside clock. 3:30.

“Caroline, it’s me, Berry. Please, please open the door.” Berry was knocking and begging at the door; she sobbed and was getting louder.

“Berry?” Caroline said and unlocked the door, undid the chain, turned the dead bolt. Berry was leaning against the door. Her nose bled and her lip bled. She pressed her scarf against her mouth.

“Oh my God, what happened? What happened to you?”

“Oh, Caroline, it is so bad,” she said and started sobbing again. Caroline pulled her into the apartment, and Berry ran past her to the bathroom. She heaved and retched into the toilet bowl. Caroline held her hair back as she vomited. Berry caught her breath and winced. She touched her split lip. “That hurts so much,” she said and then retched again.

When the heaving finished, Berry sat weakly on the floor by the bowl of the toilet. Caroline wet a washcloth and wiped Berry’s face very carefully.

“Let me see. What happened? Who did this to you?” Berry started crying again. Caroline wiped the blood off her nostrils and cheek. Berry winced and pushed her hand away.

“Does it hurt bad?” she asked.

“Not too much, but I’m pretty drunk right now. Look at me. I’m a total fucking mess. I am going to have black eyes tomorrow, too.” Berry’s lip was already swelling. Caroline went to the other room and grabbed an ice cube tray from her minifridge’s tiny freezer. She dumped the ice in a dish towel.

“We have to ice it so it doesn’t swell.”

Berry still sat on the bathroom floor, her legs spread in front of her. She wore flimsy Indian leather sandals, with just a center tie and a strap around the big toe. Her feet were dirty. Her purple gauze peasant dress was pulled up over her knees, and there were drips of blood on the blousy drawstring neckline. She tried to pull her frizzy blond curls out of her face with one hand while the other held the ice pack to her lip and nose. She still cried but no longer sobbed.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“Are you finished throwing up?”

“I think so.”

“Do you want to lie down?”

Berry shook her head emphatically. “God no. If I close my eyes I will be very ill.”

“Well, let’s get off the bathroom floor and go to the couch. That will be a start.” Berry nodded. Caroline helped her to sit and wrapped a Day-Glo orange caftan around her lap.

“Maybe some food? I baked bread today, and I have tahini to put on it.”

Berry nodded. With the swollen lip she looked like a pouting little girl, nodding through her tears at the idea of food.

Berry slid from the seat of the couch to the floor. She sat cross-legged, leaning her back against the legs of the couch, gingerly and slowly eating Caroline’s bread covered with jam and tahini. They sipped tea, and Berry stopped crying. She pressed the ice against her face between bites.