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Belinda Palmer and Clinton Pierce met at a pot party in 1969.
Clinton did not like being at such a party, mainly because he feared getting busted. A drug bust would mean the end of his future plans. He resolved not to smoke but also knew he risked his clean reputation merely by being there. He walked out in the back yard, away from the smoke, the crowding, and the noise. A quiet sky spread above him, a fingernail of moon and the first stars shining in the pale blue over a scrim of trees. The sight of a girl sitting on a bench startled him. He smiled at her. She returned his smile. He asked her name.
“Belinda.”
“I’m Clinton — not Clint, please. May I?”
She gestured. He sat down next to her. She had an oval face, big eyes, and long hair. She had tied on a headband to keep the bangs out of her eyes. Wearing a flower-print minidress, the kind hippie girls wore, she moved her bare feet through the long grass. Clinton gestured to the house.
“Hot and crowded in there.”
“It sure is.”
“Are you from around here?”
She shrugged. “Does it matter where I’m from?”
He felt rebuffed, but the way she dressed indicated hippy sensibilities. Maybe she had some of those freaked-out ideas he heard coming from his edgier friends.
“I guess not. Do you work?”
“Sort of. I live with guys. They pay me.”
“You’re a hooker?” This came out of his mouth before he could stop it. He blushed. She did not look offended, though he hoped she would smile to assure him of as much.
“I guess I could be. I don’t like working regular jobs. Living with guys gives me time to do what I liked to do.”
“Which is?”
“Music. I love to play music.”
“Are you going to try to make it as a musician?”
“I don’t think so. I just love to play.”
“Guitar?”
“Piano.”
He hesitated, then said, “I have a piano in my place.”
“Really? I’m in between. Not living with anyone.”
“Where are you staying?”
“A church in town has apartments for ten dollars a week. Pentecostal Apartments is the name of the place. I have enough money to live there for a while.”
Clinton did not know exactly what to say but felt he wanted to ask. “What do you expect a guy to give you?” he asked, wording his question carefully.
“Whatever they want to give me. If it’s not enough, I leave them.”
“Sounds like a good arrangement.”
“It works for me. If you want me to move in with you, give me your address. If I like your place, I’ll move in. You said you had a piano?”
“I do. And a house by the beach.”
“I’ll be there tomorrow morning.”
“What time?”
“When I get there.”
“Well, that’s cool.”
It was then that they saw red and blue flashing lights.
Belinda rose and walked unhurriedly into the grove of trees behind the house. Clinton wondered what to do and then ran after her. They slipped through the trees to a neighborhood on the other side. She stepped up on a porch and sat in the swing. He joined her after she patted the seat beside her.
A minute later a police car appeared, moving slowly down the street, shining a searchlight as it passed by. Belinda put her head against Clinton’s, laughed, and kissed him. He took the cue and gave her a long, firm kiss. The beam from the window-mounted light passed over them. They looked up, startled. The car stopped and then moved along, turning at the end of the street.
“Is this your house?” he asked.
“No.”
“Whose is it?”
“I don’t know.” He started to get up, but she touched his knee. “They’ll probably come back around.” She kissed him again. Sure enough, the same police car passed down the street again, shining the light on them once more. Belinda gave them a dirty look and went back to smooching with Clinton. The car drove away at a quick pace.
After a few minutes, she stood. The lights in the house were on, but apparently no one inside had noticed them. They walked down the steps and on to the sidewalk. The moon had risen high above trees.
“That was an adventure,” he commented.
She did not reply. Clinton had ridden in with a friend who was probably in jail now. They walked on in silence. He thought of trying to get a conversation going, but she did not seem to want to talk. They came to Markland Avenue and turned on Delphos Street. She stopped at a shabby three-story frame house with grey shingle siding.
“This is where I live,” she said. He could only nod. Something about her left him tongue-tied. “Give me your address.”
“Should I write it down?”
“I’ll remember it.”
He told her his address. She nodded, turned, walked up a long flight of wooden stairs, and unlocked a door. She went inside without saying good-night. Clinton stood there in the dark, under the stars and the crescent moon, turned, and began the long walk home.
* * *
About David W. Landrum
