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“I don’t like him sticking his nose in my business,” Clinton repeated, voice flat with anger. “Hitting someone is a crime. A grown man hitting an eighteen year-old girl!” His voice had risen too loud for the telephone.
“Calm down, son.”
“You asked for an explanation,” Clinton said, now out of control with anger. “You’ve got it. Miller’s the one who started it.”
“He said you and that girl were living together.”
“He needs to butt out. It’s none of his business or anyone else’s.”
“It is your family’s business.” His father’s voice had remained calm through all of this. “James won’t like your living in an immoral relationship in his summer house.” James was the uncle who owned the house. “I don’t like it either.”
“I’ll discuss it with Father Lautner,” Clinton shot back. Father Lautner was the priest at the Episcopal Church his family attended. He did not like being disrespectful to his father, so he added, “You don’t need to be concerned. Belinda is a fine young lady. I think she’s a sight better than Betsy or any of the other girls I’ve dated. I’d like you to meet her sometime.”
His father did not have a reply. He switched to neutral subjects. They spoke words but did not really talk for another ten minutes. Clinton hung up. That afternoon Charlie told him he could not work at the country club as a caddy anymore. He also learned Belinda had filed a lawsuit against Miller.
Clinton had saved enough money to get through the summer, but that would mean funds for his freshman year at college would be depleted by Fall. His parents were footing the bill for tuition and room and board, but he wanted enough money to live well his first year away. Buying food for him and Belinda, gas for the car, and incidental expenses steadily drained his bank account.
“Get a job somewhere else,” Belinda suggested.
Clinton had not thought of this, because he enjoyed his job at the Country Club so much and had not entirely given up on getting it back. He called Charlie but only got a vague promise that he would “think about it.” Clinton had no skills to offer. He eventually applied to several restaurants. Sorello’s, a high-end Italian place, hired him.
Belinda, in the meantime, planned her legal case against Miller. Several people from the Country Club planned to testify on her behalf. One night after making love and gone out on the back deck to enjoy the cool of night — he in his bathing trunks, Belinda wrapped in a towel — he asked if she was afraid of losing in court.
“Phil Rammel said it’s open and shut. Their lawyers are negotiating. He’ll probably try to settle out of court — pay me a bunch of money to drop the charges.”
“Will you take the money?”
“Phil said if it went to trial and Miller pleaded guilty he would probably only get a little fine. But it wouldn’t look good, and he doesn’t want to the bad publicity or a criminal record. So I’ll make him pay through nose. I’ll get more satisfaction out of that than if it went to trial and he just got a slap on the wrist.”
Working at Sorello’s was not as easy as Clinton had thought it would be. He got small tips from people who took Miller’s side in the quarrel. Some diners even told the manager they did not want him as their waiter. One night the Lane family dined there. They said they did not want Clinton as a waiter, but when he stepped outside for some fresh air during his break, Betsy came around the corner and walked up to him.
“Hi, Clinton.” She shot him a tentative smile.
“Hello, Betsy.” He was a bit startled she had followed him outside.
“I’ve got to talk quickly. I told my family I went to girl’s room. What’s this with Belinda Palmer?”
“I’m dating her. That seems to be attracting everyone’s interest.”
“She’s a drop-out. Did you know that? I mean, she graduated from high school, but she ran track in school and was in the dance troupe; music, too, and she was good — sang in the choir and played piano for us sometimes. Then she just quit all that and started doing weird stuff.”
“What kind of weird stuff?”
“Meditation. Hippie stuff. Reading books.”
“Reading books is weird?”
“The kind she reads are crazy. She got weird. I can’t understand what you see in her.”
“A lot of people can’t understand what I see in her — and they seem to think it’s their business somehow.”
“Everyone is saying you’re hanging around with her just because she was willing to move in with you.”
“I didn’t hear you say that,” Clinton answered, his voice clipped.
All your friends are concerned about you,” she said, tone changing as she dropped her first line of attack. “She’s into drugs.”
“She’s not into drugs, Betsy,” he said, trying not to raise his voice. “And really, it’s my business.”
He hoped his mild rebuke would make her back off, but she did not seem to react to it at all. “Well, I’ve got to go. We ought to get together and talk, Clinton.” She gave him a hopeful smile, turned, and went back into the restaurant.
He and Belinda did drugs one time only — a week after he and Betsy talked. They did not want to risk buying anything and were afraid, given the implications of her lawsuit, that the police might raid and search the house. She had two capsules of psilocybin and suggested she and Clinton take them. “I like it because it’s more a head rush and a nice, warm feeling in your body. Acid gives you hallucinations and the other stuff makes you dopey, but with this you feel good and think cool thoughts — besides getting nice and high.”
The hallucinogenic properties of the drug made that night beautiful, even if it was chemically induced. They talked and listened to music. The drug enhanced their senses so that sounds, colors, sensations of touch, moved past normalcy into the sublime. He never forget making love to her under the influence of the drug; nor did he forget sitting on the patio afterward, in the early hours of morning, and looking at the moon and stars, laughing and kissing as the effects wore off. By dawn, they laughed and joked about having to return to normal life.
They slept a few hours, got up, and had a late breakfast. The police raided the house right after they had finished eating.
They were putting dishes in the dishwasher when a loud knock came at the door. Belinda opened it to find three uniformed police officers who asked if she was the owner of the house. Clinton came to the door. They presented him with a search warrant and pushed their way inside.
The cops spent the next two hours searching the house. They opened closets, rifled through drawers, looked under bed and in the pantry. Clinton and Belinda objected to their tearing the place up. The police sent them outside. They sat behind the house and listened to music on a turntable he had brought outside. They listened to The Beach Boys, Marvin Gaye, Donovan, The Beatles, The Boxtops. The music calmed them a little. When a police sergeant came out Clinton said, “Glad you’re finished. We were running out of LPs.”
About David W. Landrum
