Read Online The Ruins of California by Martha Sherrill - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Martha Sherrill
Ads: Link
around on weekdays, too. Coach Weeger was a pleasant guy, and even-tempered. He was a bit taller than my mother, had light brown hair, a waistless athletic build, a perpetual tan, and pants that rode so high on his body that they seemed belted under his armpits. On weekends, when he wasn’t playing golf or tennis or watching sports on TV, he’d arrive in his ancient VW wagon for dinner. It was always the same: a Spencer steak with A.1. steak sauce, a baked potato drowning in butter and sour cream, an iceberg lettuce salad splashed with Good Seasonings dressing that my mother made in a special “Good Seasonings” cruet. He and my mother drank Coors beer in tiny cans and sometimes daiquiris, which made my mother laugh really loud. When she did that—laughed so loud—Coach Weeger looked at her in a haze of love, like he couldn’t believe his luck, and I always left the room.
Robbie acted as if the thing between my mother and Coach Weeger were as fantastic as something transpiring on
All My Children
, like when super aged Dr. Joe Martin fell in love with Ruth, the nurse with dentures on the seventh floor. It was interesting, as far as I was concerned, but not all that romantic. And when Robbie grew tired of asking me about it, she sometimes asked me about Whitman.
“How’s your brother?” She asked nonchalantly as we walked to 31 Flavors, like it didn’t matter. But I knew it did. “Have you heard from him?”
“Next weekend I’m seeing him. We’re flying up to San Francisco together.”
My brother loomed over our universe, mine and Robbie’s, like a figure of fantasy who might float in from HippieWorld at any moment.He and his mother lived in Santa Barbara for a couple years, in the guest cottage on some estate, before moving to a communal farm in Ojala. Patricia kept to herself, never came to San Benito, but Whitman liked to describe how she was overhauling the grounds and gardens of the Theosophical Society and attending teachings by Krishnamurti, an Indian mystic who drew crowds of followers—but not anybody in Van Dale from what I could tell. Whitman liked to play the mystic, too, in those days. He was always making predictions, like when another earthquake was supposed to strike California and make it fall into the ocean. He’d grown taller and darker, and his hair fell in a great shaggy disarray about his shoulders. It went perfectly with his ratty clothes, Jesus sandals, vegetarian diet, and a feminine-seeming Guatemalan pouch worn across his chest that drove Marguerite totally nuts. But you had to love him. Everybody did. He was friendly and liked people. He’d stayed at our house twice—just came and happily hung out, calling Abuelita “Mrs. G,” and my mother “Connie Mama.” Everybody got a nickname. I was always “Little Mexican” and Robbie was “The Latter-Day Morrison.”
Whitman brought something exciting into our lives—and made us feel, for a time anyway, like we were living in HippieWorld with him. One summer night, after he and Robbie and I had gone swimming up the street, at Christa Nixon’s house, we came back to Abuelita’s and turned off all the lights in the house. Whitman lit some incense. Then he brought my little portable stereo into the living room, put a Joni Mitchell album on the turntable, and made us listen to the songs in the dark.
Mostly, though, Whitman talked about surfing: the shape of waves, the direction of the wind, weather patterns, the creation of tropicalstorms, the pull of currents and riptides. I’m not sure why, but Robbie and I were enthralled. He laughed at our jokes, I guess, and told us we were cute. Despite what we must have looked like then—the acne flare-ups, the oily hair, and the unwanted budding of our breasts—whatever Whitman said, we believed.
“What are you getting?” Robbie asked when we were about a block away from the ice cream store. “Hot fudge sundae?”
“Hot fudge,” I said, “with two scoops of chocolate
Robbie acted as if the thing between my mother and Coach Weeger were as fantastic as something transpiring on
All My Children
, like when super aged Dr. Joe Martin fell in love with Ruth, the nurse with dentures on the seventh floor. It was interesting, as far as I was concerned, but not all that romantic. And when Robbie grew tired of asking me about it, she sometimes asked me about Whitman.
“How’s your brother?” She asked nonchalantly as we walked to 31 Flavors, like it didn’t matter. But I knew it did. “Have you heard from him?”
“Next weekend I’m seeing him. We’re flying up to San Francisco together.”
My brother loomed over our universe, mine and Robbie’s, like a figure of fantasy who might float in from HippieWorld at any moment.He and his mother lived in Santa Barbara for a couple years, in the guest cottage on some estate, before moving to a communal farm in Ojala. Patricia kept to herself, never came to San Benito, but Whitman liked to describe how she was overhauling the grounds and gardens of the Theosophical Society and attending teachings by Krishnamurti, an Indian mystic who drew crowds of followers—but not anybody in Van Dale from what I could tell. Whitman liked to play the mystic, too, in those days. He was always making predictions, like when another earthquake was supposed to strike California and make it fall into the ocean. He’d grown taller and darker, and his hair fell in a great shaggy disarray about his shoulders. It went perfectly with his ratty clothes, Jesus sandals, vegetarian diet, and a feminine-seeming Guatemalan pouch worn across his chest that drove Marguerite totally nuts. But you had to love him. Everybody did. He was friendly and liked people. He’d stayed at our house twice—just came and happily hung out, calling Abuelita “Mrs. G,” and my mother “Connie Mama.” Everybody got a nickname. I was always “Little Mexican” and Robbie was “The Latter-Day Morrison.”
Whitman brought something exciting into our lives—and made us feel, for a time anyway, like we were living in HippieWorld with him. One summer night, after he and Robbie and I had gone swimming up the street, at Christa Nixon’s house, we came back to Abuelita’s and turned off all the lights in the house. Whitman lit some incense. Then he brought my little portable stereo into the living room, put a Joni Mitchell album on the turntable, and made us listen to the songs in the dark.
Mostly, though, Whitman talked about surfing: the shape of waves, the direction of the wind, weather patterns, the creation of tropicalstorms, the pull of currents and riptides. I’m not sure why, but Robbie and I were enthralled. He laughed at our jokes, I guess, and told us we were cute. Despite what we must have looked like then—the acne flare-ups, the oily hair, and the unwanted budding of our breasts—whatever Whitman said, we believed.
“What are you getting?” Robbie asked when we were about a block away from the ice cream store. “Hot fudge sundae?”
“Hot fudge,” I said, “with two scoops of chocolate
Similar Books
