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  Melanie’s Song

  Melanie’s Song

  Joanna Biggar

  Alan Squire Publishing

  Bethesda, Maryland

  Melanie’s Song is published by Alan Squire Publishing, an imprint of the Santa Fe Writers Project.

  © 2019 Joanna Biggar

  All rights reserved. Except for brief passages quoted in newspaper, magazine, online, radio, or television reviews, no part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying or recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher (www.AlanSquirePublishing.com).

  “As Good As You’ve Been To This World,“ words and music by Nick Gravenites, © 1970 (Renewed) WB Music Corp. All Rights Reserved. Used by permission of Alfred Music.

  Printed in the United States of America.

  ISBN (paper): 978-1-942892-10-6

  ISBN (epub): 978-1-942892-11-3

  ISBN (PDF): 978-1-942892-12-0

  ISBN (mobi): 978-1-942892-13-7

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019936747

  Jacket design and cover art by Randy Stanard, Dewitt Designs,

  www.dewittdesigns.com.

  Cover photo by Rebekah Littlejohn Photography.

  Model: Bianca Corvi.

  Author photo by Reenie Raschke.

  Copy editing and interior design by Nita Congress.

  Printing consultant: Steven Waxman.

  Printed by API/Jostens.

  First Edition

  Ordo Vagorum

  To my old copines and copins Josephine Jenkins Mitchell, Christine Berardo, the late Patty Kenny Immel, Bob Biggar, and Garry Lambrev whose shared lives and adventures during a very special time found their way into this work of imagination.

  Acknowledgments

  First, a note of huge gratitude to Rose Solari and James J. Patterson, the incomparable editors/publishers of Alan Squire Publishing, whose excellence permeates all that they do, and who make the process of writing and publishing a joy.

  Further thanks to ASP partner Andrew Gifford of the Santa Fe Writers Project, and the fine ASP team, notably: Randy Standard for the beautiful cover design and layout; Nita Congress for the highest standard of copy editing and interior design; Max Barton for creative ideas and web design; and Susan Busada for great assistance with marketing.

  Many people helped me ground this story in the realities of the era. My sincere gratitude for their time and insights, in particular: Karen Carlson, former director of Caltech Alumni Association, and the extraordinary group of women—both students and faculty—she gathered together for me, who experienced Caltech from the late 1950s–1970s. They include the late Marjorie Davisson Dwight, Iris Schroeder Ted, Susan Murakami, Louise J. Wannier, Debra Dison Hall, Peggy Otsubo, Louise Kirkbride, and Anneila Sargent. Arnold (Skip) Isaacs, colleague and friend, whose experience as a war correspondent for the Baltimore Sun during the last three years of the Vietnam War and whose detailed information was invaluable for understanding the realities of the war at that time. Shelley Conrad, midwife, whose descriptions of rural life and the practice of midwifery in Mendocino County during the 1970s grounded my depiction of it in reality. Katie Burke, attorney at law and friend, whose network of family practice lawyers helped me understand how family and adoption cases were handled in rural California in the 1970s. Jonathan Chase, attorney at law and friend, who provided great insight into the workings of the judicial system, including whether cases are tried in state or local courts. Sheriffs in both the Mendocino County Sheriff’s Office in Ukiah and the Coroner’s Office of Fort Bragg, who generously shared their time, knowledge, and personal experiences. Ron Wallace, whose first-hand knowledge of the music of the era was very helpful.

  I also owe a big debt of gratitude to the many readers I have had along this journey whose suggestions have been crucial in shaping this book. In particular, thanks to Antoinette Constable, Skot Davis, Ann Harleman, Barbara Milman, Claudia MonPere, and Molly Walker of my writers’ group; the encouragement and support of Left Coast Writers, and of its founder and my close friend Linda Watanabe McFerrin; the wonderful structural editing of Hugh Biggar, and copy editing of Laurie McAndish King.

  Finally, a most special thanks to my husband, Doug Hale, whose encouragement, support, feedback, supplies of morning coffee, evening wine, and the great gift of time, have made everything possible.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 1

  J.J. drew in a deep breath, ready to give herself up to the sun. Sea breeze blowing through the open car window whipped strands of dark hair across her face. Below the turnout along the coast road, rocky cliffs disappeared into a tumult of white waves, the ocean stretched endlessly in symphonies of blue, and gulls rode crests of air past islands of seaweed searching for life beneath. Closing her eyes for a moment she could still see the colors, the contours of the sea. The gulls cried out, while the pounding and receding waves thrummed like her pulse. Calm down, she told herself, trying to let the beauty around her erase the fright that had just made her heart pound, willing the lingering smell of smoke from the remains of the Hi-Diddle House to clear from her nostrils.

  She tasted the salt air even before it made a delicate crust on her skin and relaxed a little. The California coast was her native place, imprinted on her since before she could walk, and she felt that imprint even hundreds of miles north of her childhood beaches. No matter what she discovered about Melanie, she could cope.

  As her breathing returned to normal, she pulled down the visor to stare at the sea, and caught a glimpse of herself in the vanity mirror. “Damn,” she said aloud. Her dark blue eyes rested on smudged half circles, like wayward moons, and her black brows seemed to point at the small crinkles that had crept in at the corners, appearing overnight, like fault lines. “This babe sure looks older than thirty-two,” she thought, wondering at the loss of the child she had been, then snapped the visor shut.

  The old questions started up again. What am I thinking, anyway? Why am I doing this?

  Like the last decade, and the nagging restlessness that had driven her—drove her still—to seek that maddening, elusive thing, a kind of truth. It was the same force that had sent her
from poetry and its eternal questions to journalism and its fact-based resolutions.

  Answers. That is what she wanted, and now more than ever. For the last two years the quest for stories of her oldest, truest friends—the ones she’d journeyed to Paris with a dozen years before, in 1962, a lifetime ago—had kept her going. That was also when she realized she’d lost track of Melanie. Now, going over what had just happened, she was hell-bent to find her.

  How she’d learned from Ivan that Melie had almost certainly been seen nearby not long ago at a small commune, Hi-Diddle House. How she’d left L.A. for a long weekend to see what she could find out. How she’d followed Ivan’s hand-drawn map with an arrow pointing deep into the redwood forest.

  As her small Datsun headed up the coastal highway, as she’d glimpsed the shimmering, endless sea to the left, her spirits had lifted. And finally, turning inland to follow a winding road along the tumbling Little River, where the sunlight fell in strands of gold through the towering giant redwoods, she’d felt ready to succumb to magic. Then there was that first rough hand-painted sign saying Hi-Diddle, with an arrow pointing to a narrow twisty road, and the first jittery sense of foreboding had set in. The worry that she was treading a path where she ought not to go. She’d remembered the packet of Melanie’s letters and journals carefully tucked in her bag. Didn’t Melanie almost invite me here? “For J.J.” the note on top of the journals intriguingly said, in Melanie’s neat hand.

  As Ivan’s map instructed, she’d driven the requisite five point three miles, then slowed to find the dirt road that veered off to the right leading to the Hi-Diddle House, less than a mile into the forest. The redwoods nearly closed ranks at the top, creating a roof over this small piece of the world, and large ferns graced both sides of the path, seeming to wave her on. Soon she saw the crooked wooden sign with faded Day-Glo paint nailed to a tree.

  HI-DIDDLE HOUSE

  ALL PEACENIKS WELCOME.

  The road widened slightly beneath the sign. A sign for me, she’d decided; time to get out and walk. Standing by the car door a moment, letting her eyes adjust to the deep forest light, she’d walked slowly around a bend. A hundred yards ahead, the ghost buildings appeared, and she’d frozen in place. For a long minute, her feet had refused to move farther. What had been the Hi-Diddle House was now the charred remains of a good-sized building, its roof and most walls gone, its foundation blackened. The debris from smaller buildings on burnt foundations was scattered beyond the clearing and into the forest.

  Suddenly flames from that day in 1962, when fire had consumed her own house and much of the west side of L.A., had jumped into her eyes.

  I can easily see this forest going up in flames, she panicked. Can even smell it. God, it’s choking me.

  That’s when she’d run to the car, jerked it around, and driven as fast as possible back down the dirt path toward the coast. Then she’d pulled into the overlook and rolled down the window again to breathe in the sea air.

  Remembering her purpose there, overlooking the glittering sea, put the image of Bud Purvis in mind. Bud Purvis, that idiot, and my very own managing editor, she kept reminding herself, had not only agreed to the short profiles of her vieilles copines, her friends, but it was his suggestion that she do them—along with all her other reporting, of course.

  “You know, those little rich bitches who’d ventured off to Gay Paree long ago, how about a follow-up, something frothy and titillating, like tales of ‘Life after La Vie en Rose.’ Our highbrow Star readers could use some comic relief, don’t you think? After all these years of bad news—Jesus Christ, they deserve some. I deserve some myself.”

  She remembered handing her copy to Alice, editor, mentor, and often her personal savior. “Ah, stories of the demoiselles,” she quipped. “Can’t wait.”

  “Hey, these women are really gifted, and their stories really surprising—nuanced, complex…you know. The public loves this kind of stuff,” J.J. insisted. “He’ll love them.”

  “Wrong,” Alice smiled, pencils sticking out from her bun.

  Indeed, when the stories about her old friends came in, Purvis was furious.

  “We got Vietnam, corruption, Watergate, revolution in the streets, bombs going off everywhere, crazy-assed feminists running all over the place, and a kidnapped heiress who’s robbing banks for terrorists. I didn’t want this psycho-femme liberation crap. All I wanted was a little light relief, you know, the rich bitches who fell into place like a line of cheerleaders dancing on the page,” he said. “A little sweet-faced, innocent, verbal nooky. Is that so much to ask?”

  The hard news issues he catalogued were ones J.J. had managed to cover even under the guise of writing for Travel. “Actually, I have done pieces about all those ‘bad news’ issues you listed, and the public seemed to like them, if responses to my clips are any evidence,” she shot back, voice rising. “So my guess is that they’ll really like positive stories of amazing young women, as opposed to mindless dancing cheerleaders.” She was close to yelling.

  Purvis shouted back. “Yeah, you sure as hell did write those pieces, way, way out of your territory. J.J., I’m sick of you always pushing the boundaries. Fine, so you want to write girl stories. I’ve had it. As of today, you’re done with Travel. I’m moving you into Women.”

  Even now, remembering that moment was like being slapped in the face again. Instead of getting a News assignment, as she deserved, she’d been sent to the Women’s Section. A demotion.

  As these memories raced through her head, sea air blowing into her face, she thought, Of course, I should have known. No shock that Purvis was enraged, for reasons so deep, so obvious, they were embedded in him at an evolutionary level. Easy to dismiss him with a few swipes of the cliché-difpped pen: An old-time hard-drinking, hardheaded knuckle-dragger reveling in the scores of football, war, and bedding women. No surprise, really, that he said “This blather pisses me off royally.”

  Now her ears were closed to him. She knew she had determination, and she knew she would get the story. Okay, I’ve also got a talent for telling it. My gift and maybe my downfall. And I’ve got Alice.

  With Alice at her back, despite misgivings, the paper had published those short pieces on Jocelyn, Gracie, and Evelyn. Only Melanie was missing.

  Then there was Guy. Guy, Melanie, even saying the names to herself caused a jolt of pain in her gut. She twisted on the seat, pulled the visor down again. “Champion of civil rights, peace, and the Peace Corps,” one caption had read. Guy, her first love, had also disappeared. Long since from my life, she thought with bittersweet regret, then, suddenly, gone to Vietnam.

  One cryptic note from him that had cleaved her heart in two, followed by the news that he was missing in action. She had to find out what had happened. Without assignments from Purvis, who fumed about women messing in men’s work, nor press credentials of any kind, she took a leave of absence and went on her own to Vietnam determined to learn Guy’s fate. She had imagined it, but hadn’t found it. That’s when the dream of empty graves had begun.

  One of those can’t be Melie’s, she told herself each time upon waking. I can’t let it be. Finding Melie was the only thing that got her up some mornings. Finding Melie was what brought her here. How she came, with Ivan’s help, to find the creepy, charred remains of the Hi-Diddle House.

  J.J. shifted in the striated light created by the long strands of crystal beads that separated the front section of Bread & Beads Café from the small back room, where she occupied the first of four round plastic tables. The smell of incense and highly perfumed tea wafted in, filling her senses, and telling her, as if she needed reminding, that this was Mendocino.

  The café was only the fourth place in town she’d hit on her initial inquiry about what had happened to Hi-Diddle House and its inhabitants. A baker, a gallery guide, even the guy with the Gold Rush–style beard sitting on the boardwalk peeling an apple—all seemed reluctan
t to say much except “See Mama Cass.”

  Now I’m getting somewhere, she thought as she’d pulled open the door to the Bread & Beads. There, hands on hips, its proprietor, a large and loud look-alike for the folk singer of the same name grunted and looked her over suspiciously. But when J.J. stated her business, Mama Cass’s voice dropped to conspiratorial. She quickly whisked J.J. to the back room behind the bead curtains.

  “I’m just trying to find an old friend,” J.J. said, also in hushed tones. “I finally got to the Hi-Diddle House, where she was recently, and well, you know, it’s burned to the ground. So now I’m trying—”

  “I hear you, woman,” Mama Cass interrupted. “But there’s been inquiries, police sticking their butts in over there, and folks around here don’t take well to police investigations.”

  J.J. nodded.

  Mama Cass moved her round face almost into J.J.’s and scrunched up her eyes. “Somebody died in that fire. Body of a young woman found. Or so they say. Who’s to know? You see where this is going? And like most folks up in the woods, when trouble comes, they scatter. But if you’re needing to find out about a friend, I can get the word out. Moon might know, might be willing to help you out. Provided of course you don’t squeal, don’t help out the pigs.” She paused and looked J.J. over with a practiced scrutiny. “I’m a great judge of character. You look honest.” With that she turned, her very large derrière brushing the bead curtains and causing them to jiggle in a frenzy of air current, and J.J. to shrink in her chair, holding tight to her mug of tea, hoping that the word “journalist” didn’t suddenly break out in neon on her forehead.

  It was hard to know how long she sat, hands clutched around the cup of tea. The words “body of a young woman” worked through J.J. slowly, chilling her pore by pore even though it was warm in the back room behind the beads where ventilation was barely an afterthought. Suddenly Mama Cass was standing beside her again. She had arrived stealthily, like a cat, with surprising agility for such a big woman. J.J. looked up, saying nothing, while Mama’s dark eyes peered into her, as if getting another read.