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    Sunflower: A Novel
    Sunflower: A Novel
    Sunflower: A Novel
    Ebook264 pages4 hours

    Sunflower: A Novel

    By John Walters

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    About this ebook

    In early 1970 a new era, the Age of Aquarius, is dawning. Penny, who adopted the name of Sunflower on the way to the Woodstock Music and Arts Festival, attends another rock concert touted as Woodstock West, at Altamont Speedway near San Francisco. Seeking to enhance the transcendent experience, she instead comes away covered in the blood of a man brutally stabbed to death in front of the stage.

    Has the new youth experience descended from idealism to anarchy? Confused and disillusioned, Sunflower embarks upon an odyssey across an America torn by violent anti-Vietnam War protests, racial tension, and gangs of hard drug dealers. From a search for a shared social experience it becomes a personal quest for fulfillment that leads her on a journey across continents.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherJohn Walters
    Release dateMar 2, 2014
    ISBN9781310146824
    Sunflower: A Novel
    Author

    John Walters

    John Walters recently returned to the United States after thirty-five years abroad. He lives in Seattle, Washington. He attended the 1973 Clarion West science fiction writing workshop and is a member of Science Fiction Writers of America. He writes mainstream fiction, science fiction and fantasy, and memoirs of his wanderings around the world.

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      Book preview

      Sunflower - John Walters

      Sunflower:

      An Odyssey in the Age of Aquarius

      By

      John Walters

      Published by Astaria Books at Smashwords

      Copyright 2014 by John Walters

      Smashwords Edition, License Notes

      This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold reproduced, or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or if it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

      This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons places or events - except those in the public domain - is purely coincidental.

      Contents

      Part One: Sunflower the Idealist

      Part Two: Sunflower the Criminal

      Part Three: Sunflower the Seeker

      End Notes

      Part One: Sunflower the Idealist

      I

      When Sunflower returned to her apartment, spots and streaks of rust-colored dried blood still on her hands and jeans, she pulled back the curtains on the bay window facing west that she loved so much. Fog had closed in. The streetlights were muffled by the oppressive gray shroud.

      She couldn't get the image of the dying man out of her mind. Not many had seen the incident. Afterwards the reveling continued almost unabated. But she had wanted to get closer. She had fought her way to the front, feeling proud of herself for her perseverance.

      The Stones were playing Sympathy for the Devil. In his intro to it Jagger had said that strange things happened whenever they played that song – or something like that. She hadn't paid close attention, focused as she was on forcing her way through the crowd. She noticed that the Hell's Angels up front surrounding the stage were getting belligerent. She always felt uneasy around them. It wasn't so much the weapons and predilection towards violence in itself, but the ever-present rapacious attitude of the predator she found disconcerting. She tried to ignore her inner alarms, however, and see the cosmic significance of the overall event. After all, Woodstock had worked. It had gone off more or less without a hitch and certainly without any violence or overt crime. Altamont had been billed as Woodstock West, and she had supposed her fears might be a result of the strong black hashish she had recently ingested, though she wasn't normally prone to be paranoid. She wanted to see everything in terms of cultural evolution and the bringing in of the new era. She didn't want to be left behind in the political/economic stew foisted upon the nation by the establishment, by the powers-that-be. She wanted to go with the flow, experience the new epoch of humankind.

      * * *

      Therefore she ignores the alarm bells erupting within her as she makes her way down the slope towards the stage. It is hard to, though. A lot of scuffling is taking place. Tempers seem high; folks are agitated. People keep trying to climb up on the stage. There is this one guy in lime-green clothes in particular, bellicose and belligerent. The Stones are playing Under My Thumb and there's a particularly heated altercation. Sunflower by now is propelled through the crowd by her own momentum, slipping and squeezing and sliding. All semblance of civility, let alone serenity, has passed. Things have got ugly. There's a humming in Sunflower's ears. All the chaotic sounds around have blended as if in a whirlpool, a maelstrom. She's caught in it, powerless to extricate herself. Spinning round and round towards the center darkness. Rushing and whirling, jostling and shoving.

      Suddenly she finds herself staggering. She can't regain her footing.

      And there he is in front of her, a black man lying on the ground, crimson blood on his bright green shirt.

      Sunflower tries to stop herself but somehow her hands are on the man's chest; she feels the sticky blood and the tremors as life leaves him.

      Sunflower backs away, sliding on her ass, but then realizing she might get trampled staggers to her feet and continues to back away, one step after another, the crowd closing around her.

      She wipes her hands on her jeans, but the blood won't all come off.

      Surrounded by hundreds of thousands of people, she realizes it's impossible to try to find the acquaintances with whom she came. But she's got to get out of there; she needs to be alone.

      The Stones have begun to play again. They finish Under My Thumb and begin Brown Sugar.

      Even earlier she knew there was something wrong but she kept trying to shove the nagging realization out of her mind. She tried to recapture the Woodstock mindset: the cooperation, the vulnerability, the tenderness.

      Now all that is stripped away. She feels as if she has descended into the underworld, into Hades or Sheol or Hell or whatever it is called in various depictions around the world. The California with which she is familiar has disappeared, and in its place is one huge dark penitentiary in which the people around her are all inmates, every one of them. She wants nothing but to escape. She gropes her way through the crowd, through the psychic darkness. It seems to take forever. She thinks she will never find her way out. When she finally does she hits the highway; she sticks out her thumb...

      * * *

      Slowly Sunflower stripped off her jeans, panties, blouse, and bra, and left them in a pile outside the bathroom door. For a while she luxuriated in the feel of the hot shower water, and then she shampooed her hair and rinsed it. She had let it grow since Woodstock, and already she could feel the difference. It was filling out quickly. Already it covered her ears; soon it would reach her shoulders. Next she soaped herself and washed off the dirt and blood. Dissatisfied with the result, still feeling dirty, she did it again. And again. And again. The water ran over her, sluicing down her naked body, steaming up the small bathroom.

      She couldn't get rid of the chill.

      She turned off the water, shivered, and dried herself.

      In the drawer she first found her green nightie, but green reminded her of... She settled for a blue pajama pantsuit, sans bra and panties. After closing the curtain she crawled into bed, pulling the quilt up under her chin. She thought that she would be unable to sleep, that she would lie awake thinking about what she had seen that day, but she almost instantly lost consciousness.

      II

      Sunflower was sitting at the table in the breakfast nook eating shredded wheat, yogurt, and brown sugar when there was a knock on the door.

      It was late morning, almost noon. Through the bay window she could see a clear deep blue sky. She had managed to put the events of the previous day out of her conscious mind by relegating them to the place where she banished all negative memories. It was not the first time she had seen the ramifications of violence. Her father, a career Naval officer stationed in San Diego, had frequently struck her mother, and her, and her two younger brothers. She could see him yet with that strange crazed look he got when he'd had a few too many; she could smell the mix of scents she always associated with him: sour deodorant and scotch breath. He would come in after a day at the base and pour himself a drink. Invariably he'd already had a few enroute. It didn't take much to set him off: a bad report from school, food cooked improperly, an insignificant annoyance that under other circumstances might pass unnoticed. First would come a creasing of the brows and a hard look as if you were a cockroach deserving to be crushed. Then would come the lecture delivered at high volume. And finally, if in his arbitrary opinion you had not shown enough respect and given proper attention to the oration, would come the blows. It got to be a part of life you took for granted.

      Her soon-to-be-ex-husband had occasionally resorted to fists to make his points in arguments; the last time he had done so she had left, gone off to Woodstock, and never returned – except to grab a few essentials when she knew he was out. He was not by nature a violent person, but he came from a long line of supposedly alpha he-men who felt it their moral duty to keep their women in line one way or the other.

      The knock repeated.

      Shit, whispered Sunflower. She really didn't want to see anyone.

      She headed for the door, intending to give whoever was behind it the brush-off.

      It was Doug himself, Mr. Ex, looking sheepish and shamefaced, though Sunflower had the feeling that the supposedly recalcitrant expression was a facade. She noted with satisfaction that his shirt was not ironed and there was a food stain on his beige pants. He always maintained that it was her place to deal with such domestic trivialities and would never lift a finger to do it himself. Hello, Penny, he said. May I come in?

      After a suitable silence Sunflower said, What the hell are you doing here?

      I want you to come home. You're my wife.

      Not for long. Come to think of it, how did you find me?

      Cheryl told me.

      That bitch.

      It's not her fault. I pried it out of her.

      How? Did you fuck her?

      Don't be crude. Of course not.

      Sunflower sighed, and stepped back. Sure, come on in. Why not?

      Thanks. He entered, looked around. Nice place.

      Bullshit. It's a pit. I've gone on strike from housecleaning, even for myself.

      It's got a great view.

      That it has. Have a seat. She motioned to the chair opposite hers in the kitchenette. Want some coffee or something?

      Sure. Thanks.

      Already Sunflower could tell something was up. He hadn't been this polite for a long time – in fact, since he had courted her. She poured some coffee into a mug, set a spoon before him. There's the sugar, she said.

      Do you have any white?

      No. Brown sugar's healthier. I'm trying to watch what goes in.

      The first trace of the characteristic Doug smirk emerged. You've gone hippy, haven't you?

      Sunflower sat, sipped coffee. "Not really. I've gone me, that's all."

      What kind of flower-power nonsense is that? What does it even mean?

      The people I hang out with get it. I'm not surprised you don't.

      Oh come off it, Penny.

      Don't call me that.

      Why not? It's your name.

      Not anymore.

      The smirk erupted again. Oh no? What's your name now?

      Sunflower.

      Doug snorted with barely suppressed laughter. You've got to be shitting me.

      No. I'm serious. My name is Sunflower.

      Suddenly Doug's expression changed, as if he realized he'd lost control and flipped an inner switch to reassert himself. Look, I know things have gone wrong but I've come here to make them right. I want you to come home. You belong with me; we're a couple; we're married. Marriage is for life. We were planning to have children together. We were planning to grow old together. How can you give up our dreams like this?

      Sunflower shook her head and said calmly, Sorry Doug. The last time you hit me you crossed the line. I told you what would happen if you did it again. You didn't think I'd follow through, did you?

      I'm sorry. I swear I'll never do it again.

      That's what you said last time.

      This time I mean it. I do. Believe me.

      Sunflower smiled. You really don't get it, do you? Leaving you was the best thing that ever happened to me. I don't want to go back to you. Not ever. I have no desire to. As a matter of fact, on a list of things that I never want to do in this lifetime, going back to you and being your wife is at the top, in the number one spot.

      Doug looked incredulous. Obviously he had never foreseen this turn of events. It was clear he had come to negotiate. He had probably been willing to bribe, to concede, to lie, possibly even to beg, but he never anticipated abject refusal. His breathing became shallow; his eyes darted here and there as if he were groping for some sort of retort but could come up with nothing.

      Sunflower felt a burst of sympathy. Look, don't take it the wrong way. Ultimately it's not your fault; it's mine. I think it's for the best. I thought I would be happy with you; I really did. But I wasn't. Something was missing. I've come to realize that who and what I really am would have been buried under our relationship. I had to get out. I had to be free. I'm happier now. You really love me, don't you? If so, be happy for me. It's for the best, for both of us.

      Doug's eyes narrowed. His expression hardened. That's a load of crap. With his left hand he swept his half-full coffee cup off the table. The mug smashed, and coffee sprayed on the linoleum floor and the kitchen cabinets. "You're a crazy bitch, you know that, Penelope? he said. I should have you committed."

      Burning with anger, Sunflower remained outwardly calm. It's time for you to leave, Doug, she said. Slowly she got to her feet.

      Doug remained seated. I'll go when I'm ready, he said.

      You'll go now.

      Like hell I will. You know, I came here planning to be nice to you. I was going to offer you a lot of crap you always wanted, like new curtains and carpets. I was even willing, if it came down to it, to agree to let you get pregnant.

      Well, aren't you the magnanimous son of a bitch?

      But now, I take it all back.

      Why didn't you offer it when it would have meant something?

      It still means something. It's what you always wanted. You pleaded with me for those things, over and over again. You nagged me. It made me sick, your insufferable nagging. I can't believe I came here intending to give in to it. Now that ship has sailed. Now you come home with nothing, no concessions at all. You're going to learn your place or I'm going to make life hell for you.

      Sunflower had no idea why it happened, but suddenly she flashed back to the concert, to the man lying on the ground dying, to the blood on her hands that she couldn't seem to rub off, to the Rolling Stones playing Under My Thumb. And she laughed. She couldn't help herself. Doug's perspective was so trivial, so useless, so archaic, so insipid, so worthless, so moronic, so narrow-minded, so irrelevant, so un-hip. It was the only reaction she could come up with.

      Then Doug slugged her in the face.

      She staggered backwards. Her ass hit the kitchen counter. She tasted blood where her inner cheek had split open on her teeth.

      She got really, really pissed off. In the past she would have cringed, ducked, tried to cover herself with her arms to ward off further blows.

      Not this time.

      With all her strength, her entire body weight behind the blow, she slugged him back. Her fist caught him right on the bridge of the nose. Immediately his nose began bleeding profusely, down his upper lip into his mouth, down his cheeks onto the buttoned-up beige shirt. Obviously he had not been expecting opposition. He stumbled and fell, the back of his head cracking hard on an arm of the couch. As soon as he was down Sunflower leapt upon him. She sat on his belly, pinning his arms, landing one blow after another on his face. Blood was spraying this way and that, staining the rope carpet, covering her hands and his face, flecking their clothes and the couch. Methodically Sunflower continued to pummel Doug's face as she muttered between breaths, You're...never...going...to hit me... again... you...motherfucker.

      Then she stopped, as if the current of her anger had been suddenly switched off. Her hands hurt. She was breathing heavily.

      Doug was weeping. His entire face and neck was covered with a sheen of blood.

      Sunflower got up, went to the bathroom, and washed her hands and face. Curiously she observed her own thoughts. She wasn't concerned at all about whether Doug was all right. Instead, she was worried about getting the blood off the couch, carpet, and floor, as the apartment was a rental.

      When she came out of the bathroom Doug hadn't moved. She said, Come on, you'll be all right. Clean yourself up.

      I think my nose is broken.

      Worse things have happened in the history of the world.

      Give me some tissue so I can stop the bleeding.

      She did, and sat on the arm of the couch and watched as, still lying on the floor, he shoved rolled up wads of tissue in his nostrils. Then he rolled over, got to his knees, and stood unsteadily.

      Sunflower said, Are you okay? Do you need help?

      I'll manage.

      In slow motion, swaying slightly, he walked to the bathroom. Sunflower stayed where she was, cataloging the clean-up operation: the coffee stains and mug shards in the kitchen, the blood spattered on floor and furniture, the towels and clothes that would have to be laundered. Why the hell did he have to come back and make such a scene?

      Doug returned, looking ludicrous with two folds of tissue protruding from his nostrils. With a ridiculously nasal voice he said, I need to sit down. Can I have another cup of coffee? I promise I won't smash it.

      Sure. Come on. Sunflower led the way back to the kitchen. You sure you don't want a shot of tequila instead? It might be more therapeutic.

      Yeah, sure. Why not? How about both?

      You got it.

      Sunflower poured two shots. When she downed hers the inside of her mouth stung like hell. By the expression on his face when he drank his, Doug's mouth was even more torn up than hers was.

      One more? she asked.

      Doug nodded.

      Afterwards they sat together silently drinking their coffee, wincing with every sip.

      Finally Sunflower said, So, do we have an understanding?

      Doug nodded. We do. I'll help you out until you get on your feet.

      Sunflower said, I wasn't going to insist but I won't say no. Thanks.

      Doug said, I can't go out like this. I'd like to change my shirt.

      I might have a neutral-colored tee-shirt around you can wear.

      Thanks. I suppose you want an apology.

      No. I don't want anything. I think we're even.

      Sunflower found a light blue short-sleeve that could pass as masculine and was big enough for Doug to wear. He went back to the bathroom, washed his face a bit better, and wadded up balls of tissue to shove up inside his nose.

      After Doug left, Sunflower sighed. She wanted nothing more than to put off doing the cleanup. But she realized the longer the blood dried the harder it would be to get it off, so she grabbed cleaning materials and got to scrubbing. Some of her new acquaintances would make something metaphysical out of this, she thought. I'm scouring away the past, and opening myself up to future possibilities. She didn't really go in for that sort of thinking herself, but as she pondered the situation the smile on her face got bigger and bigger. Metaphysics aside, the situation had provided complete closure from the episode of her life that involved Doug. She was free, more free than she had ever felt before. When she had run off and gone to Woodstock, and in the months afterwards, she had this nagging feeling, like a cavity-ridden decaying tooth, that something had been left unresolved and would eventually have to be taken care of before it got out of hand, or came back to bite her. Now it was done. Finished. A weight had been lifted off her heart. She felt as if she could soar into that deep blue sky she saw out the window. She was free, free, free. The future was a blank slate, an open road, a fountain of possibilities.

      She stopped scrubbing. The

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