Di held Lawrence’s arm more tightly as they stepped around broken bottles on a cracked sidewalk lined by three-story, reddish-brown townhouses that had probably once been elegant but were now mostly in a state of disrepair. Boarded-up windows covered with graffiti proclaimed: BLACK IS BEAUTIFUL. BE YOURSELF. MLK JR. DIED FOR US.
She followed Lawrence up a stoop to a weathered oak door that was covered with gauzy webs, a hanging skeleton, and a peace sign. Now that they were here, Di was questioning the wisdom of her Halloween costume. She had rejected wearing her everyday clothes because she wanted to stand out from the rest of the girls, who she was pretty sure would be dressed in headbands and long, loose cotton shifts, or torn jeans and peasant blouses. Instead, beneath the green army jacket she’d gotten at an Army Navy Surplus store, she wore harem pants and a top that left her midriff bare, in the style of I Dream of Jeannie. Unfortunately, instead of sexy, she was feeling self-conscious. She and Lawrence had only been seeing each other a couple of weeks and hadn’t crossed the line her roommate did with so little thought, but she was afraid her outfit screamed, “Make love, not war.”
Lawrence used the tarnished brass knocker and gave her a smile, as though reading her mind. He was dressed as himself, wearing his white headscarf and flowing white shirt, though she knew he would be just as gratified if people mistook him for Lawrence of Arabia.
The door opened, though Di couldn’t have said by whom, since the person disappeared by the time she stepped into the dark foyer and blinked the smoke out of her eyes. She smelled pot, tobacco, and incense, but there was another smell that she dragged deep into her lungs.
Chocolate.
Music hit her from different directions. Jimi Hendrix on the electric guitar, Ravi Shankar on the sitar, and the hoarse screaming voice of Janis Joplin.
People stood in the rooms to the left and right of her—smoking, drinking, and talking animatedly. Most everyone was from Stormdrain and not wearing costumes, but she noticed a Richard Nixon, and someone trying to be Paul or Ringo—she couldn’t tell which.
Steve was talking to Albert in front of a boarded-up fireplace. He wore a football jersey with shoulder pads, and Albert was dressed as Groucho Marx. They both held red plastic cups, probably rum-and-Cokes, which Stormdrainers liked to refer to as Cuba Libres, because they were, after all, revolutionaries.
Their host, Michael, dressed in an astronaut suit, approached and gave Lawrence a bear hug. “Hey, man. Got some good shit.” He passed Lawrence a joint, who took a hit and handed it to Di.
She’d smoked pot a few times at their meetings, but this burned her lungs and made her cough.
Michael grinned. “Like I said. Good shit.” He pointed to the stairs behind him. “Coats in the mudroom. There’s a keg in the kitchen, and plenty of rum, and some dark-haired sorceress baked us Alice B. Toklas brownies.”
“I’m getting one of those,” Di said, heading toward the kitchen. Lawrence followed, stopping to greet various people in the hallway.
A waifish girl with very short blonde hair, wearing a quilted pink bathrobe, was arranging brownies on a tray in the kitchen. Di did a double take. “Linda?”
Her friend turned and touched her head. “Do you like it?” she asked, widening her blue eyes as if there was any doubt that she was utterly adorable. “I cut it like Allison cut hers in Peyton Place.”
“It’s great,” Di said. “Now you really look like Mia Farrow.”
Lawrence reached for two brownies and handed one to Di. “I’d better not find any hair in these, Linda.”
Linda giggled. “Don’t worry. I didn’t make them, but I’ve had one. There’s plenty of grass. Have fun getting stoned.”
Di took a big bite of the brownie. The rich fudge didn’t quite mask the bitter taste of the pot.
“What’s wrong?” Lawrence asked.
“It has a chalky undertaste,” she said with a straight face, hoping he’d get the movie reference.
He laughed and grabbed her arm. “Come on, Rosemary, before the devil gets you.”
He got it. He “got” her. They had their own inside joke now.
He led her past people slumped against the hallway walls leading into the mudroom. A door with peeling paint led out to the back of the house. A few coats hung from pegs on the wall, but there was a bigger pile of coats on the floor.
“Take off your jacket,” Lawrence said, removing his own and dropping it on top of the pile.
She thought about her skimpy costume and wrapped her arms around herself. She should have worn something else. “I think I’ll leave it on. It’s cold in here.”
“I’ll keep you warm, baby.” He shoved the rest of his brownie in his mouth and slipped his hands under her coat, his fingers spreading over her bare midriff.
His hands were surprisingly warm, but she shivered at his touch.
“Mmm. Nice,” he said, pulling her closer and pressing his lips against hers.
His tongue darted into her mouth, all warm and wet and chocolatey. She went slack in his arms, feeling light-headed and delicious from the brownie.
A raspy voice was crooning about love being stronger than pain.
“Oh, man,” he said, gently pulling away. He grinned at her, a crumb of chocolate wedged between his front teeth. “Primo.”
She laughed, though she wasn’t sure whether he meant her or the brownie. She finished the rest of hers, the buzz growing.
“Good girl,” he said. “Now, off with that jacket. I want to see what I’ve been touching.”
She slipped it off, then threw it on top of his.
He stared at her, making her feel naked.
“Our love is stronger than the pain,” the singer spat out, the words rubbing between them.
Don’t stop. Never stop looking at me, Di thought.
A guy in fatigues staggered into the tiny room, pushing past them and throwing open the back door. A blast of cold air surrounded her, along with the sound of retching as the guy puked in the backyard.